by James Duncan
‘It’s not even midsummer. It’s perfect campaigning weather, and we have a fine army assembled here ready to continue, a gathering that took a year to organise. We should be taking this army, clearing the peninsula, crossing the Cold Sea, sweeping up the islands in the middle, with all the rich farmland and supplies that will surely be there, and pushing into the Northlands before winter. Nothing would stand in our way. Instead, they have declared that there will be a new crusade next year to do that. A year!’ he shouted, nearly losing control of himself. ‘We will give them a year to reorganise and prepare to face us. Thousands of our men will die because of this. It’s madness.’
There was a silence while the count stared at his boots and shook his head, deflated. ‘Why do you think it has been done then?’ asked Sir Hans hesitantly.
The count sighed and answered, ‘The emperor promised a quick victory to the pope, so he told the duke to declare it as soon as possible. He didn’t want to wait for a real conclusion. The duke cares above all else about remaining in the favour of the emperor so as to bolster his chances of succeeding him. It’s just bloody politics. Most of the lords in there believe we will have an easy time next year, so it doesn’t matter if we wait. Fools.’ He spat the last word out as if it had an unpleasant taste.
‘So we are to go home, then?’ asked Sir Hans, hope and disappointment mixed in his voice.
‘No. The one smart concession Duke Lothair managed to allow was that I be appointed governor of this province as his vassal, tasked with clearing it of remaining resistance. It is not to be regarded as part of a crusade, only as clearing rebels from what is now our province.’
‘Well, that is good news. So we can continue the campaign under a different guise?’
‘No, not entirely. We are not to be given any ships – we cannot cross the sea and carry this fight to the islands. We are only to clear this peninsula. Which the enemy is fleeing anyway.’ The count shook his head bitterly and started walking again.
The two men walked in an uncomfortable silence until they reached the count’s tent. They sat down at the low table, and an attendant brought wine, which the count snappily waved away. He tapped his fingers on the table and was deep in thought for a good while. Sir Hans waited, either for orders or dismissal, trying to ignore the heat and the sweat under his armour, which he longed to remove.
Finally, the count spoke. ‘Here is what we will do. Most of the army is leaving, including all the great lords. None of them are willing to stay and fight rebels under my command; they feel it is beneath them.’ Sir Hans nodded in silent understanding.
‘What is left to us is our men, contingents from various German minor lords still hoping for more glory, fame or favour and some of the other troops from Duke Lothair’s lands. Oh, and some Englishmen, although they are near enough Norse themselves. Their leader styles himself a Christian, but he dresses and acts like a pagan.’ Hans smiled faintly to himself.
Adolf paused, still deep in thought. ‘We must try and catch the enemy who left to go north before they can escape. There was a significant force, and apparently the son of the king of Norway commands them. They are headed for the Fyrkat fortress and beyond that probably the port of Aalborg. It’s the only port left they can escape from in those numbers.’
‘Aalborg?’ asked Sir Hans. ‘I’ve never heard of it. Where is it?’
‘No idea. We will get a local guide to explain. All I know from the reports from interrogated prisoners is that it is where they will head. We must get there first, and the enemy have a day’s lead on us. I will take the main contingent to follow the enemy force to Fyrkat, this Danish fortress somewhere to the north. Hopefully, we will capture it swiftly and perhaps trap much of the enemy there. I want you to take three hundred of our men, travel light and fast and follow the coast. Bypass this fortress and try to reach Aalborg first. Deny them the chance to leave, if you can, and trap them against the main force.’
Sir Hans nodded. ‘Can the fortress be bypassed along the coast?’
‘I hear so. The fortress is at the head of a river, and the river can be forded. Although it may not be easy, it will give you a shorter route and might let you get there first. Perhaps not. Only one way to find out.’
‘Yes, my lord. It will be done if it can be. I will need a local guide and some time to gather the men. I will leave before sundown.’
