The Amber Treasure

by Richard Denning

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aethelfrith

  A man has five senses and each and every one of them gets used in a battle. That morning of the second day of the Battle of Catraeth, my senses were overwhelmed. You see with a terrifying clarity the approaching army; perceive the fear mingled equally with hate in the eyes of the enemy as well as the terrified pleading expressions of those you have struck down. You feel your heart pounding and later, in the terrible crush of battle, the indescribable sensations of your blade cutting flesh and bone, the searing pain of injury and the air burning in your lungs. Your mouth tastes of blood and you can smell − gods, the smell − sweat, shit and piss and the appalling stench of viscera as men’s entrails spill steaming from their guts, and always the smoke of burning buildings catching in your throat and making your eyes stream.

  Above and beyond all of that, however, is the sense of hearing: it is the sounds you will recall more than anything else when you think of battles you have been in. At least, that is how it is for me. That morning it was the horns and drums of Owain’s army echoing up at us in daunting clamour that I hear in my nightmares still, and that even today, years later, wake me in sweat-soaked terror. Then I hear again the screams; the crashing of spears on shields and the taunting war cries the enemy shouted at us. Finally, the voice of Owain, Samlen and a score of other kings, princes and lords, calling them forward.

  And forward, they came.

  There was urgency in that charge and a kind of heroic recklessness, which confirmed to me that Owain was keen to have this business done and done quickly; so then he could turn to the real task of this day. Almost all of his fifteen hundred men charged at once. There was no reserve, apart from a hundred or so Goddodin cavalry. There was no formation, save one large mass. There was little strategy except one: get inside Stanwick camp and kill us all, as soon as they could.

  We had but a few archers and slingers left − maybe fifty − but these pelted the enemy with arrow and stone. That brought some screams, as perhaps a dozen men caught a missile in some unprotected part and fell beneath the feet of their countrymen to be crushed. However, little that we did could disrupt their shield wall or diminish their numbers and on they still came.

  “Throw anything you can at them!” Harald bellowed.

  Grettir and Eduard took a dozen men and returned with stones and bricks, burnt logs, axes and even the remains of a roasted boar. Other companies did the same and brought back anything that might make a missile. All went over the wall as the enemy closed on us and more of them fell, killed or injured. Not enough though ... nowhere near enough.

  The Welsh army had reached the outer ditch. Some of them, led by Owain, were lucky and had come up against the gate where there was no ditch. They threw themselves against it, trying by brute force to smash their way in. Glancing that way, to my left, I saw that Harald’s men were on my side of the gate and Sabert’s company, beyond it. Harald had the remnants of the Stanwick garrison in reserve behind the gate. I turned to look to my front again across the southern ditch at the enemy army.

  Most of them had to traverse the ten-foot deep ditch, which ran around the camp at the foot of the palisade. A few hours before, the agile Cuthbert had passed across the same ditch, carefully and slowly by himself, but this army just fell down into it. A good number fell too fast and too far and smashed ankles or landed on elbow joints which snapped on impact. Their peril was made worse when dozens more of their comrades tumbled down on top of them, crushing them. And then still more fell upon these men. Soon, the ditch was full of a writhing mass of warriors, trying to make headway across the bloody debris below them.

  Others though ... too many others, slid down the outer ditch wall or held on to the spear shafts of their fellow warriors and dropped down more carefully. These were better placed to come across to the near side of the ditch. We pelted them with stones and rubble to little effect. I heaved up a large blackened stone, retrieved from the nearby camp fire, and tossed it downwards. As I did, one youth, no older than I, looked straight up at me and saw − too late − the stone coming for him. It smashed into his face and with a blood-curdling cry he fell back, dead. A moment later, a sling stone fired from the far side of the ditch ricocheted off my helmet and I tumbled backwards myself, my head now spinning.

  I felt strong arms heave me up and as my sight returned, saw the anxious face of Grettir staring at me. His lips were moving and for a moment the ringing in my ears prevented me hearing his words. I remember thinking that the terrible din of the battle was gone and maybe that I was dying. Then, with a rapidity that made me dizzy, the noise was back and I could hear the old retainer speaking.

  “...you hear me, Master? Can you see me? ... it’s Grettir.”

  I nodded and put my hand on my head, then took it away and inspected it. I had expected to see blood, but my helmet had saved me. I looked around for it and saw that Grettir was holding it out to me.

