Warriors of the Storm (31 page)

‘The river bends ahead,’ Finan told me. ‘We have to cross it, but there’s a ford. And on the other bank there’s a fort.’ He was right. The place he had found was as good as I could have hoped for, a place made for defence, a place made, once again, by the Romans and, like Alencestre where Eardwulf had trapped us, a place where two rivers met. Both rivers were too deep for men to cross on foot, and between them was a square Roman earthwork that stood atop higher ground. The only approach was from the ford to the north, from the direction we had come, which meant Ragnall would be forced to march around the fort and cross the ford, and that would take time, time for a Mercian army to come and save us. And if no Mercian army came then we had a fort to defend and a wall on which to kill our enemies.

It was almost dusk when we filed our horses through the fort’s northern entrance. That entrance had no gate, it was just a track through the remains of the earthwork which, like the old walls around Eads Byrig, had decayed under the assault of rain and time. There was no trace of any Roman buildings inside the fort, just a steading with a thickly thatched hall of dark timber and next to it a barn and a cattle shed, but there was no sign of any cattle, nor of any people except for an old man who lived in one of the hovels outside the fort wall. Berg brought him to me. ‘He says the place belongs to a Dane called Egill,’ he said.

‘Used to belong to a Saxon,’ the old man said. He was a Saxon himself, ‘Hrothwulf! I remember Hrothwulf! He was a good man.’

‘What’s this place called?’ I asked him.

He frowned. ‘Hrothwulf’s farm, of course!’

‘Where is Hrothwulf?’

‘Dead and buried, lord, under the soil. Gone to heaven, I hope. Sent there by a Dane,’ he spat. ‘I was just a lad! Nothing more than a lad. It was Egill’s grandfather that killed him. I saw it! Spitted him like a lark.’

‘And Egill?’

‘He left, lord, took everything with him.’

‘Left today,’ Finan said. He pointed to some cattle dung just outside the barn. ‘A cow shat that this morning,’ he said.

I dismounted and drew Serpent-Breath. Finan joined me, sword in hand, and we pushed open the hall door. The hall was empty except for two crude tables, some benches, a straw-filled mattress, a rusted cooking pot, a broken scythe, and a pile of threadbare, stinking pelts. There was a stone hearth in the hall’s centre and I crouched beside it and felt the grey ash. ‘Still warm,’ I said. I stirred the ash with Serpent-Breath’s tip and saw embers glowing. So Egill the Dane had been in the house not long before, but he had left, taking his livestock. ‘He was warned,’ I told Sigtryggr when I joined him on the earthen rampart. ‘Egill knew we were coming.’

And Egill, I thought, had been given time to take his cattle and possessions, which meant he must have been given at least a half-day’s warning, and that, in turn, meant Ragnall’s scouts must have been watching us since early that morning. I gazed north along the gentle ridge between the rivers. ‘You should take Stiorra north,’ I told Sigtryggr.

‘And leave you and your men here?’

‘You should go,’ I said.

‘I’m king here,’ he said, ‘no one chases me from my own land.’

The ridge to the north was flat-topped and ran between the two rivers, which joined just south of the fort. The ridge was mostly pastureland that dropped very gently away from us before rising, just as gently, to a band of thick woods where horsemen suddenly appeared. ‘They’re our scouts,’ Finan said as men put their hands on sword hilts.

There were six of them and they rode across the pasture together, and as they drew nearer I saw that two were injured. One slumped in his saddle, the other had a bloody head. The six men rode their tired horses to the fort’s entrance. ‘They’re coming, lord,’ Eadger said from his saddle. He jerked his head to the south.

I turned, but the land beyond the rivers was silent, still, sun-warmed, empty.

‘What did you see?’ Sigtryggr asked.

‘There’s a farmstead beyond those woods,’ Eadger pointed towards trees across the river. ‘At least a hundred men are there and more are coming. Coming from all over.’ He paused as Folcbald lifted the injured man down from his saddle. ‘A half-dozen of them chased us,’ Eadger went on, ‘and Ceadda took a spear in the belly.’

‘We emptied two saddles though,’ the man with the bleeding scalp said.

‘They’re well scattered, lord,’ Eadger said, ‘like they’re coming from east, west, and south, coming from all over, but they’re coming.’

For a wild moment I thought of taking our men and attacking the vanguard of Ragnall’s forces. We would cross the river, find the newly arrived men beyond the far wood, then slash havoc among them before the rest of their army arrived, but just then Finan grunted and I turned back to see that a single horseman had appeared at the northern tree line. The man rode a grey horse that he stood motionless. He was watching us. Two more men appeared, then a half-dozen.

