by Jayne Castel
Aidan felt the chill that had settled in his chest, slide down to his guts.
Of course, he should have expected this.
Ecgric wanted revenge for his humiliation on the evening he had tried to rape Freya. Aidan had sorely wounded his pride, and he had made the mistake of thinking Ecgric had forgotten about it.
A man like Ecgric never forgot about such things.
Aidan nodded to Ecgric and schooled his features into an impassive mask. He glanced across at Lothar and the two friends exchanged one last look. Then, Aidan un-slung his shield from over his back and strode across to where a line of spearmen were forming the shield-wall.
Even though he had never fought in one, Aidan knew the odds of surviving the first line of a shield-wall were slim – especially against a significantly bigger army. Still, he would rather have been boiled alive than see the satisfaction on Ecgric’s face if he had showed even a glimmer of fear.
Jostling himself into place between two warriors who looked barely out of boyhood, Aidan saw the naked terror on their faces.
This would not do.
“Are you ready to send those Mercian dogs running with their tails between their legs?” he grinned, showing his teeth. “I hope so, because this kingdom – your kingdom – is depending on us keeping this shield-wall from breaking. Imagine one of them raping your woman, or your mother or sister. Imagine them burning your village and taking your brothers as slaves. They will do it. If you show them a shred of mercy they will stick you like a pig.”
Watching the faces of the young men, Aidan saw the anger kindle in their eyes. “The men of the East Angles are made of iron,” he pressed on, noticing that his speech had gained the attention of other spearmen who were jostling for position around them. “Remember who you are fighting for. Your courage cannot fail. Send these men into the afterlife so that they may face eternity in torment. Let them wade through wild, poisonous rivers. Let Nithhogg suck their blood and wolves rip them limb from limb!”
That was all the warriors needed. Aidan had just spoken of the otherworld those who committed evil deeds would be consigned to – and of the dragon residing there who would torment their enemies. He had reminded them that they had every right to stand firm and defend their home. They, not Penda and his invading army, were in the right.
A roar went up along the shield-wall and Aidan allowed himself a grim smile.
That’s better. Let Penda hear that and pause. Even if we all fall on the battlefield, this will be no easy victory.
***
Freya heard the armies before she saw them: the shouts of men rising and falling in waves, and the rhythmic beating of spears against shields. With Hereric at her side, Freya crept through the undergrowth, while attempting not to get snagged by black thorn and bramble, and made her way to Barrow Wood’s edge. Hiding behind the trunk of an old elm, she peeked out and looked for the first time upon Barrow Fields.
The sight of the two armies – still some way apart while they made preliminary preparations for war – made her breath catch. She had never seen so many men in one place. Spears bristled against the skyline like a carpet of nails. They were too far off for her to make out the faces, but the din echoed across Barrow Fields. It was a bloodthirsty, raw sound.
Freya shuddered. This was no place for a woman. She wanted no part in this slaughter; she was loath to stand here and look on while men butchered each other senselessly. Yet, she found herself rooted to the spot. Somewhere in that heaving sea of men was Aidan. She would not leave this spot until she knew his fate.
Tearing her gaze from the battle lines, Freya glanced over at Hereric.
I shouldn’t have brought him here. He’s too young to watch this.
And yet, Hereric’s face was composed. His eyes looked as if they belonged to someone much older. Freya knew little of Hereric’s life before he became the king’s theow. Only that his mother had also been a slave, who had been raped by one of the king’s thegns. She had died of a fever when her son was tiny. Hereric had grown up in slavery and had been kicked like a dog far too many times in his short life. He would handle this much better than her, Freya realized.
Freya looked back at the two armies, in time to see a huge man atop a shaggy bay warhorse ride up and down the Mercian lines. He stood up on his stirrups and bellowed at his army, the great sword he wielded flashing in the sunlight. He wore an iron helmet that obscured his face. This must be the infamous Penda: the Mercian warmonger. Even from this distance he looked terrifying and Freya crouched lower against the tree trunk in response, despite that she knew he could not see her. In front of the East Anglian line, Ecgric rode his black stallion along his lines, employing the same tactic; only his lack of charisma and commanding presence were woefully evident. Penda’s warriors roared as their leader galloped past. Ecgric’s men were painfully silent.
