For much of our journey back to Osric’s precarious border Fort we followed the sweep of the coastline. Several times Viking longships came into view as they patrolled the area of sea around their island base of Steep Holm. There would be some hungry bellies out there tonight, but I imagined that they would take what they wanted from somewhere else.
The unhappy band of traitors that now accompanied us, fastened hand-to-hand in single file, had hoped to be handsomely paid by the Vikings for their efforts, yet there had been no sign of coin or other objects of value amongst the meagre possessions that had been collected. From that intelligence Osric and Edmund had deduced that the raiders had intended to slaughter the group of poachers, after they had taken delivery of the venison.
This begged the obvious conclusion that the source of supply was no longer required. The question was, why? Were the Viking hordes about to depart, or did they have an imminent invasion planned. We had no way of knowing, and it was decided that we would make our way, with the captives and our information, back to the King’s Court at Athelney as quickly as possible.
The good spell of weather changed steadily during the morning’s march, to become heavy with a torrid humidity. The sky was hung with deep, yellow tinged, dark clouds. We were all tired, including the good Sim, and the added weight of the sultry heat wore away at the body’s vitality like a knife grinder. The obscure path had re-entered the forest, and the oppressive heat seemed to be trapped beneath the leafy canopy.
The prisoners suffered the most, as they stumbled through the undergrowth with their hands and arms pinioned behind them. Two of the men, through their fear of the inevitable consequences, were succumbing quickly to fatigue and some superficial wounds. They stumbled and fell to the ground on numerous occasions. Each time they fell they brought down one or more of the prisoners around them. The brawny leader of the treasonous bunch, a man called Malic, halted, stopping the march in its tracks and called aggressively to Osric for assistance.
The Aelderman turned from the trail to confront the scoundrel.
‘If they cannot make their own way, then you will carry them between you.’ Osric said frostily and added. ‘If they can find no help from that quarter, I will order them put to the sword and left for the crows.’
‘Then sir, you are a bigger rascal than they.’ sneered Malic. ‘You would give the Viking brutes a pyre, but would murder and leave the poor bodies your own countrymen as carrion for the birds and beasts.’
Edmund’s anger frothed and boiled over. In one smooth movement he stepped up to the man, drew his sword and swung it in a broad horizontal arc. The blade glittered dully in the stormy light as the flat of the heavy blade struck Malic across his wide shoulders. The blow took the man to his knees, and he had scarcely landed before Edmund’s sword had hissed back into its scabbard. With his gloved sword hand, Edmund caught the hair of the poacher’s head and yanked it back so hard that we feared he would break the neck.
‘The Norsemen were honourable warriors, even if they are the enemy.’ Edmund spat the words at the dazed man before him. ‘And your life is less important than the lice which feed upon the miserable body that holds it.’ He shoved the man, face down into the earth at Osric’s feet and strode away to provide persuasive kicks to the two laggards.
‘Why do we not finish the business now, then we can get on.’ Edmund appealed to Osric. ‘Worthless scum!’ he added spitting onto the ground by the string of captives.
‘It is King Alfred’s decree, that all subjects that find themselves accused of serious misdemeanours shall be heard by the Court...And you know that.’ Osric’s tone had become stern, and a confused, frustrated Edmund dropped his fiery gaze to the ground.
Osric, wearily continued. ‘If we killed them here and now, in accordance with the old ways, it’s possible that we would be found liable to pay a compensation, Wergild, to their relatives.’ he explained. ‘And that could ruin us all.’
Edmund knew all this of course, but like the rest of us, he was very tired and the mental exhaustion had sapped his patience. Raindrops as big as buttons began to splash in the dust, and with the approaching storm arrived some unwelcome news.
Osric had detailed two men to follow us at a distance to ensure that no stragglers escaped and to keep watch on our tail. It was one of these men that, red-faced and breathless, interrupted Edmund’s reply.
‘Behind us Lord. They are following, and closing quickly.’ He gasped.
‘Who is...Come man tell me everything, quickly now.’ answered Osric, half knowing the answer. The second man from the rearguard arrived, he was much calmer, and provided the answer.
