The men who had followed Thorolf retreated fast and it was the turn of the Scots to jeer and taunt. The spearman who had killed Thorolf flaunted Blood-Drinker, calling on us to come and be killed. ‘That man is mine,’ Egil said. I had gone to join him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘He was a good man.’ Egil had tears in his eyes, then drew his sword, Adder, and pointed it at the Scotsman who was flourishing Thorolf’s axe, ‘and that man is mine.’
Then the great drum, hidden somewhere behind Anlaf’s men, thumped the air in a new and faster rhythm, a huge cheer sounded, and Anlaf’s Norsemen started down the slope.
Those Norsemen bellowed their challenge and came in an undisciplined rush. Many were úlfhéðnar and thought themselves invincible, believing that sheer rage and violence would shatter the large West Saxon contingent on Æthelstan’s left. I did not know it, but Æthelstan himself had moved to that flank to take command of his West Saxons, and the moment he saw the Norse begin their charge he ordered a retreat.
That was one of the most difficult things any commander has to achieve. To keep the shield wall tight while walking backwards needed rigid discipline, the men had to keep their shields touching as they stepped back, and all the time seeing a shrieking horde racing towards them, but the West Saxons were amongst the best of our warriors and I heard a voice calling out the steps as they steadily backed away. The men beside the smaller stream were being constricted by the gully and I saw files breaking off to form another rank behind the three who steadily moved back, bending Æthelstan’s battle line into the shape of a bow. Then, after about twenty backward paces, they stopped, the shields clattered as they were aligned, and the Norsemen struck. Their charge was ragged, the bravest men reaching the West Saxons first and leaping at the shields as if they could hurtle through Æthelstan’s ranks by sheer speed, but the spears met them, the shields crashed together, and the West Saxons held firm. The charge of the Norsemen roused the rest of Anlaf’s line that surged forward and the battle seemed to wake up, the din of swords beating on blades and shields rose, and the screaming began again. The blackshields of Strath Clota were clawing at my men, the Scots were trying to clear the dead out of their path to reach us, with the man holding Thorolf’s axe leading them. ‘The bastard,’ Egil said.
‘No—’ I began, but Egil was gone, screaming at his men to get out of his way. The Scotsman saw him coming, and I saw a fleeting look of alarm on his face, but then he roared his own challenge, hefted his blue-painted shield and swung the axe as Egil burst through his own front rank.
The Scotsman was a fool. He had been trained with sword and spear, the axe was an unfamiliar weapon and he swung it wildly, thinking that brute force would smash Egil’s shield aside, but Egil checked his rush, swayed back, the axe went on swinging and he lunged with Adder as the Scotsman desperately tried to check the axe’s weight. Adder slid into the man’s belly, he folded over the pain, Egil hammered his eagle-painted shield into the man’s face, twisted the sword, ripped it up and dragged it out to spill the man’s guts onto Thorolf’s corpse. The axe flew into the stream as Egil struck with Adder again and again, slashing the dying man’s head and shoulders until one of his men pulled him back as the Scots came to avenge the bloodied man.
‘I feel useless,’ I snarled at Finan.
‘Leave it to the youngsters,’ Finan told me patiently, ‘you taught them.’
‘We need to fight!’
‘If they need old men,’ Finan said, ‘then things will be desperate.’ He turned to watch Æthelstan’s West Saxons. ‘They’re doing well.’
The West Saxons were still retreating, but steadily, bending the line back and drawing the Mercians in the centre back with them. Anlaf, I reckoned, must think this battle won. His larger force had not broken Æthelstan’s shield wall, but he was forcing it back and soon he would have us trapped against the larger stream. I could see Anlaf now, galloping on a great black horse, bellowing at his men to attack all along the line. His sword was drawn and he pointed it towards us and his ugly face was distorted by fury. He knew he had won this battle, his plan had worked, but he still had to break us and he was impatient. He neared Constantine and shouted something I could not hear over the battle-rage, but Constantine spurred his horse forward and yelled at his men.
