by C. R. May
The shadow of a banner fell across him, and when the leather rim of a shield appeared to his fore Erik knew without taking his eyes from the fight that Sturla and Kolbein had finally caught up with him. Reassured by their presence and the protection of his guards, Erik lifted his eyes to scan the hillside. Helgrim Smiter had finally overcome red beard’s gallant resistance and was dismounting with those of Erik’s hird who had fought alongside him, rushing forward to add their weight to the attack at the compound. Further out the Orcadians had completed their encirclement of the doomed army and were rapidly tightening the net. The mounted men of the Iron Beard and Valkyrie were moving in a skirmish line through the camp, dispatching any survivors they sniffed out with spear and sword. Satisfied, the king returned his gaze to the struggle before him. The last Cumbrians were fighting back to back within a circle of beaten down grass, as warriors of the army of York cascaded over the sides of the wagon line all around them. The fighting was all but over, and Erik put aside the urge to rush forward into the fray, to be in at the kill, as he saw that he was just not needed.
On the western hill Haydon church wore a corona as the last rays of the sun threw long shadows across a field of death. The victory was total; he would seek out Oswald Thane from the mob, and together they would walk up to the kirk and give thanks before he led his heathen in a bloodier celebration.
Erik spooned another dollop of pottage, forming a circle with his mouth as he sucked in air. Seeing just how hot it was Olvir paused his spoon midway to his lips, sensibly placing the bowl to one side as he waited for the go-ahead to begin his report. The mixture finally cool enough for the king to swallow, Erik gave him the nod as he dipped the spoon again.
‘The enemy have reached Corebricg, lord,’ the scout said, the excitement in his voice obvious to all those crowded together in the little room. ‘There are three walled enclosures at the heart of the town; the flags of Alba and Strathclyde fly above those closest to the River Tine, the purple and gold flag of St Oswald of Northumbria above that which lies on the northern side of Stane Gate. There is a water meadow which slopes down to the river itself where the horses are grazing and watering under guard, with a further score guarding the northern entrance to the bridge itself.’
‘What about overall numbers?’
Olvir’s mouth became a line. ‘The best we could do was tally the horses near the river and make a rough estimate from that, the buildings of the town itself are too densely packed to see many of the enemy themselves. We would say that there are roughly five hundred horses.’ He pulled a face. ‘It is difficult to give a more accurate number,’ he added apologetically. ‘We were taking cover in a small wood a mile away and staring directly into the rising sun. The meadow curls around the eastern end of the town, so there could be more we were unable to see.’
Erik nodded that he understood as the spoon came up again. Every man present knew that those wealthy enough to own a horse usually outnumbered the men who had to walk to the battlefield by a measure of five or six to one. That would give a rough estimation that they were facing upwards of three thousand spears. Having learnt his lesson before, Erik stilled the spoon with its streaming contents as he pumped the scout for more. ‘And you sent word of this to the main army?’
‘Yes, lord — Hauk and Mord crossed the river upstream, well out of sight of the town.’
Erik nodded again, satisfied. ‘We know the army is camped ten miles south of the Tine and Regenwold will have his own scouts out, but it pays to be sure.’
Arnkel added a question of his own. ‘What if the enemy have scouts out too? If they discover how close the Erikssons and the earls are they will likely move against them.’
Erik teased his beard as he thought. The plan was coming together nicely and he was loathe to change it now, but even the best strategies rarely survived contact with the enemy and he had always encouraged his leading men to chip in with observations and suggestions of their own. ‘I think that it is unlikely any enemy scouts will ride that far,’ he said finally. ‘They will expect to find us cowering behind the River Tees fifty miles to the south like always. But even if they do and manage to return unscathed, it will play into our hands if we move quickly.’ Erik turned his head to Oswald Thane as the men exchanged knowing looks. They had all seen Erik plotting and knew the look of old. Their king was a battle winner — a feeder of ravens. ‘You have been in Corebricg,’ he said. ‘What are these walled compounds Olvir speaks of?’
‘The remains of three forts from Roman times lord,’ the Northumbrian replied. ‘You will recall Regenwold’s description of the town, in the garth the morning we left York. The whole town was originally built to guard the junction of Dere Street and Stane Gate, controlling the crossing of the River Tine. It was an important town, built to cater for the needs of the smaller forts which were built the length of the wall of Hadrian. Supplies could be brought in from the South with ease, either along Dere Street or by sea via the river; the Tine reaches the sea only twenty miles to the east and is easily navigable.’
Erik nodded. ‘Olvir, how far is it from the point where we will ride clear of the tree cover to Corebricg itself?’
‘Just over half a mile lord,’ the Vestfolder replied. ‘The road dips into a small valley, crosses a beck and climbs the final few yards to the outskirts of the town.’
Erik’s eyes swept the room. ‘Good, we will move forward straightaway. I want to be fighting again within the hour.’
7
Flank Attack
‘Watch your step lord,’ Olvir said. ‘There is a big pile of shit just there. Bear it looks like, I almost stepped in it myself the first time I was here.’