‘A Viking war party. We’ve left a trail wider than an ox cart and they are trotting after us like a pack of hunting dogs.’
‘How many have you seen?’
‘At least twenty. We watched them as they came over that hill behind us. It’s lucky that you’ve reached the trees, or they would have been able to see you plainly from the crest.’ the first man answered. ‘Quick, we must flee.’
‘We shall indeed, it’s not far to my hall. Both of you have served me well, the two of you will drive the prisoners along. Edmund, Ranulf you’ll help by supervising them if you would, they must get through. The rest of us will stay back and try to hold them if we have to.’
Edmund was about to argue, he obviously wanted to be involved in any action. But Osric insisted and pointed out that, regardless of his present circumstance, his first duty was to my father Lord Odda.
Edmund appeared by my side, Sim, quiveringly alert, trotted along between us.
‘I suppose you realise, that if they ever discover what happened back there on the beach, then you will become a wanted man by the heathen.’ He said raising an eyebrow.
‘They’ve to catch us first.’ I answered. ‘It might be worth asking Deaks if any of these traitors is able to speak the heathen language. After all they were managing to deal with them, and successfully until today.’
‘Good thought.’ Edmund moved off, dagger in hand towards a cringing kitchen scullion.
I’m not certain what Edmund promised Deaks, but the wicked looking dagger seemed to be prominent. The unfortunate kitchen hand capitulated quickly and told us that, although he himself knew enough to get by, Malic, their belligerent leader spoke it like a native. That was enough for Edmund, he was all set to complete his earlier threat.
I was able to restrain him only by persuading him that he should wait until the heathen horde was upon us, it seemed that if we kept going we stood a good chance of arriving safely at Osric’s fortified hall. If we stopped we could delay long enough to lose the day for all.
The rain was falling in crashing sheets by the time we began our numbingly tired progress along the final track which led to the fortification. Edmund called to the bewildered villagers that we passed, to collect what beasts they could and run for safety.
We arrived at the Fort just moments before our rearguard caught up with us and, anxiously, we handed over custody of our charges to the captain of the guard.
Where he got his energy from I don’t know, but Edmund scampered off to rouse out his newly trained horsemen.
Wet, mud spattered and still dazed we watched, speechless, as the company, Edmund at their head, rode out of the gates and thundered towards the approach track.
‘What’s he up to.’ shouted Osric above the confused din.
I shrugged. ‘He didn’t say.’
The rain began to ease, and I watched Edmund as he led the mounted group in a wide circle, away from the line of track, and into some woodland that topped a small rise to the right.
‘Of course.’ I said with a sudden realisation, and pushed through the people to reach Osric. Briefly, I told him what I had seen and of Edmund’s obvious intention.
I could feel the, now familiar, stirrings of the ancient wildness in the crowd around me. Women began herding children into huts, and warriors strapped on shields, drew swords and guzzled large quantities of their strong mead wine. I gave the leash of a reluctant Sim to one of the passing women, with instructions to tie him safely and watch he didn’t escape.
Osric wasted valuable moments arguing with one of his courtiers who wanted to leave Edmund to his fate and close the heavy gates of the Fort’s enclosure. Eventually Osric managed to push the bedraggled, panic stricken, fop to one side. With a leap he jumped, sword in hand, onto the back of an oxcart.
‘Anyone who wishes to remain within the walls can do so, but I shall want to see them on my return.’ Osric glowered at the shrinking group of sodden courtiers. ‘Those that are with me, my fearless Britons, let’s teach the bog-hopping heathens a lesson. Form a shieldwall in front of the gates and we’ll march down the hill and crush them like swine onto our horsemen’s lances.’
With a cheer that echoed from the heavens the men rushed out onto the now muddy turf and, with a ringing crash, locked their shields into a long wall shaped like the curving horns of a mighty bull. Ranks of men took up position behind the protective barrage, jugs of wine were still passed amongst them. Only the group of archers, under Eric’s command, were refused permission to drink. A drum sounded and rows of faces turned towards Osric. From somewhere he had managed to get a change of top clothes and he almost shone as he strode to the front of his men in a pale cream, linen lined cloak with a matching roc or over-tunic.
