After another day and night, I asked Edmund where his younger brother was. Eadred was only twelve then, but there were dozens of boys with our camp and he would not have been out of place. Edmund smiled oddly.
‘If the king falls, there is every chance I will not come home as well. There will be no truce, no mercy, no ransoms when we meet these small kings in battle. My brother wanted one son of our father to survive the clash.’
I thought of the sickly little boy we had left behind. To please Edmund, I spoke once again.
‘I suppose you had to tie him down to stop him riding out after us.’
He chuckled. I think he appreciated my effort, though we both knew it was a lie. Edmund was kinder to his brother than I would have been – kinder than I had been to Wulfric, in fact. Younger brothers are born weak, some of them. I know I was not the first-born of my father, but I always felt as if I had been. I grew to manhood as if I were, just as Edmund had. We shared that kinship, that subtle understanding and sense of our place in the world. I told him so as we rode on.
Æthelstan had scouts riding out for miles ahead of us at all hours. I imagine it was dangerous work, expecting to be ambushed at any moment. The roads themselves were not safe for a lone rider far from his front ranks. Never mind the enemy, we lost one scout to brigands on the eighth or ninth day. We found him stripped and battered, his horse stolen and his neck half cut through. Axes were a terrible weapon for the force they could create. The long lever of an ash handle, with a lump of iron on the end – it hardly needed to be sharp.
Some of the men wanted to scour the woods for the robbers. Æthelstan growled a few words and that was the end of it. We would go on, for however long it took to find his enemies.
England is a big country, though not wide. Edmund said we had food enough and supplies enough to take us all the way to the highlands of Scotland without needing to hunt. The carts slowed us down, but speed was not the concern of the king. His concern was vengeance. Each step he took was one further north and one we could not take back.
Perhaps two dozen scouts were ranging out ahead of us, with half as many behind. They moved in two great arcs, I discovered. The first was at nine miles or so, the next at three or four. Their task was to sight and count, then gallop back as if all the demons of hell were after them. When they came in hard, every man there knew something was up. They saw the dust cloud and the wild eyes. There was no mistaking it, and all those who had known war before turned their axes in their hands, or gripped their shields more tighdy, or readied their spears.
One after the other, our scouts came barrelling in at high speed, young men showing off as they risked their necks to bring the news everyone wanted and feared. The enemy were ahead of us. The battle would come. All the lies we’d told ourselves, that it would be just a fine spring day like any other, that we would not be called to gasp out our lives in a wet ditch, all faded away. I looked around me at men I’d come to know. Edmund’s band of thanes knew they would be watched by those who followed them. They put on a fine brave face, though they snapped at one of their number who whistled, telling him to stop his damned noise.
The scouts had given us time to form and I watched as our marching army became a fighting force before my eyes. Æthelstan was the heart of it all. The orders began with him, as he leaned across the neck of his horse and spoke quietly to three large men in fine mail. They carried swords and drew them, holding them high as they turned their mounts in tight circles and gathered captains. In that way, the king’s order spread in ripples, reaching more and more.
Edmund was not free of that command. As ranks formed around banners as far as I could see in any direction, the king turned his mount towards his younger brother. I felt him coming, I think. Æthelstan brought the wind with him, so that the air seemed to freshen as he reined in and nodded in greeting, gripping Edmund’s shoulder with a great gauntlet of leather.
‘King Constantin knows our shield walls, Edmund. He may have a counter for them.’
‘There is no counter,’ Edmund said with a grin.
Æthelstan chuckled, a deep sound.
‘Not that we know. Your task in this, your role, is to ride the flanks and strike at weakness, before they have even formed, if you can.’ He made a spear of one hand and jabbed the air with it, wanting to be understood. ‘In – then out again. Do you understand? No last stand, no fighting to the end. In . . . and out. Your couple of dozen are my weakening blade, my stabbing knife, just as we’ve discussed. Like the Roman cavalry. You are my extraordinarii.’