‘Good. Get to it.’ The count stood and then raised his hand to stop Sir Hans before he turned to leave. ‘One more thing. Duke Lothair will be leaving, but he wants regular reports. I, in turn, need regular reports from you. So send me word of your movements and keep me informed. Take some scouts on fast horses with you to act as messengers.’
‘Of course.’ Sir Hans bowed and turned to leave the tent. Removing the armour would have to wait for another day.
So, less than a day after the massacre at Aarhus and barely rested, the Saxons set off for the march north. They travelled light, leaving most of the baggage train behind. They travelled only with a contingent of cavalry, packhorses and light wagons. They would have to cross the small river east of the fortress at a ford that a conscripted local guide promised he could show them.
Sir Hans came up to Ordulf as he was watching Orbert and an assistant organise the split in the baggage. Splitting his inventory was causing Orbert an unprecedented level of stress. He would not be going with the party north and was desperately trying to explain to his near-illiterate assistant how to use the new lists he had made.
‘Ordulf,’ Sir Hans shouted, gesturing at him. Ordulf jogged over and bowed awkwardly. ‘The army will use Aalborg as a major staging base for the later invasion of the northern lands. We want to set up workshops and forges there to supply the army. You are to come with us along the coast road to scout out the existing facilities and work out what we need to set up a proper smithy there.’ Sir Hans put his hand on the smith’s brawny shoulder as he spoke. ‘I hear you have conducted yourself well on this crusade. I am pleased we brought you along. Hopefully now we will actually use your skills to more purpose. Then, when it is done, you can return home to Minden with us.’
‘Oh, actually I think I will be going to Bavaria,’ said Ordulf with an excited smile. ‘I have been offered a job there with Master Gunther.’
‘Ah, well, good for you, Ordulf, good for you.’ Sir Hans said in a tone that made his disinterest clear, and he clapped Ordulf awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Now, be off and collect your things.’
‘Thank you, Sir Hans.’ Ordulf bowed his head again and left to collect his gear.
The small force moved like the wind compared to the army they had been a part of – they covered twenty miles or more a day, walking fast alongside the horses and wagons. Two months on the road had hardened Ordulf, and he found the march so much easier for it. On only the second day, the force of three hundred men reached the river ford. The water was high, waist deep for the men, up to the bellies of the horses and running fast.
The leading troop of cavalry and foot soldiers pushed across, losing one man who tripped and disappeared into the current, never to surface again, his maille carrying him to the bottom in the torrent. It was a dire warning for those who followed. The majority of the remaining cavalry and foot soldiers crossed next, manhandling and guiding the frightened packhorses. The rearguard of about fifteen footmen and five mounted men waited until the wagons were nearly clear. A few of the civilians who did not have wagons or packhorses to manage were still waiting to cross behind the wagons, Ordulf among them.
The last wagons were being wrestled into the ford, so Ordulf and his fellows were just walking down the slope to cross behind them when one of the men-at-arms behind them shouted in alarm and pointed off to their left.
‘Norsemen!’
Heads whipped round. Sir Hans stood in his stirrups to follow the outstretched hand. He looked again at the river. The last wagons were nearly halfway across, so they would be safe. His other men were already forming on the far side; they had seen t
he threat too. They could hold the narrow crossing against any foe. The only men in danger were his small rearguard and the civilians waiting to start crossing.
He looked back towards the bank overlooking the road, just thirty paces away.
A line of shields appeared at the top, forty men. No, more. Sixty.
The river was fifty paces away.
They wouldn’t make it. The Saxon foot soldiers were backing away and forming into a tight line, nervously looking around them and eyeing the river. No one broke and ran. Despite the desperation of their situation, their discipline held. They couldn’t cross with the Norse at their backs. Their forces on the other bank couldn’t come back to help them. They were trapped, a stone’s throw from safety.
Sir Hans took all this in. He could take his four mounted men to safety. The horses would give them an edge in the flight and could swim the river. He would escape cleanly if he left the men on foot behind now. If he left most of his men and the unarmed civilians to die.
Sir Hans pulled his faceless helm down onto his head and drew his sword as he turned his horse to face the enemy. He put his spurs into his horse and lowered his sword like a spear. ‘Run!’ he shouted as his war cry as he launched his horse past the men on foot.
