The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  As the band of riders whooped with joy and spurred their horses northward, Erik exchanged a smile with Oswald as they watched them go. ‘To be young and invincible again, eh?’

  The Northumbrian stood kneading the blood back into a travel sore rump as he shot back a reply. ‘And able to ride day and night without feeling like you have just wrestled a bear.’

  Erik snorted and looked back to the South. Erland was leading his Orkney men in through the gap in the ancient ramparts to join his brother Arnkel and his war band; the men of the Draki were already picketing the horses, pitching tents and clearing a space for the campfires. Satisfied that all was in hand, Erik indicated that Oswald Thane follow him across to the high point near the south-west corner as the first fire steels sparked. A rectangular ditch and bank had been thrown up by men long since gone to the grave, and perched upon the high point a stone built watchtower stood sentinel over the road which passed its base. Despite its age the bank was steep, and Erik scrambled up to poke his head inside the doorway. A floor ankle deep in the detritus of centuries lay underfoot, and Erik craned his neck to peer upwards as Oswald made the summit. Milky white clouds drifted slowly across a rectangle of blue, the square holes in the walls the only remaining evidence for the beams which had supported the stair, upper floor and roof long ago. From a sheltered cranny a screech owl and her chicks glowered down at the unwelcome visitor to their world.

  Oswald’s voice sounded at his shoulder. ‘It’s a pity the stairs and upper level have rotted away, but there is still a commanding view to be had from here.’

  Erik ran his eyes around the interior a final time before ducking out into the soft light of late afternoon. Below him the raiding army of Erik Haraldsson, what his Northumbrian subjects called a here in their English tongue, had all but settled in for the night, and the king felt the old thrill of a life on campaign returning as he inhaled the heady odour of horses, fighting men and woodsmoke.

  Oswald was still speaking at his side, an arm jabbing out as he described the landscape which surrounded them to the king. ‘Over to the south-east you can make out the higher lands of the Dales in our own country, lord, with the River Tees snaking its way down to the sea beyond Miydilsburh.’ Erik looked. The day was fine, and the waterway shone like a silver chain as it meandered through the verdant lowlands on its way to the coast. Oswald turned on a heel to point northwestwards. ‘And behind us,’ he said, ‘you can see the mountains of Cumbraland in the distance.’

  Erik nodded as he gazed at the far horizon. ‘I have seen them often enough from seaward. Let us hope that they do not discover we are here, or all our plans will lay in ruins.’

  The Northumbrian moved to allay his fears. ‘I doubt that any travellers will venture this way, lord; everyman and his thrall will know that war is coming — they will stay put until the fighting is over if they have the sense they were born with. Besides, if they did tread this route they would get a life-ending surprise if they ran into us.’

  Erik dropped his eyes to the encampment. The Roman road which had carried them here cut through the earthen walls just to the south before heading west into what Oswald had informed him was the Vale of Eden. Erik estimated that the old ramparts of Hreyrr Camp stood roughly a dozen feet high, and in addition to the places where the roadway cut the walls a further nine openings were spread around the perimeter. The pair crabbed down the slope as the sun sank, the air cooled, and the first cooking smells drifted across to entice them away. Erik pumped the knowledgeable old Northumbrian for more information as they walked. ‘It seems like a big camp to protect a lookout station.’

  ‘No, this is what they called a marching camp King Erik,’ Oswald replied. ‘It was constructed at the end of the day’s march by the Roman army as a refuge in hostile territory. The following day they would build another, then another and so on. This one,’ he said with an expansive sweep of an arm, ‘was constructed in the first century when the empire was still expanding into the lands of the northern tribes. The signal station and road came later — that is why they cut through the earlier groundworks.’

  Erik was impressed. ‘So, it’s nearly a thousand years old? As old as my garth in York? Remind me to congratulate the next Roman we meet, it is perfect for our needs — we can see for miles, remain hidden, and it is easily defended if the need arose.’ Up ahead, Erik’s huskarls had finally noticed their lord was missing and were making a search of the tents and horse lines. He gave Oswald a nudge as they walked back into camp. ‘I have escaped my minders,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Watch them try to act as if they were unconcerned when they reach us.’

