The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  As the group made their way forward, Erik slowed the pace to ensure that the Bernicians were the first to reach the point where Erland had halted and deployed for battle. It was the first of the mind games which leaders played at such times; to keep the other side waiting, however briefly, was always a powerful and highly visible statement of relative status. Oswald Thane came to Erik’s shoulder as the little group skirted the men of Orkney, falling into step a half pace behind as he craned his neck to identify the men who had come from the fort. ‘The big man is Maccus the Easterner — one of earl Oswulf’s leading men. The others are a few of the earl’s hearth warriors I recall seeing at the fortress when I travelled there on your behalf.’

  Erik grunted his thanks as he picked up the pace again. The delegation had reached the place where Erland stood beneath his banners, and Erik watched as the introductions were cut short, Maccus’s face coming around to search him out as he learned the identity of the man leading the attackers that morning. Emerging from the wall of shields, Erik ran his eyes across the group as he came. They were a formidable bunch, tough looking and well provided with the accoutrements of war — it spoke of the open-handedness of their lord and brought honour to the man himself as it was intended to do. The leader was aptly named, Erik decided as he came; almost as tall as Erik himself and built like an ox. If Maccus’s flaxen hair was cropped at the nape and left shaggy at the brow in the Norse style, his shaven chin and cheeks told of long years spent in the Christian lands in the South. But it was the old campaigner’s garb which really indicated that his nickname of the Easterner had been well earned. Maccus shone in the morning light, the rectangular metal plates of his brynja sliding past one another like the scales of a snake as he turned. Below the war shirt the baggy trews typical of the men of Kiev and the East were tucked into calf high Russian boots. Oswulf’s man was as exotic a sight as you could hope to find amid the buildings of a rundown town in northern Britain, and Erik fought down the urge to comment as he came to a halt before him. ‘I am Erik Haraldsson, King of York,’ he said as Kolbein and Sturla took their places at his shoulder. ‘Some men call me Bloodaxe.’

  The man inclined his head. ‘I am Maccus Olafsson, widely known as the Easterner. It is my honour to come into your presence great king.’

  Erik pulled a face, casting sideways glances to each of his huskarls in turn, before turning back and shaking his head as the thunderous crash of wood on wood told them all that the armies had finally come together on the southern bank of the Tine. ‘I can see from your turnout that your garments are well travelled but they outpaced any word of your deeds, for none have reached my ears.’

  Maccus slipped the shield from his shoulder, holding it forward as Erik’s huskarls and the closest Orkneymen tensed at the sudden movement. The ghost of a smile flitted across the Bernician’s features as he saw that he had managed to unsettle the men before him despite being heavily outnumbered, but he set his face and spoke a verse as they began to relax:

  I bore this shield home from the strife as my share in the East.

  Storms with waves of swords in the southern summer gave me scales of steel.

  I got good weapons, a flood before it abated;

  I won a helm when the chieftain harshly defeated the Svear.

  ‘All men know of the battle-fame of Erik Haraldsson,’ Maccus continued as his eyes slid across to Erik’s shoulder, ‘and of Jomal too. I can see from this morning’s attack that the king’s cunning is the equal of his fierceness.’

  Erik snorted softly at the praise. A wise man knew that flattery can be as useful as a strong sword arm in a tight spot. This man Maccus possessed a fox-slyness to match his extravagance, and Erik’s hopes rose that he was the type to carefully weigh the options before he made a rash move and threw his life away. Erik responded with a verse of his own as the Bernician warriors stood tall at their leader’s boast:

  He should rise early, the man who means to take another’s life or wealth.

  The slumbering wolf seldom gets the ham,

  nor the dozing man victory.

  Maccus pulled a smile as he recognised the verse. ‘A saying of the High One; Óðinn’s reputation for wisdom is well earned, lord.’