  “I ... I am fine, Grettir, just a bit stunned,” I said, climbing unsteadily to my feet and shaking my head to clear it. Grettir nodded and handed me the helmet, before stepping back into the line at the wall.

  I stood for a moment to regain my senses and looked at the battle below. Owain was leading repeated charges at the gate, but as yet the sturdy oak structure was holding and Sabert’s men from one side and Harald’s from the other were causing great injury to any Welshman that approached. Beyond the gate still more of Sabert’s men were pelting the right wing of the Welsh as they tried to climb the wall there. In front of us, the enemy had reached the ditch below our section of the palisade and were trying to clamber up it.

  Eduard was yelling foul abuse at the warriors beneath him and − standing beside him − Aedann seemed to be repeating his words in Welsh. Below, I could hear furious replies. I smiled for a moment at some of Eduard’s juicer words and wondered how well they translated; then I stepped forward next to Eduard and looked down.

  My smile dropped.

  Immediately underneath us, scores of the enemy had come up to only a few feet below the palisade. We kept on throwing what we could at them, but our supplies of effective missiles had all but run out and unhindered now, the enemy were climbing up each other, or using knives thrust into the packed earth as hand holds to pull themselves up. So, at last, when fifty or so had reached the palisade, one of their chieftains gave a loud bellow and they made a surge at it.

  The top of a head popped up over the palisade and I cracked it open like a nut with my sword and the warrior fell back down. To my side, Eduard gave a roar and using an axe he had found, was hacking mercilessly left and right. Dozens died as they tried to come over the top, but still more came on and suddenly, with a cry, the lad next to me was impaled on a spear and fell screaming down into the camp behind. A pair of huge warriors leapt over the wall and in an instant the enemy were amongst us. One of them, with a ragged black beard, still had his shield and rammed it into my stomach so that I doubled over in agony. Eduard stepped back and cut at him, slicing his shoulder open, but in doing so, left the wall for a moment and so another pair of Welshmen were over in a flash.

  I scrambled to my feet, protecting myself with my shield and swung wildly left and right with my sword. Eduard was doing the same and I now saw that Aedann had also been forced back from the wall. All three of us were teetering on the inside edge of the fighting platform that ran around the camp, with no place to go backwards except a sharp fall onto the hard-packed earth below, where a number of our men were already lying groaning or dead.

  Grettir was the other side of the pair of warriors who had come over first. He shouted something at them and as the nearest one turned, hacked at his neck. The man fell to his knees, blood gushing from an artery, then his eyes rolled upwards and he lay still. That left the one with the black beard, whom Eduard had injured, and as he turned to cut at Grettir, I slashed at his legs and cut them from under him. Grettir stepped forward and finished him with a stab to the throat.

  Be
yond Grettir, the Welsh had not managed to reach the wall, but to my right I saw that we were losing the battle. On the far side of Aedann, fifty enemy warriors were now massing on the battlements and had killed our men there or pushed them over the edge. Now they had an opening and none of our army stood the other side of them. All they needed to do was push along the battlements, down the steps and they could come behind us wherever they wished or − more likely − fall on the men at the gate and open it. More Welsh were poised to come up and over the wall: we had to act fast.

  “Shield wall, Wicstun Company, shield wall!” I shouted and locked shields with Grettir and Eduard.

  “Form a column, three wide. Shields locked!” I ordered and hesitating, the men started to turn towards me.

  “Quickly men!” Grettir backed me up and soon the men were shuffling into a long column facing along the battlements towards us, three men wide and with shields locked behind each other.

  “Now!” I shouted at Eduard and Grettir and we pushed forward as a few more Welshmen came over the wall. Surprised by us, they were unbalanced and fell back, screaming, into the ditch behind taking two more with them.

  “Turn!” I shouted and we wheeled round to the right. The rest of the company came up behind us and now we were a long column of steel and iron: a battering ram with one purpose − to clear the battlements.

  We pushed along the battlements up to the first Welshmen, who now turned to face us. They were not formed up, however, and we were and as we cut and hacked and pushed, they fell to our blades and spears. We stepped forward and I had Grettir angle his shield left to protect us from men trying to come over the wall, or from missile fire from beyond the ditch, whilst Eduard and I kept ours facing along the wall. Gradually, though, the enemy realised the danger and a huge brute of a warrior chieftain dragged and kicked his men into line and with a rattling and banging of wood on wood, they dragged their shields together and formed a wall.

