They came slowly. The poets tell us that men charge into battle, welcoming the slaughter as eagerly as any lover, but a shield wall is a fearsome thing. The men of Wessex knew they would not break us with a wild charge, but would only reach the gate behind us by keeping their ranks tight and their shields overlapped and firm, and so they walked to us, their faces watchful and grim above the iron rims of their stag-painted shields. Every third man carried a shortened spear, the others came with either a seax or an axe. I had left Wasp-Sting in Waormund’s belly, and I needed her. A long-sword is no weapon for a shield wall, but Serpent-Breath was in my hand and she would have to serve.
‘Our king is coming!’ I shouted. ‘Hold them!’
‘Kill them!’ Ælfweard’s high-pitched voice screamed. ‘Slaughter them!’
The West Saxon spears were lowered. I had thought their rear ranks might throw spears, but none came, though Wihtgar’s men hurled spears over our heads. The blades thumped into West Saxon shields. ‘Break them!’ Æthelhelm shouted, and they came forward, still cautiously, men stepping around Waormund’s massive corpse. Their shields made a constant clatter, edge touching edge. They were close now, so close. They stared into our eyes, we stared into theirs. Men took a breath, steeling themselves for the clash of shields. Harsh voices were ordering them onwards. ‘Kill them!’ Ælfweard shouted excitedly. He had drawn a sword, but was staying well back from the fight.
‘For God and for the king!’ a West Saxon shouted, and then they came. They screamed, they shouted, they charged the last two paces, and our shields met with a thunder of clashing wood. My shield was pressed back, I heaved. An axe hacked at the rim, narrowly missing my face, a warrior with gritted teeth and a badly mended helmet was grimacing at me, just inches from my face. He was trying to thread a seax past my shield’s edge as the axeman attempted to pull my shield down, but the axe’s blade slipped from the rent it had made and I heaved again, pushing the grimacing man back, and Finan must have lunged his seax into him because he sank down, giving me space enough to lunge Serpent-Breath at the axeman.
Men were shouting. Blades were clashing. Priests were calling on their god to kill us. A Mercian spearman behind me thrust past my shield. I heard Æthelhelm’s voice, touched with panic, yelling at his men that they must close the gate. I looked up when he shouted and caught his eye an instant. ‘Close the gate!’ His voice was shrill. I looked away from him as an axe thumped on my shield. I shook the blade off as a Mercian spearman thrust a spear past me. I rammed Serpent-Breath forward, felt her strike wood and lunged again, but my elbow was jarred by Rumwald who had staggered against me. He was whimpering, then his shield fell and he sank down, the spearman behind me tried to take his place, but Rumwald was thrashing wildly, suddenly screaming in agony, and so stopped him. A West Saxon spear pierced Rumwald’s mail, then a merciful axe split his helmet, shattered his skull. The spearman lunged at Rumwald’s killer, but a West Saxon seized the ash shaft and tugged until Serpent-Breath skewered his armpit.
‘Kill them!’ Ælfweard screeched. ‘kill them! Kill them! Kill them all!’
‘You must close the gate!’ Æthelhelm bellowed
‘God is with us!’ Father Oda’s voice was hoarse. The men in our rear rank were shouting, encouraging us to kill. Wounded men moaned, the dying screamed, the battle stench of blood and shit filled my nostrils.
‘Hold them!’ I bellowed. A spear or a seax scored across my left thigh, Finan lunged. The spearman from the second rank had stepped across Rumwald’s body and his shield touched mine. He lasted maybe long enough to lunge his spear once, then the axe drove into his shoulder, opening him deep and he fell beside his lord, and the axeman, a fair-haired man with a blood-spattered beard, swung his blade at me and I raised the shield to block the blow, saw the wood split where the blade struck, swung the shield down and drove Serpent-Breath at his eyes. He jerked away, another man had taken the dying Mercian’s place and he stabbed with a shortened spear, driving the blade into the axeman’s groin. The axe dropped, the man shrieked in agony and, like Waormund, fell to his knees. There were dead and dying men between us and the enemy, who had to step on the bodies to reach us and try to stab and lunge and hack their way to the gate. The drums still pounded, shields were splintering, the West Saxons were driving us back by weight of numbers.
