Warriors of the Storm (32 page)

‘No!’ I was surprised by the grief I felt. I had hated Leofstan when he first came to the city, arriving so full of a humility that I thought must be false, but I had come to like him, even to admire him. ‘He was a good man,’ I said.

‘He was.’

‘And Æthelflaed took the army back for his funeral?’

My son shook his head, then paused to take a cup of water from Berg. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘She went back with a score of men and her usual priests,’ he said, when he had drunk, ‘but she left Cynlæf commanding the army.’

Cynlæf, her favourite, the man marked to marry her daughter. ‘And Cynlæf?’ I asked bitterly.

‘The last I heard he was well south of Ledecestre,’ my son said, ‘and refusing to lead troops into Northumbria.’

‘Bastard,’ I said.

‘We went to Ceaster,’ he said, ‘and pleaded with her.’

‘And?’

‘She sent orders for Cynlæf to march north and find you, but he’s probably only getting those orders today.’

‘And he’s a day’s march away.’

‘At least a day’s march,’ my son said, ‘so we have to beat these bastards all on our own.’ He grinned, then astonished me one more time by turning and looking at Finan. ‘Hey, Irishman!’

Finan looked surprised to be called that, but he took no offence. ‘Lord Uhtred?’ he responded mildly.

My son was grinning like a madman. ‘You owe me two shillings,’ he said.

‘I do?’

‘You said the bishop’s wife would look like a toad, remember?’

Finan nodded. ‘I remember.’

‘She doesn’t. So you owe me two shillings.’

Finan snorted. ‘I only have your word for it, lord! And what’s your word worth? You thought that tavern maid in Gleawecestre was beautiful, and she had a face like a bullock’s backside. Even Gerbruht wouldn’t touch her and I’ve seen him hump things a dog wouldn’t sniff!’

‘Oh, Sister Gomer is beautiful,’ my son said, ‘just ask my father.’

‘Me?’ I exclaimed. ‘How would I know?’

‘Because,’ my son said, ‘Sister Gomer has an apple birthmark, father. Right here,’ and he touched a gloved finger to his forehead.

I was speechless. I just stared at him. I even forgot Ragnall for a moment, thinking only of that ripe body in the hay shed.

‘Well?’ Finan asked.

‘You owe my son two shillings,’ I said, and started laughing.

And Ragnall came to give battle.

I remembered how Ragnall had led his horsemen from the trees at Ceaster when he had taken revenge for the heads arrayed around the remnants of the fort at Eads Byrig. He had brought his men from the wood in a line so they appeared all at once, and now he did it again. One moment the far trees were bright with a sun-drenched morning’s light, their green leaves peaceful, and then they came. Ranks of men on foot, men with shields, men with weapons, a shield wall that was meant to awe us, and it did.

A shield wall is a terrible thing. It is a wall of wood, iron, and steel with one purpose alone, to kill.

And this shield wall was massive, a wall of painted round shields stretching wide across the ridge’s flat top, and above it were the banners of the jarls, chieftains, and kings who had come to kill us. At the centre, of course, was Ragnall’s red axe, but the axe was flanked by forty or fifty other banners bright with ravens, eagles, wolves, serpents, and with creatures that no man had ever seen except in nightmares. The shield-warriors who followed those banners came from the wood and there they stopped and began clashing their shields together, a constant thunder. I counted them as best I could and reckoned they numbered at least a thousand men. The flanks of the wall were on the ridge’s slopes, and that suggested they would wrap that great wall around the fort and attack on three sides. My own men were on the fort’s wall. They could count too, and they were silent as they watched Ragnall’s massive force and listened to the thunder of his shields.

Ragnall was still not ready to attack. He was letting his men see us, letting them realise how few we were. Those men who clashed shields to make the thunder of challenge would see the fort’s wall and, on its summit, a much smaller shield wall than their own. They would see we had just two banners, the wolf’s head and the red axe, and Ragnall wanted them to know how easy this victory would be. I saw him riding a black horse behind his wall and calling to his men. He was assuring them of victory and promising our deaths. He was filling them with confidence, and it was just moments, I knew, before he came to insult us. He would offer us a chance to surrender, and, when we refused, he would bring his shield wall forward.

But before Ragnall could move, Finan rode towards the enemy.

