by Martin Lake
His pleasure lasted no more than a few heartbeats. Two hundred yards away stood scores of men, staring at him with vicious, angry faces.
‘Wake up,’ he cried. ‘Wake up.’
Guthrum was the first to respond, leaping up as soon as his eyes opened. He cursed aloud and drew his sword. The rest of the men scrambled to their feet.
‘Where are the pickets?’ Eohric yelled.
Guthrum shook his head. ‘Overwhelmed, I guess. Before they could shout warning.’
‘Do we fight them?’ Leif asked nervously.
Guthrum looked at him with contempt. ‘Do you think I’m mad. There are four times our number.’
‘But peasants most of them,’ Eohric said. ‘Maybe a score of well -warriors.’
He was right. The first rank of men bore shields, spears and wore mail or leather breast-plates. The rest were farmers and field workers and had no armour. Some bore spears or knives but most wielded staffs or sickles or cudgels. They looked terrified.
‘Most of them are armed with clubs,’ Eohric sneered.
‘A club wielded even by a peasant can smash your skull,’ Guthrum said angrily. He glanced from the men to the ship.
‘I want a shield wall of a dozen men while the rest prepare the ship.’
Twenty men scrambled aboard the longship, grabbing oars and unhitching the ropes which held it fast to the bank. At the same moment the English yelled in fury and began to advance.
‘Can we hold them?’ Leif asked.
‘Long enough to get the ship ready,’ Guthrum said.
‘Then what?’
‘Then the rest of us wade out to get on board. And if you don’t stop your half-wit questions I’ll leave you behind to protect our rear.’
Leif turned to watch the men on the ship feverishly making ready to leave. But then something else caught his eye. Flaming arrows flew from beyond the English line and thudded onto the ship. Some caught in the blankets and ropes upon the deck. One lodged in the furled sail and begin to smoulder.
‘Shit,’ cried Guthrum. ‘We have a clever foe.’
‘And there he is,’ Leif yelled.
To the rear of the English was a man beside a small fire. It was he who was overseeing the bowmen, pushing them to the fire to light their arrows and then directing them where to aim. He saw that Leif had spotted him and directed his men to shoot more swiftly.
‘The ship, Guthrum,’ called the helmsman. ‘The ship will soon be aflame.’
Guthrum turned at his call. The crewmen were using buckets to draw water from the river and just about managing to keep the flames from spreading. But ever more arrows thudded onto the ship and it was clear they would soon lose the battle.
Guthrum made up his mind. ‘A dozen of you back to the shield-wall,’ he bellowed. ‘The rest take the ship out of reach of the arrows.’
‘You don’t mean to try to hold this ground with two dozen men?’ Leif asked in horror.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘I intend to slaughter these bastards.’
The rest of the crew joined them in the shield-wall. Guthrum strode a yard or two in front of them and flung his arm towards the Englishmen.
‘There’s four score men out there,’ he cried. ‘Four men to every one of us. If they were warriors we would be sore put to battle them. But they’re not. They are peasants, thralls and young boys. Little better than the sheep or cows they tend to.’
He laughed aloud. ‘Are Vikings frightened of sheep and cows?’
‘No,’ yelled some of his men, laughing along with him.
‘Then let us slaughter these beasts as we would do in readiness for the winter months.’
And with that he charged.
A low groan of fear rose from the English ranks. They saw well enough that they were being attacked by one lone warrior but he was huge and strong looking and a Viking with a grim and ferocious mien. Their courage wavered and they glanced at each other to see what they should do.
And then Guthrum reached them.
He smashed into the front rank of warriors. They may have been well-armed but few had ever fought in a battle before. Two men fell beneath his onslaught, battered by the force of impact. He slashed open the neck of a third man and hacked the sword arm of a fourth before he could take a swing.
But then a cry came from the rear of his enemies. ‘He’s only one man. Kill him, kill him.’
Guthrum glanced up. The cry came from the man who was directing the bowmen. Now he grabbed a spear and charged down the hill towards him.