Then there was a bellow behind me, a cheer, a clatter of hooves, and something slammed into my back, throwing me to my knees and I looked up to see a horseman thrusting a long spear over my head. More horsemen came. The Mercian cheers grew. I managed to stand. Finan had thrown down his seax and drawn Soul-Stealer because the horsemen were driving the West Saxons back, giving us space for longer blades. ‘Break them!’ another voice shouted, and I had a glimpse of Æthelstan, his helmet a glory of polished steel circled with gold, thrusting his stallion into the West Saxon ranks. The warrior king had come, glorious in gold, ruthless in steel, and he hacked with a long-sword, beating down his enemies. His men spurred to join him, spears stabbing, and suddenly the enemy broke.
They just broke. The longer spears of the Mercian horsemen had reached deep into the West Saxon ranks and on another day, on another battlefield, that would not have mattered. Horses are easy to wound and a panicked horse is no help to his rider, but on that day, by the gate of cripples, the horsemen came with a savage fury, led by a king who wanted to fight and who led his men from the front. There was blood on his stallion’s chest, but the horse kept plunging, rearing, flailing with heavy hooves, and Æthelstan kept shouting his men onwards, his long-sword reddened, and our shield wall, saved from death, found new passion. Our line, so short and so vulnerable, now surged forward. Brihtwulf had returned and joined the charge, bellowing at his men to follow, then Æthelstan’s horsemen split the enemy shield wall and the West Saxons broke in panic.
Because a king had come and a king now fled.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Finan said.
We were sitting on the lowest step of the stairs leading to the ramparts that were rapidly emptying of the enemy. I lifted off my helmet and dropped it on the ground. ‘It’s so damned hot,’ I said.
‘Summer,’ Finan said bleakly.
Still more of Æthelstan’s men were streaming through the gate. The East Anglians who had first threatened us had dropped their shields and seemed to have no interest in what happened in the city. A few had wandered back to the gate in search of ale, and they took no notice of us and we took no notice of them. Immar had brought me Wasp-Sting. She lay on the ground in front of me, waiting for her blade to be cleaned, while Serpent-Breath lay on my knees and I kept touching her blade, scarce able to believe I had found her again.
‘You gutted that bastard,’ Finan said, nodding towards Waormund’s corpse. There were perhaps forty of fifty other corpses left from Æthelhelm’s shield wall. The wounded had been helped into the shade where they groaned.
‘He was fast,’ I said, ‘but he was clumsy. I didn’t expect that. I thought he was better.’
‘Big bastard though.’
‘Big bastard,’ I agreed. I looked down at my left thigh. The bleeding had stopped. The wound was shallow and I started laughing.
‘What’s funny?’ Finan asked.
‘I swore an oath.’
‘You always were an idiot.’
I nodded agreement. ‘I swore to kill Æthelhelm and Ælfweard, and I didn’t.’
‘You tried.’
‘I tried to keep the oath,’ I said.
‘They’re probably dead by now,’ Finan said, ‘and they wouldn’t be dead if you hadn’t taken the gate, so yes, you kept your oath. And if they’re not dead they soon will be.’
I stared across the city where the killing continued. ‘It would be nice to kill them both though,’ I said wistfully.
‘For Christ’s sake, you’ve done enough!’
‘We’ve done enough,’ I corrected him. Æthelstan and his men were hunting through the streets and alleys of Lundene, seeking out Æthelhelm, Ælfweard, and th
eir supporters, and those supporters were few. The East Anglians did not want to fight for them, and many of the West Saxons simply threw down their shields and weapons. Æthelhelm’s vaunted army, as large an army as had been seen in Britain for many a year, had proved as fragile as an eggshell. Æthelstan was king.
And that evening as the smoke above Lundene glowed red in the light of the sinking sun, the king sent for me. He was King of Wessex now, King of East Anglia, and King of Mercia. ‘It is all one country,’ he told me that night. We were in the great hall of Lundene’s palace, originally built for the kings of Mercia, then occupied by Alfred of Wessex, then by his son, Edward of Wessex, and now the property of Æthelstan, but Æthelstan of what? Of Englaland? I looked into his dark, clever eyes, so like the eyes of his grandfather Alfred, and knew he was thinking of the fourth Saxon kingdom, Northumbria.
‘You swore an oath, lord King,’ I reminded him.