‘They’re across the river,’ Finan said.

And still more men showed at the distant tree line. They just stood watching us. I turned and looked south, and this time I saw horsemen, streams of horsemen, following the road that led to the ford. ‘They’re all here,’ I said.

Ragnall had found us.

The first fire was lit not long after sunset. It blazed somewhere deep among the woods beyond the ridge’s pastureland, its flames flickering lurid shadows among the trees.

More fires were lit, one after the other, fires that burned bright in the northern woods that stretched between the rivers. So many fires that at times it seemed as if the whole belt of trees burned. Then, deep in the firelit night, we heard hooves on the ridge and I saw the shadow of a horseman galloping towards us, then turning away. ‘They want to keep us awake,’ Sigtryggr said. A second horseman followed, while off to the southern side of the ridge an unseen enemy clashed a blade against a shield.

‘They are keeping us awake,’ I answered, then looked at Stiorra, ‘and why didn’t you ride north?’

‘I forgot,’ she said.

Egill had left two spades in his barn and we were using them to deepen the old trench in front of the earthen wall. It would not be a deep trench, but it would be a small obstacle to an advancing shield wall. I did not have enough men to fight in the open pastureland, so we would make our own shield wall on what remained of the Roman rampart. The Romans, I knew, had made two kinds of fort. There were the great fastnesses like Eoferwic, Lundene or Ceaster that were defended by massive stone walls, and then there were these country forts, scores of them, which were little more than a ditch and a bank topped by a wooden wall. These smaller forts guarded river crossings and road junctions, and though the timbers of this fort had long disappeared, its bank of earth, despite its decay, was still steep enough to make a formidable obstacle. Or so I told myself. Ragnall’s men would have to negotiate the ditch, then clamber up the bank into our axes, spears, and swords, and their dead and wounded would make another barrier to trip men coming to kill us. The weakest point was the fort’s entrance, which was nothing but a flat track through the bank, but there were thorns growing thick by the river junction and my son took a score of men who hacked the bushes down and dragged them back to make a barricade.

Sigtryggr had looked around the fort before the sun set and the darkness shrouded us. ‘We could do with another hundred men,’ he had said grimly.

‘Pray he attacks us straight on,’ I had answered.

‘He’s no fool.’

We had sufficient men to defend one wall of the fort. If Ragnall came down the track that led across the pastureland and assaulted us head-on then I reckoned we could hold till what the Christians called doomsday. But if he also sent men to either side of the fort to attack the eastern and western walls we would be sorely stretched. Luckily the ground fell away towards the rivers on both sides, but the slopes were not impossibly steep, and that meant I would need men on both flanking walls, and more men on the southern wall if Ragnall’s forces surrounded us. The truth, and I knew it, was that Ragnall would overwhelm us. We would put up a fight, we would slaughter some of his best warriors, but by midday we would all be corpses or prisoners unless Ragnall obliged me by simply assaulting the northern wall.

Or unless the Mercians came.

‘We do have the hostages,’ Sigtryggr said. We were standing on the northern wall, watching the threatening fires and listening to the hacking sound of our spades deepening the ditch. Another enemy rode close to the fort, man and horse outlined by the glare of the fires burning in the distant wood.

‘We have the hostages,’ I agreed. The eight women were all wives of Ragnall’s jarls. The youngest was around fourteen, the oldest perhaps thirty. They were, unsurprisingly, sullen and resentful. We had them all in Egill’s hall, guarded there by four men. ‘What did he fear?’ I asked Sigtryggr.

‘Fear?’

‘Why did he take hostages?’

‘Disloyalty,’ he said simply.

‘An oath isn’t enough to make men loyal?’

‘Not for my brother,’ Sigtryggr said, then sighed. ‘Five years ago, maybe six, father led an army to the south of Ireland. Things didn’t go well, and half the army just took to their ships and sailed away.’

‘Which happens,’ I said.

‘If you’re capturing land, slaves, cattle,’ Sigtryggr said, ‘then men stay loyal, but as soon as there are difficulties? They melt away. Hostages are Ragnall’s answer.’

‘You take hostages from the enemy,’ I said, ‘not from your own side.’

‘Unless you’re my brother,’ Sigtryggr said. He was stroking a stone down the edge of his long-sword. The sound was monotonous. I gazed at the far woods and knew our enemies were also sharpening their blades. They had to be confident. They knew the dawn would bring them a battle, victory, plunder, and reputation.