  ‘Now would be a good time for you to earn your own reputation for right-thinking,’ Erik replied. The sound of fighting was sweeping across the town in waves now as the armies came to grips, and he was still unsure whether the men of Strathclyde had left the field completely or were gathering to renew their attack on the water meadow below the forts. The time for words was over — Maccus would have to choose between losing his honour or his head. ‘I gather as we two are talking here that Earl Oswulf has yet to reach the town. When can we expect him?’

  Maccus hesitated, but Erik’s face hardened into an icy scowl which left the man facing him in no doubt that his life depended on his helpfulness. Tight-lipped, he spat reply. ‘They are half a day away, King Erik. We were sent forward yesterday to make contact with the king of Alba and see to the arrangements for our lodging.’

  Erik indicated Oswald Thane with a flick of his head. ‘You are aware of the messages of friendship this man carried on my behalf to Earl Oswulf this summer from York?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘And you know something of my proposals?’

  Maccus confirmed that he did.

  ‘Well, this moment could either become the start of our great enterprise; to reunite the old lands of Northumbria and make it the most feared kingdom in these islands once again, or the final destination in your far travelled life.’ Erik reached up to draw Jomal over his shoulder, the razor sharp cutting edge and blade still spattered with gore from that morning’s work. ‘The choice is your own, but make it quickly Maccus — I have a war to win.’

  The Easterner’s gaze flitted from king to war axe, before moving out to cast a look at the timeworn buildings which surrounded him. He turned back with a sigh. ‘It’s not much of a death vision for eyes which drank in the wonders of Miklagard,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘What do you want of us?’

  9

  A Corpse is no use to Anyone

  Erik came clear of the buildings and halted at the top of the rise, running his eyes over the seething mass of men and horses crowding the water meadow below. It was as he had feared. Forced to split the here to confront the expected attack by earl Oswulf and his Bernicians, the momentum had drained from his own attack. Now, with the pressure off and the army of York in clear view beyond the river to the south, it would be plain to the Cumbrians that the spirited assault which had surprised them on the roadway could only have come from a flying column. Sure now that he had not been outflanked by overwhelming force king Dyfnwal was clearly in view, gathering his army about the war flag of Strathclyde as his guards ordered panicked men from horseback and herded them back towards their king.

  Erik’s huskarls gathered protectively around him as they realised the danger; the king was less than a hundred yards from the nearest enemy spearmen, at any moment they would be spotted and a counterattack could quickly develop as men who had already lost friends and suffered humiliation that morning saw the chance to repay their tormentors in kind. Thankfully Erland appeared at the head of his Iron Beards, and Erik grasped the opportunity to advance as the men of Orkney began to fill the space. Ahead two large buildings straddled the ridge line, their walls gleaming like ice under a fresh lick of lime, and Erik strode onward to take up position at the centre of the gap between them as Sturla Godi carried his war banner forward and planted it at his side. Downslope heads were turning their way, but Helgrim was at his shoulder and the space was quickly filling with Norsemen as they spilled out from the alleyways which led down from Stane Gate. Reassured by the rapidly growing numbers, Erik summoned his leading men: ‘Erland! Maccus!’

  The Easterner already wore the expression of a man who had gone ankle deep in pig shit the first time out in his new boots, and Erik fought down a wicked smile as the big warrior trotted across
. It had taken longer than he had hoped to retrieve the flag of Bernicia from the fortress, but it was central to Erik’s plan and he knew that it had been time well spent. A malicious glint came into his eyes as Erland and Maccus came up and he gave them their orders. ‘Form your men into a swine head. We are attacking again.’

  Despite the fact that they had been potential enemies only a short while before, the pair exchanged a look of disbelief. Erland was the first to rediscover his tongue. ‘You are not planning on defending the ridge line, lord? We are heavily outnumbered, and the buildings will keep us from being outflanked. Let them tire themselves attacking upslope while we pick off their leaders with javelins and arrows — it is the perfect defensive position.’