‘I did indeed,’ he said, not looking at me, but gazing down the hall where the leaders of his warriors were gathered at two long tables. Finan was there with Brihtwulf, as were Wihtgar and Merewalh, all drinking ale or wine because this was a feast, a celebration, and the victors were eating the food that had belonged to the defeated. Some of the defeated West Saxons were there too, those who had surrendered quickly and sworn allegiance to their conqueror. Most men still wore their mail, though Æthelstan had stripped off his own armour and wore a costly black coat beneath a short cloak dyed a deep and rich blue. The cloak’s hems were embroidered with gold thread, he had a gold chain about his neck from which hung a golden cross, and about his head was a simple gold circlet. He was no longer the boy I had protected through the long years when his enemies had tried to destroy him. Now he had the stern face of a warrior king. He looked like a king too; he was tall, straight-backed, and handsome, but that was not why his enemies had called him Faeger Cnapa. They had used that derisive name because Æthelstan had let his dark hair grow long and then twisted it into a dozen ringlets that were threaded with gold wires. Before the feast, when I had been summoned to share the high table, he had seen me staring at the glittering strands beneath the golden circlet and he had given me a defiant look.
‘A king,’ he had said defensively, ‘must appear kingly.’
‘He must indeed, lord King,’ I had said. He had looked at me with those clever eyes, judging whether I mocked him, but before he could say more I had dropped to one knee. ‘I take pleasure at your victory, lord King,’ I had said humbly.
‘As I am grateful for all you did,’ he had said, then raised me up and insisted that I should sit at his right hand where, gazing down at the celebrating warriors, I had just reminded him of the oath he had sworn to me.
‘I did indeed swear an oath,’ he said. ‘I swore not to invade Northumbria while you live,’ he paused and reached for a silver jug that was etched with Æthelhelm’s stag. ‘And you can be sure,’ he went on, ‘that I am mindful of the oath.’ His voice was guarded and still he looked into hall, but then he turned to me and smiled. ‘And I thank God that you do live, Lord Uhtred.’ He poured me wine from the jug. ‘I am told you rescued Queen Eadgifu?’
‘I did, lord King.’ I still found it strange to address him as I had addressed his grandfather. ‘So far as I know she’s safe at Bebbanburg.’
‘That was well done,’ he said. ‘You can send her to Cent and assure her of our protection.’
‘And for her sons too?’
‘Of course!’ He sounded annoyed that I had even asked. ‘They are my nephews.’ He sipped wine, his eyes brooding on the tables below us. ‘And I hear you hold Aethelwulf as a prisoner?’
‘I do, lord King.’
‘You will send him to me. And release the priest.’ He did not wait for my assent, but simply assumed I would obey him. ‘What do you know of Guthfrith?’
I had expected the question, because Guthfrith, brother to Sigtryggr, had taken the throne in Eoferwic. Sigtryggr had died of the plague and that was almost all the news Æthelstan knew of the north. He had heard that the sickness had ended and he had ordered the roads to Eoferwic to be opened again, but of Bebbanburg he could tell me nothing. Nor did he know of the fate of his sister, Sigtryggr’s queen, nor of my grandchildren. ‘All I know, lord King,’ I answered him carefully, ‘is that Sigtryggr wasn’t fond of his brother.’
‘He’s a Norseman.’
‘Of course.’
‘And a pagan,’ he said, glancing at the silver hammer I still wore.
‘And some pagans, lord King,’ I said sharply, ‘helped keep the Crepelgate open for you.’
He just nodded at that, poured the last of the wine into his goblet, then stood and hammered the empty jug on the table to silence the hall. He hammered it at least a dozen times before the noise subsided and the warriors were all looking at him. He raised his goblet. ‘I have to thank the Lord Uhtred,’ he turned and inclined his head to me, ‘who this day gave us Lundene!’
The warriors cheered and I had wanted to remind the king that Brihtwulf had helped, and poor Rumwald had died helping, and so many good men had fought at the Crepelgate where they had expected to die for him and some had, but before I could say anything Æthelstan turned to Father Oda who sat on his left. I knew he was inviting the Danish priest to serve in his household, an invitation I knew Oda would accept.