His words put heart into the English and they began to jab their spears at Guthrum. He parried them as swiftly as he could but he realised he would soon be overwhelmed.
But then, with a mighty roar, the rest of his men crashed into the English line. They may have been only twenty men against near a hundred but they were experienced, deadly and the danger to their lord had made them furious and vengeful. Swords rose and fell, spears thrust home and the Englishmen fell like wheat before autumn harvesters.
Even Leif felt the fire of combat rage in him and as he jabbed with his spear he marvelled at it. He had no liking for Guthrum and a mighty liking for himself but he pushed forward with the rest of the warriors as if heedless at the thought of death.
A spear graze to his cheek ended this brief blaze of courage. The man who had made the thrust stared at him, his eyes wide with fear or fury, and made another lunge. Leif side-stepped in terror, and then he saw Sigurd’s spear plunge into the neck of his enemy. Blood spurted from the wound and the man fell.
A second man replaced the spearman and squared up to the brothers. He was larger even than Sigurd and he bore a club so huge that Leif wondered at its purpose. Killing bulls, perhaps.
But he had no time to ponder more for the man raised his club and brought it down on them. Sigurd managed to raise his shield in time but the blow knocked him to his knees.
Leif yelled, part-warning, part-alarm at his brother’s plight, part-terror. He turned towards the giant, spear thrusting feebly towards him. The man gave a contemptuous laugh and raised his club above Leif’s head.
But before he had time to strike, a sword blade pierced his chest. He looked down in surprise as blood belched around the wound. Then Guthrum withdrew his blade and slashed the man across his waist, opening the flesh so deep Leif could see the coils of his guts. The Englishman shook his head ruefully as if he had been bested at a game and slid to the ground.
Leif nodded his thanks to Guthrum.
‘Couldn’t let Ivar’s Skald die,’ he said, and returned to the attack once again.
It was over a few moments later. The peasants lost all heart for further battle and fled hotfoot from the fray.
Guthrum yelled to his men to hold fast. But then he spied the man who had directed the arrows against his ship.
The man stood hesitant as the rest of his friends raced past him, almost as if he had a mind to stand and fight alone. But then he turned and began to stride after them.
Furious at the man who had almost destroyed his ship, heedless of his own command, Guthrum leapt after him. Although a huge man he was astonishingly fast. Within moments he had closed the distance to his foe.
The man must have heard for he suddenly glanced over his shoulder and saw Guthrum. His eyes widened in horror. He started to run.
Guthrum forced his legs even faster but the Englishman, unwearied by battle and with the goad of terror, began to outstrip him. The Vikings cheered on their chieftain although a few offered bets that he would not win and yelled in support of the Englishman.
It seemed for a short while that they would win the wager for the space between hunter and prey widened. Then something shot from Guthrum’s hand, a throwing axe, and hammered into the Englishman’s back. His legs buckled and he fell.
Guthrum was on him in an instant and hauled him to his feet. He laughed in triumph and dragged the man back towards his waiting crew.
PLANS GONE AWRY
The English captive wa
s thrown onto the ship, his arms and legs bound by thick cords. He struggled to get free but Eohric smashed him in the face and he decided to keep still.
The longship headed into the river which Leif had spied earlier. There was no sign of anyone on either bank, the land appeared deserted. Guthrum stared about him cautiously for a little while and decided that they were in no immediate danger.
‘Come here, Skald,’ he called. ‘I would have your ears for my questioning of the prisoner.’
Leif hurried to him, thankful to no longer bear the responsibility of spying out the land.
Guthrum kicked the captive in the side and hunkered down beside him.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘A jarl, one of the King’s captains?’
The man gave a mocking laugh and shook his head. ‘I am a Leech, a humble healer, nothing more.’
Guthrum and Leif exchanged glances.
‘A healer,’ Guthrum said. ‘You’ve done more harm than healing this day.’
‘It is you who did harm,’ the man replied. ‘You have come with fire and sword into our land.’
‘It was your fire which nearly did for my ship.’
The man chuckled. ‘A little longer and it would have been consumed.’
