Chapter Twenty Nine
Eadric Streona said, “My lord, we should get back to London before the winter comes.”
Edmund said, “We are beating them here.” He was sitting on the wall at the end of the village, watching as the people and his soldiers carried out everything the Vikings could use. The village had been full of its harvest, and this was taking longer than he wished. Knut was less than half a day behind him to the north. The battle on the causeway had bled him but not stopped him. Edmund had underestimated him; he had expected to smash him on the causeway and break his army in half, to finish off the pieces one at a time. Now he was hoping to starve him to death.
Godwine came up to him. “My lord, I think the place is stripped.”
“Good,” Edmund said, and slid down from the wall.
Streona said, in a stout, resigned voice, “Then, my lord, I ask your leave to go back to London myself.”
Edmund swiveled toward him. “I refuse it. Go back to your men and get them ready to follow me.”
“My lord—”
Edmund stared at him. Streona had grown his hair long, like a Saxon, but he was still clean shaven, and his face was pinched with lines. His gaze shifted away from Edmund’s. He was sweating in spite of the cold. Edmund knew if he sent him back, Streona would make trouble for him. If he kept him here, probably Streona would make trouble for him. Edmund said, “My lord, go back to your men and get them ready to move out.”
Streona faced him a moment, his mouth working. He blinked a few times. Abruptly he turned and walked away. Godwine came up, and he and Edmund watched him go down the street toward his men.
Edmund said, “He does not know what to do. He has never given his faith to anything, and so now he has no guide.”
Godwine said, “Oh, you’ll make heroes of us all eventually, Edmund.”
“I will make you Englishmen,” Edmund said. “I don’t know about him.” He led the way on down to their horses.
* * *
Godwine rode beside Edmund, silent, the banner staff in his hand. His blood was full of a wild singing. They had nearly won back there. For a while, at least, they had been beating the Vikings. When he charged them, they had fallen. He had struck down many of them.
He realized he had thought, somehow, they were made of tougher flesh than his, that if he hit them, they would not die. But they had died under his blade. He felt like an angel, invincible.
He had led the charge with his carls. He claimed this now as a right, because he was Edmund’s first warrior, his standard-bearer. He remembered the attack like a pattern on his skin, his horse flying up the road, his arm cocking back his sword. When he saw the Vikings there, coming up through the trees, he let out a yell that still sang somewhere in his heart. He and his carls had plowed into the first few men there and threshed them like wheat under their horses’ hoofs.
In among the trees, the Danes had slowed them. Godwine had hacked and chopped down at them, cut his way forward. But more Danes rushed up from the causeway, and the fyrdmen, behind him, were slow to come on. Then Edmund’s trumpet had called them back.
Now, as they rode along, Edmund said, “You heard Streona?”
Godwine glanced at him. “He wants to go back to London.” Streona had been noising this around for two days. He had many of the fyrdmen itchy with it.
“We need to force a battle.”
“That won’t be hard,” Godwine said. “He’s coming.” He wanted another chance at the Vikings. “We need to get all our numbers to bear at once, Edmund. All the carls in the front.”
“Yes,” Edmund said. “The problem is to choose the ground. Find me somebody who knows this part of the road well.”
Godwine nudged his horse into a jog up past the marching army, the blue banner fluttering over his head. He watched them as he went. They were trudging along, even the mounted men, their heads down. Some of them were wounded. Uneasy, he wondered how much more they had in them – if they had another battle in them.
Then as Godwine passed, the banner drew their eyes, someone shouted out his name, and he saluted him. He called, “For Edmund and for England!” and a cheer rose. They cheered the banner. Then someone else began to sing. Gradually other voices picked it up.
Heigh ho, heigh ho
Off to war a man must go
Until it cease
There is no peace
Heigh ho, heigh ho
The singing made them walk faster. He saw their heads come up. He thought, They are good men, these, all good men. His spirits rose.
Asking around, he found someone who knew this stretch of the old road and took him back to Edmund. This was a man on foot, in a ragged coat and baggy leggings, carrying a staff in his hand and a short sword in his belt. When he saw Edmund, he gabbled like a goose, bobbing up and down.
Edmund dismounted. “That’s enough. Face me, I have questions of you.”
The man clung to his staff with both hands, as if he needed it to stand up. “Ask me, my King.”
“What lies ahead of us, on this road? More bogs?”
“No, my lord.” The fyrdman began to bob down again, and Edmund got his shoulder and straightened him. “Mostly it’s just forest, sir. And then there’s a village, sir, a couple days on, maybe, at the Cambridge crossroads.”
“How big a village?”
“A good size, sir. Eight, ten families, sir.”
Edmund nodded to him. “You go with Godwine here and tell the people there they have to leave. We’re going to fight there.” His eyes swiveled to Godwine. “You know what to do.”
“Yes,” Godwine said. “I will.”
* * *
Thurbrand scrubbed his tangled beard with one hand. He had his horse by the reins. “There’s another old road, east of here. Cambridge is out there somewhere.”
Knut stood with him by the well, looking around the deserted village. He had hoped to find food here, but Edmund had already been here and cleaned it out. The Danes were poking into every house and coming out empty-handed. Ulf came up to him.