Who came again. It was pride now. Who could be first to break us? The Norse were hammering at Æthelstan’s left and centre, and now the Scots came to prove they were the equal of Anlaf’s wild warriors. I saw Domnall bully his way to the front rank, an axe in his hand, and he led a charge against Egil while Prince Cellach came against my men. Cellach’s men screamed as they charged, and again some tripped in the holes, and others were pushed from behind and stumbled on corpses, but they came with levelled spears and bright axes, and I glanced once at the ridge to the west, saw nothing, and went to join my men who were being pushed back by the Scots. Berg, who commanded my left wing, was shouting at men to keep their shields firm, but there was an anger in the Scots that made them terrible. I saw Rolla go down, his helmet split by an axe, saw Cellach move into the gap and kill Edric, who had once been my servant, and more men were following Cellach. The prince’s sword was bloodied and he now faced Oswi who blocked a lunge with his shield and rammed his seax forward, only to have it knocked aside by Cellach’s shield. Cellach was in a battle-rage. He slammed Oswi with his shield, throwing him backwards, then bellowed a challenge at the men in the third rank. One swung an axe, Cellach knocked it aside with his sword, lunged at Beornoth who managed to parry the blade with his seax, and Cellach thrust the shield again. Oswi somehow wriggled free, his right leg mangled by a spear thrust, and Cellach drew his sword back for another lunge. His furious attack had served as a makeshift swine-wedge, and it had gored through my two front ranks. Cellach only had to break through Beornoth and he would be through our line, followed by a mass of men. Our shield wall would be pierced, the battle lost, and Cellach knew it.
‘To me!’ I called to Finan’s men we had kept in reserve, and I ran to the shield wall where Cellach was screaming victory as he hammered Beornoth with his iron-bossed shield. I pushed Beornoth aside and rammed my own shield forward, throwing Cellach back. I was bigger than the Scottish prince, taller, heavier, and just as savage, and my shield hurled him back two paces. He recognised me, he knew me, he even liked me, but he would kill me. He had been my hostage as a child and I had begun his education, teaching him shield-craft and sword-skill, and I had come to like him, but now I would kill him. Finan was beside me, his men behind us, as we pushed forward to fill the gap Cellach had opened. Cellach was fighting with his long-sword, I had Wasp-Sting. ‘Go back, boy,’ I snarled at him, though he was no longer a boy, he was a grown warrior, heir to Scotland’s crown, and he would win this battle for his father and for Anlaf, but a long-sword is no weapon for a shield wall. He stabbed it at me, my shield caught it and I kept the shield going forward, driving his blade back, and that turned him and I rammed the heavy shield further forward and Finan, now on my right, saw the opening and lunged his seax to pierce Cellach’s mail at his waist. Cellach instinctively rammed his shield down to knock away Finan’s seax and so opened his fate to Wasp-Sting. He knew it. He looked at me, he knew he had made a mistake, and there was almost a look of pleading on his face as I slid Wasp-Sting over his shield’s rim to slice his gullet. The blood sprayed into my face, momentarily blinding me, but I felt Cellach drag down Wasp-Sting’s blade as he fell.
‘So much for old men,’ Finan said, then slashed his seax at a bearded, blood-soaked man trying to avenge Cellach. He cut through the man’s wrist, then sliced his blade up to slash his cheek open. The man staggered back and Finan let him go. Someone dragged Cellach’s body back out of our shield wall. A prince would have valuable mail, gold-studded scabbards, silver on his belts, and gold about his neck, and my men knew I shared the plunder of battle with them.
Finan’s men had repaired our shield wall, but the Scots were enraged by their princ
e’s death. They had retreated beyond the gory line of corpses, but would come again, and Domnall would lead them. He came from my right, shouting at his men to avenge Cellach. He was a tall man, reputed to be a beast in a fight, and he wanted a fight now. He wanted to savage his way through our shield wall and he wanted my death as payment for Cellach, and he leaped the corpses, bellowing rage, and Finan went to meet him.
It was a huge angry Scot with a long-sword fighting a small Irishman armed with a seax, but Finan was the fastest swordsman I had ever seen. The Scots had started forward, but paused to watch Domnall. He was their king’s war-leader, an indomitable man with a reputation, but he was also enraged, and though rage can win battles it can also blind a man. He swung his huge sword at Finan who took a step back, Domnall thrust his shield forward to knock Finan off balance, but Finan sidestepped and whipped his seax forward to pierce the mail just above the wrist of Domnall’s sword arm. He stepped back again as the iron-bound shield came in a massive swing intended to batter Finan to the ground, but the Irishman went to his right with snake speed and the seax swept up to slice into Domnall’s shield arm, and Finan, still moving to his right, now moved into his opponent and rammed the seax through Domnall’s mail, through the leather beneath, and into the ribs beneath the armpit. Domnall staggered back, wounded but not beaten, and the rage had gone to be replaced by a cold determination.
