The Abbot's Tale

by Conn Iggulden

  My own part in it was hampered by my horse, whom I had named Scoundrel for his disobedience. He had not been trained to remain calm while screaming men ran at him. Nor had his rider, in fact, which meant there were some moments I still recall in nightmares. I gripped my shield so tightly my hand went numb and white. For a time, I did not even mind that my horse wandered at will through our lines, so that men cursed me as they were hampered in their advance and told me to get fucked. I could only call an apology and then, in a moment, I was glad I had not cast the little shield away.

  I saw a grey blur as one of the berserkers broke through. With no warning, he was suddenly there and leaping at me. They had cut him, of course. He ran with bright blood on him and his ribs showed white from some terrible gash. Yet he was light and fast in comparison to men in mail and helmets – it was one of the things that scared those who came up against them. With only iron knives in his hands, he’d been able to grab the edge of a shield and pull it towards himself, making a gap to slip through. I saw it done a dozen times, until I began to wonder at the tactics of men who claimed to be savage wolves. Wolves do not open doors.

  It was not a true weakness of the shield wall. Very few of those who rushed up and heaved an opening for themselves managed it without being speared or gashed, or spilling their brains all over our men. They spattered blood and shrieked like foxes, or children dying. It was a sound I do not want to ever hear again. Men who would have held that line all day against Irish axemen flinched from the wolves, unwilling to be touched by their magic.

  Mine was dying as he reached me, I am sure. He had to have been fading, with the wounds he had taken. Yet he showed no sign of pain or death coming at him. He went for me as the only mounted man in the group. Perhaps he took me for one of the lords and not just a monk who could not control his horse and so was out of place.

  I swung my axe – and I missed with the head and edge of it, or rather he came at me so fast that he passed under my blow. The handle rapped him over the shoulders and then he was clawing at me with bloody knives and I was crying out in panic, beset by a wild animal, gnashing broken teeth and spitting blood at me.

  One of the men nearby reached up and took hold of him by the wolfskin, giving a great heave. No doubt he meant to yank the man down to where he could be trampled or speared. Instead, the thongs holding the skin snapped and it came away in one piece, leaving him completely naked. I cried out in terror, but something changed in my attacker as he felt the skin peeled away.

  He looked dazed, suddenly unsure. His hair was thick with blood and I flinched from drops that touched me as he wagged his head back and forth, but the fire had gone.

  I struck again with the axe and you may be sure I did not miss a second time. I took a grip near the head of the thing, so that it was more like a hatchet. I spread his face for him with three fast blows, then kicked as he went limp, so that he fell backwards. I nodded to the man holding the wolfskin in astonishment and he grinned at me.

  ‘Do you want it?’ he said, holding the thing up in all its rotting glory.

  ‘It’s yours. You took it to save me. Thank you.’

  He seemed delighted by that. His marching rank had not yet come to the front, though it was mere yards away by then. The fighting was a great clash of noise and grunts and iron, and it was hard to stand so close and not be touched by it somehow, like a furnace. The death of one of the feared berserkers had cheered all those around me, I found.

  I carried my axe with more confidence, keeping my grip close to the iron head as my horse turned with no command from me and began to walk away. The reins had fallen loose and I could not have turned back to save my life then.

  On the left of the field, Edmund used his horsemen like a dagger thrust, punching into a mailed side, bleeding them hard, as he had promised. He spared neither horse nor man and I craned to see him ride. I wondered if I dared risk standing or kneeling on my saddle, but decided I did not.

  I knew by then that we were badly outnumbered. There must have been eighty ships at anchor and as many boats beached on that shore, as far as the eye could see. This was no mere raid. Anlaf had brought men to meet Æthelstan’s armies and to take his kingdom.

  The wing facing us was at least eight thousand strong. Perhaps ten thousand. It is always a guess on the battlefield, if an enemy is not kind enough to halt in neat squares, each of a certain number, while those who wish him dead walk along with tally squares and chalk. When the sea is shifting, no one can count the waves.