‘I am your sword. It will be my honour, Brother. I won’t fail.’
For an instant, I saw there was true friendship between them. I felt Æthelstan’s gaze drift over me as he turned, just long enough to be sure he had recognised me. The old bastard missed nothing, I’ll tell you that. He did not seem pleased to find me at his brother’s elbow, listening and watching all that went on. Still, he said nothing as he returned to his precious cavalry.
‘What are extraordinarii?’ I asked Edmund. ‘It’s not a term I’ve heard before. I thought I knew them all.’
He was watching the formations develop around us and did not turn to me as he answered. The presence of death on the field is a cold focus for those who see it. I was not fully aware of it then, and I’m afraid I chattered like a jaybird.
‘Legion horsemen,’ he said, distracted. ‘Some were équités, the sons of noble houses. The extraordinarii began as scouts. My brother has read his history, like our grandfather before us.’
I blinked a little at the thought that he meant Alfred the Great, translator of the Psalms into English and one or two other achievements.
Edmund turned to me and smiled then, an oddly cold expression.
‘Some Romans used them better than others, but my brother is convinced they can be a terror to men on foot. In normal times, our armies walk to the field of battle. The commanders dismount and draw swords – and we walk forward to settle it with shield and iron. Æthelstan has a different plan for today.’
He patted the neck of his mount as he spoke and I could see sweat dust rising from its mane into the air. I swallowed and felt the wind bite just a little colder in that moment.
I felt a presence at my shoulder and I turned and half-flinched at the sight of Egill on a stallion. The beast’s head seemed at the level of mine, so that it towered over my own mount. Egill grinned at my reaction.
‘I know you. Don’t scream,’ he said in a thick accent, chortling away to himself as if he had taken too many blows to the skull. Dear lord, his skull! I have seen more graceful lines on a prize bull. There was an odour of the dried meat he chewed about him, not completely unpleasant, though I did not like to breathe air so recently in his mouth. I decided not to reply, choosing dignity over the chance of being battered into the ground,
‘Leave him alone, Egill,’ Edmund said. ‘Say what you came to say.’
Egill shrugged, his little eyes gleaming at me as he answered.
‘Your brother says he wants you out on the left wing.’ He pointed, as if we were idiots.
‘My place is on the right!’ Edmund said, immediately.
We both watched Egill shrug again, moving great shoulders that looked more than a little like a hog’s back. Edmund set his jaw, choosing not to object further to the messenger who had not given the order.
‘Tell my brother to look for me on his left,’ Edmund said.
The Icelander turned away before he had finished speaking.
‘Why the left?’ I asked after a time.
‘He seeks to keep me safe,’ Edmund muttered. ‘I love him for it, but I must be seen by the men, in the heart of the fight. I wanted the right wing, where the press will be hardest. I would have been happy with the centre. The left . . .’ At that moment he seemed to remember it was an order from his brother the king and looked uneasily at my bright attention. ‘The left is where I will stand, for the king.’
No sooner had he said the words tha
n his thanes came riding up. They brought some four dozen horsemen in all, bright and excited-looking fellows. Edmund spent some time greeting those who had come at the king’s command, telling them our role and explaining the orders. He did not try to send me away when he moved off, so I went with him, digging my own heels in and wondering if I should ask for a sword. I had never used one, but I fancied a weapon in case I was attacked. There would be something embarrassing about going into battle with just an eating knife, that much was clear. I had already shrieked in front of the king and his petition court. I would not be the monk who merely watched. I set my jaw, suddenly certain that I must not waste this chance.
As we swung out and around the marching lines, I spotted one of the carts lumbering along, with baskets of axes as bright and shining as the day they came from the forge. I angled my horse over and snatched one up as I passed, calling thanks to the owner. I thought he might want payment, but he only grinned up at me.
‘God be with you today, son,’ he called. ‘I have a shield as well if you want one.’