“There’s nothing here. Nothing. They’re talking about killing horses to eat.”
Knut said, “Kill horses, then. I’m walking.” He turned to Thurbrand. “Why should I listen to you?”
The half Dane scowled at him. His cheeks were red as his bristly hair. “I know what I’m talking about. There’s another road, out to the east. There’s even a cute way to get to it.”
Knut walked around, his hands on his hips and his head down, thinking. If there was another road, Edmund was unlikely to have cleaned out any farms or villages on that one too. And it had cost Edmund time to do this; he could not be far ahead. He circled around to Thurbrand again.
“How long a ride?” He turned and sent a man for Odd, who came over.
Thurbrand said, “If I can find the way, half a day, maybe.”
“If you can find the way.”
“I can find it.”
Knut balanced this in his mind for a moment; he did not like Thurbrand, but he liked the idea of the other road.
He turned to Odd. “Take your men, and Thurbrand take yours. Go find this Cambridge road. Go south a day, as fast as you can, pick up anything you find, and cut back to this road again. The day after tomorrow, sundown, be back on this road. Then come north.”
Odd said, “I didn’t want to eat my horse anyway.” He turned and whistled up his men. Knut went down through the village. The rest of the army, smaller, might be easier to feed. At the end of the village he stood looking into the darkening forest.
He turned. “Camp here. I’ll eat horsemeat.” He saw Ulf, behind him, his cousin’s speculative, pale eyes above his bemused smile.
“Still no women,” Ulf said.
Knut batted Ulf on the chest. “Keep it in your drawers. Get some sentries out.”
* * *
Even the oaks now were turning, their leaves glowing in the naked branches of the lesser trees. The day was breaking, and the first light sprea
d through the squat trunks in rays and streamers. Godwine hurried the last of the villagers south down the road, three old men and a woman, carrying packs. He had promised them they had only to go into the woods, that they could come back in a few days, but they did not believe him. They couldn’t stay, whatever they believed, and they were running as they left.
He jogged his horse back up the common. Most of the houses were built against the south foot of the little hill, under its crown of ash trees. The road ran across the west edge of the common, meadows on the far side. The crossroads was a quarter mile on.
On either side of him, in among the houses, were Edmund’s fyrdmen on the one hand, and Streona’s Mercians on the other, the two sides of the trap. Godwine wondered if the Vikings would walk into the same setup twice. He wondered what else they could do, especially if the trap was well baited.
He was the bait. Along the old road Godwine’s own men were gathered, the carls who had followed him and Edmund from Lincoln long ago, the first and best of the English army. He dismounted from his horse and walked along, looking from face to face – common, battered men, tired, dirty.
He said, “The King wants this of us. So we do it.”
“We do it,” they said, in one voice, and swung in around him. He mounted up and led them north. He pulled his cloak around him. The sun was rising, but it was still cold. After they had cleared the village he spread his men out in a single rank, edging into the forest, and they moved on north along the road.
He had left the banner behind; he missed carrying it. He was thinking again he should get a mail coat like Edmund’s when ahead of him something moved fast across the road.
He shouted, calling his men together, and plunged forward. The road here dipped, and as he slowed his horse on the descent five Danes sprang on him from either side.
He hauled the horse back on its hocks, his sword in his hand, hacked once on his right and then wheeled, striking on his left. Somebody whistled. His men swarmed on the Danes, driving them back along the road, and then from the north there was an answering whistle.
Godwine shouted. The four remaining Danes were backing fast up the road; he called his men off and gathered them.
For a moment they were alone on the road. The full light of day was blooming through the oak trees to the east, golden on the mast and leaves that covered the ground, barred with the shadows of the trees. Then up the slope and through the shadows and down the road between them a tide of Danes rushed on him.
Godwine raised his arm with his sword and led his men in one short charge toward them. The Danes turned toward him, coming on three sides, and he turned.
“Back! Back—”
For an instant he held his horse short, making sure all his men were in front of him. “Back—” They rushed off down the road south again, as if they were retreating. The Vikings were almost all on foot; Godwine slowed again, making sure he did not outrun them. They were streaming down the road after him, spilling off into the forest. His men were running at full stride back into the village, yelling. Godwine galloped down the road to the edge of the houses.
The hill still blocked the sunlight. His men were scattering into the empty houses. Godwine swiveled his horse to look up the road. The Danes had slowed, or stopped. Up the shadowy road nothing moved, the long, blank, straight gash through the woods empty. He had failed. The bait had failed. The sun broke over the top of the hill and spread across the road and the woods, and then, almost in the corners of his eyes, he saw, all around him, men creeping in through the forest.
A whistle sounded. Godwine spun his horse around, shouting a warning, and from either side of the road the Vikings attacked.
He backed up fast into the village and bounded off his horse. Easier to fight on foot here. His men were waiting, packed onto the common, shoulder to shoulder, each guarding the other. Down into the village the Danes roared like a wave.
