War Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  And Bishop Oda was beside me, off his horse, screaming in his native Danish for the king to hold fast, and Oda pulled Serpent-Breath from my scabbard. Æthelstan raised his shield, caught the downward blow that split the shield almost in two, then Oda, screaming the king’s name, threw Serpent-Breath hilt first. Æthelstan had been driven to his knees by the force of the shield-splitting blow, but heard Oda, he turned and snatched Serpent-Breath out of the air, swept it hard to cut into Thorfinn’s left thigh, dragged it back, then stood and rammed the splintered shield into Thorfinn’s face. The big Norseman stepped back to give Hausakljúfr the space for a killing blow and Æthelstan, fast as the lightning on his flag, rammed Serpent-Breath forward, kept ramming, driving the blade deep into Thorfinn’s belly, then wrenching it up and down, side to side, and Skull-Splitter fell, Thorfinn fell with his axe, and Æthelstan had a bloodied boot on his enemy’s chest as he ripped Serpent-Breath free.

  And Steapa came.

  We did not know of Steapa’s coming at first. Folcbald and Wibrund were at my side, and we were fighting off a surge of furious Norsemen who came to avenge Thorfinn’s death. Gerbruht, who was one of my most loyal men, was on my right, trying to protect me with his shield and I had to snarl at him to move it aside to give me room to lunge Wasp-Sting. My shield was hard against a Norse shield, the man was trying to skewer me with his sword, and I shouldered Gerbruht aside, let the Norseman slide his blade between our shields, and I met it with Wasp-Sting’s razor-sharp edge, letting the man slide his forearm against the seax until the pain made him draw back. His tendons and flesh were cut to the bone and it was easy to thrust Wasp-Sting up into his ribs. All he could do now was batter me with his shield, his sword arm was useless, he could not step back because of the press of men behind him, and I was content to let his body shield me while the blood drained from his sliced wrist. And then, over the shouts and the clangour of the blades, I heard the hoofbeats.

  Steapa had been hidden on the western hill among the autumn trees just behind the broken palisade of Brynstæþ. He had been ordered to wait until the battle had turned, until Æthelstan’s left wing had been forced back against the streams and the enemy would be fighting with their backs to the western ridge.

  And now he came, leading five hundred mail-bright horsemen on big stallions. Anlaf had thought to use the slight slope to assault Æthelstan’s left, and now Steapa was using the steeper slope of the ridge to launch a thunderbolt at Anlaf’s rear. And Anlaf’s men knew it. The pressure on our line lessened as Norsemen shouted warnings of the attack coming from their rear, an attack that came down the ridge’s slope like a flood of doom. ‘Now!’ Æthelstan shouted. ‘Forward!’ Men who had thought themselves doomed saw rescue, and the whole West Saxon line went forward in a howling rush.

  The horsemen hurled the stallions at the lesser stream. Most leaped the gully, some scrambled through, and I saw at least two horses fall, but the charge came on, the noise of the hooves a rising thunder over which I could hear the shouts of the riders. Almost all Steapa’s men carried spears, the points lowered as they neared the back of Anlaf’s shield wall.

  Where there was chaos. The back of a shield wall is where the wounded are dragged, where servants hold horses, where a scatter of archers loose their bows, and those men, at least those who could move, ran to take shelter in the shield wall’s rearmost rank. That rank had turned, was desperately trying to make a wall, their shields touching, but the panicked men pushed them aside, screaming for help, and then the horsemen struck.

  Horses will shy away from a shield wall, but the men seeking shelter had opened the wall to leave gaps and the horses kept coming. They struck with the fury of the úlfhéðnar, they pierced the wall wherever there was an opening and the spears shattered mail and ribs, the horses reared, they flailed hooves and snapped at terrified men, and the shield wall broke in terror. Men just ran. West Saxon horsemen discarded spears and drew swords. I saw Steapa, terrible in his anger, slash his great sword down to cut a man deep into his chest. The man was dragged along by the blade as Steapa turned northwards to pursue the fleeing enemy. And we went forward into the chaos. The shield wall in front of us, till now an impenetrable barrier, broke apart and we began killing in a frenzy. I picked up a dead Norseman’s sword because now, with the enemy scattering, was no time for the close work of a seax. This was the slaughter time. The fleeing enemy had their backs to us and they died fast. Some turned to fight, but were overwhelmed by vengeful pursuers. The luckiest of the enemy had horses and spurred away northwards, most following the Roman road towards Dingesmere. Steapa’s men followed, while Æthelstan shouted for his horse to be fetched. His bodyguard, all in their distinctive scarlet cloaks, were mounting their stallions. I saw Æthelstan, still with Serpent-Breath in his hand, climb into his saddle and spur towards the pursuit.

