Sword of Shame (3 page)

For all that, he was sure that Swein was not from Scandinavia. The man's accent was more Saxon than anything else. Rollo reckoned he was the son of a minor thegn who had embarrassed his master and been forced to flee. Perhaps he had killed a man and
couldn't afford to pay the fine? Whatever the reason, Rollo was simply glad that he was here with him in William of Normandy's host with the other mercenaries. They'd have need of men like Swein if they were going to break the Saxon shield-wall.

He had served in the fyrd himself. Standing in the shield-wall with farmers and peasants, linking shields and grasping their swords or lances. So long as they worked in unison, the enemy would break on them like the tide on an unforgiving shore. And when the moment was right, the shield-wall would begin to shove forward, swords rising and falling to hack at any within range. The line of warriors would stamp forwards, trampling dead and wounded alike, while men behind would stab and slash at the bodies in case a man was feigning death and intended to rise up among the men of the fyrd to cause mayhem.

Yes, the fyrd was strong, and provided that their commander had time to run them through their paces, giving them their commands for even a half day, there was little which could be done to overwhelm them.

That was Rollo's fear: that the fyrd might arrive prepared. The men under Harold were strong and determined, as they should be for they were fighting for their kingdom. But the Normans under William were determined too. They had the sea at their backs, and if they failed, they would die.

 

Bartholomew was exhausted. He was in London with Bishop Leofric, and had been sent to acquire provisions for the household. Many were congregating on London, desperate to hear how the battle had gone in the north where good King Harold was protecting the realm from the devils from over the sea.

The thought that the Norsemen could be ravaging the lands was terrifying. Down in Wessex, the folk had
grown used to peace. The Danes tried to land and ransack towns and churches when they could, and while their attacks had grown rarer, no one could forget the tales of men hacked to death, women raped and discarded to lie beside their dead husbands and children, farms laid waste, priests cut down before their altars…Bartholomew was terrified that all this could come to pass again. Well, if the land was invaded, he would go with the host to protect his land, his people. He wouldn't wait to be slaughtered.

He wanted a sword too. He walked with Dudda to Paul's shop, a pleasant house in West Ceape, the busy road that held so many stalls and shops. Inside there were weapons of all descriptions, all serviceable, and some beautifully made.

‘I have met you,' Bartholomew said when he saw Paul. ‘You bought blades from Exeter.'

‘I seem to recall your face,' Paul admitted cautiously. A merchant should always be wary of those who claimed to remember him–it could be this priest remembered a bargain that went sour.

‘You picked up a marvellous blade there. We saw one like it earlier today,' Bartholomew murmured. ‘One that had a lovely inscription on it.'

‘Oh, of course. Yes, I remember now. That is a magnificent sword, isn't it? It took time and skill to have it mounted.'

Bartholomew studied the swords about the room while the other men argued about the price of the sword. It would be a source of pride to Bran, he felt, were the old smith to know that the sword would be bought and used by his own son.

It was as he haggled over another, cheaper but serviceable sword, that the cry was heard in the streets.

‘The Normans! The Normans have landed!'

 

Two days later, Rollo took a force of thirty men to engage any small groups nearby. They must harry any attempted muster, and send messengers if they found a large force.

It was a cold morning, with a mist lying heavily on the ground ahead of them. At the beach, in the security of their stronghold, Rollo had been easy in his mind, but now, leaving the sturdy fortress behind, he felt the first stirrings of anxiety. Ahead of him somewhere there were men watching him. Perhaps practising their manoeuvres.

He had trained with them: he knew how they'd fight. They'd ride to a muster-point, leaving their horses with boys, and run to a ridge or hillock, forming a line six to ten men deep. At the command all would thrust their shields forward, overlapping each with their neighbour, each of them depending upon his neighbour for protection. On the order they could unlink shields, lift them overhead, turn, and reform with a new wall protecting their rear. When directed, they could begin pacing slowly down the hillside, all the while shouting their battle cries and stabbing forward with spears.

