How many, how many? Failend wondered. She could see a dozen or so men in the dark, though so far from the light of the fire they were shadowy at best. The English had, for obvious reasons, come over the wall at the darkest place and that made it impossible to see how many they were, and nearly impossible to fight them.
The red-bearded Northman had snatched up the ax from his companion who, last seen, was still lying on the ground clutching his balls. Now he barreled into the line of English, swinging the ax in front of him. His attack was as frenzied as Louis’s was controlled, but it was just as effective. An English sword reached out for him, and Failend saw the ax come down on the blade and snap it in two. The Northman screamed again and raised the ax high and brought it down on the Englishman’s helmeted head.
The helmet did the Englishman little good. The ax split it like cordwood and drove on down into the man’s skull. His knees buckled and he slumped to the ground, the ax still embedded in his skull. Failend could see the Northman struggling to free the blade, could see the Englishman just behind bring his sword back to deliver a backhand stroke. She shouted, leapt forward, drove her seax into the Englishman, right into his chest under his upraised arm.
The man screamed, the sword fell, the Northman yanked his ax free. He and Failend turned and faced the next two stumbling into the fight.
The other two Northmen had also driven themselves into the melee. One was thrusting and slashing with his sword, but the other had taken a vicious cut across the neck. He was staggering back when an English spear shot out from the dark, impaled his chest and doubled him over, eyes wide, mouth open. The spear was jerked back and he fell to his knees.
Failend watched this for a heartbeat, no more. No time for distractions. The spear that had killed the man thrust out again, looking for her this time, but she batted it aside with the seax in her right hand, grabbed the shaft in her left and jerked. The spearman, not ready for that, stumbled forward, near enough for Failend to get her short seax into him.
She was still screaming, the Northmen and Louis were screaming, the English were screaming. Someone was shouting something that sounded like orders. Weapons were clashing on weapons and Failend knew that this could not go on much longer. She knew they should not have attacked the enemy, they should have raced back to the fire, alerted the others, but they had not been thinking when they charged, and now there was no extricating themselves.
The English were pushing them back, step by step, and circling around the outside. It was their surprise attack that had kept them alive so far. The shock of their unexpected and wild charge had knocked the invaders off balance and allowed Failend and the others a moment of opportunity. But that moment was over. The English had figured out it was only five people, and one was already dead. It was a small defense and they could end it soon.
And in that frenzied attack, that fight for their lives, that desperate moment when the entire world shuts down to just those things within reach of a weapon, Failend forgot that there were others on the beach. She remembered Louis and the two others fighting with her, but she forgot the four hundred back by the fire. Until they arrived.
Damn, damn… she thought as she became aware of the running feet and the shouting men behind her. She thought the English had circled around behind, that any second now she would feel a spear or a sword or an ax in her back. In that second of distraction the man in front of her thrust out with his spear, thrust the point straight for her belly, and she knew she was too late to stop the weapon from striking home.
She was frozen, watching death come, when a sword came flailing down in front of her like a sword from Heaven, and Thorgrim Night Wolf was at her side. It was his sword, Iron-tooth, a blade she knew well, and it struck just as the tip of the English spear was touching Failend’s tunic. It struck the Englishman’s wrist and kept on going, taking his hand clean off. The spear, with the hand still gripping the shaft, dropped to the ground and the spear warrior screamed and grabbed the bleeding stump with his left hand and Thorgrim drove Iron-tooth through his chest.
“Thank you,” Failend said in a conversational way, but Thorgrim had already driven past her, thrusting and slashing, and on her left side Godi came smashing into the line, hacking with his ax. Then, through the cacophony of shouting men, came the war cry of Starri Deathless, like a razor-sharp knife through soft flesh.
It was a sound that was familiar to Failend by now, from all the scrapes she and Starri had been in together, but she still found it frightening. Not nearly as frightening as it was to those whom Starri was attacking, however, and once again Failend saw the war cry work its magic. She could see the pause, the uncertainty in the line of men before her, the step back and then another as the English heard the Angel of Death coming for them.
Run, you bastards, run, she thought, and, as if she were directing them with her mind, the English broke and ran. Back ranks first, those not locked in the fighting. There was just light enough from the distant fire for Failend to see them throw their weapons away and turn and flee, presumably back over the wall, the way they had come.
Those in the front could not turn and see what their comrades were doing, but they seemed to feel the absence of the men behind. One by one they, too, turned and ran, some getting clean away, some dying under a sword or ax or spear before they had taken two steps back. Others flung their weapons away and fell to their knees with arms raised. And some of those were struck down anyway in the battle frenzy, and others were pushed down flat on the ground by Northmen who had retained enough presence of mind to not kill everything before them.
Then, in that odd way of battle, it was over. The Englishmen who were caught halfway up the wall were pulled down and shoved to the ground. The rest who had not escaped were already down, surrendered or dead. The sound of struggling men, the clash of weapons, was gone, and in its place were the groans of the wounded and the thrashing and cursing of Starri Deathless as his shipmates held him down to stop him from further slaughter.