A harsh sounding trumpet shrilled from within the forest below us.
‘They must have been reinforced from the sea, there’s no longer just two dozen of them.’ called a voice, as the enemy ranks broke the cover of woodland and moved onto the open ground.
‘Stand where you are men, we need to draw them away from the forest.’ shouted Osric to his commanders. ‘Ranulf.’ he called looking over the heads in my direction.
As I made my way to him I was already forming my arguments against being sent back. But they were unnecessary.
‘Stay with me Ranulf. I shall need a messenger I can trust.’
Feeling twice my true height, I fell in step behind Osric as he calmly walked up and down in front of our lines talking and gently encouraging the men.
We must have numbered a full hundred and fifty warriors, most of whom were experienced veteran campaigners. Across the slope of rough field before us the horde of Viking’s seemed to keep coming. They were mainly, a jeering, undisciplined rabble who had obviously had more time with their wine bladders than our own men, but they must have numbered close to two hundred. Each man was clothed in a coarse material that looked like sacking and was armed with a small shield and either broadsword, heavy war axe or a spear.
At the head of their, roughly vee shaped formation, was their leader. A tall figure, clad in furs and wearing a gleaming silver helmet with golden cheek and nose guards. Behind him a drummer beat a monotonous rhythm on a cumbersome drum and to either side of him he had his runners, each of whom carried a long leather whip as well as short stabbing spears.
Cavorting around in front of the men was a Danish magician. It was said that these ugly, contorted creatures, could weave protective spells behind which the heathen could hide. To my eye, he looked piteously stupid. Naked, except for a strip of fur bound about his head, he had painted a white clay onto his skin which the heavy rain had washed into streaks. Sometimes he scampered about on all fours, and then, to an ecstatically cheering audience hopped on one leg while he pointed a crooked stick in our general direction.
‘Another moment or two, and that miscreant will give target practice to our bowmen.’ growled Osric under his breath. Turning to me he said. ‘Go to Eric and tell him to use his best marksman to bring down that cavorting clown. Make sure he understands that he is only to fire when he is sure of hitting him with the first shot.’
As I darted off on my errand, I heard Osric reassuring the men that the Viking’s so called magician was just a court fool, brought along to amuse the drunken ruffians behind him. A piece of crooked twig could cause us no harm.
Eric responded to my message with a grim smile, and deployed one of his men to go to the right hand end of the shieldwall while he himself went to the other end.
Peering over the rows of heads I spotted the bright gleam of Osric’s cloak and trotted back to his side. He looked toward me, one eyebrow arched in query. I nodded and he stood facing the enemy for several long moments before making a hand signal that ordered his commanders to move their men forward.
‘Sound their death rattle men.’ Osric shouted and drew his sword. ‘As loud as you like.’
Behind us, the men cheered and the shuffle of heavy boots was soon drowned by the clattering roar of sword pommels and spear butts being hammered against the wooden war shields. We were striding along now, the speed of advance being set by Osric as he walked in front of the wall. The almost solid barrage of sound that flowed from behind us bolstered and pushed the wildness of the warrior’s rage to new heights.
Without warning two arrows, simultaneously, sped to their mark and the twisted body of the pathetic, white painted necromancer fell to the ground like a stone.
Osric stopped and held his gloved fist high. Immediately the advance ceased and, as one man, the drumming stopped. The sudden silence was as shocking as the thunderous noise had been, its pressure beat upon my ears and made me gasp for breath.
Opposite us, a group of men picked up the lifeless form and it was taken away through the angry confusion of the enemy horde.
‘So much for their magic my brave boys.’ shouted Osric. ‘They’ll come at us now. Stand your ground and we’ll send them home with their tails between their scrawny legs.’
Almost casually, Osric spread his arms horizontally and, at the signal, the army slowly advanced, the shield wall opened to allow us through, and then closed in front of us as the army again halted.
