Jorvik
Page 11
Even in the knowledge of this disaster Sigurd could not help but register a personal note of triumph, and when a disgraced Thorald returned, mangled and war-stained, the boy risked a jibe. ‘Heill, Thorald! Men, do not stand there, drop to your knees for you are in the presence of a great hero – the fastest runner in Cnut’s army!’
Thorald grabbed a dollop of mud from the earthworks and hurled it at his tormentor with great accuracy. ‘I am also a champion mud-slinger! Thank the gods it is not an axe, wretch.’ But still he sought to offer explanation to his comrades. ‘Eadric ran! I had no choice but to follow or be massacred.’ Then he dropped to the ground, too exhausted to care about scoring points over a child.
Sigurd clawed mud from his hair, his teasing not over yet. ‘I’ll wager you regret that you ever threw in with Eadric. Why, he has made you look an utter fool before the King.’
Ulf caught a handful of the boy’s tunic, dragging him away. ‘And you will be a dead fool if you insist on probing Thorald’s wound! If you stopped to think beyond your own personal grievance you would see that there is no cause for laughter. This defeat means we will not be home for a good while yet!’
Indeed, Eadric’s invertibrate handling of the affair served to extend a war that Cnut had deemed already won. The summer and autumn of 1016 were devoured by constant battles with great slaughter on both sides, but Edmund Ironside as he had come to be known, was not to be defeated. After assembling fresh troops he marched on Lunden and lifted the siege, driving the enemy across the Temes and putting them to flight. While he paused to recruit and regroup, Cnut’s men attacked Lunden again, but were unsuccessful and were forced to withdraw northwards into Mercia where they salved their defeat in plunder. For the first time Cnut envisaged failure. More and more men were rallying to the young Englishman’s cause, chasing the viking army into Kent where yet another battle was fought at Ӕgelesburg.
The days became shorter. Rutting stags competed with the noise of battle, the crack of their antlers ringing out like sword on shield. Birds grew restless; Sigurd knew how they felt. As usual he had been left on the sidelines to look after the horses whilst fighting took place. It was not going well; Ironside was worthy of the nickname they gave him and his troops had debilitated much of Cnut’s army. Sigurd wondered if Thorald was amongst the dead, for though he had tried to keep an eye on his foe’s battle tactics he had soon lost him in the mêlée. Edmund’s troops were pressing forward now; Sigurd jumped up and down in alarm while the horses rolled their eyes and danced. Sigurd uttered calming words – and then he saw a group of men break from the fighting and run towards Edmund’s side, Eadric’s standard fluttering alongside a white rag. As the boy watched in disbelief, others followed – and there was Thorald! His unmistakable figure lumbered after Eadric, his company too, all of them deserting their King. The fight collapsed into butchery. With his dead supporters forming a blanket at his feet, Cnut had no option but to retreat with Edmund’s men in pursuit. Valour was displaced by flight. Sigurd, too, ran with hair streaming and feet pounding; he abandoned the horses and ran, ran for his life.
‘Was I not right!’ he yelled when the wave of violence ebbed and the bloody survivors lay panting on the ground. ‘Did I not say to Cnut that Thorald was not to be trusted – but would he listen!’ His relief at finding that Ulf and Eric had slipped through the bloodletting was short-lived. He cursed and chided them as a father might. ‘And you accused me of inventing it all!’
‘Then we most humbly crave your pardon!’ panted Ulf, sweat and blood mingling on his face. ‘Does that still qualify us for the land you promised or do we have to lick your feet?’
Without a word, Eric got up and lumbered away.
Sigurd banged at the ground. ‘Those wretched turncoats, I hope Edmund castrates them!’
But Edmund was loth to waste the gesture, desperate for help from any source. He himself might be a doughty foe but his ill-trained men could not match the Danes on equal terms; their only hope lay in superiority of numbers.
After falling back and resting for a while to collect support, Cnut and his men embarked on another raid, anchoring in an Essex river and destroying all that had evaded them before. On their way back to the ships with their booty, however, they found that Edmund’s army had overtaken them and were now, on this cool October evening, camped on Assandun Hill. Though one and a half miles stood between them, the fluttering banners of the enemy could clearly be seen; their numbers were alarming. Sigurd hung onto Cnut’s every word as the King discussed the position with his generals.