  Kolbein was the first to catch a glimpse of Erik through the crowd, and Oswald chuckled at Erik’s side as the styrisman’s involuntary gasp became a face saving cough. ‘These walls are almost a thousand years old,’ Erik volunteered as Kolbein reached them.

  ‘Is that right, lord?’ came the pithy reply. ‘Well, well, who would have thought?’

  Erik chuckled. ‘I take it you are unimpressed, old friend?’

  Oswald attempted a different tack. ‘They were built soon after our Saviour walked the earth,’ he said with an obvious sense of wonder.

  ‘Yet they sit upon this hilltop, so the hill must be older,’ Kolbein replied with a shrug. The huskarl paused and lifted his chin as the flash of sunlight on metal caught his eye. Erik and Oswald followed suit. A few miles to the north the scouts were crossing the skyline, before first the horses and then the outlines of the riders began to sink from view as they descended the back slope. ‘So the ramparts were thrown up when Christ walked among us you say? But the hills have been here since Óðinn and his brothers formed the earth from the body of a frost giant.’ Erik fought to suppress a smile as the old heathen made it plain whose beliefs he considered the more wondrous. ‘If it’s being impressed you are looking for, I would suggest that you take your nose out of books for a moment, and recognise the beauty which surrounds you.’

  5

  Vísundr

  The horse whinnied, raking the ground with a hoof as the warrior slipped the crown over his ears and secured the buckle. Thorstein looked up from tightening the belly band on his mount and threw Erik a smile. ‘Another one less than happy with the early start.’

  Erik tutted. ‘He will have to get used to it like the others,’ he said. ‘If a dawn start is good enough for the rider it is good enough for him. Besides,’ he added with a casual glance to the east, ‘he has had a full day’s rest, and he is sharing the trials of a king. He should be grateful to be in such exalted company.’

  The upper edge of the rampart had gained an ochre fringe as the new day dawned bright and clear, and satisfied that all was secure Erik hauled himself into the saddle. Even mounted the walls of the fort towered above him, and Erik’s eyes squinted to pierce the gloom as he cast a backwards look to check that all was ready. Hundreds of horses and their riders were coming together in the centre of the fort, the shadowy shapes moving slowly beneath a vaporous brume as the breath of man and beast plumed in the chilly air. Satisfied that the column was forming in his wake Erik turned the head of his horse to the north, urging the beast into a trot as his eyes worked to pick out the chosen gateway. Within moments he had passed through, the sound of hoofbeats falling away as he left the enclosure and came out onto the ridge line which would carry them to war. He slowed the horse to a walk as he did so, trusting the animal to pick its way across the boggy ground which flanked the wall on this side. Hoping to remain undiscovered for as long as possible they were travelling without remounts; a thrown rider, a twisted fetlock or knee and they would have to leave a man behind, and Erik knew that he would need each and every one of them in the fighting to come.

  Beyond the circuit of the ancient walls now, Erik cast a look across to the east. The sun was an arc of flame on the horizon as the sky horses Arvak and Alsvið hauled their charge into the firmament. Erik shielded his eyes from the glare with the ledge of a hand, dropping his gaze to soak up the be
auty of the moment as the horse walked forward. Down below in the farms and settlements of Northumbria not a trace of light yet lit the earth as men slept through the darkness of the witching hours, and Erik watched in wonder as Sol rose little by little and the sunlight crept slowly down the flanks of the Pennine hills. Somewhere down there in the night the army of the kingdom of York were at their rest, and Erik scanned the dark in a vain attempt to pinpoint their campfires. The Erikssons were there as they led their hirdmen north on Dere Street, alongside the English and Danes from the kingdom itself under the command of the redoubtable Regenwold. Erik sent an invocation to Óðinn that they were strong enough without his presence to keep the hired swords and Viking freebooters in check until the fighting began.