  Half our left wing had been drawn into the centre against Anlaf, or taken off to face the Scots. Æthelstan still sat with his six hundred horsemen in the centre, watching the battle unfold. I do not think he had even drawn his sword, but whenever I looked, he was there, pointing and giving orders, sending men away to pass them on.

  Edmund took command of the left from whoever had given orders before. His banners rose and held position in the middle of the wing, while others were brought down, rolled up and taken to the rear. Some earl or noble captain had suffered a public humiliation, it looked like. I heard men cheering the king’s brother as he greeted them.

  Edmund’s thanes were still ahorse, marked with blood and flushed with triumph. I saw the thickset figure of his man Leofa of Kent riding hard, kicking his poor mount for all he was worth. No lover of horses, he! The man rode as if he was made of rage and violence, lost in his element. The other thanes could be seen above the heads of the shield lines, wheeling and cantering, trying to be everywhere at once, all red-faced with shouting orders and sharp gestures.

  On that side of the battle, they were calling the pace of the advance, counting off each step, so that the men knew when to strike and when to hold. It lent an urgency to the line, so that no one wanted to be left behind or found wanting. The men at the front chopped and roared as they took each long pace, daring the forces of King Owen to come and take it back.

  I saw my horse liked the clamour of iron and screaming men no more than I did myself. It was beginning to turn across the field once more when I cursed and threw away my shield at last, taking up the reins in a foul temper. Even then, the stubborn animal was unwilling. It became a test of strength between us. I heaved at his bit to turn his head, but in response he snorted and bucked, almost throwing me.

  ‘There will be no more wandering the battlefield like some old ghost, you filthy bag of bones!’ I shouted at it. ‘Turn to face your enemy, you ill-bred bastard. Or I will kill you myself and walk!’

  I was ranting at the horse as it broke into a wild trot and then a canter, straight at the fighting. Dozens of Wessex men turned at the noise of hooves clopping up behind, fearing some rear attack of an enemy. When they saw me bouncing and flapping along with one stirrup flying loose, it was probably a relief to them. Many of them gestured crudely, but I think it was meant in fun.

  I would not drop my axe, but I managed to get both hands on the reins and heaved back almost hard enough to turn us over, so that the horse was forced to look straight up at the sky. It decided it could not run under that restraint and so stopped at last. The battle line was all around me and Edmund himself was there, looking on in astonishment not a dozen yards away.

  The horse had pushed right through to the enemy in its panic. Even then, I could sense the beast was ready to bolt at any instant, so I laid about me with my axe, putting on the best show I could. I struck one sod as he gaped at the sight of a horse suddenly appearing in front of him. He was black-haired and had some sort of boil or canker on his gum, so that half his face was distended. I can see him now, as he fell.

  A second bearded fellow tried to strike the horse with a mailed glove, making Scoundrel rear and spin. As I fought to stay in the saddle, I kicked out in a fury and missed. Yet the horse struck him with its flank as he jerked around. The press was too great to avoid the horse, with Scoundrel strong enough and heavy enough to shove men aside no matter how they braced against him. The man vanished from sight under the stamping hooves with a cry
of horror.

  Someone else crashed against us and that was too much for my horse. I was off again, reins and stirrups flapping, the animal whinnying and snorting and as mindless as the wolf berserkers on the other side of the battlefield.

  Æthelstan’s forces left aisles between their thousands, so that there were clear roads for orders – or for a horse gone mad to gallop down. I did not have the skill or the patience to stop him and we looped out from the battle, going as if the fallen angel and enemy of mankind himself was on our heels, as perhaps he was.