‘Any attempt to run for the ships shall meet with trouble.’ Cnut was tired of battle; his twenty-two years hung more like forty on his weary face. ‘There are but two choices: we can abandon our prizes and the ships and try to escape overland, or…’ He looked into each grim face, ‘we can stay and give battle.’
Another battle! A unified look of fatigue met his words, but the men remained loyal. ‘Whatever your move we are with you, oh lord!’ One of them spoke up for all.
Cnut made his decision. ‘There is a time to run and a time to stand. If I am to die, better to have Edmund’s sword in my breast than in my back. Let every able man follow me up yonder hill. ’Tis higher than theirs, so we can look down on them.’ The eagle gave an encouraging smile.
Not one word of dissent was mumbled as the weary men dragged themselves up the hill at Canewdon. All would follow their King unto death, and none more eager than Sigurd. ‘My lord, I beg you, allow me to fight on the morrow! Have you not said yourself that you need every able man? Give me the chance and I will prove that I am more than able.’
Cnut looked down at the boy. Sigurd was fourteen now; there was blond down upon his cheeks and his arms were sufficiently muscular to use a weapon for a few hours at least. Though reluctant to endanger his young friend, Cnut recognized the desperation and eventually granted Sigurd the chance to prove himself, if only to die. After a pause, he shouted orders to another. ‘Fetch this man a shield and spear!’
Bloated with enthusiasm, Sigurd grasped the shield in his left hand and hefted the thrusting spear with his right. ‘You can depend on me, my lord!’
‘I doubt it not, drengr.’ Cnut nodded kindly as the boy marched off to parade before his friends.
Later, as Sigurd reclined with Ulf and Eric by their campfire, gazing across at that other hillside dotted with the campfires of Edmund’s army, he began to ponder more astutely on tomorrow’s battle. With the darkness came the mystery of death. He experienced a sudden prick of fear in his belly, his limbs and bowels trembled and when his voice emerged it seemed to do so from the opposite end of a tunnel. ‘I wonder at which of those fires Thorald warms his hands.’
Ulf huddled further inside his cloak and stared across at the twinkling fires. ‘So long as he is over there and I am over here I care not.’
‘What if you should meet him on the field tomorrow?’ Sigurd plucked at his leggings, imploring his thudding heart be still.
Ulf groaned. ‘Those are just the words of comfort to grant me a good night’s slumber.’ The thought of another bloodbath made him want to curl up and sleep forever.
‘Nei, the question was a valid one.’ Eric added to the gloom. ‘Any man of us could face Thorald tomorrow.’
Ulf turned. The blackness hid his expression though not the acerbic tone. ‘You talk as if Thorald is our only bane – are you blind to how many other campfires there are? We may never even see Thorald.’
Eric rubbed first a stocky thigh, then a black beard. ‘That is true. If he gets the chance he will stab us in the back before we lay eyes on him.’ It was delivered in cryptic vein but Ulf did not find it amusing. For Sigurd, too, the remark prevented sleep. Over and over in his mind he rehearsed his clash with Thorald. Only once in that rehearsal did the wrong person die; he forbade himself to think of that possibility again.
They breakfasted before the sun had fully risen, with nervous gut and bowel expelling more than was imbibed. There was mu
ch fidgeting, men squatting, stretching, limbering up for battle, windmilling arms, rotating shoulders. Some kneeled pensive, daubing their cheeks with red and blue, some wore vests of mail, whilst others like Ulf and Eric were forced to rely on thick leather jerkins. Sigurd wore no protection but his tunic. He perched upon one leg and gripped his other ankle, hopping and tottering for no reason other than to keep occupied. Eric took hold of him. ‘Just stand you there, boy – no, right there.’ He adjusted Sigurd’s position and crouched behind him. ‘That is excellent, now just keep in front of me as we walk down the hill.’ He pushed his human shield before him until Sigurd recognized the jape and cursed him. There was matching badinage amongst the other men, and loud laughter, but their eyes were like glass.
When they were in position, churchmen toured the line with rood and incantation, stirring fervour in the men who shouted, ‘In Christ! In Christ!’ whilst Sigurd closed his eyes and prayed most zealously, ‘Odin, All-Father, mightiest of warriors, give strength to my spear and pain to my enemies!’