Thorstein sniffed. ‘Smells like it too — bear shit in the woods…’ He threw them all a look. ‘Now we know.’
Erik moved around the bole of an oak to get a better view, careful to dodge the early morning sunbeams lancing in from the East. A king of York dressed for war, even a moment’s distraction could make all the difference between success or failure if the flash of light from polished steel was spotted by an eagle-eyed guard down in the town. Erik’s hopes soared as the rearguard emerged from the distant wood and began to deploy on the southern slope.
‘That is a show to send lightning coursing through a man’s blood,’ Thorstein breathed at his shoulder. ‘You must be over-proud, lord.’
Erik nodded as he took in the sight. Beyond the River Tine the army of York had now spread across the width of the hillside, and the king thrilled to the view as he picked out the companies arrayed beneath their gaudy war banners. Earl Regenwold’s men astride Dere Street itself with his fellow earls Gunderic and Godfred anchoring each wing with their own contingents. The Erikssons: Gamli; Harald; Guttorm; Sigurd and Ragnfrod filling the right wing with their oath sworn, while the left was packed with the Vikings and adventurers to whom Erik had doled out good silver to fight at their side. Down in Corebricg the town resembled an overturned hive as men ran hither and yon, word spreading like wildfire that the enemy had appeared at their front and caught them unprepared. The first signs of a response could be glimpsed among the old buildings flanking the road, and Erik pulled his wolf grin as he saw that the old king of Alba was taking the bait. Erik stepped back into the deep shadow, turning his face to Olvir as the first war horns cried out their challenge. ‘I am heading back to the column,’ he said as the rolling thunder of spear shafts striking shield rims began to steal northwards. ‘Remember my orders — as soon as Mael Colm begins to lead his Scots across the river make the signal.’
The scout gave a curt nod, the responsibility he had been given pulling at his features. Erik recognised the look, shooting the younger man what he hoped was a heartening smile. ‘You are the best I have, you have proven that time and again, ever since that day outside Tunsberg when you tracked my brother Bjorn the Far Trader and saved us from ambush.’ He clapped the scout on the shoulder and threw him a wink. ‘You saved us from a hard fight that day, and none of us who were
there have ever forgotten it. That is why I have entrusted you with this task and no other.’
Olvir’s face brightened at the faith shown by his king, and Erik threw a final look down the slope to the town as they began to move away. Despite the press of buildings, it was now clear that the Scots and Britons were forming up to cross the river and confront the threat. From his vantage point Erik now had a perfect view along the east-west line of Stane Gate, and the old road was filling quickly as men poured forth from the forts and buildings which lined it, struggling into mail shirts and buckling helms as they came down to mass at the junction with Dere Street. The fortress which lay beneath the flag of St Oswald seemed unnaturally quiet and Erik wondered at it, but the time to make the attack on which so much depended was slipping away now and he pushed the thought aside. A short while later he was back in the saddle, and Erik called out to each of the men he had stationed on the road as he led his huskarls back to the place he had left the army. ‘Watch for the signal — it won’t be long in coming!’
Half a mile to the west the combined crews of three dragons were waiting, and the king slowed his mount as he breasted a rise and his best men came into view. Erland and Arnkel had come to the head of the stationary column to await his return with Oswald Thane, and as men rushed to don their battle helms at the sight of their king returned, Erik curbed his mount as he unhooked his own grim helm from its carrying place. ‘Regenwold is in position south of the river,’ he called as he slipped to the ancient setts. ‘The army of York fills the southern hillside, and the enemy are making preparations to move across the bridge to engage them.’ The brothers exchanged looks of glee at their king’s report as Erik strode across. ‘We will follow the plan of attack I outlined earlier — Oswald you will ride with me,’ he said flicking at look at the Englishman. ‘I will lead us from cover, sheering off as we near the defile to hit the enemy in the flank. Arnkel and his Iron Beards will follow me southwards, peeling away to seal off the northern end of the Tine bridge when I strike. The bank looks far shallower where the beck enters the river so that will help.’ He switched his gaze. ‘Erland — head straight down Stane Gate and cross the bridge to clear and hold the junction of the two roads. Mael Colm is a grizzled old veteran who will lead from the front, so with the Scots and their leaders stranded on the far side of the river we have the chance to isolate and destroy a third part of their army — that alone should be enough to win the day.’ As the pair wished the king happy hunting and hauled their horses out of line to return to their crews, Erik turned to his banner man. ‘Sturla, did you sort through the captured banners from last evening?’
‘Yes, lord,’ he chirped. ‘Five were reusable, the others…’ His voice trailed away, but he shot his king the ghost of a smile as he found the words to complete his description. ‘The others would have been fine enough if they had started off blood red.’