Æthelhelm was dead. He had been caught trying to escape through one of the western gates, and Merewalh, who had joined Æthelstan’s army, had been one of the men who pierced him with a spear. Ælfweard had become separated from his uncle and with just four men tried to escape across Lundene’s bridge only to find the fort at the southern end barred to him by the handful of men we had left there. He had begged them to let him pass, had offered them gold which they accepted, but when he rode through the opened gate they had hauled him from his horse and taken both his gold and his crown. His four men had just watched.
Now, after the feast, when men were singing and a harpist playing, Ælfweard was brought to Æthelstan. Candles lit the hall, the shadows thrown by their flickering flames leaping about the high rafters. The boy, he was twenty years old but looked six or seven years younger, was escorted by two warriors. He looked terrified, his moon face crumpled by crying. He no longer wore his fine mail, but was dressed in a grubby shift that hung to his knees. He was pushed up the stairs of the high table’s dais, and the harpist stopped playing, the singing died, and Æthelstan stood and walked to the front of the table so that every man in the now silent hall could see this meeting of the half-brothers. One was so tall and commanding, the other looked so pathetic as he dropped to his knees. One of the two men guarding Ælfweard was holding the crown the boy had worn in the battle, and Æthelstan now held out his hand and took it. He turned it in his hands so that the emeralds flashed in the candlelight, then he held it out to Ælfweard. ‘Wear it!’ he told his half-brother. ‘And stand.’
Ælfweard looked up but said nothing. His hands were shaking.
Æthelstan smiled. ‘Come, brother,’ he said and held out his left hand to help Ælfweard to his feet, then gave him the crown. ‘Wear it proudly! It was our father’s gift to you.’
Ælfweard had looked astonished, but now, grinning because he believed he would be King of Wessex still, albeit in submission to Æthelstan, he put the crown on his head. ‘I will be loyal,’ he promised his half-brother.
‘Of course you will,’ Æthelstan said gently. He looked at one of the guards. ‘Your sword,’ he commanded, and when he had the long blade in his hand, he pointed it at Ælfweard. ‘Now you will swear an oath to me,’ he said.
‘Gladly,’ Ælfweard bleated.
‘Touch the sword, brother,’ Æthelstan said, still gently, and when Ælfweard put a tentative hand on the blade Æthelstan just lunged. One straight, savage lunge that shattered his half-brother’s ribcage, drove him back with Æthelstan following, and then the sword pierced Ælfweard’s heart. Some men gasped, a serving girl screamed, Father Oda made the sign of the
cross, but Æthelstan just watched his brother die. ‘Take him to Wintanceaster,’ he said when the last blood had pulsed and the last twitch ended. He tugged the blade free. ‘Bury him beside his father.’
The emerald-encrusted crown had rolled under the table where it struck my ankle. I retrieved it and held it for a few heartbeats. This was the crown of Wessex, Alfred’s crown, and I remember the dying king telling me it was a crown of thorns. I placed it on the linen cloth that covered the board and looked at Æthelstan. ‘Your crown, lord King.’
‘Not until Archbishop Athelm consecrates me,’ Æthelstan said. The archbishop, who had been held in the palace as a privileged prisoner, sat at the high table. He looked confused, his hands shaking as he ate and drank, but he nodded at Æthelstan’s words. ‘And you will come to the ceremony, Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelstan demanded, meaning that I should attend the solemn moment when the Archbishop of Contwaraburg placed the royal helmet of Wessex on the new king’s head.
‘With your permission, lord King,’ I said. ‘I would go home.’
He hesitated a moment, and then nodded abruptly. ‘You have my permission,’ he said.
I was going home.
In time we heard that Æthelstan was crowned. The ceremony was performed at Cyningestun, on the Temes, where his father had been given the royal helmet of Wessex, but Æthelstan refused the helmet, instead insisting that the archbishop place the emerald crown on his gold-threaded hair. The ealdormen of three kingdoms acclaimed the moment, and Alfred’s dream of one Christian kingdom thus came one step nearer.
And now I sat on Bebbanburg’s high rock, the flame-lit hall behind me and the moon-silvered sea before me, and I thought of the dead. Of Folcbald, killed by a spear thrust in the shield wall by the Crepelgate. Of Sigtryggr, felled by fever and dying in his bed with a sword in his hand. Of his two children, my grandchildren, both dead. Of Eadith who had gone to Eoferwic to care for the children and had caught their plague and now was buried.
Sword of Kings (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 12) Page 35