‘What will you do with the hostages?’ Finan asked.

‘Show them,’ Sigtryggr said.

‘And threaten them?’ Stiorra asked.

‘They’re a weapon to use,’ Sigtryggr answered unhappily.

‘And you’ll kill them?’ Stiorra demanded. Sigtryggr did not answer. ‘If you kill them,’ my daughter said, ‘then you lose the power of them.’

‘It should be enough to just threaten their deaths,’ Sigtryggr answered.

‘Those men,’ Stiorra nodded her head towards the fires in the woodland, ‘know you. They know you won’t kill women.’

‘We might have to,’ Sigtryggr said unhappily. ‘One, at least.’

None of us spoke. Behind us, in the fort, men sat around campfires. Some of them sang, though the songs were not happy. They were laments. The men knew what faced them and I wondered how many I could rely on. I was sure of my own men and of Sigtryggr’s, but a quarter of the warriors had been sworn to Ragnall not a week or two before, and how would they fight? Would they desert? Or would their fear of Ragnall’s wrath persuade them to fight even harder for me?

‘Remember Eardwulf?’ Finan suddenly asked.

I half smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Eardwulf?’ Sigtryggr asked.

‘An ambitious man,’ I said, ‘and he had us trapped like this. Just like this. And moments before he slaughtered us the Lady Æthelflaed arrived.’

‘With an army?’

‘He thought she had an army,’ I said, ‘in fact she didn’t, but he thought she did and so he left us alone.’

‘And tomorrow?’ Sigtryggr asked.

‘There should be a Mercian army following Ragnall,’ I said.

‘Should be,’ Sigtryggr said flatly.

I still hoped for that Mercian army. I told myself that it could be two hours’ march away, somewhere to the west. Perhaps Merewalh was leading it? He would be wise enough not to light campfires, clever enough to march before dawn to assault Ragnall from the rear. I had to cling to that hope, even though every instinct told me it was a vain hope. Without help, I knew, we were doomed.

‘There are other hostages,’ Finan said unexpectedly. We all looked at him. ‘My brother’s troops,’ he explained.

‘You think they won’t fight?’ I asked him.

‘Of course they’ll fight,’ he said, ‘they’re Irish. But in the morning, lord, lend me your helmet, your arm rings, and all the gold and silver you can find.’

‘They’re mercenaries,’ I said, ‘you’re going to buy them?’

He shook his head. ‘And I want our best horse too.’

‘You can have whatever you want,’ I said.

‘To do what?’ Sigtryggr asked.

And Finan smiled. ‘Sorcery,’ he said, ‘just Irish sorcery.’

We waited for the dawn.

A small mist greeted the wolf-light. The fires in the far wood faded, though they were still there, dim among the misted trees. Finan tried to count those fires, but they were too many. We were all counting. We had just over three hundred and eighty men fit to fight, and the enemy had to have three times that number, maybe four times. We all counted, though no one spoke of it.

The first horsemen came soon after dawn. They were young men from Ragnall’s army and they could not resist taunting us. They came from the trees and cantered till they were squarely in front of our northern wall, and there they would simply wait, usually some thirty or forty paces away, daring any one of us to cross the ditch and fight in single combat. I had given orders that no one was to accept such challenges, and our refusal prompted more of Ragnall’s young men to provoke us. His army was still hidden in the trees that were a half-mile away, but he permitted his hot-headed warriors to confront us.

‘You’re cowards!’ one bellowed.

‘Come and kill me! If you dare!’ Another trotted up and down in front of us.

‘If you’re frightened of me, shall I send my sister to fight one of you?’

They were showing off to each other as much as to us. Such insults have always been a part of battle. It takes time for men to form a shield wall, and even more time to summon the courage to attack another wall, and the ritual of insult and challenge was a part of that summoning. Ragnall had yet to reveal his men, he was keeping them among the trees, though every now and then we would see a glimpse of metal through the far leaves. He would be haranguing his leaders, telling them what he expected and how they would be rewarded, and meanwhile his young men came to mock us.

‘Two of you come and fight!’ a man shouted. ‘I’ll kill you both!’

‘Pup,’ Sigtryggr growled.

‘I seem to remember you taunting me at Ceaster,’ I said.

‘I was young and foolish.’

‘You haven’t changed.’