Failend was breathing hard. She held her seax loose at her side and the blood ran down the blade and dripped from the point. She felt an ache in her thigh which she had not noticed and looked down to find the cloth of her breeches cut through and hanging open, revealing a wide and bleeding laceration beneath. She felt the pain redouble now that she was aware of it, and her leg buckled a little. Not enough to put her down, but enough that she was standing at an odd angle.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up. The light of the bonfire illuminated one half of Thorgrim’s face and she could see concern there, along with streaks of blood and sweat.
“You’re hurt,” he said. “You should sit.”
“I’m all right,” Failend said, though they both knew that was not true.
“You were here before us,” Thorgrim said. “You and Louis the Frank.”
Failend nodded. She tried to hear something in Thorgrim’s voice. Suspicion? Jealousy? Worry? Concern? There was something there, but she did not know what.
“Louis and those others from Jorund’s crew,” Failend said. “I don’t know their names. We were just talking.”
Thorgrim nodded. “Good thing you were here,” he said. “But it was a foolish thing, running into the fight like that.”
“Not the first foolish thing I’ve done,” Failend said.
They were silent for a moment, not an easy silence, then Failend asked, “The English…what were they about, do you think? Was this supposed to be a full-on attack?”
“I don’t think so,” Thorgrim said. “They killed the man who was on lookout. I guess he wasn’t looking out so well. But if they meant this to be a real battle they would have tried to come over the wall in a few places. I think these men were sent to discover what they could. There was only a couple dozen of them, no more.”
Failend nodded and the silence fell on them again.
“I haven’t seen much of you,” Thorgrim said next, as hesitant and unsure as Failend had ever heard him.
> “I’ve been around,” she said, but she could not manage to put much reconciliation in her tone. “Did you miss me?”
Thorgrim frowned a little. He nodded his head.
“Did you miss me? Or just miss humping me?” Failend asked. She saw the surprise on Thorgrim’s face. She could see he did not know what to say to that.
This is stupid, she thought. Dead men lying at their feet, her thigh pulsing blood, an enemy gathered on the other side of the makeshift wall, and she was worried about whether Thorgrim loved her or just loved to fornicate.
“Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I can bind this wound. It’s nothing, and you have more important things by far to concern you.” She wiped the blade of her seax on her tunic, slid it into the scabbard, turned and hobbled back toward the stump of log where she had sought some quiet before this had all begun.
Chapter Thirteen
Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed to estrange us,
divide us, keep us apart.
The Wife’s Lament
10th Century English Poem
It was still dark outside, but there was light in Nothwulf’s tent, thrown off by the several candles burning in their stands. Light enough to see the rent in the sleeve of Captain Ailmar’s mail shirt, the dried blood that covered his hand where it had run down his arm, the dirt and presumably more blood streaking his face, the weariness in his eyes.
Ailmar was Leofric’s most trusted captain, commander of his hearth guard. It was why he had been chosen to lead the nighttime raid over the Northmen’s walls. But in the end it seemed they did not need a trusted man so much as a lucky man, and Ailmar was not that, apparently.
“The heathens was to the west end of their works, lord,” he was explaining to Nothwulf. Leofric sat off to Nothwulf’s side. He may have been Ailmar’s master, but Nothwulf was his ealdorman, and so the report went to him.
“We knew they’d be to the west. Their fire was to the west. We moved to the east side, sent one of the men up on the wall and he done for the lookout. Very quiet, no one heard anything. Not that anyone could, over the heathens singing and carrying on like the devils they are. So we went up and over the wall and everything was good, but then we realized there were some of the bastards on the ground right where we were coming over, hidden in the dark.”
“How many?” Nothwulf asked. “Did they seem to be waiting for you?”
“No, lord. I think we took them by surprise. But there were a lot of them, two dozen I would reckon. And they attacked screaming like lunatics. We might have beat them anyway, but the screaming brought the rest and that was an end to it.”
Nothwulf nodded. He had seen the men on their return. Cuts from swords and axes, ripped chainmail. But none of them were too badly hurt, because the ones who were too badly hurt did not make it back over the wall.
God knows what the heathens did to those poor bastards, Nothwulf thought.
“So the Northmen are numerous, and they’re not drinking themselves into insensibility, is that what we’ve learned?” Leofric asked.
“Yes, lord, that seems to be it,” Ailmar said.
“How many men did we lose?” Nothwulf asked.
“Ah…not sure, lord. I’ve not had the chance to determine that,” Ailmar said.
You mean you don’t want to tell me, Nothwulf thought. Which was ironic. Ailmar considered the losses to be a poor reflection on his own leadership. But Nothwulf did not blame Ailmar, he blamed himself alone. Nothwulf was more anxious about the number of casualties than Ailmar was.
“Very well,” Nothwulf said. “You and your men did good work tonight. You couldn’t have known there’d be some of the Northmen skulking about in the dark. Now, go get some rest.”
Ailmar stood and bowed and left the tent as fast as he could. Nothwulf turned to Leofric. “You were right. It was a stupid, pointless endeavor.”
“I did not say that. I just worried that it couldn’t be carried out with success,” Leofric said.