  Now, it was down to brute force: our will against their will. They were desperate to finish us fast and to be ready for their next battle. We were desperate to hold on for just another hour or so. When it comes to brute force and a trial of strength, there are few men stronger than Eduard and I was glad to have him at my side.

  I have no idea how long that struggle lasted, but it seemed an age. Muscles ached and sinews popped under the effort. Knives, spears and blades stabbed back and forth over the shields. Gradually as men fell on both sides we edged along, inch by inch and yard by yard until I felt I could stand the effort no longer. Then, with shocking suddenness, the shield wall ahead of us just gave way. The enemy started to pull back, then a few started to run and in an instant the sixty or so of them were hurtling away from us along the battlements. We advanced and cut several more down and then there were no more left. I shouted in triumph, but then the cry caught in my throat, as I saw that the danger was not yet over.

  The giant leading the Welsh had held us long enough to plan his action. Now I could see that he was leading his men down from the battlements and swinging round to the gateway. I looked that way expecting that Harald would lead a counter attack with the hundred men he had held in reserve at the gate. Then I saw that there was no reserve company. Over on the other side of the battle Sabert’s men had been swept off the battlements and down to the camp, so Harald had committed the reserve to repel the enemy back over the wall. This meant that as the chieftain led his fifty men towards the gate, there were just ten of our warriors there, struggling to hold the gates shut as Owain forced his way in.

  The men at the gate never saw the danger until it was too late. With a vicious cry, the giant chieftain hacked two down with the same swing of his huge blade and in an instant his men had killed the others. They were busy clearing the rubble we had piled against the gates. Soon, the gates would be opened and if that happened ...

  “Wicstun Company, follow me!” I shouted and without looking to see if they followed, I ran along the battlements to the steps. Now, as I tumbled down them, I did glance back and saw that almost the whole company was following me, save half a dozen men Grettir had ordered to stay with him and try to guard the wall.

  It was a risk. Whilst we abandoned the wall the enemy might bring more men across, but the gates were critical. If they opened, then all was lost. At the gates, the last of the rubble had been cleared and now the bar was being lifted. I had no time to form up into any formation.

  “Charge!” was all I could find the breath to yell, as we crashed into the rear of the Welsh and a confused swirling melee began. Now again, all the senses were bombarded and overwhelmed and in the end, ignored. All that was left was an almost blind madness, as you lay about you at anything that moved and hoped to the gods it was an enemy and not a friend. We fought with fury and abandon, as we strove to reach the gates and prevent them opening.

  But we failed.

  With a thud, the bar was dropped to the ground and the chieftain himself reached out both arms and pulled the gates open. Twenty yards away, Owain was standing surrounded by hundreds of warriors, rallying them after the latest charge at the gates had failed. Scores had died trying to force their way in. Now, they gave a huge shout of triumph and came on again.

  The chieftain had turned and saw me advancing on him. He laughed and swung his monstrous sword round in a huge arc, aiming to cut me in two. The sword never reached me. Eduard, with his shield in front of him, just charged straight at the man. They both fell in a heap, but it was Eduard who got up. The chieftain was writhing on the ground, a dagger in his belly. He spat at Eduard and then died.

  We had killed the Welsh who had opened the gate and now Eduard, Aedann and I stood in the opening with the twenty men that were all that were left from our company. Outside the gates, five hundred enemy warriors charged towards us.

  Owain reached us first, his armour shining in the sunlight giving him the appearance of a bronze statue or a warrior god in his full glory. His huge house troops, all wearing chain armour and carrying vicious looking two-handed swords, charged with him. There was no time for terror now, just cut and thrust, the ramming of shields, wheeling round, dodging blows, staggering backwards then recovering and advancing again.

  All the time, we were being pushed back into the camp and at that moment, I was certain we were doomed. Harald and Sabert were leading their men down from the battlements to join us, but I could sense it was futile. Aethelric himself was now beside me and swung wildly with his blade at Owain, but the smile on the King of Rheged’s face told me that he knew it was all but over.

  That just got me angry, boiling mad in fact, at the stupidity of everything. After all our efforts we would die here and Deira would fall. My family would mourn me and as for little Mildrith, Samlen would celebrate his victory. That made me wonder where Samlen was. No doubt somewhere in the battle, but not where I could get to him and stop him from touching my sister. Unless...

  Unless, I could kill Owain.