His mounted men followed him like hounds on the hunt, unhesitating. The foot soldiers turned and ran for the river in one disciplined group, the civilians running in terror in front of them. Ordulf pounded along as fast as he could, fear in his throat stealing his breath. He dumped his pack, after stupidly holding it for a dozen paces while he worried about the fifty silver pieces hidden inside. His toolbelt bounced around his waist where he had secured it for the crossing, the hammer painfully digging into his side. But stopping to release it would slow him down. As he ran, fear gripping his heart like a cold hand, he felt a chill run through his whole body, like a cold wind was consuming him. He heard, as if far away, the shrill caw of a raven, the feeling of wings beating the air, and then the feeling was gone. His knife fell from his belt and clattered to the ground; he cursed his stupidity for not holding it but couldn’t stop to retrieve it. How had it fallen out? He was sure he had tucked it in securely. He cast the thought from his mind and sped up, legs pumping and lungs working desperately.
Sir Hans and his mounted men burst through the now-charging Norsemen, cutting several down. But most of them ignored his few riders and ran to cut off the fleeing foot soldiers. The Norse won the race to the river. Some of the civilians, swift of foot and unencumbered with armour, made it, splashing into the ford just before the leading Norse arrived. Then a handful of the enemy came between the Christians and the river, turning to block their escape. The leader of the foot soldiers held his sword up and charged into them with a few of his men; the rest formed a line ten abreast and set their feet to face the rest of the oncoming Norsemen and buy time to clear the ford.
Ordulf and the three other trapped civilians splashed into the shallows and stopped, looking desperately from side to side, unarmed and helpless as they cowered in the ankle-deep water with the sound of swords and spears ringing in front of and behind them, enveloped by the desperate fight. The horse groom next to Ordulf went down with a thrown spear through the groin, another chose swimming rather than death by the sword and jumped into the deep water of the ford, desperately striking out to reach the other side and failing almost immediately. Ordulf considered following, but the current was strong, and he couldn’t swim. All this passed in about ten pounding beats of his heart. Then the main force of Norsemen hit the fragile Saxon shield wall.
The Saxon soldiers were superbly equipped, they were well trained, and they were brave. But ten men can’t fight thirty in the open.
Their armour, shields and sword skills kept them alive only long enough to make a fight of it. Then the shield wall broke apart and each man was fighting alone or in a pair against two or three opponents. Some of the snarling Norsemen claimed a victim and fought their chosen man one-on-one while their fellows cheered them on. A couple of them even died at the edge of a Saxon sword. But most of the Saxons were taken down, weapons finding the gaps in their heavy maille or spears simply punching through it.
The Saxon leader put his opponent down into the river with a thrust to the leg, and the way to escape was briefly clear, at least for him. He shunned the chance to run. Instead he turned and plunged back into the melee, trying to get to the handful of his men still on their feet, shouting at them to retreat.
Behind them, unseen by Ordulf, two of Hans’ horsemen had been dragged down or speared off their horses. Hans and his two remaining companions turned and spurred their horses down to the ford, crashing into the fighting there in a shower of spray, desperately trying to free the few remaining men.
Hans’ sword rose and fell, trailing red water in arcs that glittered in the sun. His horse twirled, kicking and thrashing and clearing his rear. The last of the Saxon foot soldiers were being felled despite his desperate efforts. A dozen Norsemen were between Hans and Ordulf now. Ordulf reached for his knife and, remembering it was gone, pulled his hammer from his belt. His heart felt as if it was bursting in his chest. The Saxon leader splashed down lifeless into the river in front of him like a felled tree, a spear in his face. Ordulf gagged at the horror of the wound and the depth of the fear he felt, fear that rooted him to the spot.