  Erik shook his head. ‘The day is going our way, but our part in it is not yet over.’ Three heads turned as one, and the trio gazed beyond the rapidly reforming army of Strathclyde, across the river to the southern bank of the Tine. Outnumbered and in grave danger of having their shield wall turned the Scots had pulled their wings back to form a horseshoe, anchoring each end against the riverside. On the Yorkish flanks Gunderic and Godred were already leading the levies down to the banks, curving around to cut the escape route before swinging back to assault the trapped men gathered about the southern approach to the bridge itself.

  The Bernician was appalled. ‘You want me to form a boar snout and attack the men of Strathclyde?’

  Erik nodded. ‘Of course, did you not ride here to fight? Well, this is a battle — there are no onlookers here.’ He pointed out Oswald Thane with a flick of his chin. Standing alongside Sturla Godi, the old Northumbrian was gnawing at his lower lip as he stared south with a face as pale as milk; Erik immediately realised that he could have chosen a better example to show how steadfast his men were, but the words were out and there was point in wishing them away. ‘That man has felt the heat of sixty summers warm his face, yet when the war horn sounds he dons a shirt of mail, hefts a spear and proudly marches beneath the banner of his lord. Would Maccus the Easterner do any less?’

  The Bernician’s expression became a scowl, and he lowered his voice as he replied. ‘You said back on the roadway that you would value my rede King Erik, there was no mention of taking part in the fighting. You speak of lords and fealty but mine is still half a day away, I am under no obligation to fight here.’

  Erik’s lids narrowed as his eyes turned flinty, and his reply when it came was a growl. ‘Things can change from moment to moment when armies come together. Now I need you to take your place in the attack.’

  The consternation Maccus felt at being outmanoeuvred was written upon his features, and he made one last plea to rescue his honour. ‘If I refuse Jomal will take my head, that much I know of your reputation Bloodaxe. That is a sacrifice I will gladly make if you vow to release my men, but I cannot attack those who I broke bread with this very same morn.’

  ‘If that is your choice, stretch your neck,’ Erik spat as he firmed his grip on the haft of his axe. ‘I have no more time to waste. But die knowing that the rune sticks are already cast, that your sacrifice will be in vain.’ He indicated Maccus’s banner man, who now carried the flag of Bernicia within its sheath of leather. ‘We have Earl Oswulf’s banner, and it will be carried against the enemy whether you are there or not.’ Erik softened his tone in a final effort to win the man over. ‘The men you broke bread with this morning are beaten and fated to die. You can see the scale of our victory here today. Even if the kings survive, their power is broken; your lord will desire the friendship of the king in York, and it is within your power to deliver that.’ Erik forced a smile, despite the overwhelming urge have done with it; to lop off the Bernician’s head and charge downhill before the men of Strathclyde could complete their rally. He had scoffed when Gunnhild had said that age had tempered the fury of his youth, but he realised at that moment that it was true. Jomal’s wide blade came down to tap the helmet suspended from Maccus’s belt. ‘Either don that helm or I will pass it to another. One way or another, the men in the field below will believe you are leading the charge and that they have been betrayed.’ Erik spoke a verse as he saw the man hesitate:

  The lame man rides a horse,

  the deaf man fights and succeeds;

  to be blind is better than to be burnt:

  a corpse is no use to anyone.

  Maccus’s eyes flitted from Erik to Erland and back again as he began to fumble with the bindings which secured the helm at his side. Donning the headpiece he replied with another of Óðinn’s sayings:

  For those words which one man says to another, often he gets paid back.

  Erik’s eyes flared at the challenge, but Maccus had already turned to stomp away. The king began to raise his axe, but his companion placed a hand upon his sleeve. ‘Let it ride King Erik, the insult can be repaid when we have the victory — we have wasted enough time already.’ Erland drew his sword. ‘Not all have fed the raven today. My men are in place and eager to fight.’

  With a final lingering glare at the back of the retreating Bernician, Erik heft his shield and turned away. ‘Yes, you are right kinsman. Let us drive our enemies from the field and settle up at leisure.’