He smiled. He was in a mail coat that had been scoured with sand and vinegar so that it reflected the new sunlight. His sword belt was studded with gold buttons, and a gold chain was wrapped three times around his neck and from it hung a golden hammer. He wore no helmet, but around his fair hair he had the gilt-bronze circlet we had discovered in Eoferwic. ‘I’ll lend Finan the chain,’ he offered.

Finan was saddling a tall black stallion. Like Sigtryggr he wore polished mail, and he had borrowed my sword belt with its intricate silver panels riveted to the leather. He had braided his hair and hung it with ribbons, while his forearms were thick with warrior rings. The iron rim of his shield had been scraped free of rust, while the faded paint on the willow-boards had also been scraped down to make a Christian cross out of the fresh wood. Whatever sorcery he planned was evidently Christian, but he would not tell me what it was. I watched as he cinched the stallion’s girth tight, then just turned, leaned against the placid horse, and looked out through the thorn-blocked gateway to where a half-dozen of Ragnall’s young warriors still taunted us. The rest had become bored and had ridden back to the far trees, but these six had kicked their horses right to the ditch’s edge where they sneered at us. ‘Are you all so frightened?’ one asked. ‘I’ll fight two of you! Don’t be babies! Come and fight!’

Three more horsemen came from the northern trees and cantered to join the six. ‘I’d love to go and kill some of them,’ Sigtryggr growled.

‘Don’t.’

‘I won’t.’ He watched the three horsemen, who had drawn their swords. ‘Aren’t they eager?’ he asked scornfully.

‘The young always are,’ I said.

‘Were you?’

‘I remember my first shield wall,’ I said, ‘and I was scared.’ It had been against cattle raiders from Wales and I had been terrified. Since then I had fought against the best that the Northmen could send against us, I had clashed shields and smelled my enemy’s stinking breath as I killed him, and I still feared the shield wall. One day I would die in such a wall. I would go down, biting against the pain, and an enemy’s blade would tear the life from me. Maybe today, I thought, probably today. I touched the hammer.

‘What are they doing?’ Sigtryggr asked. He was not looking at me, but at the three approaching horsemen who had spurred their stallions into full gallop and now charged the men insulting us. Those men turned, not certain what was happening, and their hesitation was their doom. All three newcomers unhorsed an opponent, the one in the centre charging his enemy’s horse and throwing it down by the collision, then turning on a second man and lunging with his sword. I saw the long blade sink through mail, saw the Norseman bend over the blade, saw his own sword drop to the grass, then watched his attacker gallop past and almost get pulled from the saddle because his sword’s blade was buried in the dying man’s guts. The attacking rider was wrenched backwards by the blade’s suction, but managed to drag the weapon free. He turned his horse fast and chopped the blade down on the wounded man’s spine. One of the six men who had been jeering us was racing away along the ridge, the other five were either dead or wounded. None was mounted any longer.

The three turned towards us and I saw their leader was my son, Uhtred, who grinned at me as he trotted towards the thorn fence that barred the fort’s entrance. We dragged a section of the fence back to let the three men through and they arrived to cheers. I saw that my son was wearing a big iron hammer amulet about his neck. I held his horse while he dismounted, then embraced him. ‘You pretended to be a Dane?’ I asked, touching his hammer.

‘I did!’ he said. ‘And no one even questioned us! We came last night.’ His companions were both Danes who had sworn oaths to me. They grinned, proud of what they had just done. I took two rings from my arms and gave one to each of the Danes.

‘You could have stayed with Ragnall,’ I told them, ‘but you didn’t.’

‘You’re our oath-lord,’ one said.

‘And you haven’t led us to defeat yet, lord,’ the other said, and I felt a pang of guilt, because surely they had galloped to their deaths by crossing the wide pasture.

‘You were easy to find,’ my son said. ‘Northmen are swarming here like wasps to honey.’

‘How many?’ Sigtryggr asked.

‘Too many,’ my son said grimly.

‘And the Mercian army?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘What Mercian army?’

I swore and looked back to the pasture that was empty now except for three corpses and two lamed men who were staggering back towards the trees. ‘Lady Æthelflaed didn’t pursue Ragnall?’ I asked.

‘The Lady Æthelflaed,’ my son said, ‘pursued him, but then went back to Ceaster for Bishop Leofstan’s funeral.’

‘She did what?’ I gaped at him.

‘Leofstan died,’ Uhtred said. ‘One minute he lived and the next he was dead. I’m told he was celebrating mass when it happened. He gave a cry of pain and collapsed.’