After a while, both kings retreated behind the lines and the armies advanced to close quarters. Each army appeared a living entity, rather than a crowd of men, as they edged closer like two giant caterpillars.
The start of the battle, when it came, was almost a relief after the breathless waiting. It fell swiftly in a hammer blow. One moment the two shield walls were facing each other, the next a battle cry echoed across Barrow Fields. Penda’s shield-wall advanced. Arrows, javelins, axes and rocks flew.
The two shield-walls collided with a terrific crunch.
Chapter Twenty-one
Shield to shield, the Mercian and East Anglian armies pushed against each other in an attempt to break the enemy line. Aidan kept his head tucked in and down as arrows flew overhead and peppered the shields behind him. A rock glanced off his shoulder and he narrowly missed being gored when a spear found a gap between his shield and that belonging to the warrior beside him, and jabbed viciously.
The roar of men’s voices was almost deafening; the air was rank with the smell of blood, sweat and fear. Somewhere in the midst of it, the fire of battle caught alight in his veins. He slammed his foot down on the protruding spear and rammed his shield against his attacker. Then he thrust his own spear through the gap. A strangled cry reached him. When he twisted his spear and pulled it back, it was coated in blood.
The shield-wall buckled and strained; it was a vain attempt to hold back the tide but the warriors who made up that first line made a valiant and prolonged effort to keep the Mercians at bay. Sweat streamed down Aidan’s face; the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders burned from the effort it was taking to keep his shield up.
When the East Anglian shield-wall finally broke, all hell broke loose. The warrior on Aidan’s right fell with a spear through the chest, as did the man to his left.
The shield-wall shattered like leaves in the wind.
The Mercians fell upon them, howling. Aidan slammed his shield against a warrior who was coming straight for him and gored him with his spear. The warrior crumpled screaming, but Aidan barely had time to draw breath before another man replaced him. As he fought, Aidan caught glimpses of his surroundings. To his left, he saw Sigeberht. Incredibly, he was still alive, although his staff was about half the length it had been before the battle. Further on, again to his left, he saw Annan, howling the Wuffinga battle cry as he swung his sword with deadly precision. To his right, Aidan caught a glimpse of Lothar. The Frank fought like a berserker. He howled as he cut down Mercians like barley stalks.
There was no sign of Ecgric; Aidan imagined he was cowering somewhere at the back of the army – whereas Penda was right out front. He was a fell, terrifying sight in his blood-splattered iron helmet and gleaming breastplate. He had either left his horse behind, or had lost it in the battle. On foot, he moved with surprising grace for such a big man. He roared like a stag with each stroke of his sword.
Aidan saw the moment Penda spotted Sigeberht and came for him in great strides – cutting down man after man who tried to block his path. In the meantime, Aidan was forced to turn his attention fully to defending himself from a crazed axeman. Only
his nimbleness and skill with a spear saved his life. He had just driven his spear through his opponent’s neck and was ripping it free when he saw Penda drive his sword through Sigeberht’s chest.
The king fell to his knees before he crumpled to one side. Penda withdrew his sword, kicked Sigeberht aside, and headed towards Annan.
Aidan felt pain lance through his side as a spear sliced through his leather armor and nicked his ribs. In response, he smashed his shield into his assailant’s face, reducing it to a bloody pulp before he finished him off.
Then, to his right, he saw Lothar fall.
His friend had looked invincible, as formidable a warrior as Penda himself. Then a hand-axe hurtled through the air and caught him in the throat. Lothar dropped his axe and fell clutching his bleeding neck.
Raw grief ripped through Aidan. It was a lance of pure agony, as if he had just been stabbed.
Not Lothar.
Aidan had never doubted that Lothar would survive this, even if the rest of them fell.