He rode alone and he rode slowly, his horse high-stepping in the lush pasture. Man and horse were magnificent, gold-hung, silver-shining. He had Sigtryggr’s thick golden chain about his neck, though he had removed the hammer, and he wore my helmet with its crouching silver wolf on the crown from which he had hung strips of dark cloth that mimicked the horse’s tail plume of his brother’s helmet. And it was to his brother that he rode, towards the banner of the dark ship sailing on a blood-red sea. That banner was on the right of Ragnall’s line, at the edge of the plateau. The Irish carried other flags decorated with the Christian cross, the same symbol that Finan had scraped into his shield that hung at his left side above the glittering scabbard in which he carried Soul-Stealer, a sword he had taken from a Norseman in battle. Soul-Stealer was lighter than most swords, though its reach was just as long, a blade that I feared could be easily broken by the heavy swords most of us carried. But Finan, who had given the sword its name, loved Soul-Stealer.

Two men rode from Ragnall’s ranks to challenge Finan. Their horses must have been kept close behind the shield wall, and I assumed Ragnall had given them permission to fight, and I heard his army cheering as the two men rode. I had no doubt that the two were battle-tested, full of sword-craft and terrible in combat, and Ragnall, and all his men too, must have assumed Finan would accept the challenge of one or the other, but instead he rode past them. They followed him, taunting, but neither attacked him. That too was part of battle’s ritual. Finan had ridden alone and he would choose his enemy. He rode on, slow and deliberate, until he faced the Irishmen beneath their banners.

And he spoke to them.

I was much too far away to hear anything he said, and even if I had been at his elbow I would not have understood his tongue. The two champions, perhaps realising that the challenge was from one Irishman to his countrymen, turned away, and Finan spoke on.

He must have taunted them. And in his thoughts there must have been a girl lovely as a dream, a dark-haired girl of the Ó Domhnaill, a girl worth defying fate for, a girl to love and to worship, and a girl who had been dragged through the mud to be his brother’s plaything, a girl who had haunted Finan in all the long years since her death.

And a man stepped out of the Irish ranks.

It was not Conall. The enemy shield wall was a long way off, but even I could see that this man was much bigger than Conall, bigger than Finan too. He was a great brute of a man, hulking in his mail, carrying a shield larger than any other in the wall and hefting a sword that looked as if it were made for a god, not for a man, a sword as heavy as a war axe, a sword for butchery. And Finan slid from his saddle.

Two armies watched.

Finan threw away his shield, and I remembered that far-off day, so long ago, when I had faced Steapa in single combat. That was before we became friends, and no man had given me a chance against Steapa. He had been known then as Steapa Snotor, Steapa the Clever, which was a cruel joke because he was not the cleverest of men, but he was loyal, he was thoughtful, and he was unstoppable in battle. He, like the man striding towards Finan, was huge and hugely strong, a giver of death, and I had fought him, supposedly to the death, and one of us would have died that day had the Danes not surged across the frontier that same morning. And when I had fought Steapa I had begun by casting aside my shield and even taking off my mail coat. Steapa had watched me, expressionless. He knew what I was doing. I was making myself fast. I would not be cumbered by weight, I would be quick and I would dance around the larger man like a nimble dog baiting a bull.

Finan kept his mail coat, but he threw the shield down, then just waited.

And we saw the big man charge, using his shield to batter Finan away, and what happened next was so swift that none of us could be certain of what we saw. It was far away, too far to see clearly, but the two figures closed, I saw the big man ram the shield to slam Finan and, thinking he had struck Finan, begin to turn with the massive sword raised to kill. And then he just dropped.

It was fast, so fast, but I have never known a man swifter than Finan. He was not big, indeed he looked skinny, but he was quick. He could carry Soul-Stealer because he rarely needed to parry with the blade, he could dance out of a blow’s way. I had fought him in practice often enough and I had rarely got past his guard. The big man, I assumed he was Conall’s champion, dropped to his knees, and Finan sliced Soul-Stealer down onto his neck and that was the end of the fight. It had been over in two or three heartbeats and Finan had made it look so easy. The thunder of the far shields stopped.

And Finan spoke to his countrymen again. I never learned what he said, but I saw him walk to the shield wall, walk within the reach of their swords and spears, and there he spoke to his brother. I could see it was his brother because Conall’s helmet was brighter than the rest and he stood directly beneath the blood-red banner. The brothers stood face to face. I remembered the hatred between them at Ceaster, and the same hatred must have been there, but Conall did not move. He had seen his champion die and had no wish to follow him down to hell.