  I quieted Scoundrel at last when we were a mile or so clear, then tied him to a gatepost. I walked back with my axe twirling in my right hand, getting used to it. Perhaps my blood had been raised by that wild ride, or by those who had come at me. I had been challenged, in the oldest way a man can be challenged. I wanted to hit back – and to be seen by Æthelstan and Edmund. I understand better now why kings must stand on the battlefield. Just being there to witness the deeds of their warriors makes those men fight all the harder. A king is worth a thousand, I think, perhaps even more.

  I passed along the messenger lines, ignoring the stares of warriors who had not yet fought that day. There was a little blood on me and I spun my axe as I walked, knowing I must have made a fine sight in my Benedictine robe. Perhaps I had run a little mad myself for a while, like my horse before me. Battle will do that to a young man. I felt no pains, no aches. I was sixteen and strong. That day is bright with colour still.

  The sun had passed the noon point by the time I returned to the fray. Thousands who had begun that morning in hope and health lay cooling, staring at nothing. I do not believe there has ever been such a slaughter on a single day, nor will we ever see its like again. Most battles are fought as a test of strength. When one side is overmatched, they withdraw in good order, the issue settled for a generation. The field of Brunanburh by the Mærsea was rather different.

  Æthelstan bore a grudge against those who had broken oath – and still stood in arms against him. Neither he nor Edmund could forgive such men, so they were determined to leave them all as chop-bone rags. The stakes could not have been higher, nor more personal. I believe Æthelstan cried out in triumph when the banners of Constantin’s son fell, raising both arms to the air to roar at them.

  Constantin himself was borne away from the battlefield after that, ruined by grief and clawing to reach his son’s body. I imagine the old king’s guard were pleased enough to leave that field by then. It was not going well for them.

  Though Constantin and King Owen of Cumbria had brought thousands of swords and men to wield them, the heart of Brunanburh was always the forces of Anlaf. Those Viking and Dublin men were the sort who had taken half of England in the past. Anlaf himself was a cunning man, no fool on the battlefield, or off it. No doubt he was the one who had whispered into Scottish ears that Constantin and Owen could be kings of the north. He’d promised much to them – and they had bolstered his forces to the point where he could challenge the high king of all Britain.

  When the Scots had been driven into the ground or from the field, when King Owen of Cumbria, who called himself Owen Caesarius, had been cut down and dismembered, Anlaf of Dublin remained in the centre, facing us over a quarter-mile of murder and destruction. I arrived as King Æthelstan gave new orders – and I could not follow because I had no horse.

  I could only stare in awe as six hundred riders eased across the field through their own squares and banners. The wyvern of Wessex rode high above them all. Anlaf’s men gave a great growl of anticipation, knowing the man they had come to kill was on the move.

  Æthelstan rode at the heart of that group on a black horse that stood like Bucephalus, as great an animal as ever lived. I saw the high king draw his sword and lower it as they reached the far edge of the battlefield and turned to the enemy, moving to a canter and then a great thundering gallop. I swallowed drily at the sight and sound of them, the shaking of the ground. Those horses moved like the wind and I had already seen what just one could do against men. I crossed myself. A thousand others did the same. The fighting almost died away across the front as men panted and watched the high king move against his enemy.

  Most of Æthelstan’s horsemen held spears in their hands, with two or three more ready to throw. Some of the larger men swung axes or swords, but the weapon was in their speed and their weight. Impact combines those two aspects, multiplies them so that a hammer swung hard can break anything. Give me a hammer and a place to stand – and I will break the world.

  The king’s charge gave a great groan as they closed on the enemy, a low note that rose quickly to a howl. I wanted to be with them and I cursed my horse once more for making me miss the greatest moment I had ever witnessed.

  My foot slipped on a shield lying loose and I took it up, pleased with the weight of it on my left arm. As I did so, there was a crash to shake heaven, and Æthelstan’s horsemen rode into the flank of Anlaf’s forces at full gallop. From where I stood, I could see only dust rising and hear the great cry of fear and outrage from the enemy. Yet I found myself trotting forward with thousands more as the shield lines ahead began to fail and break.