The drumming on the shields began again. Almost with a musical orchestration, it began softly and slowly grew to become deafening as the Viking raiders came within range of our throwing spears.
Osric made the spearmen wait until the enemy’s leading ranks started to break into a run. The flight of heavy, iron tipped spears and arrows momentarily made the poor daylight worse as they hissed through the air, over our heads.
The shafts turned lazily at the top of their curving flight and began to gather speed as they plummeted earthwards. Many of them found their targets, just behind the first unruly rank of charging attackers, those that followed tripped and fell over their own dead in confusion.
A cheer roared in the British throats as the first Viking marauders were cut down. The leading ranks of the enemy charge, suddenly found themselves isolated from the main body and were caught, momentarily uncertain, as they clashed with our shieldwall.
It was the work of just a thudding heartbeat for our swordsmen to lunge from behind the wall and take the lives of those brave Norsemen attackers.
Osric, taking advantage of the surprise, ordered the shieldwall forward. The warriors trampled over the bodies, finishing the lives of those that were wounded as they passed. The men then hunched their shoulders into their shields to lock the wall again and to oppose the regrouping charge of the enemy raiders. The spears and arrows that had been so successfully used on that first charge were passed back through the ranks for the spearmen and archers to use again.
But the Norseman wasn’t totally blind. They rushed at our lines and, at the reverberating blast from a bull’s horn, stopped abruptly when they were almost within range of our flighted weapons. Osric watched them with what seemed to be an expression of amusement as he withheld the order for the bowmen and spearmen to use their skills once again. Slowly and cautiously the raiders advanced. Our front rank of men taunted them continuously, which successfully goaded a handful of men onto the blade-spiked barrier.
Osric’s force was disciplined and a much superior fighting unit than the Danes. I carried orders for the bowmen to pull back and to regroup on the significantly higher ground behind us on the approaches to the Fort compound. When they were in position, Osric sent me off with instructions to the various section commanders of our small army. Essentially they were to slowly draw their men back, forming a reversed formation of the bulls horns around the high ground on which our archers were now in readiness. But they were to do so having their men make a lot of noise about it. As though we were making a retreat.
The enemy’s front rank was being pushed, whipped and manoeuvred into a position so that their commander could direct a concerted effort at our shieldwall. Suddenly they were joined by a howling band of reinforcements. As one, the whole of their enlarged force surged forward as we appeared to retreat.
Horns blared, men shouted and screamed. It was some moments before I realised that the rain had started again and above the cacophony of war, we could hear the not too distant rumble of thunder. The pagan Viking warriors assumed that this was a sign from their greatest god, Thor, who was using his great hammers in their defence. With each crash of the now almost overhead storm the enemy onslaught seemed to grow bigger and bolder. Our archers dared not fire at the attacking hordes for fear of hitting our own men. Most of them took up swords and leapt into the ranks behind the wavering wall of shields to give effective weight to the defenders.
The shieldwall became breached in two places but new spearmen quickly jumped into the spaces to lock their shields into position and fill the gaps.
Where was Edmund. Surely he couldn’t have been overcome by yet more of the rabble. I couldn’t believe that he would stay up there, opposite us, while the battle swayed so heavily in the favour of the Vikings.
Osric echoed my thoughts by looking enquiringly towards the timber crested ridge.
‘It looks like our friend has run into troubles of his own. He’d have been here otherwise, I know it. If he manages to hit them in the rear soon, we’ll win. Otherwise...’ his voice trailed away as he looked along the lines of his brave men.
‘Come then young man. Let’s go and give our boys a hand.’
He hefted his sword and with a yell charged down towards the thickest part of the battle his pale, dripping cloak, flapping wetly behind him. A cold sweat broke out on my body as I tore along behind him, Wolfbane held high before me.
The ground was slick with a mixture of sticky grey mud and the blood from the dead and dying. Both sides battled almost as hard to stay on their feet as they did to fight each other. Leaning against one of the Shield men to lend my weight to the defensive line, I used my sword to good effect by thrusting at the faces, feet and torsos that seemed to fly at us.
