by C. R. May
‘If we did the fighting,’ Erik replied, ‘the victory belonged to us both. Without your pursuit they would never have paused to fight here at all. You drove them onto our spears, and I am thankful for it.’ Erik turned his gaze to the West. The sound of fighting was unrelenting now, and he turned back with a question on his lips. ‘I see that Erland is not with you. I take it he has something to do with the fighting in the marsh?’
Arnkel nodded. ‘The new laird of Moray knew the back ways and paths to the Scottish meeting place at Fetteresso. He went to spread word among the clansmen of the king of Alba’s treachery in burning in his father in the hope that they would abandon his cause. Erland went along with his own ship’s crew to support them should they give any trouble.’ The Orkneyman cast an anxious look westwards. ‘It sounds as if they were not to be persuaded. As Mael Colm lies dead here, I would like to take the rest of our army across to help.’
‘Mael Colm is not dead,’ Erik replied to Arnkel’s surprise. He indicated the marshland with a jerk of his head. From their position on the northern side of the burn, the trackway which had swallowed up the Scots and their runaway king was in plain sight. ‘As soon as it became obvious that there was no way through here, he took off. The rest of the Scottish army made one last attack and then headed west down that track, hopefully following him to Fetteresso.’ Erik cast a glance across his shoulder. Harald Eriksson had left the beach and brought his men up to the roadway, but the horses were still a good distance away in the heart of the settlement. If the king of Alba had added the remnants of his raiding army to that of the men at the muster, he could yet overcome Erland and his new ally, slip through the net, and either retreat into the interior or double Erik’s position and gain the fortress at Dun Foither. ‘How many men did this new laird bring along?’
‘Only fifty, lord — tough men, but not all seasoned fighters.’ Arnkel’s face reflected the king’s concern. ‘No doubt the best of the fighting men perished along with their lord in the hall burning.’
Erik plucked at his beard as he thought. ‘So added to Erland and his ship’s crew of sixty or so, there are little more than a hundred men taking on who knows how many Scots.’ It was obvious now that speed of thought and action were vital, and within moments Erik had come up with a plan. ‘We have to reinforce our kinsman as soon as we can. Remount and follow the path the Scots took into the marsh. With the added height you should be able to see a good distance ahead, but be on your guard for isolated groups, traps or stragglers — they may be difficult to spot until you are almost upon them. I will mount up and move inland along the main path which leads away from the settlement behind me.’
With his brother likely facing overwhelming odds at nearby Fetteresso and having already missed the battle at Stonehive, Arnkel needed no encouragement after the rigours and privations of a week-long chase. The horse protested as he hauled himself back into the saddle, tossing its head and stamping the ground with a hoof, and Arnkel ran a gloved hand along its neck as his hearth guard swarmed around him. ‘A few more miles old lad,’ he said as he took up the reins, ‘and then you can eat all the grass you want.’ Erik and Arnkel exchanged a nod, and the king looked on momentarily as the Orkney man urged his mount into a canter and the army of the northern isles crowded in his wake.
With the chase back on and the sound of fighting still drifting across from the west, Erik turned back and recrossed the bridge. On the far side men were seeking out friends and kinsmen as they compared wounds and swapped stories of the fight, but Erik cupped a hand to his mouth as he regained the bank and called out above the din. ‘There is no time to waste boys,’ he cried. ‘Our fighting is not yet over, the day not yet won.’ He raised an arm to make himself more conspicuous as Sturla Godi struggled across the lines of dead to carry Erik’s sigil back to his side. ‘Leading men — cross to me!’ he bellowed. ‘The rest of you clean your weapons and restore the cutting edge ready to fight again.’
