by M J Porter
Olaf’s face darkened with rage now, and he dragged Northman away from Ælthelmær.
“You’ve done enough, you arse. Now you should go to your father. It doesn’t matter what Eadric does anymore. Everyone knows not to trust him.”
Northman thought about his friend’s words. He did have a valid argument. No one trusted Eadric. No one at all. But still, he felt as though he should stay.
“It’ll be the death of you if you stay,” Olaf hissed even louder, searching for his sword and his shield as he did so.”
“I have to do this.”
“Fuck, Northman. You don’t need to do anything! But I’ll go. I always bloody do.”
His anger written all over his rigid body Olaf marched through the sea of men and equipment, and Northman felt remorse for the argument. Was Olaf right? Could he have left just like that?
The cry of battle echoed through the camp, and he knew he’d run out of time. This was it, one way or another. Edmund or Cnut. He wished he knew how it would all end. He did.
The shield wall clamped into place at the front of the battle lines, and Northman walked forward to take up his position. He wasn’t at the front but about the eighth man in the battle line. He chafed a little at his placement but realised it had more to do with Eadric’s terrible fighting record than his own. He’d killed and wounded and maimed. He knew how to fight, and he was good at it. He wished he were in the shield wall itself. Then he’d have inflicted some vengeance on the men who’d bedevilled his homeland for over a year.
He’d thought there might be postulating and verbal abuse before the battle began but no sooner were he and the rest of the two thousand strong force in place than the shield wall was rushing to meet their opponents. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who’d had enough of Cnut and his allies.
Edmund had insisted on fighting with his men at the front of the shield wall. The ealdormen had tried to dissuade him, but Edmund had been adamant. He was the king. He would fight with his men, and if necessary die with them. His father had taken up position behind the king with Oscetel, Orkning and the rest of their household warriors. Northman wished he was amongst them especially when he heard the first roar of the attack and resulting crash of metal on wooden shields. He wished he could see what was happening, but his position meant that he couldn’t. Not yet. Perhaps when they forced Cnut’s men a little way up the hill, they’d be able to.
A few arrows flew above his head, and he raised his shield and looked to ensure they landed harmlessly on the grassy field behind them. The English archers were rushing to pick up the wasted weapons while they waited for an opportunity to put their skills to the test.
The king’s brother, Eadwig, was commanding the archers and keeping an overview of the battle. He sat on a horse out of shooting distance of the arrows and because he was so much higher than anyone else, Northman could clearly see his face. It looked determined and calm. So far the battle was progressing well, but in his position so far back from the front line, it was impossible to know the exact outcome.
There was a collective heave of effort from the front of the shield wall, and the men around Northman began to tighten their hold on their weapons and make sure their boots were firmly on. When Cnut’s shield wall finally gave there would be a rush to cut off anyone who tried to escape. Northman knew he was ready, his weapons held loosely in his arms. When the moment came, he would react quickly.
The shouts of English voices around him filled the air, as did the crack of weapons and the screams of dying men. He spared a thought for those who were going to die today. A grim smile of pleasure covered his face, better it be the Danish than the English and better this finish the uneasy mood that had settled over the Englishmen and women who looked with haunted eyes at every man on horseback who carried weapons with them wherever they went, even to their beds at night. Fear had the nation in its grip.
Once more the shield wall surged upwards, and he glanced behind him again. Eadwig was busily informing messengers of how the men were to be deployed, but he still seemed supremely confident. It was a good sign.
Eadric had finally returned to his place amongst the men from the Magonsaete. A protective hood covered his face, and he wore an elaborate coat of mail that Northman couldn’t remember ever seeing before. It looked to be intricately pieced together and almost impenetrable. Was Eadric going to join in the battle?
The two brothers were talking, casting their eyes about a little fervently. Northman looked where they did but saw nothing to worry him. Whatever Eadric thought he was going to do during the battle, Northman decided he had no say. Not anymore. He would fight with the majority of the men, the ealdormen of England and even some of the more militant religious men.
He focused on calming his rapidly beating heart, on deciding how he was going to attack his first enemy, so that when the rush came, and he found himself pouring through the damaged shield wall of the Norse he was ready and waiting.
He screamed a hoarse battle cry as he clutched his war axe lightly in his left hand and held his shield in his right. He was hungry for blood, and he was happy to cut down any man he saw.
There was little time to take in what had happened, but the English needed to capitalise on this shot of victory. He felt a tap on his arm and Ælthelmær pointed him up the hill where men were engaged in a bloody battle. He couldn’t quite tell what they were fighting for, but touching the arm of his fellow warrior he too pointed up the hill and the message went shooting through the men of the Magonsaete.
As one they raced up the hill and joined the battle, attacking those who stood near its peak. Northman made his first strike as he ran, smashing a hefty blow to the neck into a dazed man who wandered across his path. The man fell to his knees in silence, and Northman felt his blood fizzle and rush with the adrenaline of finally, finally being able to kill one of the Norsemen.