  The Scots, being furthest from the place where Steapa’s horsemen had shattered the shield wall, were the last to break. It took them a few moments to even realise the disaster, but seeing their pagan allies broken they too turned and fled. I was looking for Ræt and my horse, then realised he must have crossed the bridge before Æthelstan’s men retreated past it. I looked towards the encampment and bellowed his name, but could not see him. Then Wibrund brought me a bay stallion. ‘He probably belongs to one of the king’s bodyguard, lord,’ he said, ‘and that man’s probably dead.’

  ‘Help me up!’

  I spurred northwards, shouting for Egil as I neared my men. He turned and looked at me. ‘Don’t pursue!’ I called to him. ‘Stay here!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re Norsemen. You think Æthelstan’s men will know the difference?’ I called for Berg, Egil’s youngest brother, and told him to keep twenty Christians to guard Egil’s troops, then I spurred on. Finan and my son wanted to come with me, but had no horses. ‘Catch up with me!’ I shouted at them.

  My borrowed stallion picked his way through the piles of corpses that marked where the shield walls had met. Some of the dead were my men. I recognised Roric, his throat slashed open, his face drenched in blood, and I suspected I had sent him to his death when I ordered him to leave the plunder. Beornoth, a good fighter who had met a better one, now lay on his back, a look of surprise on his face where flies crawled across his open eyes and mouth. I could not see what had killed him. Oswi, his face pale, lay with his mangled leg tightly bandaged and he tried to smile. Blood seeped through the bandages. ‘You’ll live,’ I told him, ‘I’ve seen others worse.’ There would be others, too many others, just as there would be widows and orphans in Constantine’s land. Once past the stinking ridge of bodies I put spurs to the horse.

  It was late afternoon, the shadows were lengthening, and I was surprised by that. The battle had seemed short to me, short and terrifying, yet it must have lasted much longer than I realised. The clouds were clearing and the sun threw shadows from the corpses of men who had been killed as they tried to run away. Men were plundering the bodies, stripping mail, searching for coins. The crows and ravens would come soon to enjoy the battle feast. The heathland was littered with swords, spears, axes, bows, helmets, and countless shields, all thrown away by men desperate to escape our pursuit. I could see Steapa’s horsemen ahead. They were riding just fast enough to overtake the fugitives who they would cripple with a spear or a slash of a sword, then leave them to be killed by the men who followed on foot. I could see Æthelstan’s banner, the victorious dragon with its lightning bolt, on the Roman road and I spurred towards it. I came to the low rise of ground where Anlaf’s army had assembled and checked the stallion because the view was so startling. The wide shallow valley was filled with fleeing men, and behind them and among them were our merciless troops. They were wolves among sheep. I saw men try to yield, saw them cut down, and knew that Æthelstan’s men, freed from the almost certain doom of imminent defeat, were releasing their relief in an orgy of slaughter.

  I stayed on the higher ground, watching in amazement. I felt relief too, and a stran
ge detachment as if this was not my battle. This was Æthelstan’s victory. I touched my chest, feeling for the hammer amulet I had hidden beneath my mail, fearing to be mistaken for an enemy pagan. I had not expected to survive, despite the sorcery of Benedetta’s cross. When the enemy had come in sight, that great horde of shields and blades, I had sensed a doom. Yet here I was, watching a gleeful slaughter. A man staggered past, miraculously drunk, carrying an ornate helmet and an empty scabbard decorated with silver plaques. ‘We beat them, lord!’ he called.

  ‘We beat them,’ I agreed, and thought of Alfred. This was how his dream was coming true. His dream of a godly country, one country for all the Saxons, and I knew Northumbria was no more. My country was gone. This was now Englaland, born in a welter of killing in a valley of blood.

  ‘The Lord has wrought a great thing!’ a voice called to me, and I turned to see Bishop Oda riding from behind. He was smiling. ‘God has given us the victory!’ He held out his hand and I grasped it with my left hand, my right still holding the borrowed sword. ‘And you wear the cross, lord!’ he said with delight.