  Anlaf’s men wanted to see what was happening to their flank. They died as they turned, so that our men walked over them, grunting and chopping with new vigour. I heard men laugh and one poor bastard was sobbing, though he had no wound on him.

  I pressed in with the rest, and for a time I forgot my vocation and my vows. I can hardly describe the freedom of it. Not all killing is proscribed, but I had suffered suspicion and threats before when death was close to my hand. On that field, it was expected, desired. To win, we had to kill as many as we could. I revelled in it as Anlaf’s centre collapsed.

  I do not recall how many fell to me as I stalked amongst them. My presence was marked, of course. It did not go unnoticed that a Benedictine was among the line of axemen. For years, I had to deny any knowledge when I was asked about it. Yet on that day, I was proud to stand there, with my king.

  Anlaf made it back to the coast, more is the pity. Not one tenth of the men he had brought were as lucky. They had come in a great fleet, landing boats on the shingle all along that coast. They needed only a few to hold the number who returned.

  Æthelstan burned the boats they left behind. I think he wanted Anlaf to see the flames as darkness came, lighting the sky behind him. I imagine they could see the glow of it in Dublin, just about.

  Five small kings died that day and some half a dozen earls. Æthelstan had lost much, but he’d gained peace and reminded all those who might rebel that we were strong. Constantin went into a monastery, made useless by grief, though he deserved it all and more. The throne of Scotland went to some cousin of his. Owen was taken home in pieces by a few of his servants and buried somewhere in the vastnesses of Cumbria.

  Anlaf, of course, we would see again. He licked his wounds for a while, but still dreamed of coming back. He had learned he could not face Æthelstan, but no man lives for ever, not even a king. Especially a king.

  17

  When we returned to Winchester, I made it my concern to learn more of the wolf and crow men I’d seen on the battlefield of Brunanburh. I could not quite forget the way that young man’s face had changed when his wolfskin cloak had been taken from him. It was as if he’d woken from sleep and had barely time to blink and look around in wonder before I’d smashed the life out of him. He came to me in dreams for some months after that, sometimes to claw at me and smear me with blood, but as often as not, just to speak and tell me of his life. In part, my new field of study was to protect myself against those visions. They were not an aid to restful sleep.

  Æthelstan and his brother Edmund enjoyed that summer. Not only had they fought and won, but there were no other contenders for the throne of Britain then, not one. It would be a long time before Anlaf had the strength and gold to find more men.

  Great feasts were held and Edmund made sure I had a place at them. Æthelstan had neither
seen nor heard of my courage, more was the pity. Yet a battle of just a single day creates thousands of stories: moments of courage and shame, turnarounds, vengeances by the dozen, desperate escapes and wild luck of all kinds. War is the great engine of storytelling, from the Latin ingenium for ‘device’, keeping bards in wine and silver by the thousand.

  On every holy day and celebration for months, Æthelstan would summon men of high estate and low to the front, when ale and wine had flowed as rivers and all stomachs were full. Whether they were earls, churls or thralls, if they had a story, up they went. They described parts of the day I had not seen, nor even known about.

  From the king’s bard, I heard that Constantin’s son had called for Æthelstan’s champion to face him – and that Egill had crossed half the battlefield to answer that challenge. I laughed with the rest as the bard showed us the changes in expression as the enemy watched Egill get bigger and bigger before him.

  I heard too how Edmund had dismissed a senior thane on the left wing, asserting his authority over him. That man had left the battlefield and had been found hanging from a tree, dead by his own hand. Edmund told that as a sombre moment, but I knew from more private conversation that the fool had frozen on the battlefield, giving no orders for great stretches while our warriors were killed. Some men break, is all.

  I heard about the king’s great charge from many voices. They smiled as they spoke and looked to Æthelstan in shared memory and pride. I could see they would never forget that day. Eyes gleamed in the telling – and it was not grief, or even triumph, but just echoes of strong emotion, of having lived through it.