I held out my hand and he rootled in his cart to produce a fine round shield of wood and leather, with a good grip. As I took it, he returned to his mounts and eased back on the reins so that he began to fall behind.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ I said, thinking I was making a joke.
He shook his head.
‘No, mate. My job’s done. Yours is the work that lays ahead now. Kill one for me.’
I stared at him as my horse drew further away, until my neck ached. When I turned back, I had to canter to catch up with Edmund and his extraordinarii, his master horsemen. I swallowed, looking with rather different eyes at the field around me.
The carts had pulled back from the midst of us, forming up in a great camp at the rear. I could see small fires being lit as they prepared food. In all honesty, it was where I should have been, and I considered it for a moment before dismissing the idea. Edmund was the future and I would make that future at his side, with his court. Or I would die in the attempt.
All around me, I saw vast lines in squares. I saw men marching with spears held high, with axes spinning idly in their hands. I saw the king’s cavalry in the centre, fully six hundred horses and his most powerful warriors there. They carried sword and shield, and yet somehow the trained warhorses kept their line.
My own pony had no such training, In one hand, I held a nicely weighted axe that was a comfort. In the other, I gripped my shield, which left no hand for the reins. My mount wandered off to the side as I kneed it forward, trying to lean the way I wanted it to go. It was not particularly dignified. Yet I had greater concerns. The scouts were in, the enemy had been sighted. The shield walls were ready and the wings had formed.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I whispered. ‘Jesus Christ! I am going to war!’
16
We met them where the sea touched the sky on our left hand, south of a vast estuary, close by the river Mærsea, which made the boundary of Mercia and Northumbria. The memory of men will never forget that place and all its horrors.
I saw the enemy shifting like wind through a field of barley, with a noise like distant howling. I remember that well, the sound that grew and grew as we marched. Æthelstan called for a song to drown their voices. We began with a few verses of ‘Fortunes of Men’, before Æthelstan said he found it too solemn, so we gave them ‘Vainglory’, bawling out lines about the proud man, the devil’s son, over and over. On that day, we saw him not as an adversary. We walked with the devil in our hearts. There was certainly no forgiveness for those who had broken oath and brought us to that cold place.
Such thoughts held my attention as my horse wandered and fouled marching ranks, beyond my control. I cannot say why it did not occur to me to drop my shield, or even my axe. In my defence, it was my first battle. I could see the enemy and I was terrified of them. If you had been there, you would have beshit yourself, believe me.
Far ahead, I saw vast walls of coloured shields, the men of Anlaf. They wore Dane helmets of iron that caught sunlight and flashed. They were what I had expected of a battlefield, though the reality was not something I wanted to look upon. They stood together, and even when I looked left and right for reassurance, I could not see how we might ever break so many, how we could push through.
Huge banners fluttered all along their lines, with Anlaf’s strange trefoil dominating the centre field – a sort of three-leafed clover in gold stitching, like the coils of a snake. On one wing facing us were the forces of Constantin of Alba, traitor and oathbreaker. The man’s grandfather and father had been mere chieftains to the Picts, but Constantin wanted more than that. He wanted a crown of gold, as Æthelstan wore. He wanted to rule all Scotland – and whatever else he could win for himself. Only our king and perhaps old age stood in the road against him.
Constantin was over sixty, white-haired as Egill, scrawny as an old crow. He felt the shadow of death and he was determined to go to his grave as a king and not a vassal. If he had not given his oath to Christ to obey Æthelstan, I might even have admired him. As things stood, Constantin was a damned man, still walking the earth – and a fool to take up arms against the high king. The banners of Alba were purple pennants, the heather of the mountains or some such.
The third king of that rough host was Owen of Cumbria, or Strathclyde, or wherever it was he claimed to rule. His men stood as a rabble, shifting and lunging at us. As we drew close, I sensed the sullen violence in them all, visible in jabs of iron and obscene challenge. They were ready for us and unafraid. I knew for the first time what it meant to face such men. To my marrow, I understood I might not leave that place.