He fought his way up the hill, his strikes powerful and his legs pumping hard beneath him. He was barely aware of the strokes he took with his axe, or of any who tried to approach him and stop his forward momentum. Tall men, short men, men with shining swords and some with just a shield, rushed at him and his fellow warriors but he didn’t take the time to look at those he was killing. He just wanted them dead.
Blood smeared his face and his war axe, the life-blood of the ten or so men he’d wounded or killed liberally covered his coat of mail and his shield. He felt healthy and alive. After months of being cold or unhappy or too hot and still miserable as he’d served under Eadric he let all his aggression flow out of him, and into his shield arm or his axe arm and with each stroke he felt a little calmer, a bit more himself. He was a man of the English, and when this day ended Edmund would be settled at his king, Cnut would be banished, and he’d be on his way home.
A bubble of delighted laughter burst from his throat as another man stood before him. The eyes of his enemy flashed dangerously blue, and he saw something in them he didn’t understand.
The man did something he didn’t expect. He dropped his weapon to his side and shouted to Northman. He could see his mouth move, but he couldn’t understand the words.
Slowly as the roar of battle fell away, he knew the words, but he shook his head in confusion. Why did his enemy speak English to him, excellent English, the English of an Englishman?
He lowered his shield and looked at those he fought and those who lay dying at his feet and fear once more returned to him.
What was this?
Why was he fighting Englishmen?
He turned to look at where he’d come and what his fellow warriors were doing.
Most still fought, apart from Ælthelmær and Eadric, they were eyeing Northman with amusement, as though he’d done something they couldn’t quite believe.
But that wasn’t right. He was fighting the Norse? Or was he.
The man who’d been speaking to him shouted once more, and Northman heard the words and let their meaning flood through him.
“What the fuck a
re you doing Northman? We’re the bloody English.”
And then there was the thud of a blow to his head, a blow that sent him reeling and tumbling to the floor.
Why had he been fighting the English? Surely no. Surely Eadric hadn’t turned to the Norse again and evidently he hadn’t instructed his men to fight their allies?
The cries of battle faded around him, and all he could hear was the delighted cackle of Eadric. He felt himself being lifted and he tried to fight it, fight the stupor that was infecting his body. But it was too much. The realisation that he’d been fighting for the Norse overwhelmed him. He let his eyes close with his pounding head, and he hoped he’d never wake again.
Chapter 39
September AD1016
Leofwine
Assandun
The battle had been going so well, the enemy seeming to fold at their concentrated approach as every man worked towards the goal of driving Cnut from their shores.
Now, now he couldn’t make sense of what was happening.
Men from the rear had rushed through the breached shield wall, as had been agreed in advance, but suddenly the English were back on the defensive, trying to piece back together a shield wall that could stem the flow of the Norsemen.
Had they had reinforcements waiting somewhere that Cnut had only now sent against his enemy? Leofwine couldn’t tell from his place amongst the carnage of war, and so he fought precisely and calmly, every stroke measured and deadly, the eyes of his enemies not even penetrating his demeanour. If he had to kill an entire ship full of norsemen, then he’d do just that.
Suddenly there was a cessation in noise and the enemy melted away from him, the shield wall taking a step backwards and waiting. But waiting for what?
Leofwine looked frantically around him. What was happening? He turned to ask the man to his left; the man to his right, but everyone was doing the same, looking around, unsure what was happening. He looked to where Eadwig had been directing the battle and saw a horrifying sight.
Men ran in all directions, and sadly, many of them were running away from the fight.
“What’s happened?” he gasped, but no one answered.
He looked along the line of the shield wall hoping to see Edmund or his son, but he saw no one he recognised, only fear on the faces he could clearly see. They were all looking up the hill.
Leofwine turned to do the same and suddenly everything made sense.
Cnut stood there; a look of amusement on his face, and at his side stood a resplendent Eadric, his coat of mail shining in the afternoon light.
The bastard, he’d done it again, and this time, it seemed to be decisive.
More and more norsemen flooded the hillside around Cnut and Leofwine was unsurprised when the cry to retreat spread through the surprised Englishmen. They were bloody and bruised, depleted in number with great gaps in the shield wall. Where once two thousand men had stood, only a handful remained to face the thousands that Cnut still had in reserve.
Retreat was the only option. Orderly, and never taking their eyes from Cnut’s face, the Englishmen slowly walked down the hillside, returning to their encampment or running for their lives.
Rage swept through Leofwine, and he wanted nothing more than to rush Eadric and strike his head from his shoulders.
They’d been winning. The English had been winning. Victory had been only a few more deaths from their grasp but then Eadric had apparently taken his men and returned to Cnut’s side. He couldn’t quite work out the logistics of it all, but he knew it to be true with cold certainty.
“Come, father; the king has ordered us to attend upon him. He says … he says that many from our side have died in the fierce fighting and we must regroup.”
“Where’s Northman?” he choked, but his son’s silence was all he needed to know. Northman, the poor bugger, he must be back on Cnut’s side. How on earth had certain victory turned into devastating defeat?