Erik returned the smile. These were the moments he lived for, when tough fighting men hung on his every word, the raven days when he bent Midgard to his will. ‘Choose five men to carry the Cumbrian banners ahead of the column; make sure they know to hold them high enough to be clearly seen by those in the town and on the far side of the Tine. The enemy will be expecting the levies from Cumbraland to join them at the muster today and men have a habit of seeing what they expect to see, especially when they have just awoken to a nasty surprise. At the very least a cloud of flags should help to mask our true identity until we split up for the final run in.’ Erik switched his gaze to the East as his banner man hurried off to distribute the enemy flags to chosen men. Satisfied that the closest scout was clearly visible and alert he began to loosen his trews. ‘Time for a piss I think.’
His huskarls moved across to join him, each man keen to seize the last opportunity to wring every last drip from his bladder while they still had the chance, and soon the roadside was a line of glistening arcs as Sturla’s chosen banner men moved forward to the head of the column. Satisfied that he had drained the last drop, Erik retied his breeks and remounted. As he loosened the bindings which held his spears and sword secure his guardsmen were doing the same, checking chin straps and rolling their shoulders as they warmed the muscles for the hard work to come. The silence was oppressive, and Erik thought to mouth unneeded words of encouragement to those within earshot in an effort to mask the awkwardness of the moment, but Kolbein’s exclamation beat him to it as he cried the words they had all been waiting for. ‘There it is!’
Erik’s head snapped back. Silhouetted on the lip of the rise a quarter mile distant, the flash of sunlight on spear tip showed where the scout had hoisted his weapon. The banner men had seen it too, and they turned their heads together as they awaited the order to advance. It was not long in coming, and Erik threw his closest men his war grin as he tightened his grip on the reins. ‘Óðinn is with us boys, it is time to wet our spears again.’ His huskarls flashed grins of their own in reply, and as the king turned back to the flag carriers his voice became a roar. ‘Ride lads! Ride!’
With the king of Alba committed all need for concealment was gone, and Sturla Godi’s war horn was answered by those to the rear as the advance began. Erik drew his best stabbing spear from its carrying place near the crupper, raising the gold chased blade high as the unfamiliar battle flags of Cumbraland snapped open ahead. Stane Gate rose before him as the horse gathered pace, and before the canter had become a gallop the closest scout was guiding his mount aside to allow the column through. Cresting the rise the road took a gentle turn to the south, and the horizon came into view beyond the press of banners as the tree cover thinned. Erik settled into the saddle, firming the grip on his spear as the still of the morning was shattered by the hoofbeats of his here, and when he recognised the next scout up ahead as Olvir he knew that the mile was up. The column emerged into a burst of light as it galloped free of the tree line, and Erik felt a kick of relief as he moved his head to peer southwards. The army of York were set their battle line athwart Dere Street, and the old king of Scots was clearly visible beneath the saltire flag of Alba as the invaders cleared the confines of the Tine bridge and began to spread across the southern bank. Despite the brevity of the look, Erik was surprised to find that a third of the distance between the place where the old Roman road exited the woodland and the buildings of Corebricg had already passed beneath the hooves of his mount, and he raised his spear and cried a war cry, confident that the men following on would do the same.
On the southern bank heads were turning their way as the flash of movement and the thunder of hooves carried across the waters of the Tine, and Erik laughed despite the tension of the moment as he saw the first spears and shields raised in acclamation and he knew that his ruse had succeeded. The slope steepened as it approached the small bridge across the burn, and Erik judged that the time had arrived to peel off and begin his own assault. A hand shot out as he hauled at the reins, the spear it held pointing directly at the place he had chosen to attack, and the clatter of hoofbeats on stone became a thunderous rumble as the horse tore across the grassy hillside. A glimpse of Arnkel at the head of his Iron Beards, the Orkneyman already beginning to ascend the shallow slope which led to the northern approach to the Tine bridge itself, and a heartbeat later the view was snuffed out as Erik’s horse picked its way down into the defile.
Erik raised his eyes to scan the lip of the bank for signs of opposition as the horse leapt the watercourse, but no spearmen had appeared there and he realised that the buildings were screening the attackers from the men marching down Dere Street on their way down to the Tine crossing. As the momentum of the charge bled away and the horse scrabbled up the slope, Erik was aware of Thorstein and Helgrim Smiter urging their mounts alongside, and the trio gained the top of the rise together as Sturla Godi finally unfurled the bloodied axe banner of Erik Haraldsson to reveal their true identity.
Erik threw a look to either side as he slipped to the ground, thrilling to the sight as the men of his hird made the brow like a wave lap
ping the shore. He returned his gaze to the immediate surroundings as the men dismounted and his hand drifted down to his sword hilt, checking again that the peace bands were hanging loose and hooking a thumb beneath the cross guard to edge it an inch clear of the scabbard. He turned his face to Oswald Thane as the Northumbrian drew his own sword and set his features into a mask of grim determination. Erik recognised the apprehension behind the look; the man had witnessed more than sixty summers warm the air of York, but he had been adamant that he join the attack when given the choice and the men respected him all the more for it. ‘Dere Street lies directly beyond these buildings you say?’