The Scots were chanting at Domnall, urging him on, just as my men were shouting for Finan. Domnall was hurt, but he was a huge man who could absorb a lot of hurt and keep fighting. He had learned of Finan’s speed, but reckoned he could counter it with sheer strength and so he swept the sword again in a blow that would have felled an ox. Finan caught the blow on his shield, and it was strong enough to jar him off balance and Domnall’s shield slammed into the smaller man and Finan was thrown backwards. Domnall followed, but hesitated when Finan recovered fast, and instead the big Scotsman covered himself with his scarred shield and held the sword level, inviting Finan to attack. He wanted to keep the Irishman at sword’s length so the much shorter seax could do no more damage. ‘Come, you bastard,’ he growled, and Finan accepted the invitation, moving to his right, away from Domnall’s sword, but his foot appeared to tread on a wounded man and he staggered. His sword arm flailed and Domnall saw the opening and lunged the sword, but Finan had only pretended to stumble. He pushed himself off with his right foot, moving fast to his left, lowering his shield to deflect the lunge across his body, and the seax sliced with wicked speed to chop into Domnall’s neck. Domnall’s bright helmet had a mail skirt to protect his neck, but the seax drove through it, the blood was sudden, and Finan, teeth-gritted, was sawing the blade back as Domnall fell. And the Scots roared in anger, clambering over the dead and dying to avenge their leader, and Finan dodged back into the shield wall as the enemy came. I shouted our wall forward to meet them where the dead made an obstacle and there was the hard clash of shield on shield. We shoved against the enemy as they pushed against us. The man pressing on my shield was screaming at me, his spittle flying over our shields’ rims. I could smell the ale on his breath, feel the blows on my shield as he tried to thrust a seax into my belly. He managed to use the boss of his shield to lurch mine to the left and I felt his seax slide by my waist, then he gave a choking cry as Vidarr Leifson cut his shoulder with an axe, just as an axe from the Scottish second rank slammed down onto my battered shield. The blow split the iron binding and splintered the willow and I pushed it to the left to open my assailant’s body, and Immar Hergildson, who had been so terrified at dawn, thrust his spear from our second rank and the man went down.
We held them. They had attacked with an extraordinary savagery, but we were defended by the ridge of bodies. It is impossible to hold a shield wall tight when stepping on corpses and wounded men, and Scottish bravery was not enough. Our shield wall was tight, theirs was ragged, and again they retreated, unwilling to die on our blades. Vidarr Leifson hooked Domnall’s corpse with his axe and dragged it with its rich plunder back into our ranks. The Scots jeered, but did not come again.
I left my son in command of the shield wall and went back with Finan. ‘I thought you were too old to fight,’ I growled at him.
‘Domnall was old too. He should have known better.’
‘Did he touch you?’
‘Bruised, nothing more. I’ll live. What happened to your knife?’
I looked down and saw that my small knife had gone. The sheath, that hung from one of my sword belts, had been cut away, presumably by the spitting Scot who had managed one lunge with his seax. He had been left-handed and if his seax had been an inch closer he would have sliced my waist. ‘It wasn’t valuable,’ I said. ‘Only used it for eating.’ And if that was the worst that happened to me in this battle I would be fortunate.
We went to the ground behind the wall where our wounded lay. Hauk, Vidarr’s son, was there, being bandaged by a priest I did not know. It had been his first battle and the mangled mail and blood at his right shoulder suggested it would be his last. Roric was piling plunder that included Cellach’s rich helmet that was inlaid with gold tracery and crowned with eagle feathers. If we survived there would be many such rich pickings from this battle. ‘Get back in the line,’ I told Roric.
