War Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  My men stood and shuffled together. Shields clattered as they touched. The front rank was all men with either a sword or an axe as their chosen weapon. The spears were in the second rank. The third rank was ready to hurl spears before drawing a sword or hefting an axe. The fourth rank was spaced out because there were not enough men to fill it.

  I loosened Serpent-Breath in her fleece-lined scabbard, though if I dismounted and joined the shield wall I would use Wasp-Sting, my seax. I drew her, saw the light reflect from her blade that was not much longer than my forearm. Her tip was honed to a savage point, her foreblade was sharp enough to serve as a razor, while her broken-shaped back blade was thick and stout. I thought of Serpent-Breath as a noble weapon, a sword fit for a warlord, while Wasp-Sting was the cunning killer. I remembered the exultation I had felt at Lundene’s Crepelgate as I had pierced Wasp-Sting into Waormund’s belly, how he had gasped, then staggered as the life blood oozed past her blade. That victory had given Æthelstan his throne. I looked to my left and saw the king was standing his horse close behind his Mercian troops, a target for archers and spearmen. Bishop Oda was close by Æthelstan, next to his standard-bearer.

  Aldwyn was holding my standard with its wolf-head badge. He was waving it from side to side to let the approaching Scots know that they faced the wolf-warriors of Bebbanburg. Egil had his eagle flag flying. Thorolf, his brother, was in the centre of the front rank, tall and black-bearded, a war axe in his right hand. The enemy was three hundred paces away now and I could see Constantine’s blue cross on a flag and Domnall’s red hand holding another cross, while just to their left was the black banner of Owain. ‘Six ranks,’ Finan said, ‘and bloody archers too.’

  ‘We’ll send our horses back,’ I said, ‘and close up.’

  I turned and beckoned Ræt, Aldwyn’s younger brother. ‘Bring my shield!’

  Beyond Ræt, on the far side of the bridge, I could see people who had come from Ceaster to watch the battle. They were fools, I thought, and Æthelstan had forbidden them to come, but such orders were pointless. The guards on the city gates were supposed to stop them, but those guards were old or wounded men, too easily overwhelmed by an anxious crowd. Some of the women had even brought their children, and if our army was broken, if we began to flee in panicked chaos, those women and children would have no chance of reaching the safety of the city. There were priests there too, their hands raised in supplication to the nailed god.

  Ræt stumbled under the weight of the heavy shield. I dismounted, took the shield from him and gave him Snawgebland’s reins. ‘Take him back to the bridge,’ I told him, ‘but watch for my signal! I’m going to need him again.’

  ‘Yes, lord. Can I ride him, lord?’

  ‘Go!’ I said. He scrambled into the saddle, grinned at me, and kicked his heels. His legs were too short to reach the stirrups. I slapped the stallion’s rump and then joined the fourth rank.

  And waited again. I could hear the enemy’s shouts, see the faces above the shield rims, and see the glitter of the blades meant to kill us. They had not formed a swine-wedge yet, they wanted to surprise us, but I could see how the man commanding the company nearest the stream had placed his largest men in the middle of the front rank. Three huge brutes carrying axes were at the very centre and they would form the point of the wedge. All three were shouting, their mouths open, their eyes glaring from beneath their helmet rims. They would clash with Egil’s men. Two hundred paces.

  I looked to my left and saw that Anlaf’s Norsemen were trailing the rest of the advancing line. Was that to convince us that their strongest effort would be here on their left? Already, as the enemy advanced into the ground between the converging streams, their line was shortening, their ranks thickening. I could see Anlaf on horseback behind his men. His helmet gleamed silver. His banner was black with a great white falcon soaring. Ingilmundr was in the centre, displaying a banner of a flying raven. The blades hammered on shields, the shouts were louder, the great war drum beat its death rhythm, but still they did not hurry. They wanted to frighten us, they wanted us to see death coming, they wanted our land, our women, our silver.

  One hundred paces and the first arrows flickered from behind the enemy line. ‘Shields!’ I called, though it was unnecessary because the front rank had already crouched behind their shields, the second rank put their shields just above the first and the third completed the wall. The arrows struck with distinct thumps. A few slid through the gaps. I heard a curse from someone who had been struck, but no man fell. Two arrows struck my shield and a third glanced off the iron rim. I was tilting the shield above my helmet and could see under its lower rim that the enemy was quickening pace. The svinfylkjas was forming to my right, the men in the front rank hurrying to get ahead and then I saw another was forming in front of me, aiming straight at my son. A fourth arrow struck my shield’s lower rim, glanced off and missed my helmet by an inch.