As the sound of sharpening stones caressing steel replaced the buzz of celebration Erik’s underlings hurried across, and the moment the last of them came to a halt before him he began his address. ‘We haven’t much time if we want to ensure that this day is Mael Colm’s last, so listen up. Erland Torf-Einarsson has taken his hird across to engage the Scots at Fetteresso, backed up by the laird of Moray and his men. If Mael Colm has gone to join them, he may very well escape again before we can cross to support our friends. Arnkel has taken the army of Orkney through the marsh, but we don’t know for sure where the pathway actually leads or whether it is suitable for so many horses, so we need to get across there as soon as we can. Get your men back to the horse lines, and fall in behind Gamli at the place where the western road enters the marsh. We will advance again as soon as we are set.’ Erik indicated that they return to their crewmen with a flick of his head, and as they retreated he called his son across. ‘Harald — how did you get on?’
Harald wiped the sweat and grime from his face with a forearm before replying. It was clear to the king that he had had a tough fight of it. ‘Three dead and a dozen wounded father,’ he replied, ‘although most of those are fit to fight again if called upon.’ Erik could not help his eyes widening in surprise at the scale of the loss in such a short time. Harald recognised the look and was quick to defend his men. ‘The lack of a ditch before us, and the fact that we had nothing but the surf to anchor our shield wall was as obvious to the enemy as it was ourselves, lord. They threw everything they had at us — but we held.’
Erik had recognised the defensive pitch of Harald’s reply, and the change in address from father to lord. He placed a hand on his son’s arm as he softened his tone. ‘Don’t take offence where none was intended, I watched your men fight and I know their worthiness. I need a good crew to double back and block the path which leads down to Dun Foither — it’s vital that we keep Mael Colm from reaching the fortress. Your men have fought the hardest today, but Gamli has yet to come to grips with the enemy. If your brother of all people can keep his discipline for the greater good, I know that you can too.’ Erik tugged at Harald’s sleeve as the pair turned back. ‘Hurry south,’ he said as they walked. ‘We shall return here and see to our dead and wounded when we are sure that the old Scot has gone to Hell.’
Erik’s guards had hovered a short distance away while he spoke to his son, and with his honour and that of his men confirmed by the king, Harald brightened and went to do his bidding. With the king’s son gone, the huskarls came across. ‘We are attacking Fetteresso,’ Erik quickly explained. The king looked across to the men of his hird as they began to move back into the heart of Stonehaven, cupping a hand to his mouth as he singled out a trustworthy face from the ruck: ‘Hauk!’
The scout’s head turned at the sound of his name. ‘Yes, lord?’
‘Hurry across to Gamli. Tell him to mount up and lead an attack on Fetteresso — the rest of the army will follow on.’
As Hauk scampered away, Erik was leading the men of the Draki back along the roadway to the centre of Stonehaven. With the midmorning sun now bathing the town in its soft light, his gaze took in the halls and outbuildings. It was clearly a prosperous place. Stone walled buildings gleamed white, and raising his eyes he saw that the roof thatch on all but the meanest buildings was in good repair. It was hardly surprising he decided, as he secured his shield to its carrying place and prepared to mount. More familiar with the wilder lands on the West Coast and the islands which skirted it he only knew the eastern lowlands from previous coastal raiding, but the interior of Alba was bountiful — lush with pasture, cropland and thickly forested. With salmon filling the autumn rivers and the offshore fisheries teeming with cod and herring, the kingdom would make a fine addition to his empire of the North once Mael Colm was dead and the inhabitants had experienced the benefits of Erik’s rule.
Erik settled into the saddle, turning the mount in a wide circle as he waited for the army to form column. Fifty yards to the east Harald was leading his men across
the little bridge as they rode to block the track to Dun Foither, and by the time the horse had returned to its starting position the army was mounted and awaiting his signal. At the head of the column Gamli’s face was turned his way and Erik raised an arm, holding it for a heartbeat before chopping it down to unleash the horde. Faces snapped forward as war flags coloured the air, and with a whoop of joy which was heard clearly the length of the line Gamli was away.