Though the day was cold and a sea wind cut across the fields, berserkers capered and lunged before the enemy lines, almost naked, their manhoods flapping about. Most wore skins, with the rotting heads of wolves still attached. One or two wore slimy cloaks of black feathers, the remnant of some dark rite of Woden that made me swallow my own bile. They loped on all fours, those men, the wolfskins they wore still wet with blood. It had spattered them and dried in lines, so that they were marked like birds or wild creatures. They were brown with dead magic as they lunged and snapped at us.
They bore knives in both hands and I have seen men in mail and helmet shrink from them in terror. I have seen one biting into a throat and pulling away flesh in his teeth, ignoring his own death to laugh as another speared him right through.
Still we walked towards them, cracking stiffness out of necks and shoulders, spinning weapons in our hands to learn the weight and range. We were the tide coming in – and there was no stopping us then, no halting us. I felt it in the quickening breath, in the glare of those around me. Walking towards your own ending was hard, and there was always a chance our nerve would fail. We wanted it to begin, so that we could be free.
When we could make out the individual faces of the berserkers, when we were close enough to see the trefoil of Anlaf’s banners waving in the centre, Æthelstan’s harper began to slap his hand on his wooden board. He plucked the strings, but his harp made another sound – as a heart will, if you press your ear to a chest – a fine deep thumping that stirred the blood in the same way. We had no drums with us, but our men took it up even so, drowning him out, battering clubs and swords against wooden, shields until we made a fair thunder.
The forces from Dublin had landed from ships to take our land, to follow oathbreakers. Wessex was far behind then, but we walked on good green ground even so.
A shield wall cannot run and keep its shape. Those in line must advance together, with their long-handled axes ready to strike in great loops. As men fall, they are replaced from behind. I heard Æthelstan’s earls roaring their orders and the formations shifted, strengthening the centre. Æthelstan did not fear the untrained men of Owen or Constantin half as much as he did the shield wall of Anlaf. Or perhaps it was his insult, to show those kings that he feared them less – to make them rash when they needed to be calm.
The men of
Scotland broke free at last of whatever rein had held them. They came on at the run, while we were still two hundred yards away. Some threw spears that vanished in the press of our men. Yet there was no massed attack, no sky made dark with ash and iron as I had feared. I’d read my ancient battles, but this was not the same. We roared them on as they charged, the sound dragged out of us in challenge and fear and sheer anger. The shield wall is made for men to break against.
Even over that short sprint, the lines of Constantin strung out like beads on a thread. They struck our wall piecemeal and our ranks stood firm, cutting them down. For every sword or spear or axe the men of Alba brought to our line, we answered them with three. Still they came, wailing and leaping at us, only to be struck dead, the sounds of life jerked out of them in an instant.
Sweet Jesu, I had not known what an axe could do. I’d felled trees, but had not seen what worked on oak would be so much worse on men. The handle could be swung back and forth in such wide arcs it made a wall. No one could pass and not be struck, and once it had begun, it could be maintained until the strength gave out. I saw men standing in a round of blurring steel, unable to step forward or back. I saw shield lines crash together and axes come chopping down on the heads of those who struggled and heaved. There was more blood shed in each instant than I had seen my whole life before. I had not known men died as easily as that.
The charge is a time of terror and release. Neither side gave way and the rate of killing slowed after the first rush. Men understood they had joined with the enemy and they were still alive. They began to think once more.
That was where King Æthelstan’s trained men took their toll. They had round shields and knew how best to overlap them. They fought with axes that made Anlaf’s Dublin Vikings raise their own shields high to protect their heads. When they did, a serrated spear would lick out from the rank behind, piercing a chest or a sword arm, knocking them back. Even if the spear missed its mark, it created fear. Anlaf’s men did not lack courage. Yet they could not see the blows coming and they hesitated. Still the axes smashed down at them, each blow of such force it broke collarbones and skulls, or whichever arm was held up in fear. It was an ugly business, I will not lie.
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