  I had never stood in the rear rank of a shield wall since I had become an ealdorman, but my men expected me to stay behind on this day. I was old and they wanted to protect me, and that was a problem, because already men were glancing behind to make certain I had not been struck by the arrows that were falling all along Æthelstan’s line. In the centre of the line, where the Norse from the islands would assault the Mercians, a horse bolted, its rump bloodied by arrows. I hated being behind the wall. A man should lead from the front, and I had a sudden certainty that Skuld, the Norn who was soaring above the field to choose her victims, would punish me if I stayed at the back.

  I had sheathed Wasp-Sting again, thinking I would not need her, but now I dragged her from her scabbard. ‘Out of the way,’ I shouted. I would be damned before I let my men fight a svinfylkjas without me. I pushed between the files, bellowing at men to make way, then thrust my way between my son and Wibrund, a tall Frisian armed with a lead-weighted axe. I crouched, shield in front, and drew Wasp-Sting.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here, father,’ my son said.

  ‘If I fall,’ I said, ‘look after Benedetta.’

  ‘Of course.’

  A cheer had gone up from the enemy when they saw me join the front rank. There was reputation to be made in the death of a warlord. I looked past the shield’s rim and saw the anger, fear and determination on bearded faces. They wanted my death. They wanted renown. They wanted the song of Uhtred’s death to be sung in Scottish halls, and then the spears were flung, the swine-wedge screamed their war cry.

  And the battle began.

  Fifteen

  The spears were flung from the rear ranks of the Scots and thumped into our shields. I was lucky, a spear hit the top half of the shield hard enough for the tip to show through the willow, but the weight of the haft pulled it free and the spear fell at my feet as I stood to meet the swine-wedge’s charge. They came for us in a screaming rush, mouths and eyes wide, axes lifted, heavy spears ready to lunge, and then they reached the holes we had dug.

  At the tip of the swine-wedge was an enormous brute, his beard spread across his mailed chest, his half-toothless mouth open in a snarl, his eyes fixed on my face, his scarred helmet decorated with a silver cross, his shield showing the red hand of Domnall, and his axe’s edge glinting. He raised the axe, plainly intending to hook my shield down to uncover me before he lunged with the spike that tipped the axe-head, but then his right foot slammed into one of the holes. I saw his eyes widen as he tripped, he slammed down onto his shield, slid forward on the damp ground, and Wibrund, to my right, struck down with his lead-weighted axe to split the man’s helmet and skull. First blood splashed bright. The rest of the swine-wedge was in chaos. At least three men had fallen and now others tripped on them, stumbled, and their shields flew wide as they flailed for balance, and my men stepped forward, lunged or hacked, and the swine-wedge became a mess of blood, corpses, and writhing men. The ranks behind pushed forward, thrusting the leading men into the chaos where more were tripped. One youngster, his beard little more than red fuzz, kept his footing and suddenl
y found himself facing me and he screamed in rage, looked terrified and swung his sword right-handed in a wild hack that I caught on my shield. He had forgotten his training because he turned his whole body to the left with the violence of his swing and his shield went with him and it was easy to slide Wasp-Sting into his belly. His mail was old and rusty, with rents lashed with twine, and I remember thinking it was perhaps a coat discarded by his father. I supported him on my shield as I ripped the blade up, as I twisted it and tugged it free. He fell at my feet, half whimpering and half gasping, and my son thrust his seax down to end his noise.