Leofric was a gentleman of the highest order. That was why he did not remind Nothwulf that he had questioned Nothwulf’s plan to send men over the wall, and the purpose for doing so. In the end it had been the disaster that Leofric had predicted, and now, in his present state of mind, Nothwulf could not even recall why he had ever thought it was a good idea.
“So, what now?” Nothwulf asked. He was quite done with making decisions.
“As you said to Ailmar,” Leofric said. “Rest. We’ll figure the next step in the morning.”
But there was no need for figuring, because the next step came to them. It rode right into camp in the form of Oswin the shire reeve, followed by a dozen of the finest men-at-arms in Cynewise’s army.
Where the hell did they come from? Nothwulf wondered as he watched them approach down the wide path between the rows of tents. Cynewise’s army, he realized, must be closer than he thought.
Nothwulf was standing outside his tent, a wash bowl in front of him, his face lathered with soap, when Oswin reined to a stop fifteen feet away. In his surprise Nothwulf had forgotten about the soap, but in that moment remembered. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face and tried to hide any consternation that might have crept into his expression.
Oswin slipped down from his horse and approached. Nothwulf’s guards took a step forward, but Nothwulf waved them off. Oswin stopped a few feet from Nothwulf and bowed.
“My lord, it’s my pleasure to see you again.” He was well practiced in subservience and his words truly sounded sincere.
“Oswin,” Nothwulf said, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “You’ll forgive my surprise at seeing you here.”
“Of course, lord,” Oswin said. “I come at the behest of my lady Cynewise. She asks if you would be so gracious as to meet with her at your convenience.”
“It’s hardly convenient for me to ride to Sherborne, what with the heathens trapped here under our noses.” Nothwulf nodded toward the makeshift log walls, which were two hundred feet away across the open ground between the river’s edge and the first of the houses that made up the village of Christchurch.
Oswin looked over at the walls as if they were of only minor interest. “I see the masts of their ships,” he said. “If their ships are there, and they’re able to sail away, I wonder how trapped they could be. In any event, my lady is not at Sherborne. She rides at the head of her army, not three miles from here.”
“Indeed?” Nothwulf said, showing no more interest than Oswin had in the Northmen’s defenses. He had not really thought that Cynewise was in Sherborne. He did not know where she was, but he was desperately anxious to find out.
“Yes, lord, about three miles away,” Oswin said. “And she begs you’ll meet with her.”
“She’s welcome in my camp any time,” Nothwulf said. “She is my sister-in-law, after all.”
“An honor she feels deeply,” Oswin said. “But she begs me give her apologies, but she is too occupied to leave her army at the moment.”
And I’m not? Nothwulf thought. But he understood that there was a time to stand on a point of honor and a time to compromise. At the moment it was more important that he speak with Cynewise and get an idea of what she was up to than to sit petulantly in camp and insist she come to him.
Actually, it was to his advantage to go to her, to see for himself the size and makeup of her army.
“Very well, if Cynewise is too out of sorts to come here, then I will go to her,” Nothwulf said. “Pray wait while I dress.”
Nothwulf dressed, he breakfasted, he spoke with Leofric, he ordered Bryning, captain of his hearth-guard, to assemble an armed escort, he gave instructions to his servant, all the while leaving Oswin to wait outside the tent. Finally, when all was in readiness, he mounted, and he and Oswin and their respective contingents of men-at-arms rode from the camp.
Nothwulf would have preferred to lead the procession, which was hi
s proper place, but of course he did not know where Cynewise was to be found. So he opted for the next best thing, which was to ride side by side with Oswin. And they did not ride for long: Cynewise’s camp was indeed just three miles away.
As they approached, Nothwulf undertook the difficult task of looking uninterested in what was in front of him while simultaneously taking in every bit of it that he could. There were a lot of men. Some he could see were part of the fyrd, but many were proper men-at-arms. There were quite a few horses, a sign of professional warriors, men of means, or those employed by men of means. There had to be five hundred men all told, pretty much the same as he commanded. All that he was able to see while trying not to look around. And he saw a few other things that caught his attention in a serious way.
They came at last to the big tent that housed Cynewise in a level of comfort not generally enjoyed by soldiers in the field. Oswin stopped and Nothwulf stopped and they both swung out of their saddles and dropped to the ground. They approached the tent and the guard to the right of the door called, “Lord Nothwulf and Shire Reeve Oswin!”
That’s “Ealdorman,” not “Lord,” Nothwulf thought, but the thought was cut short by a voice, Cynewise’s voice, from within, calling, “Come!”
Oswin ducked through the canvas flap of a door and Nothwulf followed. The interior of the tent was nearly as grand as a bed chamber in a royal house: a wide bed with a feather mattress, a wardrobe, a table with wash basin, mirror and combs, another with wine and glasses and cheese and bread.
Cynewise was seated in a large chair opposite the bed, nearly facing the door. The chair resembled a throne somewhat, which was not by chance. There were a few other chairs of lesser stature around it. One was occupied by Bishop Ealhstan, which surprised Nothwulf so much he was not quite able to keep it from his face.
Kings and Pawns Page 13