Hard on the heels of the churchmen came the King, splendid in his golden crown, who wound them up into a frenzy until every breast pounded and every mouth bawled, ‘To aaarms!’ Behind his plain wooden shield, Sigurd’s virgin fingers opened and closed upon the leather handle. In his highly charged state he hopped from foot to foot and tapped the shaft of his weapon at the ground. With king’s standard and bishop’s crozier aloft, the men hurled insults across the dewy pastures. The jibes were good-humoured; an innocent ear might never guess that they were about to kill each other. Lower down the line a warrior stepped forth, dropped his breeches and presented his buttocks to the enemy. Keyed for action of any type, Sigurd issued a yelping laugh, dropped his own breeches and jiggled his white behind. Enlivened by the consequent laughter, he repeated the performance. ‘Take care, no-balls, lest arrows fly,’ warned a laconic voice.
Ironside was the first to move, charging on foot down the hill at Assandun towards them. His army was split into three divisions, the centre contingent under his own command, Ulfcytel and the East Angles on his left and Eadric commanding the right flank. The sun was risen and shone a path to glory. Cnut’s army of nobles, farmers, rogues and bishops advanced to meet them in a single line, crucifix replaced by sword. They did not run, for that would be to throw away the benefit of higher ground, but Sigurd found it nigh impossible to hold back. As they plodded down the hill, he uttered in heady breath, ‘You like a wager, Ulf. What will you pay if I am the one to kill Thorald?’
‘You are still in the land of dreams,’ laughed Eric on his right, but it was a nervous laugh.
Ulf gave his reply as they marched, marched, marched forth unto death. ‘If you kill Thorald then not only will I give you my finest brooch, but I will drink your health from his skull – provided he has not already killed me.’ Self-preservation told his feet to walk the other way, but fear of being dubbed a coward pressed him onwards.
Eric stumbled, making his response impatient. ‘I have told you, we will not even see him!’ The advancing army was in range.
‘I will seek him out,’ vowed the boy from behind his shield.
Eric sighed. ‘Then we had better keep close to him,’ he told Ulf – upon which there came the murderous shower of spears and stones and arrows, thudding down upon the panoply of shields and luckless heads. Cnut’s army returned the volley, raised a cheer as foes went down, then pressed on.
Edmund had begun to realize the foolishness of his brave but hasty dash; the ground before Assandun was uneven, causing his division and that of Ulfcytel to advance more rapidly than that of Eadric on the right. The gap between them had widened. Cnut’s eagle eye was quick to see this. He urged his men into a charge. Sigurd tightened his grip on the spear and ran, heard the thunder of enemy feet as thousands hurled themselves towards him, saw the glittering points of lances, saw the hatred on their faces, calling death upon their foe, mouths agape in battle-cry, ten thousand tongues raised in one blood-curdling yell: ‘To arrrrms!’
Nearer, nearer charged Death – but lo! Eadric had halted his own division well to the rear of the others, saw and heard the deafening clash as shield met shield and sword met flesh. Stretched out in a line and finding no troops to their front, the Danish left swung inwards to envelop the unprotected English flank and the good luck that had so marked Cnut’s campaign came to his aid again. Watching in horror, Eadric once more attended the voice of expedience in his ear and led the retreat from the field, leaving Edmund in the lurch.
From the corner of his eye Sigurd saw the mass withdrawal, but was too enmeshed in the fight to wonder whether Thorald was amongst it. The men before him snarled and gaped like rabid dogs. Flesh was rent and ripped and grazed, blood and brains dressed the green English pastures, friend killed friend in error… it was all more terrible than he had ever dreamed. A youth came at him with aimed sword. Balanced on the edge of panic Sigurd jabbed wildly with his spear, keeping the youth at bay but at the same time falling back to safer ranks. The youth was engulfed into the tangle of bodies and fell but not at Sigurd’s hand. A farmer took his place, raised his hand-axe and swung it with great force at Sigurd’s head; he raised his shield, the axeblade thudded into it, cleaving the wood in two and the impetus carrying Sigurd to the ground. Protection gone, he raised his spearpoint in defence, but his attacker, content at having dropped him, turned to seek another target. Sigurd felt pain now. Looking at his breast he saw red but had no time for close examination. In the brawl he was being stamped upon; men tripped over him and fell to their deaths. He dragged himself to his feet, encouraged that he could still do so; the wound was not life-threatening. Invincible of spirit, he relaunched himself into the fray.