The deaths of Cellach and Domnall had prompted another pause. The Scots had attacked, they had so nearly broken us, but we had held and there were now more bodies between us, some crying, most dead. The stench of blood and shit was too familiar. I looked left and saw the Mercians were also holding, but our line, even though it had shrunk its width, was perilously thin. The Mercians appeared to have no reserve at all, and too many wounded men were on the ground behind their wall. Anlaf had gone back to his right wing that had pushed Æthelstan’s West Saxons to the road, meaning the northern end of the bridge was now in Norse hands. The road to Ceaster was open, guarded only by a small group of West Saxons who had made a shield wall at the bridge’s southern end, but Anlaf did not care. Ceaster could wait; all he wanted now was to slaughter us beside the stream and he was shrieking at his Norsemen to kill Æthelstan’s West Saxons. A horseman came from that fight, galloping along the rear of our shield wall, and I saw it was Bishop Oda. ‘For God’s sake, lord,’ he shouted, ‘the king needs help!’
We all needed help. The enemy was scenting victory and pressing hard on our left and centre. The West Saxons had tried and failed to regain the northern end of the bridge and, like the Mercians, were now being pushed hard. Anlaf was summoning reinforcements to face the West Saxons. He had reserves, we had almost none, though Steapa and his horsemen were still hidden. ‘Lord!’ Oda shouted at me. ‘Even a few men!’
I took a dozen, reckoning I could not spare more. The Mercians were closer to Æthelstan, but their shield wall dared not be thinned. Our whole shield wall was now half the length it had been when we started and it was dangerously thin, but the battle was fiercest where Æthelstan’s bright banner flew. Oda trotted his horse beside me. ‘The king insists on fighting! He shouldn’t be in the front rank!’
‘He’s a king,’ I said, ‘he has to lead!’
‘Where’s Steapa?’ Oda asked, and there was pure panic in his voice.
‘He’s coming!’ I shouted, hoping I was right.
Then we reached the wounded men pulled from Æthelstan’s West Saxons and I led my few men into the ranks, pushing men aside, bellowing at them to make way. Folcbald, the huge Frisian, and his cousin Wibrund were both with me, and they forced a passage to where Æthelstan was fighting. He was magnificent! His fine mail was covered in Norse blood, his shield was broken open in at least three places, and his sword was red to the hilt, yet still he fought, inviting the enemy to come to his blade. That enemy had to step over bodies, and even the úlfhéðnar among them were reluctant. They wanted Æthelstan dead, knew that his slaughter would be the beginning of his army’s utter defeat, but to kill him they had to face his quick sword. To the left and to the right of the king there were scarlet-cloaked men p
ushing forward, shields crashing against Norse shields, spears slicing forward and axes splitting willow-boards, but there was a space around Æthelstan. He was the king of battle, he dominated them, he taunted them, and then a tall, black-bearded Norseman with bright blue eyes beneath a scarred helmet, and with a long-hafted battleaxe stepped into the space. It was Thorfinn Hausakljúfr, Jarl of Orkneyjar, who looked half-crazed, and I suspected he had smeared his skin with the henbane ointment. He was no longer just a Norse chieftain, he had become an úlfheðinn, a wolf-warrior, and he howled at Æthelstan and hefted his vast battleaxe. ‘Time to die, pretty boy!’ he shouted, though I doubted Æthelstan understood the Norse, but he understood Thorfinn’s intent, and he let the big man come. Thorfinn was fighting without a shield, just carrying Hausakljúfr, his famous axe. Like Æthelstan he was blood-soaked, but I could see no wound. The blood was Saxon blood and Skull-Splitter wanted more.
He swung the axe one-handed, Æthelstan met it with his shield and I saw the blade split the willow-boards. Æthelstan swung the shield to his left, hoping to take the axe with it and so open Thorfinn’s body to a lunge from his sword, but Thorfinn was fast. He stepped back, wrenched his axe free and slammed it down, aiming for Æthelstan’s sword arm. The blow should have severed the king’s arm, but Æthelstan was just as fast, pulling the sword back, and the great axe crashed onto the blade close to the hilt. There was an ominous-sounding crack and I saw that the king’s sword had broken and Æthelstan now held a blade no longer than a man’s hand. Thorfinn shouted in triumph and swept the axe back. Æthelstan met it with his battered shield, stepped back, the axe swept again and again beat into the shield that was now ragged with holes, and Thorfinn raised his axe to bring it hard down onto Æthelstan’s gold-ringed helmet.
War Lord Page 33