Godwine raised his sword in both hands; the first lines of the Danes rushed down on him, and he stood square against them, hacking broadly from right to left. His men were screaming and fighting around him, so close they banged together. He bellowed, “Back! Back!” All at once, as they had planned, they backed up into the common.
The Danes shrieked and pressed after them. Godwine flung up his sword to fend off an axe, and then stood toe-to-toe a moment, trading blows. His men were falling back still. Suddenly there were Danes all around him; he leaped and whirled and hacked the sword desperately to fight them off.
A trumpet blasted, Edmund’s trumpet, and out of the houses below the hill the rest of the English army poured, taking the Vikings without warning from the side.
The man in front of Godwine jerked toward the sound, and Godwine stabbed in finally past his elbow, deep into his chest. He dodged another blow, turned on his heels, and cut back, feeling the blade slide into flesh. He roared. On either side now were English, and he had to run forward to find a Dane to fight.
The Vikings were swarming up the road again, trying to get out of the trap. Godwine strode after them; the strength surged through his arms as if the earth itself fought through him. A bushy-bearded man stood against him, and he hacked him down. They were thrusting the Vikings back. They were winning. The hot triumph forced a yell out of him.
“Edmund! Edmund and England!”
Around him the other Saxons bellowed. He battered down another Dane who dared stand against him. The forest loomed around him; he was north of the village. The Vikings packed the road ahead of him from trees to trees. He called on the English behind him to charge. One charge to break them. He called again. No one charged. Behind him, someone cried, “Watch out!”
He realized he could hear men fighting behind him. There were Danes behind him too.
In front of him suddenly an axeman rushed at him. He fended off two strokes, and then knocked the Dane flat, rushing toward the nearest of the houses.
From the shelter of the wall he looked quickly around. There was no Danish side, no English side, just hundreds of men fighting hand to hand all through the common, in and out of the houses. The Danes somehow had come in from the south too. They had set their own trap. Another Viking rushed at him, glanced a stroke off his sword, and ran on down the alley between the houses. Suddenly two of Godwine’s carls ran up to him.
“My lord – My lord-—”
“Come with me!”
He led them farther into the village, looking for Edmund. They had to gather, to make a strong point, so they could fight together. More of his carls saw him and followed.
Between two of the houses he and his men came suddenly on a band of Danes, their leader a short, ugly man with wooly red hair. They stood a moment trading blows, but Godwine had more men, and the redheaded man abruptly rushed off. Ahead was the common, and Godwine strode out across it. His men scattered behind him into separate fights. His sword in both hands, he turned in a circle, trying to make sense of this. Men ran past him, screaming, Danes and English. A horn was blowing, somewhere, over and over.
He lifted his head, and on the hillside above him he saw the blue banner. He shouted his men together again and struggled up the hill. That was Edmund. He gave a glad cry. Edmund, with his banner, calling his men together. Godwine staggered toward him, the steep slope slippery with the long-fingered ash leaves.
Edmund stood square, watching the fighting before him, his face gleaming with sweat, the banner staff in one hand and his horn in the other. With Godwine only steps below him, Eadric Streona came running at him from one side.
“My lord!” Streona cried. “Yield! Yield!”
Edmund hardly looked at him. “I’ll never yield.” Somebody shouted, “They’re coming!”
Godwine wheeled. Pushing, shouting encouragement and threats, he got his men into a wall before the King, facing the Danes. A long wavering rank of Vikings was scrambling up the hill toward them. Godwine hewed away at the first, dodged a flailing axe, and knocked the man behind it backward.
Then, up t
he hill, he heard a savage cry.
He jerked his head around. Streona was leaping on Edmund from behind. In his hand a long blade stabbed in through the open underarm of the mail coat.
Godwine shrieked. Edmund staggered, went to his knees. The banner fell to the ground by him. Above him on the slope Streona was screaming, “The King is dead! The King is dead! Escape – flee—” Godwine ran to Edmund, who was wobbling, upright on his knees, blood running down his side.
Godwine clutched Edmund by the arm. With that help the King pulled himself up onto his feet again. The blood was soaking out of his side. He shoved his left hand against the wound and held it. “I’m here—” It took all his breath to say that.
Godwine turned, and shouted, “The King lives! The King lives!” The men around him closed tight around him, their backs to him, a Saxon wall. He wrapped one arm around Edmund and half lifted him backward, step-by-step up the hill behind them. Another man turned and gripped Edmund from the far side. “Here, help me,” Godwine said. “Take him up the hill.” They hurried up the slope, their feet skidding on the loose ground, the King between them, his feet dragging.
They reached the high ground, and Edmund steadied. He was still clutching the wound closed with one hand; but he stood by himself. Godwine turned, looking down.
They were near the top of the hill, a knot of Englishmen all around them, five men thick. The long slope stretched down, and at its foot the Danes were gathering. As he watched, they circled the whole hill. There were far more of them now than the English. Their heads tipped up, their looks turned on one place, on Edmund, and he thought he saw their eyes glow hot.
Godwine gripped his sword. He thought all his life came down to this moment, when he stood beside his King, about to die with him. Then one of the men in front of him turned and held out the blue banner to him, coiled on its staff.
Kings of the North Page 35