Lothar had so much to live for.
Grief turned Aidan savage. He threw aside his spear, retrieved a fallen sword from beside one of the dead East Anglian ealdormen, and unleashed himself on the enemy in a killing rage.
The only thing that stopped him was the dull, meaty thud of an arrow piercing his left shoulder. He staggered back and another arrow hit him, just below the first. Then a sharp, blinding pain to the back of his head obliterated everything else. Aidan fell forward and knew no more.
***
Shortly after the battle started, Freya could bear to look upon it no more. She left Hereric to gape, wide-eyed and ashen, while she turned from the carnage and sat with her back against the old elm. She stared out at the woodland and covered her ears with her hands. Yet, it barely muffled the din. The sound of iron, pain and death echoed inside her skull.
Somewhere, Aidan was in the midst of it, fighting to stay alive. Before the battle, Freya had felt hope that he may survive but now, as the chilling screams of dying men seeped past her fingers and stabbed at her ears, she felt increasing waves of hopelessness wash over her.
How could Aidan survive this? How could anyone? Freya rested her forehead on her knees and eventually let the tears come.
Eventually, the sounds of battle dimmed. It was gradual, but when Hereric began to pluck at Freya’s skirt, the roar had been replaced with the muffled sounds of the dying.
“It’s over,” Hereric told her, his cheeks streaked with tears. “The Mercians have won.”
Freya turned numbly and braced herself to look out onto the devastation.
It was worse than she had expected – a blanket of bodies strewn, broken and impaled over the field. The light was starting to fade. It was late afternoon; the battle had begun just after noon. The East Angles had defended themselves well, but in the end the Mercians had been too many.
“Look!” Hereric hissed, pointing to where a handful of injured men were being dragged west towards the Mercian encampment. “There are some survivors. They’re taking them prisoner.”
Freya craned her neck and struggled to make out the features of the survivors. There was one man, tall and blond, who stood out from the rest but he was not close enough for her to recognize his face. It was impossible to make out the faces of the others. Could Aidan be among them? Despite their injuries, the men fought their captors as they were dragged from the battlefield. One of the men received a spear through his belly for the trouble and was left to die while the others were taken away.
“We need to go and search the field,” Hereric refused to take his gaze off the dead. “Maybe Sigeberht or Aidan are alive?”
“We need to wait till the Mercians have gone,” Freya replied, trying to prevent her voice from trembling. She was not sure she could go out there and walk amongst that carnage; although if she wanted to know Aidan’s fate she would have to. “‘Tis not long till nightfall and they are exhausted. I’d wager that they’ll be back tomorrow morning to loot the dead. We should have some time before it gets dark.”
Hereric nodded and was just about to suggest something when a rustling in the undergrowth behind them, made both woman and boy start.
“Get behind me Hereric,” Freya hissed, drawing the knife she had taken from the store. Silently, the boy obeyed.
There was another sound, the cracking of someone stepping on a dry twig, before a tussled blond head appeared from the bushes.
“Edwin!” Freya’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs with relief. “You nearly frightened us both to death!”
The boy slowly got to his feet, wincing as a bramble snagged his arm. He moved forward, his gaze widening when he caught a glimpse of the battlefield behind Freya and Hereric.
“Why are you here?” Freya asked, although she regretted the words as soon as she had said them. What a foolish question – it was obvious why he was here.
“I couldn’t stay behind,” he said quietly, his eyes brimming with tears. “I had to see if my father and brothers have lived. I must know what happened to them.”
Dusk settled across Barrow Fields in a grey haze and tendrils of white mist snaked across the ground, forming a welcome veil for the three figures that crept out of the woods and hurried across to where the dead lay.
Freya glanced nervously over her left shoulder to where the fires from the Mercian encampment glowed in the distance – pale orange through the fog. They would not be able to linger here or they would be spotted.
The three companions fanned out and began to comb the center of the field, with the intention of moving gradually east. Nausea rose in Freya. The ground was slippery with gore; the earth stained dark with blood. The smell of death was metallic and ripe. It was the smell of a slaughterhouse.