Leif glanced up at the mast. The sail was still furled but he could see holes where the fire had taken. He wondered if it would be able to take the wind any more.
‘So, tell me why a leech was directing the battle,’ Guthrum continued. ‘Why not the lord of these parts?’
‘Because Lulla is a fool. And a coward as well.’
‘So he told you to direct the battle?’
The leech shook his head. ‘He had no idea of the danger. He can barely tell a cloud from a tree.’
Guthrum folded his arms. He did not like men who were contemptuous of their lord. But neither did he like lords who were stupid or cowardly.
‘What is your name, Leech?’ he asked.
‘Tell me yours and I will tell you mine.’
Guthrum buffeted the man across the head. ‘You’re in no position to demand anything, thrall. I asked you a question. What is your name?’
The man remained silent for a while. ‘Deor,’ he said eventually. He gazed into Guthrum’s face, his eyes unblinking and unafraid.
Guthrum glanced up at Leif who merely shrugged in a non-committal manner.
‘And I am Guthrum.’ He said it with a mixture of grudge and respect. ‘I am chieftain of these men and thirty more.’
‘You won’t be much longer,’ Deor said.
‘Why so?’ Guthrum’s eyes flashed angrily.
Deor nodded towards Guthrum’s left arm. A long, ugly gash went from wrist to elbow, the blood still seeping red.
‘It is nothing,’ Guthrum said. ‘A scratch does not kill a man.’
‘That one will,’ Deor said. ‘I see signs of pus already, the start of wound-rot. If the arm is cut off in the next few days you may live, perhaps. But if it’s not cut off, you’re a walking corpse.’
Guthrum scoffed at his words but Leif could tell he was concerned, although unwilling to show it.
‘Enough of your prattle, Leech,’ he continued. ‘I would know where your king is. Does such an accomplished healer and warrior have an idea of his whereabouts?’
‘I do.’ Deor sighed. ‘Edmund is at Norwic, dallying with his churchmen and his women.’
‘He likes both?’ Guthrum said. ‘I thought the Christ-followers despised women-folk.’
‘If they did,’ Deor said, ‘they would disappear from the world. Christ-followers are keen to breed offspring to follow the faith. A man can kneel both to pray to God and to enter a woman. Edmund is proof of that.’
‘You don’t like the king, it seems,’ said Leif.
Deor shrugged. ‘Why should I care for any man who rules over others?’
‘There have to be lords,’ said Guthrum.
‘Do there?’ Deor gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Lords like Lulla and King Edmund we can do without.’ He gave a sidelong look at Guthrum. ‘As we can do without Guthrum and his wolves.’
Guthrum laughed aloud. ‘You have courage, Leech, I give you that.’
‘Dead men can afford to be brave.’
Leif frowned. ‘What makes you think you’re a dead man.’
‘I’m a captive of the Vikings,’ Deor said. ‘I now measure my life in breaths not days.’
‘You shall live a while longer yet,’ said Guthrum. ‘I need to know all I can about this kingdom and its king.’
‘What is to tell?’ Deor said. ‘East Anglia was once the greatest kingdom in this island. Then the Mercian king attacked, conquered us and stole our wealth and pride. We have our independence once again, but Edmund bows his knee to the Saxon king of the far west.’
‘Saxon king?’
‘Æthelred of Wessex and his pup of a brother.’
‘And King Edmund? Will he prove a strong foe to us?’
‘He’s a young man but not, I deem, a warrior. As I said, he worships God and the cunny in equal measure.’
Guthrum clapped him on the shoulder. ‘He sounds like a man I can deal honestly with.’
Deor laughed. ‘Can a wolf be honest?’
‘As honest as a leech, I deem.’
Guthrum stood up and stared at Leif. ‘Did you hear all this? And do you reckon the leech speaks true?’
Leif swallowed, nervous at giving the wrong answer. ‘I heard it all. Whether he speaks truth or not, only Odin can be certain.’