  An axe blade struck my shield so hard that the willow boards split. I could see the blade’s newly sharpened edge showing in the gap and reckoned the weapon was trapped there. I tugged the shield back, dragging the man towards me, and again Wasp-Sting stabbed upwards. This was unthinking work, just a lifetime of practice that was made easy by the enemy’s disarray. The man tugged at his axe as he tried to escape the agony in his guts, and I wrenched the shield, the axe came free and I slammed the iron shield-boss into his face, then rammed Wasp-Sting into his groin. All that happened in the time it takes to draw two or three breaths, and already the Scottish attackers were in chaos. The bodies of dead and wounded men tripped those still on their feet and any man who tripped joined that grim obstacle. The men behind the fallen had learned of the grass-filled holes, could see the bloody mess in front of them and so came cautiously. They no longer shouted insults, but tried to step around the dead, and their shields no longer touched, which made them more cautious still. Caution makes a man nervous, and our enemy had lost the one advantage an attacker has in a shield wall, the sheer impetus of fear-driven rage. ‘Spears!’ I shouted, wanting more spearmen in our front rank. The Scots could not charge us now, only come carefully past the grass-filled holes and past their dead and dying comrades, and that made them vulnerable to lunges from our ash-hafted spears.

  That first charge had been stopped and the Scottish front rank had suffered grievously, most of them now a blood-soaked barrier to the men behind, and those men were content to wait rather than stumble over the dead and dying and so come to my unbroken shield wall. They shouted insults and beat blades against shields, but few tried to assault us, and those few retreated when spears reached for them. I saw Domnall, his face furious, dragging men to make a new front rank, and then a hand suddenly grabbed the collar of my mail coat and hauled me backwards. It was Finan. ‘You old fool,’ he growled as he pulled me clear of the last rank, ‘you want to die?’

  ‘They’re beaten,’ I said.

  ‘They’re Scots, they’re never beaten till they’re dead. They’ll come again. The bastards always come again. Let the youngsters deal with them.’ He had dragged me to the back of the shield wall where arrows were still falling, but to little effect because the archers behind the enemy shield wall were shooting long to avoid their own men. I looked left to see that Æthelstan’s shield wall was holding firm all along the line, though Anlaf’s right wing, which we suspected was his main attack, still hung back. ‘Where’s Æthelstan?’ I asked. I could see his riderless horse with its distinctive saddle cloth, but there was no sign of the king.

  ‘He’s a fool like you,’ Finan said, ‘he went into the Mercian wall.’

  ‘He’ll live,’ I said, ‘he’s got a bodyguard, and he’s good.’ I stooped, tore out a handful of coarse grass and used it to clean Wasp-Sting’s blade. I saw one of my archers dipping his arrowhead in a cow pat, then he stood, notched the arrow and sent it over our shield wall. ‘Save your arrows,’ I told him, ‘till the bastards come again.’

  ‘They’re not very eager, are they?’ Finan said, sounding almost disapproving of the enemy.

  And it was true. The Scottish troops had made a savage effort to break my shield wall, but had been thwarted by the holes we had dug, then shocked by their own losses. Their best and fiercest warriors had been put in the swine-wedges, now most of those men were corpses and the rest of Constantine’s troops were wary, content to threaten, but in no hurry to try again to break us. My men, heartened by their success, were jeering the enemy, inviting them to come and be killed. I could see Constantine in their rear, mounted on a grey horse, his blue cloak bright. He was watching us, but making no effort to throw his men forward, and I guessed he had wanted to smash through my line and so show Anlaf that his troops could win the battle without the help of the savage Norsemen from Ireland, but that effort had failed and his men had suffered horribly.

  But if the Scots were showing caution, so was the rest of Anlaf’s line. They had failed to break my men nor had they pierced the much larger contingent of Mercian troops, and now the enemy was staying out of range of any spear thrust. They were shouting, and occasionally men would move forward, only to retreat when the Mercian troops beat them off. The arrow showers had diminished, and only a few spears were being thrown. The first assault had been as fierce as I expected, but its repulse seemed to have taken the rage from the enemy, and so the battle, scarcely begun, had paused all along the opposing shield walls, and that struck me as strange. The first collision of shield walls is usually the fiercest moment of battle, a sustained savagery of blades and rage as men try to prise open the enemy and carve through his ranks. That opening fight is fierce, as men, keyed up by fear, try to end the battle fast. Then, if that first vicious clash does not break the wall, men do step back to catch their breath and try to work out how best to break the enemy, and they come again. But in this battle the enemy had hit us, failed to break us, and stepped back quickly to wait beyond the reach of our spear lunges. They still threatened, still snarled insults, but they were not eager to make a second assault. Then I saw how men in the enemy army were constantly looking to their right, glancing up the shallow slope to where Anlaf’s fearsome Norsemen still hung back. ‘He’s made a mistake,’ I said.