It was Hereric who found Sigeberht. He lay on his side, his eyes sightless, his chest covered in blood. The boy began to sniff as Freya and Edwin approached him; Sigeberht had always treated the young slave kindly and Hereric had worshipped him.
Forcing themselves on, stumbling as they reeled at the horror of it all, Freya, Hereric and Edwin continued combing the battlefield. During the course of their search they found Aldwulf, Lothar and many others – all dead.
Edwin found his father, Bercthun, and his four brothers – all slain. Edwin crouched over his father, weeping, while Hereric sat by his side in silent solace. Meanwhile, Freya continued to search the dead, moving gradually east. Aidan was nowhere to be found. Eventually, she found Ecgric. He was far from the front lines, next to the corpse of his regal black stallion and his ever-faithful Oeric. Ecgric lay on his front with an axe embedded between his shoulder blades – almost as if he had been fleeing when the end came.
Freya reached the end of the field, but there was still no sign of Aidan. Maybe he had been among the survivors after all. Or perhaps she had missed him. Visibility was poor and getting worse by the moment. The mist wreathed like probing fingers. She returned to the boys and helped Edwin to his feet.
“Come,” she whispered. “We must go now.”
They were crossing the center of the field, making their way back towards the woods, when Freya spied a man pinned under the corpse of a huge warrior. Intuition needled at her. She left the boys and sidled round to get a closer look. There, she saw a shock of shaggy jet black hair.
Freya’s stomach clenched.
She had only ever seen one man with hair that shade.
“Help me,” she motioned to the boys. “I think Aidan is under here.”
Hereric and Edwin hurried back and, together, the three of them heaved the corpse of the Mercian axeman off the man beneath.
It was Aidan. Freya’s first thought was that he was dead.
He lay on his front. The back of his head was a matt of hair and blood and she could see the points of two arrows sticking out of his left shoulder. They gently rolled him over and Freya knelt at his side, fearing the worst.
“He’s alive!” Hereric hissed. “Look, his chest is moving!”
Freya glanced over her shoulder at the Mercian encampment and saw the lights of torches slowly approaching. The enemy was not going to wait till daybreak to search for spoils after all.
“Help me carry him,” Freya urged. “We must get off this field now.”
Unspeaking, the boys nodded and, together, they lifted Aidan’s prostrate form off the ground. Stumbling over the dead in their haste, they carried him into the woods.
Chapter Twenty-two
It was a still night. Smoke from the fire pit at the heart of Penda’s tent drifted lazily towards the opening above. Outside, torches that had been staked into the ground, framed either-side of the entrance. They burned gently; their flames licking up at the moths dancing around them. Mist snaked through the Mercian encampment in the aftermath of battle.
There was little movement in the encampment. The muffled cries and groans of the wounded was one of the few sounds, apart from the low timbre of men’s voices inside the tents.
Inside the king’s tent, Penda of Mercia poured himself a cup of mead and stood watching the glowing embers of his fire pit. The tent was a cavernous space, with the king’s sleeping area curtained off at one end. Heavy tapestries hung from the walls and rush-matting had been rolled out over the floor. Although temporary, it was a comfortable and kingly abode. A magnificent, blood-stained sword hung from one of the tapestries: Æthelfrith’s Bane. The axeman who had slain Ecgric of Exning had pried the sword from his victim’s dead hands and brought it to his king as a trophy.
Penda paid little attention to his surroundings. He was deep in thought as he sipped meditatively at his mead. He drank from a golden cup, studded with jewels; his victory cup he liked to call it. Even dressed in a linen tunic and leggings, cross-gartered to the knee, with little finery or armor, Penda of Mercia cut a formidable figure. He stood at well over six feet and was heavily muscled. A shock of white blond hair ran down his back, and his face – belonging to a man who looked no older than his early-thirties – was carved of stone. He may have been handsome as a boy, but as a man his face was cruel and austere. Pale blue eyes flickered in the firelight.