  ‘Benedetta gave it to me.’

  ‘To protect you?’

  ‘So she said.’

  ‘And it has! Come, lord!’ He spurred his horse and I followed, thinking how women’s sorcery had protected me through the years.

  There was one last fight before that day ended. The Scottish and Norse chieftains were mounted on swift horses and they outpaced the pursuit, galloping desperately towards the safety of the ships, but some men stayed to delay us. They formed a shield wall on a low rise and among them I saw Ingilmundr and realised that these must be the men who lived in Wirhealum. They had been granted the land, they had pretended to be Christians, their women and children still lived in the steadings of Wirhealum and now they would fight for their homes. There were no more than three hundred men in two ranks, their shields touching. They surely knew they must die, or perhaps they believed mercy would be given. Æthelstan’s men faced them in a ragged crowd over a thousand strong and growing larger every minute. Steapa’s men on tired horses were there, as was Æthelstan’s mounted bodyguard.

  Ingilmundr walked out of the shield wall, going towards Æthelstan who still held Serpent-Breath. I saw him talk to the king, but could not hear what he said, nor what Æthelstan answered, but after a moment Ingilmundr knelt in submission. He laid his sword on the ground, which surely meant that Æthelstan was letting him live, for no pagan would die without a sword in his hand. Oda thought the same. ‘The king is too merciful,’ he said disapprovingly.

  Æthelstan urged his horse forward till he was close to Ingilmundr. He leaned from the saddle and said something and I saw Ingilmundr smile and nod. Then Æthelstan struck, Serpent-Breath slicing down in a sudden savage stroke, and the blood spurted from Ingilmundr’s neck, and Æthelstan struck again, and again, and his men cheered and swarmed forward to overwhelm the Norsemen. There was the hammering of shields again, the clash of blades, the screams, but it was over so quickly and the pursuit went on leaving a rill of dead and dying men on the small rise.

  By dusk we had reached Dingesmere and could see the escaping ships rowing into the Mærse. Almost all were gone, but most of those fleeing ships were empty, the crews left to guard them had taken them to sea to escape pursuit and so abandoned hundreds of enemy who were slaughtered in the shallow waters of the marsh. Some begged for mercy, but Æthelstan’s men had none and the water between the rushes turned red.

  Finan and my son had found me and watched with me. ‘It’s over, then,’ Finan said in a tone of disbelief.

  ‘It’s over,’ I agreed. ‘We can go home.’ And I suddenly longed for Bebbanburg, for the clean sea and the long beach and the wind from the water.

  Æthelstan found me. He looked stern. His mail, cloak, horse, and saddle cloth were stained dark with blood. ‘Well done, lord King,’ I said.

  ‘God gave us the victory.’ He sounded tired, and no wonder, for I doubted that any man had fought harder in the shield wall that day. He looked down at Serpent-Breath and gave me a wry smile. ‘She served me well, lord.’

  ‘She’s a great sword, lord King.’

  He held her out to me, hilt first. ‘You will dine with me tonight, Lord Uhtred.’

  ‘As you command,’ I said and took the sword gratefully. I could not put her in the scabbard till she was cleaned, so I tossed away my borrowed sword and held Serpent-Breath as we rode back down the long road in the gathering dark. Women were searching the dead, using long knives to kill those close to death before plundering the bodies. The first fires pricked the early dark.

  It was over.

  Epilogue

  I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred, and his father was also called Uhtred, and they were all lords of Bebbanburg. I am that too, though these days folk call me the Lord of the North. My lands stretch from the wind-beaten North Sea to the shores facing Ireland and, though I am old, my task is to stop the Scots coming south into the land we have learned to call Englaland.

  I have imposed peace on Cumbria. I did it by sending my son and Egil to punish those who would cause trouble. They hanged some, burned steadings, and gave land to men who had fought on the heath at Wirhealum. Much of Cumbria is still occupied by Danes and Norsemen, but they live in peace with the Saxons, and their children have learned to speak the Saxon tongue and some now worship the nailed god of the Christians. We are proud to be Northumbrians, yet we are all Ænglisc now and Æthelstan is called the King of Englaland. His shattered sword hangs in his great hall at Wintanceaster, though I have not travelled south to see it. He was generous to me, rewarding me with gold and silver taken at the field on Wirhealum where so many men lie buried.