They had vouched to fight side by side. Eric was protecting Sigurd’s back, but Ulf had become parted from them. Right arm aching, Ulf hung the shield across his shoulder in order to employ his left. The muscles that wielded the sword with fresh vigour were caked with blood, his face too. His fringe was plastered to his skull, but the eyes below were sharp with concentration. Suddenly an unmistakable figure loomed before him. Ulf’s bowels felt the tremor of impending death as Thorald’s battleaxe swiped again and again at his head. He took a jumping step backwards to avoid the vicious arc of the blade, trod on someone and stumbled. The hairy face laughed and its owner pressed his attack, the flaring twelve-inch blade scything only inches away now, teasing, grazing. Ulf could not right himself, tottered, fell, but continued to jab at Thorald with his sword whilst attempting in vain to rise. Moisture trickled from Sigurd’s fringe into his eyes. As he blinked and sloughed it off a window opened in the howling mass of carnage and he glimpsed his friend’s predicament. Thorald hoisted his long-handled axe to inflict the deathblow but Ulf forbade it with a succession of frantic lunges. Open to injury, Sigurd performed an agile dance through the fracas, gyrating his hips to avoid the crimson blades. Ulf was tiring; his expression told his fate. He was ready to lie down and meet death. Sigurd barged even harder through the crush. He was almost there, Thorald had knocked the weapon from Ulf’s hands, his axe was raised to cut Ulf’s skull in two when Sigurd reached them. The youth’s lips curled back to emit a full-throated roar. Valour, honour, fairplay were the furthest things from the boy’s mind. Vengeance drove the point of his spear beneath Thorald’s raised armpit through a rent in his mail and between his ribs.
It was a far cry from how he had imagined it – how easily the point slithered in, expending hardly any effort at all. Thorald stood impaled with a look of astonishment, but not for long. Ulf, reborn, dragged his own exhausted body from the ground and thrust his sword into Thorald’s throat. The man gurgled and fell dead. Sigurd paused to stare down at him, but was punched into further action by Ulf; to contemplate another’s death might bring about one’s own. The fight raged on for hour after hour after hour. In the dwindling light a pall of steam hung over the once-green pasture, now a bloody morass. Although outflanked and outnumbered, the English endured the com
bat until late in the afternoon when, seeing no other way, Edmund fled with aching heart and the bloodied remnants of his army.
Now there was time to contemplate. The verdant fields groaned with wounded – earls, bishops, peasants, all equal in their plight. Scoured throats drank, deeply grateful, wounds were staunched, tired limbs granted rest, but sleep eluded brains so taut.
Given time to reflect on the killing of Thorald, Sigurd killed him ten times over. He languished beside Ulf, garments stiff with dried sweat, the reek of blood in his nostrils, watching the camp followers perform their dainty trek around the vast array of fallen to attend the wounds, and still his mind refused to cease its butchery.
In time, he looked around for Eric who had wandered off, probably for a pee he decided, and the thought made his own bladder sympathetic. He rose, wincing as the material of his shirt pulled away from his chest-wound, then put a considerate distance between himself and the others before relieving himself. It was whilst he watered the bush that he heard sobbing. Frowning, he completed his task then meandered in and out of the thicket for the source of the woe.
Immediately he saw that it was Eric he jumped back in shock, but not quickly enough, for the racking stopped dead and Eric whirled on him.
‘I came only for a pee!’ Sigurd looked embarrassed and rubbed at his wound.
‘Then piss and be gone!’ Eric’s dirty face bore channels which he quickly dashed away with a hand.
Sigurd ran, and made no mention of this shameful discovery to Ulf who would surely abandon the friendship if he knew of it. When Eric returned later no explanation was given nor was it asked for. It was as if Sigurd had dreamt the entire thing.
When they had recouped their energy, the friends themselves performed a tour, not to tend the wounded but to salvage valuables – weapons, helmets and silver belt buckles, even damaged swords could be bartered for new ones at the weaponsmiths. Sigurd was partial to one with a whalebone handle and also found its sheath which he buckled at his waist. But he was looking for more than these. ‘If Ulf is to keep his promise we must find Thorald’s body. I think it fell somewhere over there.’