Within moments the entire column was following on, and as they came clear of the buildings the king threw a look across to the north. A mile or so away Erik could make out the gaily coloured banners of the men of Orkney as they rode down the fleeing Scots, and although they were still strung out in line he knew that they must be about to break out from the confines of the marshy path and join the fight. Denied the chance to come to grips with the enemy at Stonehaven Gamli was charging ahead despite the uneven path, and Erik sent a plea winging its way to the gods of war that the battle lasted long enough for his son to wet his sword that day as a reward for his patience and discipline.
The day was warming up quickly as the sun rose higher, and a glance to the Northwest showed the boar flags growing indistinct as they merged with the heat haze blanketing the reeds and bullrushes. But the look had been enough to tell the king that the leading elements were beginning to fan out as they exited the track, and a spike in the clamour drifting across from the direction of Fetteresso confirmed that Arnkel and his men were entering the fray.
The higher ground which carried the road had allowed trees to establish themselves marking the route as well as any scout, but Erik saw that the switchback path must double the distance they would need to travel before they too could join the fight. At the front of the column Gamli shone like a silver penny, the sunlight glistening on his sword as he swung the long blade in an arc, and lifting his gaze Erik’s heart leapt as the fighting finally hove into view less than half a mile ahead. Short, sharp notes cut the air as Gamli’s banner man raised the war horn to sound the charge, and within moments the call to arms was being repeated the length of the line as the riders spurred their mounts for the final run in.
Erik’s eyes took in the details of Fetteresso as the way ahead was revealed, and his battle-trained mind quickly saw what must have been the course of events that morning as the horse rushed on. A large hall dominated the clearing, sturdily built of split boughs under a roof of hazel brown thatch, with a collection of outbuildings and corrals scattered to either side. At the arrival of Erland and his Scottish ally the defending Scots had strung formations of warriors between them, in much the same way as Erik’s defenders had guarded the gaps between the buildings of nearby Stonehaven that same morning. It was a sound tactic, but the unexpected arrival of their king followed by hundreds of stragglers from the earlier fight had sown confusion where only stout hearts and a united front could hope to win the day.
At the centre of the line Mael Colm came into view, finally rediscovering the valour of his youth to fight like a king at bay beneath the war banner of Alba. Gamli swerved left as Erik looked on, taking his riders across to attack the Scottish right wing; in the mad scrum directly before Mael Colm a knot of men were hacking their way forward beneath a battle flag showing a leaping salmon, the huge two-handed swords typical of highlanders rising and falling above them. With his back to the wall and any chance of retreat slipping away by the moment, Erik called across to Grettir as they approached the fight. ‘Take the crew and close off Mael Colm’s escape route. I will remain here with my bodyguard, ready to reinforce the main attack if it stalls.’
Erik wheeled right as he came into the clearing, guiding his horse to one side as the rest of his crew peeled off and the sounds of battle swirled around him. The hall at Fetteresso stood on a slight hill, raising it clear of the fetid air from the surrounding marsh; from horseback Erik could see well enough, and as his guards came to his side Grettir and Gunnar led the men of his hird around the edge of the fight. Erik looked on appreciatively as his ship mates swept forward, arcing around to close the net as they crowded about the rear of the hall. With Mael Colm’s slender chances of escaping the fight now closed to him, Erik settled down to watch the end. In the short time it had taken his hirdmen to reach the position Gamli Eriksson and his crew had broken through the defenders anchored to the southern stockade, and Erik allowed his eyes to linger on the sight of his eldest hacking down on the heads of the enemy as they broke and ran. Still in the saddle the crew of the Vindalfr were following suit, riding their mounts into the fleeing Scots to drive them from the field. More and more of Erik’s here were spilling from the marshland path, snatching up spears and shields as they rushed to join the fight.