  The mire was soon behind them, and Erik’s mind recalled the moment he knew that his plan stood a good chance of success as he waited for the army to make firmer ground. A brace of scouts had been spotted by the lookouts coming in at a canter late the previous evening, the dark forms of their cloaks streaming away to the East as they emerged onto the ridge top and caught the full force of the westerly blow. Before Erik could reach the gateway the riders were inside the fort, searching out the king to make their report. The army of Cumbraland had been spotted, just where they had hoped it would be, and Erik was calling a council of war before the young men had had time to quench their thirst. It was forty miles or thereabouts to the Roman road called Stane Gate, but the scouts assured him that the enemy column was encumbered with foot soldiers and wagons and moving forward at the pace of the slowest. Barely a dozen miles from their own muster point at Cair Ligualid when spotted, the Cumbrians still had thirty to travel until they met up with the their king at Corebricg. Oswald Thane had confirmed that three days still remained until the day of the Feast of the Exaltation, and it was the work of a moment to realise that the enemy leaders planned to cover the distance to the meet at the leisurely pace of ten miles a day. Brought along for his local knowledge Oswald was riding in the lead group with Erik, and the king turned to the thane as the last of his here came clear of the bogland. ‘Oswald,’ he said. ‘Do you stand by your reckoning?’

  The Northumbrian nodded enthusiastically. ‘Haydon lies just a few miles to the south of Stane Gate and only ten miles or so from Corebricg. It is the perfect place to overnight and arrive at the assembly point on the appointed day King Erik,’ he replied. ‘There is a grassy shelf above the ford large enough to accommodate an army and the river itself to act as a defensive ditch. The men expect to be fighting soon and there is a fine church at the high point to cater for their spiritual needs.’ He threw Erik and his huskarls a smile as he fished inside the purse which hung from his belt. The coin flashed in the rays of the morning sun as it spun end over end before it was snatched back from the air. ‘I have a purse of the new silver pennies of Erik Rex, the king in York, bearing the sword of war and the cross of Christ,’ he said as he held the disc up to the light. ‘If any man cares to match it, I am happy to wager we shall overtake the enemy there.’

  Bolstered by the Englishman’s confidence, Erik turned back. The last of the riders were on firmer ground, and a quick check to the north confirmed that the scout who was to lead them back to the assembly point was waiting patiently. His partner from the previous day’s ride had left as the first grey light of the pre dawn had lit the sky, sent east to find the main army of York to brief the earls and the Erikssons of the king’s plans. If they could work together to surprise the enemy at the muster they should have the victory. If the ploy failed and they were discovered or the battle was lost Erik mused, it would need to be a fighting retreat to the banks of the River Tees and hold them there.

  Erik raised an arm, and the signal was acknowledged by the young man up ahead as he hauled the head of his mount aside and put back his heels.

  The scout trotted back to the king and drew rein. ‘Here lord,’ he said, ‘this is the place.’

  Erik looked across the river. A rough track climbed north-eastward from the valley floor until it became lost among the trees. ‘And that leads to the eastern side of Haydon ford?’

  ‘Within half a mile of the causeway itself,’ the youth replied, ‘and there is plenty of tree cover where the men can watch and wait for the main attack to go in. I am sure of the distances lord,’ the young man added as he sensed Erik’s hesitation. ‘I scouted the route myself when we were still searching for the Cumbrian army. I remembered it when it became clear that they were making for Haydon, and I thought that we might need to deny any escapees the chance of carrying word of the attack to the main army at Corebricg.’

  Erik slipped a silver ring from his forearm and tossed it across. The young scout beamed. ‘Good work,’ he said, ‘you did well. But there is something else I want you to do.’ Erik looked across to Thorstein. ‘Choose twenty men to go with our friend here. I want them to wait for the attack to go in, and then move out from cover to defend the ford.’

  Erik raised his gaze, away to where a westering sun had now dipped from sight below the hills; it had been a hard day’s ride and it was growing late. Ideally he would have found a quiet valley and holed up for the night, attacking in the dawn when most men were snug in their tents and weary guards were distracted by the smell of breakfast cooking after a lonely vigil; but the main enemy encampment was too close, the margins of success and failure too slight to risk delay. What if the Cumbrians broke camp early? Or horsemen from Corebricg rode west to establish contact with their friends? It was the eve of the Holy Day now — King Dyfnwal of Strathclyde must be awaiting the arrival of his spearmen on the morrow so would expect them to be close by, even if they had neglected to send word ahead. Erik let his gaze wander down to the riverside as he thought. The men were taking good care of their mounts before seeing to their own needs as any good horseman should, the animals slaking their thirst after a hard day as men flicked small stones and any other debris from their hooves with the point of a knife.