‘A clever answer but a craven one. Come man, tell me what you think. Ivar tells me you have great intelligence and greater cunning. I don’t want your cunning now. I want your intelligence and your honesty.’
Leif sighed and turned to stare at the captive. ‘I think he speaks truthfully,’ he said. ‘He has no reason to tell us the shameful history of this kingdom and no reason to deride his king. He is a man who sees much and is not afraid to think for himself.’
‘Then he should be an inspiration for you, Leif. You’ll never be a warrior but if you use your brains you may yet prove of service to Ivar. And to me.’
He dismissed Leif but he remained a moment longer.
‘One thing, more, my lord,’ he said. ‘You would do well to ask Deor if this river leads to Norwic.’
Guthrum laughed. ‘Already learnt the lesson, I see. But fear not, Skald, I had thought to ask this without your prompting.’
Leif’s insides squirmed but Guthrum did not seem angered by his presumption, merely amused. Not so his brother. He had been listening all the while and now shot a vicious look at Leif as he returned to the prow.
Guthrum sent two parties of men to scout up the river in search of enemies. They returned just before noon. There was no sign of any on either bank.
Deor told them that the river was called the Yare. It headed in long, meandering loops towards the west where another river, the Wensum, flowed into it. The town of Norwic lay two miles west of where the two rivers joined.
The Vikings rowed up the river at a slower pace than the previous day. Guthrum wanted to rest the men after the recent battle and to regain their strength for any future ones. They were more than content to set a slower pace.
Guthrum seemed restless and walked continually from one end of the ship to the other. Leif noticed that whenever he stopped he would hold up his arm and examine the wound. The Leech would smile grimly at this.
An hour before daylight fell, Guthrum ordered a halt. Here the River Wensum flowed into the Yare, creating a small islet where the Vikings made camp. This time, Guthrum doubled the number of pickets and threatened to slay any one of them who fell asleep. None of the men complained.
He questioned Deor thoroughly about Norwic. He said it was a huge town, spreading along either bank of the river Wensum, with four thousand people dwelling there.
Guthrum scoffed at this figure. ‘That’s three times larger than our war-host. Bigger than any settlement in Denmark.’
‘It will provide p
lenty of warriors to fight you,’ Deor said. ‘More than enough to destroy you and all your men.’
Guthrum rubbed his wound anxiously for a moment.
‘Does the city have any fortifications?’ he asked.
‘A wooden palisade on the northern bank of the river.’
‘And churches, monasteries?’ Eohric asked, his eyes glinting in the light of the fire.
‘Four churches and two monasteries.’
Eohric rubbed his hands with glee.
‘We’re not here for plunder,’ Guthrum growled. ‘Ivar told us to seek out King Edmund and discuss how he would accommodate the war-host.’
‘We ask a favour of him?’ Eohric asked. ‘We beg instead of take?’
Guthrum gave him a thoughtful look. ‘Do you question the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok?’
Eohric’s eyes narrowed and he shook his head, nervously.
‘And do you question me?’
Eohric paused a little before mumbling no.
‘Make sure of it. Blood is thicker than water but blood is easily spilt.’
The next morning proved the truth of his words.
Guthrum woke from a sleepless night. He had flung off his cloak, despite the chill of night, and complained of feeling hot. He climbed to his feet but staggered and snatched up a spear to keep himself upright.
‘Does something ail, you lord?’ Leif asked anxiously. He realised that Guthrum was the only thing standing between him and Eohric’s malice.
Guthrum shook his head. ‘Just the night airs and bites from river midges.’
Leif nodded but then took a sudden step forward. ‘Guthrum, your arm.’
Guthrum lifted his arm and screwed up his face in distaste. The wound was hectic red and running with yellow pus. The skin around it was dark blue in colour, raised up and covered with angry blisters.
Leif stepped forward to examine it and recoiled immediately. The stench from the wound almost made him vomit.
‘I’ll get the Leech,’ he said.
Guthrum started to argue, fearing the impression this would give to his men, but felt too weary to do so. He slid down upon the floor and bowed his head as Leif ran to fetch Deor.