At the hall Mael Colm was still in sight, but the numbers opposing his shrinking band were a tide in full flood now, and with retreat impossible Erik relaxed a little as he prepared to witness the thing which had drawn him north months before — the death of the man who had thought to drive him from his own kingdom a few years before. On the far side of the field the flags of Orkney formed a screen to the north, Arnkel’s newly arrived reinforcements enough to turn the tide of battle there as he fought his way to his brother’s side. The last Scots there were already casting nervous glances to the rear, eager to tread the fugitives’ path before the Orcadians turned the flank and denied them the chance, and satisfied that the battle would be won without his intervention Erik let his gaze wander back to the centre. He was just in time. The leaping salmon flag was a few paces before the king now, the storm tide lapping at his feet, and as Erik thrilled to the sight the Scottish standard was wrestled from the banner man and Mael Colm disappeared beneath a flurry of blows.
After all that had gone before, the plotting and planning over the course of the previous winter and the long chase north, the death of Mael Colm felt like a release to the king, more akin to being rid of a pest than the culmination of a glorious campaign, and glancing aside Erik saw the same emotion reflected upon the faces of his huskarls.
The summer-long campaign had been the first time Erik and his men had prosecuted anything on such a scale, but the king knew that the lessons learnt that year were invaluable. This was a new type of warfare to them all; grinding out a victory against an enemy who refused to give battle, withdrawing deeper and deeper into a hostile land. With the countryside stripped bare of anything useful to the invaders, Erik’s thoughts had slowly turned from glorious adventure and the pursuit of an opponent to the more mundane worries of resupply and distance. Although he knew they would grumble out of earshot of their leaders the men had got by well enough on meagre fare, but the horses were a constant concern. The animals ate and drank prodigiously, and although farriers had accompanied the army north the supply of new horseshoes quickly ran out. With the horses increasingly tired and footsore, the pace of the advance had slowed to little more than a walk; scouting and raiding away from the main column had been reduced to the occasional foray, and Erik saw for the first time just how effective this new type of warfare could be. With the borders of Northumbria restored and the size of his kingdom more than doubled, it was something he could contemplate should the southern English come north again, something to consider should he lead a mighty army south of the Humber.
A savage roar interrupted his thoughts; Erik looked across to the hall. The body of Mael Colm had been dragged into the open now, the pale cadaver reminding King Erik of a skinned eel in its nakedness as his killers cavorted and sang their songs of victory. Thorstein caught his eye, and Erik’s mouth widened into a watery smile as he brought the campaign to an end. ‘It’s been a long summer,’ he said. ‘We will spend the remainder of the day building a pyre for our dead back at Stonehive, drink the night away and head back south in the morning.’
Part III
OÐINN´S WOLF SMILE
20
Old Bones
The trio bent their heads as they came clear of the buildings and into the full force of the blow, and Erik drew his cloak tightly
around him as they set out across the square. Off to the right the stony heights of the minster dominated the gloom, the muffled toll of a bell showing where a finger of wind had penetrated the tower. At his side the flames of Oswy’s torch sawed back and forth in a desperate struggle for life, before a fierce gust snuffed the light completely. The Englishman threw Erik a look of exasperation as he tossed the thing aside, cupping a hand to his mouth to yell above the force of the wind. ‘So much for that, lord. Thankfully we are all but there.’
Erik raised his eyes to peer across what in Roman times had been called the Forum. With the shutters fastened against the savagery of the storm the long low building which housed the ecclesiastics was a Stygian wall, the dark shape only broken at the point where an open door revealed the welcoming glow of firelight within. Outlined against the light a figure stood within the doorway, and even at a distance of fifty yards the king recognised the figure of Morcar, Oswald’s thane. Despite the best efforts of the gale to drive them back the little party were soon across the clearing, and as Morcar stepped respectfully aside, Erik led them across the threshold and into the calm of the interior. Thorstein and Helgrim moved further into the room, their eyes searching the shadows as Erik made to unfasten the belt which carried his sword. Morcar Thane held out a hand. ‘There is no need to disarm, lord,’ he said quietly. ‘Although places of worship exist within these walls, the building itself is little more than a home to the brethren — a place to eat, sleep and do God’s work.’ As Erik’s hand went back to his side the man continued. ‘I am sorry to send word during such a night, lord,’ he went on. ‘But I doubt that Oswald will see the morn.’