  ‘Constantine?’

  ‘Anlaf. He told his army what he planned, and they don’t want to die.’

  ‘Who does?’ Finan said drily, but still looked puzzled.

  ‘All these men,’ I swept my seax to indicate the enemy’s stalled shield wall, ‘know that Anlaf plans to win the battle with the Norsemen on his right. So why die waiting for that attack? They want that attack to panic us and break us, then they’ll fight again. They want his Norsemen to win the battle for them.’

  I was certain I was right. The enemy had been told that Anlaf’s fearsome úlfhéðnar, the Norsemen of Dyflin who had won battle after battle, would splinter Æthelstan’s left wing and so destroy our army. Now they waited for that to happen, reluctant to die before the men of Dyflin gave them victory. The heathland was still noisy. Thousands of men were shouting, the great war drum was still thumping, but the real sounds of battle, the screams, the clash of blades on blades, was lacking. Æthelstan had ordered us not to attack, to defend, to stay on our ground and hold the enemy until he broke their wall, and so far his army had done his bidding. There were still some clashes along the length of the shield walls as men summoned the courage to attack and there would be a brief fight, but Æthelstan’s shield wall was holding. If it was to be broken then Anlaf’s own men must do the breaking and the rest of his army was waiting for that ferocious attack, but Anlaf’s wild Norsemen were still a hundred paces from Æthelstan’s left wing. Anlaf was probably holding them back in the hope that Æthelstan would weaken that unengaged wing to strengthen his centre, but that would not happen unless there was a disaster among the Mercian troops. And Anlaf, I thought, must send his úlfhéðnar soon, and when they came the battle would start again.

  Then Thorolf decided he could win it.

  Egil, like me, was behind his troops, leaving his brother to stand as the shield wall’s leader. They had broken one of the swine-wedges, leaving a heap of bloodied corpses in their front, and now the Scots who opposed them were content to shout insults, but were reluctant to add their bodies to the corpse pile. Their shield wall had shrunk, not just from the men who had died in their
first screaming assault, but because all shield walls have a tendency to move to their right. Men close with the enemy and, as the axes, swords and spears try to find gaps between the shields, men instinctively shuffle to their right to gain the protection of their neighbour’s shield. The Scots had done that, opening a small gap at the very end of their line, a gap between the shields and the stream’s deep gully. It was only two or three paces wide, but Thorolf was tempted by it. He had defeated the best that Constantine could hurl against him, now he saw a chance to turn the enemy’s flank. If he could lead men through the gap, turn on Constantine’s flank and so widen the gap, we could get behind the Scottish shield wall, panic it, and start a collapse that would spread up the enemy’s line.

  Thorolf did not ask Egil, nor me, he just moved some of his best men to the right of the line, then stalked in front of the shield wall, taunting the Scots, daring any of them to come and fight him. None did. He was a daunting man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a heavy-browed face beneath his shining helmet that was crowned with an eagle’s wing. He carried a shield with his family’s eagle emblem, and in his right hand was his favourite weapon, a heavy, long-hafted war axe that he called Blood-Drinker. He wore gold at his neck, his thick forearms were bright with arm rings, he looked what he was, a Norse warrior of renown.

  And suddenly, as he paced the line, he turned and ran for the gap, bellowing at his men to follow. They did. Thorolf put down the first man by slashing Blood-Drinker in a blow so powerful that it beat down the shield and buried itself in the man’s neck, cleaving down to his heart. Thorolf was bellowing, driving on, but his axe was lodged in the mangled ribs of his first victim, and a spear took him in the side. He shouted in anger, his voice rising to a scream as he stumbled and more Scotsmen came. They were part of Constantine’s reserve and the king sent them fast and the spears stabbed, the swords lunged and Thorolf Skallagrimmrson died at the stream’s edge, his mail slashed and pierced, his blood draining to reeds beside the swirling water. The Scotsman who had first speared Thorolf wrenched Blood-Drinker free and swung it at the next Norseman, clouting his shield so hard that he was hurled down into the stream’s gully. The Scots hurled spears at him and he rolled into the water, reddening it as his mail-weighted body sank.