  There was a feast three days after the battle. Æthelstan had wanted it on the night of the battle, but men were too tired, there were too many injured who needed care, and so he waited until he could gather his leaders in Ceaster. There was more ale than food, and what food there was did not taste good. There was bread, some hams, and a stew that I suspected was horse-flesh. Maybe a hundred and twenty men gathered in Ceaster’s great hall after Bishop Oda held a service in the church. A harpist played but did not sing, because no song could match the slaughter we had endured. It was called a victory feast, and I suppose it was, but until the ale had loosened men’s tongues, it felt like a funeral. Æthelstan gave a speech in which he lamented the loss of two ealdormen, Ælfine and Æthelwyn, but then spread praise among the men listening from the benches. He raised a cheer when he singled out Steapa, who had taken a spear thrust in his shield arm when his horsemen had shattered Anlaf’s shield wall. He named me too, calling me the warlord of Englaland. Men cheered.

  Englaland! I remember first hearing that name and finding it strange. King Alfred had dreamed of an Englaland and I had been with him when he marched from the marshes of Sumersæte to assault the great army led by Anlaf’s grandfather. ‘We were supposed to die at Ethandun,’ Alfred had once said to me, ‘but God was on our side. There will always be an Englaland.’ I had not believed him, yet over the long years I had fought for that dream, not always willingly, and now Alfred’s grandson had conquered the northern alliance and Englaland stretched from the Scottish hills to the southern sea. ‘God gave us this country,’ Æthelstan declaimed in Ceaster’s hall, ‘and God will keep it.’

  Yet Æthelstan’s god allowed both Anlaf and Constantine to escape the slaughter of Wirhealum. Anlaf is in Dyflin, muttering that he will return, and perhaps he will because he is young, ambitious, and bitter. I am told that the king of the Scots has relinquished his throne and gone to live in a monastery and that his realm is now ruled by Indulf, his second son. There are still cattle raids across my northern border, but fewer, because when we find the raiders we kill them and nail their heads to trees to warn others what awaits them.

  The dragon and the star did not lie. The danger came from the north, and the dragon died on the heath of Wirhealum. Domnall and Cellach died there
. So did Anlaf Cenncairech who was known as Scabbyhead. He was King of Hlymrekr in Ireland, forced to fight at Wirhealum by his conqueror whose name he shared. Owain of Strath Clota fell too, cut down by Sihtric’s men amidst his blackshields. Gibhleachán, King of the Suðreyjar islands, was speared from behind as he tried to flee. The poets say seven kings died, and perhaps they did, but some were mere chieftains who just called themselves kings. I rule more land than some kings, but call myself the Lord of Bebbanburg and that is the only title I have ever wanted, and it will belong to my son and to his son. I sometimes sit on the terrace outside the great hall and look at the men and women who serve me, and then I gaze at the endless sea, at the clouds building over the inland hills, at the walls I have made higher, and I murmur thanks to the gods who have looked after me for so long.

  Benedetta sits with me, her head on my shoulder, and sometimes she looks towards the hall I built at the fortress’s northern end and she smiles. My wife lives there. Æthelstan insisted on the marriage, sometimes I think to mock me, and so Eldrida the piglet became my wife. I had thought Benedetta would be enraged, but she was amused. ‘Poor child,’ she said, and has ignored her ever since. Eldrida is scared of me and even more scared of Benedetta, but she delivered me her lands in Cumbria, and that was her purpose. I try to be kind to her, but all she wants is to pray. I built her a private chapel and she brought two priests to Bebbanburg and I hear their prayers whenever I go near the Sea Gate. She tells me she prays for me, and perhaps that is why I still live.

  Finan also lives, but he is slower now. So am I. We must both die soon. Finan asks that his body be taken to Ireland to sleep with his ancestors, and Egil, who has a Norseman’s endless desire to be at sea, has promised he will fulfil that wish. My only request is to die with a sword in my hand, and so Benedetta and I share our bed with Serpent-Breath. Bury her with me, I tell my son, and he has promised that my sword will go to Valhalla with me. And in that great hall of the gods I will meet so many men that I once fought, who I killed, and we shall feast together and watch the middle-earth beneath us and see men fight as we once fought, and so the world will go on till Ragnarok’s chaos engulfs it.