  The altercation with Maccus had served to raise his hackles, and Erik had enough experience in war to recognise that the man had done him a service. He cried out as he stamped across to the battle line. ‘Set up a war cry! Let us remind those at the foot of the slope what type of men we are.’ Erik’s eyes ran along the front rank as the men of his hird began to beat their weapons against the boards of their shields, until the faces he sought hardened from the scrum. ‘Grettir! Gunnar!’

  The brothers turned, drawing themselves upright at the call from the king. ‘Yes, lord?’

  ‘You led the swine head at Ceasterford, attacking with pluck and ferocity — do the same for me today.’

  Even at thirty paces the look of joy which came upon the young men’s features was obvious, and Erik watched with pride as they walked clear of the battle line and bellowed their challenges to the men below. Four years had now passed since the young brothers had first approached him, on another riverside meadow between the pitiful remains of an earl’s blackened hall and the small church where Erik had just led the Christian Mass. They had been big lads then he recalled as he watched the svinfylking take shape, but the intervening summers spent raiding far and wide with their king had broadened shoulders and made ship’s hawsers of their arms; the young Hordalanders were now full-grown; men to be feared.

  The space between the buildings was now packed with resolute looking Norsemen, and Erik placed an arm upon Olvir’s shoulder as he reached the rear ranks. ‘Take Hauk, Mord and twenty good men. Go across and back up Maccus and his Bernicians.’ The Vestfolder nodded and turned to go, but Erik called him back as a thought crossed his mind and he fixed the young man with a look. ‘Make sure that they know you are there — we would not want them to lose their way between here and the enemy.’ Olvir nodded that he understood, scuttling away as the howl of war horns resounded from the nearby walls. Erik threw a quick look along the battle line as he took his place at the heart of the boar snout. To his right Erland had reached the same position in the midst of his Iron Beards; a quick look to the left, and he pulled the trace of a smile as he saw Olvir and his lads already jogging towards the place where Maccus stood grim faced beneath the flag of Bernicia.

  He still had a few moments until they were in position, and Erik decided to put them to good use as he recognised that the men were keyed up and ready for the off. Pushing his way through the ranks Erik came out into the space between the armies, and the pulsating rhythm of spear shaft on shield rim fell away along with the siren call of the battle horn as he did so. Erik strode the front line, Jomal clattering against spear and sword blade as men craned to hear his words, and his own war lust was kindled anew as he pointed out men from the crowd, recalling lineage and past deeds as the army of Bloodaxe roared their acclaim. A quick circuit and he found
himself back in front of his hearth men, and the swine head opened up to swallow their king as Erik took his rightful place among them. Kolbein and Helgrim Smiter took their places at his shoulders: it was time to go. ‘Sturla,’ he barked, savouring the moment. ‘A king should know when he is beaten — sound the charge.’

  The banner man spat as the horn came up, and an instant later the distinctive call resounded about the space. Within moments the deep-seated bay was answered by the higher pitched yap of hunting horns, and Eric raised Jomal high so that all could see as the world held its breath. The Dane axe dropped, flags tipped forward, and the hillside resounded with the crash of booted feet, the swish of mail, as the here began to move downhill. Slowly at first as men dressed their lines and fell into step, the advance quickened as they broke clear from the confines of the buildings and those at the rear swung forward to extend the line. Seventy yards quickly became fifty and then thirty as the charge gathered pace, and as his grip firmed on the handle of Jomal Erik raised his eyes, thrilling to the sight as he saw that his own svinfylking was heading directly for the war flag of Strathclyde and the king who stood beneath it. A skjald-borg twenty men in depth had thrown itself around the body of the Cumbrian king in the time it had taken the Norse to form up and launch their attack, with shield walls two or three men deep coming off to east and west. The opportunity was still there to smash through the weaker wings and envelop the king whether Maccus played his part or not, to break through onto the riverside where all was confusion as hundreds of horses milled about and panicky men still grappled with the urge to flee.