Finan took one pace backwards.

Two armies watched.

Finan turned his back on his brother and began walking towards his horse.

And Conall charged.

We gasped. I think every man on the field who saw it gasped. Conall charged, his sword reaching for Finan’s spine, and Finan spun.

Soul-Stealer flashed. I did not hear the clash of blades, just saw Conall’s sword fly up as it was deflected, saw Soul-Stealer slice at Conall’s face, then saw Finan turn his back and walk away again. No one who watched spoke. They saw Conall step back, blood on his face, and watched Finan walk away. And again Conall attacked. This time he lunged for the nape of Finan’s neck, and Finan ducked, turned again, and punched Soul-Stealer’s hilt into his brother’s face. Conall staggered, then tripped on his heel and sat heavily.

Finan walked to him. He ignored his brother’s sword, but just held Soul-Stealer at Conall’s neck. I expected to see the lunge and the sudden splash of blood, but instead Finan held the blade at his brother’s throat and spoke to his brother’s men. Conall tried to lift his sword, but Finan kicked it contemptuously aside, then he stooped and, using his left hand, seized his brother’s helmet.

He dragged it free.

He still stood over his brother. Now, with even greater contempt, he sheathed Soul-Stealer. He took off my helmet and replaced it with his brother’s black horse-tailed helmet with its royal circlet. King Finan.

Then he just walked away and, retrieving his shield from the grass, he climbed back into his saddle. He had humiliated his brother and now he rode the stallion along the face of Ragnall’s whole line. He did not hurry. He dared men to come and face him and none did. There was scorn in that ride. The horse-tail of the gold-ringed helmet streamed behind him as at last he kicked his stallion into a canter and rode back to us.

He reached the thorn fence and tossed me my helmet. ‘Conall’s men won’t fight us now,’ was all he said.

Which only left about a thousand men who would.

We had given Ragnall a problem and Finan had worsened it. Ragnall had to be confident that he could beat us, but knew he would pay a price for that victory. The Roman fort was old, but its walls were steep, and men climbing those short slopes would be vulnerable. In the end he would break us. He had too many men and we had too few, but too many of Ragnall’s men would die in killing us. That is why battles of the shield wall are slow to start. Men have to nerve themselves for the horror. The fort’s ditches were not much of an obstacle, but we had hammered short stakes into the ditch during the night, and men advancing behind shields can see little, and, especially if they are pushed on by the rank behind, they can trip, and a man who falls in the shield wall is as good as dead. At Æsc’s Hill, so many years ago, I had seen an army of victorious Danes defeated by a ditch that Alfred defended. The rearmost ranks had pushed the shield wall forward and the front ranks had stumbled in the ditch where the West Saxon warriors had killed them till the ditch was brimming red. So Ragnall’s men were reluctant to attack, and made more reluctant by the omen of Conall’s humiliation. It was Ragnall’s task to fire them now, to fill them with anger as well as ale. You can smell the ale on an enemy’s breath in the shield wall. We had none. We would fight sober.

The sun was halfway to his summit by the time Ragnall came to insult us. That too was a part of the pattern of battle. First the young fools challenge the enemy to single combat, then the speeches are made to fire men with the lust for blood, and finally the enemy is insulted. ‘Maggots!’ Ragnall called to us. ‘Sow turds! You want to die here?’ My men rhythmically clashed seax blades against shields, making the music of death to drown his words. ‘Send me my little brother,’ Ragnall shouted, ‘and you can live!’

Ragnall had donned mail and helmet for battle. He rode his black stallion, and, for a weapon, carried a massive axe. A dozen men accompanied him, grim warriors on big horses, their faces made mysterious by closed cheek-pieces. They were inspecting the ditch and wall, readying to warn their men what difficulties they would face. Two rode towards the thorn fence and only turned away when a spear struck the ground between their horses. One of them seized the quivering haft and carried it away.

‘We have ravaged Mercia!’ Ragnall shouted. ‘Razed farmsteads, taken captives, stripped the fields of cattle! The old hag who calls herself the ruler of Mercia is hiding behind stone walls! Her country is ours and I have her land to give away! You want good land, rich land? Come to me!’