Sir Hans desperately fended off a spear thrust and turned his helmeted head until it was facing directly at Ordulf. For a fleeting moment in the chaos, Ordulf’s wide eyes locked with that helmet’s dark slits across twenty feet of water and a dozen enemies. The path in front of Hans’ horse was almost clear, and his last mounted companion was shouting at him from his other side, urging him to run for the ford. The third horse was dying and thrashing in the shallows, drowning its wounded rider, but its flailing hooves were momentarily holding the Norsemen at bay.
Those emotionless dark slits held Ordulf’s gaze for the time it took the water drops from Hans’ sword to fall and splash into the bloodstained waters. It seemed an eternity.
They both knew that Ordulf was about to die. They both knew Hans could survive if he ran right that moment and no later. Ordulf’s whole being soundlessly implored the knight to turn, to cut his way to him. He imagined grabbing hold of the saddle and being carried to safety. His eyes pleaded with the steel face, begged for salvation. He started to gesture, to wave for the man’s attention.
Sir Hans held Ordulf’s gaze for another beat, then he turned his head and spurred his horse. He and his companion burst past the last Norseman between them and freedom and surged into the river. Ordulf wailed quietly as the knight fled in a shower of cold spray. He had believed for a moment that salvation was his, imagined that his deliverance had lain in that steel gaze, and that brief hope flying from grasp crushed him. The green knight, the hero of Blood River Ridge, had left him to die. Watching the man abandon him and turn to flee ripped a chunk of his heart out of his chest.
Ordulf’s attention snapped back to the horrifying full speed of reality after that drawn-out moment of shattered hope. A Norse warrior was charging towards him ten paces away, sword raised, shield forward, death in his eyes.
Ordulf shuddered and raised his hammer and, trying to muster strength he did not feel, set his feet into the firm sand beneath him. He could see the water pouring from the oncoming man’s clothes, see the blood running down from his raised sword. Ordulf stepped forward and, with a great shout, swung his hammer in an arc over his head towards the oncoming man, seeing the sword lance out towards him, fast as an eel, mocking his leaden hammer strike. His death had arrived.
There was a blur of motion in his peripheral vision. Another warrior had shoulder-charged the oncoming one out of Ordulf’s path from the side. Both men tumbled down into the shallows in a bundle of furs and clattering gear. Ordulf’s hammer did nothing but glance off the rim of a shield. The sword missed Ordulf entirely. Someone standing on the bank was shouting at the men, gesturing at Ordulf.
Th
e first man got up, angrily shaking off the second, who ignored him and advanced on Ordulf, discarding his sword, shield up and in front. Then he lunged with his empty sword hand for Ordulf’s left arm as he covered his move with his shield. Ordulf brought his hammer down with all his strength onto the upraised shield. It hit the boss with a clang that shook his arm up to the shoulder. Ordulf braced his feet and levered the warrior’s right arm with his left.
His enemy was a big man, and strong, but Ordulf was stronger. He raised and brought his hammer down again with all his strength, strength built over seven years of swinging hammers such as this. The hammer hit with a loud crack this time and the central board of the shield splintered near the boss. The combination of the hammer blows, Ordulf’s twisting away of his arm and the pressure from his planted feet overwhelmed the warrior. His eyes turned from predatory to surprised as he was rolled over to his right and fell into the water.
Ordulf raised his hammer and roared as he brought it down again. The Norseman released Ordulf’s left arm and held his shield over his face and upper body with both hands. The hammer hit the boss and nearly turned it inside out; the cracked wood around it split further. He swung the hammer again, and the warrior desperately pushed his shield into the blow. It split in half, leaving him with half a shield dangling from the ruined boss, held together by the rim, and a shocked expression on his now-exposed face.
Ordulf roared down at the prostrate and defenceless Norseman and raised his arm again. Before he could swing it, strong hands grabbed him from behind and a thick, maille-clad arm wrapped around his throat. Ordulf bellowed like a bull as he twisted and rolled his shoulder, years of instinct built from fighting on the patch taking over. The surprised Norseman who had been holding Ordulf’s arm appeared over his shoulder and landed flat on his back next to the shield carrier, but two more men replaced him, with half a dozen arms gripping Ordulf’s upper body and finally overpowering him.