Each of them would feel the courage that came from conviction: they knew that Harold had never failed in battle. He was a tough fighter, and he would die rather than lose his kingdom. Each man would be ready, his shield a reassuring weight on his arm, the sword in his fist heartening. Many of the blades that Rollo would encounter would be ancient. Most of them had been used in other battles, older fights. They had been a father's or grandfather's weapon, used against Vikings or neighbours over decades, and now brought here to Pevensey to slaughter these latest invaders.

Rollo had served Edward in many a line. His strong right arm had battered and slashed at enough men,
and his sword showed its age. It had been his uncle's sword. His father's had gone to his brother, of course, his older brother. That one was twice as old even as this battered lump of metal. Rollo had been forced to have this one re-sheathed three times, and it had been given a new hilt a short while before they embarked for this coast.

A thump at his thigh brought him back to the present. Like the others, he wore a massive kite-shaped shield over his shoulder, so that after an attack, as he wheeled and hared off, his back would be protected. It was essential, but by God's heaven, it was clumsy.

Harnesses squeaked and jingled. At any other time, on another day, the noise would have eased his spirits. The musical sound of thousands of small rings tinkling together from the men's byrnies and mail neck-covers, sounded like ten thousand tiny bells.

A horse snorted. Another shook his head, and there was a curse as his rider dropped his spear. They were leaving the plain before the fortress where the mist lay spread like a blanket. Before them were thick woods, and Rollo, fearing ambush, spurred his mount into a canter to pass through the dangerous area. It was still and quiet even as he rode in among the trees, and he kept a careful eye open to possible danger, but saw nothing until he heard the scream behind him. He had an urge to crouch low and gallop away, but he restrained himself and glanced over his shoulder. And his bowels turned to ice.

On either side archers had launched missiles at the men behind him. Now, as he watched, three of his men toppled and were leapt upon by the enemy, scramasax blades flashing, and he saw a flurry of blood like red snow erupt from a man's throat. He and his men couldn't ride down the attackers, not in among the trees; they must perish. Better that the survivors should be
saved. He roared at his men, drew his sword, and spurred his horse on, ignoring the jeers of the enemy. The wind started to rush in his ears as he pelted along the track, and, when they were almost out of the woods, he looked back and saw that the majority of his force was safe.

There was a flash of light, and the sun breached the clouds. He lifted his reins to lash his horse's flanks again, and then hesitated, feeling a chilly sweat wash over him.

Before him stood a line of byrnie-clad men, at least fifty, all capped with steel and leather, all clutching great round shields, all with the long hair and beards of grown men used to fighting, and all grasping long spears. Even as he set his horse at them, they deployed, and over the howling wind in his ears, the rattle of harnesses and grunts from his hastening steel, he heard the gutteral roar bellowed by the commander. The shields were pushed out, edge on to Rollo, then snapped round so that a row of overlapping circles faced him. Another shout, and he saw the shafts of the spears disappear as they were lowered to point at him, and all he could see now was the deceptively pretty sight of the sun glittering on the spear-points.

There was only a matter of yards to go. He could see no escape: the line blocked his men's path. The only option they had was to fight their way through this small host. He raised his sword and shrieked his defiance, then lowered his head and flung himself and his horse at the shields.

The crash was shocking. Wooden shields shivered with the appalling collision, and he saw grim faces recoil as his horse rammed into them. A man fell back, then down as hooves rose and battered at him. Men stared at opponents, and slashed and stabbed and hacked and thrust, determined to kill before dying. A tall, dark man was in front of him now, a man whose
cap came down over his features and left only his eyes shining at either side of his nose-guard. Fleetingly Rollo caught sight of his great sword, sparkling like a diamond in the sun, but then his mount sprang aside, and he lost sight of him.