  Blind rage and fury gave me strength and careless of my life, I came back at the golden king, hacking recklessly at his armour, ignoring the pain as his guards smashed swords against my shield or took slices out of my arms and legs. My fury took him by surprise and he stumbled over the chieftain’s body, slipped in his guts and then, with a cry, he fell...

  I was on him in an instant and plunged my sword into his throat.

  His eyes met mine and in them was shock and denial. His plans and dreams of glory bled away with his lifeblood into the soil of Catraeth field and then his eyes glazed and he was dead.

  Suddenly, there was a moment of silence as all on both sides looked on in stunned disbelief, weapons stilled. Into that silence came the other sound I remember from Catraeth, as I sit in sweat-soaked terror recovering from my nightmares. The clear sounds of more horns. Not horns from Elmet, Strathcyde, Rheged or even the Goddodin, but English horns heralding an English army: Bernician horns.

  Aethelfrith had come.

  There was another great fanfare
off to the northwest. This came from out beyond the enemy’s left wing. For a moment, I stared that way, but could see nothing because of the palisades. Then, Grettir shouted from the battlements.

  “Woden’s buttocks! It’s the Bernicians. Aethelfrith is here: they have come to the battle.”

  In front of me, the enemy’s confidence waned and fear came upon their faces. A few backed away, more joined them and with a clattering of dropped weapons and shields, they started to run.

  I ran too, but up to the battlements joined by Aethelric, Sabert and Harald and we stared out onto to the battlefield, to see if the Bernicians had come, after all. And indeed they had: one thousand spears had marched south from Bernicia and crossed the Tees. Like a shadow rolling across the fields, they came onwards, moving relentlessly to fall on the fleeing enemy.

  A murmur ran amongst our men who were crowding the battlements and I looked to see what had caused it. Then, for the first time, I saw the man who would have such an effect on my early years. He walked forward between two companies, surrounded by a half dozen cruel looking house guards, yet he was taller than any of them, by several inches. He wore a pair of leather britches and a tunic of tough brown cloth, over which he had a shirt of metal rings. By his side a great sword hung from a shoulder strap. His grey cloak, billowed around by the wind, served to exaggerate his size. Crowning all was a helm of iron with metal bands and strips that were extended to form nose and cheek guards. He was still young: perhaps twenty-five years or so, although a light brown beard gave him the appearance of being a few years older.

  This then was the man who had fought under his father in the siege on Lindisfarne and helped him to take advantage of the chaos following Urien’s death. After Firebrand’s death, Aethelfrith had unified the scattered Bernicians and finally secured a kingdom on the Tweed. That was not enough, for he had fought battles further afield to weaken his enemies and now he strode forward to confront the last chance those enemies had to defeat him.

  This was Aethelfrith.

  When the Bernicians joined the battle; it was over in minutes. They cut into the rear of the enemy, obliterating the brave Goddodin cavalry and rolling up the Welsh army.

  Increasingly outflanked, the Welsh from north of the wall were dying. The Goddodin had perished. The pressure there mounted until suddenly, the morale of the entire enemy army cracked like an acorn under a shoe and they were running like a flood westwards towards the pass. The Bernicians pursued them and with a shout of joy we Deirans ran after them, eager for revenge. In the release of fear that followed, a blood-madness overcame us. We took no prisoners and without pity slew all we could catch.

  The attempt to restore the Welsh Kingdom of the Pennines had failed. The finest, best equipped and noblest of the warriors of the old North were dead, captured or fleeing, scattered and leaderless. Never again would the Welsh field an army of such quality and size: an echo of the armies of Rome. We halted our pursuit at the pass to Rheged and turned back, exhausted and triumphant.

  After that, the armies moved towards the enemy camps and the looting began. The dead and the wounded were searched: for gold, for fine swords, for beads, for anything of value. Such has ever been the reward of victory.

  Suddenly, a cold terror gripped my heart. Somewhere on one of these camps was Mildrith. No doubt somewhere also here, if he had survived the slaughter, was Samlen, with my uncle’s sword and the amber treasure. But all that I counted as naught if I could just find Mildrith. I glared around me at Deiran and Bernician alike: friends who now became enemies if they reached my sister first. With their blood burning for loot, would they ignore other lusts if they found her?

  “Mildrith! I shouted. Near me, Aedann and Eduard heard me and the expressions on their faces, showed me they too realised my fear.

  “Mildrith!” we all shouted and started running across the battlefield.