Osric was by my side, urging the men around us to keep the pressure up as he slashed at the enemy with his heavy broadsword.
‘Why don’t we pull our men back onto firm ground. Just a stride or two would give us a huge advantage.’ I shouted at his leather helmeted ear.
Several moments later he turned to me and said. ‘Pass the word to move the men back. Just two strides only. Be sure they understand that. Oh, and do it on your signal.’ Then he turned back to the fight once more. His sword arm dripping with the blood of the enemy.
It took only moments to contact each of the section leaders and as I held both hands aloft, the men, as tired as they were, moved almost in unison rear ranks dragging back our wounded as they went. The Vikings swung their axes and broad bladed swords at thin air, as they struggled through the slime to catch up with the fight that they had begun to win.
The rain, having done its damage, stopped and the cloud filled sky paled enough to show the glow of a watery sunshine. The stench of blood and killing was so thick and cloying that it was becoming difficult to breathe in the warm windless air.
Our movement onto firm ground had a momentary effect but it was obvious as I hurried back to the battle that we were close to being overwhelmed.
A clear, silvery trumpet blast shrilled loudly above the din of battle. I looked towards the sound and, coming from behind the wooded knoll was a column of scarlet shirted horsemen, lances levelled and hooves thundering.
From the other side of the knoll, on the seaward side of the battle field, came another blast of a clear trumpet call. The mounted troop from this side was led by a tall man on a brilliant, dazzling white, warhorse. Cheers went into the air all around me as the men saw the charging troops.
‘The King...The King. God save the King!’ shouted Osric as I reached his side.
His grin was choked into a grimace as one of the last attacking thrusts of the enemy, burst the wall before us and a sweeping Viking axe pierced his chest.
With a sobbing yell I thrust at the neck of the blood spattered heathen before me. Before he could pull his blade from Osric’s body he had himself fallen into the slime and his corpse was trampled by our men as they desperately reformed the defence.
With the help of a spearman I dragged Osric up the hill clear of the unheeding boots. Lifting his head, I could see from the blood flecked foam at his mouth that he wouldn’t be with us for very much longer.
“Are we winning the day. What of the King” his voice bubbled.
I wrapped his pale, fine wool cloak tightly about him but he still shivered as I knelt beside him and lifted his head. I looked at the field below me and described to him the almost total destruction and rout of the enemy that our horsemen had caused. Everywhere there were groups of Vikings rushing for cover, each with a knot of horsemen bearing down on them. Soon, the fleeing warriors had either been cut down or had surrendered. Of those that surrendered maybe only half were shown mercy and justice, the remainder were killed in a spree of vengeance for dead and mutilated relatives and friends. And for our dedicated, loyal leader, Osric, for whom the relieving charge of horsemen came too late.
Edmund thundered up with a small group of his red-shirts. He swung easily out of the saddle as he came up to us.
‘How are you Ranny.’ he dropped to his knees opposite me. ‘Oh no. Poor old chap.’ he sighed, and closed the dead, staring eyes in the face that lay between us. ‘Are you injured too?’ he asked.
I followed his anxious glance and shook my head. My right arm and side was covered in spatters of blood, but amazingly none of it was mine. Apart from one or two small scratches I had come through my first battle with a very confused memory and no serious wound.
‘Where were you?’ was all I could say.
‘We rode into the woods up there intending to lay a trap for the raiders.’
‘Yes, we surmised that. You should have told someone.’
‘I dare say you’re right. But as we grouped up, ready to attack from the rear, a sentry sighted what looked like the King’s Standard approaching along the valley.’ he took my arm and we stood. ‘I rode, with one of the red-shirts, right around the Fort to head him off and bring them around by a safe route.’ he nodded towards the timber capped hill. ‘Once we had arrived back up there, it could only have been moments before we set off again to launch our counter attack on their unguarded rear.’
Some of Osric’s men collected the body and took it up the track towards the fort where, already, we could hear the wailing cries of grief.
‘Bow your head lad.’ said Edmund quietly. ‘The King approaches.’