He saw Swein at his side, the huge man wielding his axe with broad strokes. The huge axe-head clove through caps and skulls, and about him there was already a mess of limbs and sprawled men, but still the shield-wall held, and then Rollo saw a lance thrust forward and pierce Swein's horse's breast. There was already a stub of lance jutting from the beast's flank, and now he seemed to realize that he was dying. He reared, throwing his hooves in all directions, and tossed his mane, but his eyes were wild not with the rage of battle, but with the terror of encroaching death.

Even as he grew conscious of Swein's mount, Rollo realized that his own was floundering. There was less energy in his movements, and Rollo knew that a spear must have reached his vitals. He waved his sword and roared at the top of his voice to call his men to retreat, to pull back so that they might win space to charge again, but as he shouted, there was a high whistling noise, a fluttering whine that ended in a wet slap, and he saw one of his men fall, grabbing frantically for the arrow's fletching that protruded from his back, rolling on the ground and screaming until his own horse, stamping about the field, crushed his head.

The archers were back–there was no escape that way. Rollo knew his horse was soon to die. He kicked his feet from the stirrups, and managed to leap from the saddle just before the brute collapsed, crushing a section of the wall as he fell.

It was the opening he had needed. Hoarsely bellowing to his men, Rollo gripped his sword in both hands and sprang forward. He felt, rather than saw, Swein run to
his side, and he knew that two more of his men were behind him. Forming a compact group, they met shoulder to shoulder, heavy shields protecting their flanks as they stamped their way in among their enemies. The enemy withdrew, and suddenly Rollo knew that the decisive moment had arrived. He saw a glint, and into his mind flashed the memory of the man in the midst of the line, the warrior with the dark hair under his Saxon helm. With a weapon like his, he must be the leader.

‘With me!' he shouted, and threw aside his shield. Instead he grabbed a small, circular wooden shield that lay on the ground near its dead owner. The shield was covered in fresh skin which had dried on the wood, forming a solid, strong, but light protection. There was a bronze boss in the centre, and now he used that to ram at the men who stood in his path. A lance came near, and he knocked it away, running his blade down the length of the shaft. He saw fingers fly off, a shriek, and the pole dropped, the man falling back among the press. Another man thrust at him from his side, but Rollo blocked the stab and slammed the boss into his face, feeling bones crunch; he punched his sword into the man's belly and ripped it aside. He shoved another from his path, swept his sword across, the point lifted. The blade ripped through the man's throat; there was a gush of blood, bubbles, horror in the man's eyes, and then…then he was before the commander.

It took no thought. The man appeared, and Rollo instantly crossed to meet him. The others were with him, he knew that. From the corner of his eye he saw Swein's axe part an arm from a torso, saw a second man approach, and saw the axe whirl into his stomach. It sliced through his cheap shirt of mail, and his entrails were spilled.

Then Rollo was on him.

 

Dudda had been shocked by the sudden appearance of the cavalry force. He and his men had only arrived last night, tired and footsore from the march, and he had counted on drilling them before a fight. These madmen had arrived before he'd been able to put them through their most basic paces, and now his men were pressed hard. Bartholomew was somewhere near. He only hoped his friend wasn't dead.

The captain was plain enough, sitting up there on his horse. Terrifying in his metal clothing, so high above everyone else. None of the men, including Dudda, had seen men riding horses into battle. Men rode
to
war, yes, but they left their mounts safe behind the battle lines. These men pelted towards their enemy like demons on their chargers.

Dudda raised his sword, the blade tapping the front of his helmet, and he closed his eyes, uttering a short prayer on the cross for victory. His sword's blade gleamed, and he was reminded of that day, many years ago, when he had sat with his father and helped sharpen and polish a blade which his father said was the best he had ever made. He had said, what? ‘When a man holds this blade in his hand, he shall be invincible!'

It was enough to make him smile to himself. This sword made him
feel
invincible. Bartholomew said he was sure it was that same sword, his father's best creation. It felt it, certainly. Today, here, he would test it.

Dudda saw the mad captain of his enemies approaching, and lowered his sword, hefting his shield. He was thegn, and no foreign murderers would take these lands from his people again. No more rapes, no more slaughters.