  His concentration was broken as Thorstein arrived with the chosen men, and Erik quickly ran his eyes across the group as they awaited his orders. A dozen young fighters eager to make a name for themselves with a stiffening of old hands to add experience and discipline: Thorstein had chosen well. The king pulled a stern expression to emphasise the importance of the task as he addressed them. ‘You know what to do lads?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ they chorused.

  Erik nodded. ‘Thord here will guide you. I would have sent more men but we are likely to be outnumbered as it is, and I have already used the rest of the scouts to seal off the route down from Stane Gate. If any escape our attack, it is up to you men to ensure that none get away across the ford.’ He paused, pinning the fighters with his gaze to emphasise the importance of their task. ‘If they slip past you they will warn the main army up ahead of our presence, and all our efforts here will go to waste — it is vital for our success they none get through alive.’

  The chosen few gave stern nods in reply. ‘You can count on us lord.’

  Erik acknowledged them with a nod of his own and they were away, splashing through the small river that Oswald Thane had told him was known as the Allen. Erik thought back on the day as he watched them go. They had done as well as any men could and he understood just how well suited the old Roman marching fort had been for their needs, but as the sky continued to darken overhead he could not help but wish the distance had been a little less. Keeping to the high moors they had made good time that morning, the miles going beneath the hooves of the horses at a giddy rate, and by midday they were dropping down to cross the valley of the River Wear. An hour later they were in Allendale, picking up the scout who was now wearing a silver arm ring for his initiative for the long ride north. A little later more scouts had come in to confirm that the Cumbrians were pitching their tents at Haydon, and Erik’s mind began to work on the details of the upcoming attack as the outriders rode alongside and described the enemy encampment.

  As the detachment was swallowed b
y the greenwood, Erik returned his attention to his leading men. Arnkel and Erland had come forward to join them while the king had been busy with the small group, and a quick glance to the West confirmed what the lengthening shadows and the coolness of the evening air on Erik’s skin was already telling him: they were running short of time. ‘The scouts tell me that we are five miles from the enemy camp,’ he said looking back. ‘Three miles ahead the Allen empties into larger river called the Tine. As luck would have it we are close to a place where it is spanned by a stone bridge, and on the far bank there is a wide track which shadows the Tine and leads directly to Haydon and the enemy camp two miles downriver.’ Erik’s gaze moved from face to face, thrilling at the war-lust etched on each and every one as he began to describe the enemy encampment. ‘The Cumbrians are concentrated on a grassy area on the eastern edge of the settlement, between the church and the river.’

  Erik cast about the water’s edge for an aid to help him illustrate the attack plan. Scooping up a stick he scored marks in the dust, rattling off the details as he did so: ‘Tine — bridge — camp,’ he said as the leading men gathered around. ‘Here is the ford where the river curves to the north, just downstream from Haydon itself.’ He lifted his head to look at the Torf-Einarsson brothers. ‘I want a three pronged attack, so we will remain in our crews.’ Erik sketched a rectangle flanked by twin horns. ‘Think of a vísundr, the bison of our homelands. That is myself and the men of the Draki,’ he said tapping the central block. ‘We are the loins. I will drive directly through the centre of the camp and kill everyone we find.’ He glanced up as the men surrounding him nodded in unison. ‘Arnkel, you are the right horn: take your Iron Beards in a sweep along the riverbank. Erland you are the left: head up towards the church with your men of the Valkyrie.’ Erik looked from Orkneyman to Orkneyman. ‘Don’t join in the attack until you are sure the net is closed. As soon as you have linked up, move into the camp and kill everyone you see. Detail a few riders to keep a lookout for any we miss, but remember I have sent a score to the far side of the ford ready to mop up any that do sneak through in that direction, so don’t chase after them or any remaining scouts you see closing off the path which leads back to Stane Gate.’ Erik tossed the twig aside and swept them with his gaze. ‘If anyone can capture flags or war banners that will be a bonus, but try to keep them clean and in one piece — they will help with our deception during the main attack on Corebricg in the morning.’ Erik’s eyes moved from face to face as his voice became a snarl. ‘Strike like a thunderbolt. Make sure that every Cumbrian is dead before we lose this light completely — if word gets through to the main army that we are in the area, it will be us who are surprised and slaughtered on the morrow. Any questions make them quick — we must hit them before it grows too dark.’