Chapter 40
October AD1016
Leofwine
St Ola’s Isle
Leofwine watched his eldest son carefully. He stood behind Eadric as the two opposing sides met peacefully for the first time in over a year. His face was hooded, his grief evident for all to see. Word of Northman’s phenomenal fighting skills at the battle a month ago had spread throughout the English king’s Witan causing consternation and dismay until Leofwine had realised that Northman was probably unaware that he hadn’t been fighting the Norse but instead cutting down Englishmen. Leofwine had made it his duty to uncover the truth, and it didn’t make for pleasant knowledge, but it would exonerate his son.
His heart went out to Northman, and his eyes narrowed as he took in Eadric’s smirking posture. He’d never actually hated a man before but he hated Eadric with every old and aching bone in his body.
He’d barely had time to recover from the monumental battle that had left so many men dead on the English side. The mantra of those who’d died that year ran once more through his head; Horic, Æthelred, Uhtred, Ulfcytel, Ælfric, and those were just the men he’d known well and counted as his sometimes friend. The final death toll had included abbots and king’s thegns, sons, husbands and brothers and it had achieved nothing because of Eadric’s treachery.
It had taken days and days to piece together how Eadric had managed to change his allegiance half way through the battle, and with every new fact, he learned, his anger and rage grew. Eadric deserved to be gelded, not rewarded for his actions. Once more, Cnut had surprised him. He was not the man his father had been. He was as devious and untrustworthy as Eadric.
King Edmund had asked him to arrange a truce with Cnut when the full extent of their defeat had become apparent, and so he’d been sent scurrying from one king to another for the last few weeks. This treaty today would make the best of a very tense situation. Cnut was to have Mercia and the north; Edmund was to have Wessex and the West. The land of the English would be split between two men, neither of whom liked the other, and somehow, an uneasy truce would ensue, both knowing that they’d become full king of the English on the others death, whenever that came to pass. It could be fifty years time, but Leofwine doubted it and had doubled the guard around Edmund. Cnut wasn’t done yet, and he wouldn’t be until he was king of Wessex and the West as well.
Not for over sixty years had the English lands been divided in such a way but there was no choice anymore. In fact, Edmund was lucky to be still able to call himself king of anything or anywhere. The English nobility was in disarray, Edmund devoid of most of his ealdormen, only Leofwine remained, and Godric of course, but it was dismal to realise how many had died in the battle. Leofwine was pleased he’d not died but only because he wanted to return to his wife’s warm embrace. Once this treaty was signed and ratified he’d be doing exactly that.
It was time for him to retire away to Deerhurst, to give his keen and far more military minded son Leofric the opportunity to govern the lands of the Hwicce. He couldn’t do it anymore.
King Cnut and King Edmund shared their place on a small dais in the grand hall they were sat within. Leofwine had chosen the place carefully, a small island in the middle of the Severn. A meeting place between the divided land of England. A location of neutrality that neither king could claim.
The number of men at the meeting was small compared to what it could have been. Leofwine had insisted on that too. The people all needed to arrive by boat, and there was simply not the time to get everyone who wanted to be there on one of those vessels. No, he’d made sure that if this treaty had to be signed it would be done in as secure a location as possible, with as few interested parties as he could get away with. He wished he’d been able to prevent Eadric from coming, but Cnut had insisted, a wary look in his eyes when Leofwine had broached the subject with him. That had given him pause for thought. What did Cnut know that he didn’t? What was he trying to tell him without speaking?
He’d not managed to decipher what it was, his exhaustion driving away his usually keen sense
s. No, whatever it was Cnut could tell him in fifty years time, or never. Only when he became King of the English would Leofwine be speaking with the man again. He’d had enough. From now on he’d be his own man.
Archbishop Wulfstan was acting the host in the crowded hall. It was he who’d devised the treaty and he who'd obtain the men's signature and arrange for the physical copy of the peace treaty to be stored safely away in case of any later disputes.
Leofwine’s head pounded with the complexities of the situation. Who would mint coins? Who would take the coins? Who would pay who taxes? Who would people in the borderlands turn to as their king? It was all too much for him. He knew a few facts. His king was Edmund, and he would pay his taxes and send his son to the Witan in his stead.
Cnut and Edmund sat side by side; a small writing table had been placed in front of them, and Leofwine watched the men size each other up one more time before adding their mark to the beautifully drawn up document. Wulfstan and his scribes may have had barely a week to make the treaty that needed to be ratified, but they’d poured all their energy into it. It was truly magnificent.
With the treaty signed in silence. Wulfstan having decided that before the signing was not the time to make a speech, speech leached back into the room as drinking horns and a meal was shared between the two men. Cnut looked energised, alive, reinvigorated. Edmund, Leofwine wasn’t so sure about. He feared something ailed him and he hazarded a guess that he knew what it was. This show of cooperation may be only that, a show for a few weeks or months, he didn’t know but he worried that he was seeing a reenactment of Swein’s brief reign.
Wulfstan stayed standing on the dais, between the two men and slowly the short surge of noise subsided once more. Archbishop Wulfstan garnered respect from men who believed in his God, and from those who didn’t. He simply had that sort of personality.
