by C. R. May
Erik was out of the saddle before the horse had slid to a halt, and his hand shot back to retrieve Jomal as he firmed the grip on the handle of his shield. He raised his eyes as he ran, his gaze darting along the line as he judged the best place to strike, and the faces swam in his vision until the experience gained on countless battlefields caused one to harden from the rest and he knew that he had found his man. Given the opportunity an inexperienced fighter would often choose the opponent who appeared poorly armed or made rigid by fear, but Erik knew better, and he locked eyes with his chosen opponent and heft his axe as he adjusted his run to bring the man beneath his blade. Burlier than his neighbours and dressed in the earthy colours of a hunter or backwoodsman, the Kentish man confirmed Erik’s choice of opponent by showing that he possessed the courage to move clear of the line as he sought room to use the thick oak staff in his grip. Bring him down, send the big oaf to Christ, and those around him would buckle and fold as the biggest and bravest was swept aside by the axe wielding madman in their midst.
Both men swung at the same moment, Jomal’s familiar wail almost drowned out by the deeper swoosh of the stave as it swept in to take Erik on his unprotected side. Erik recognised the move of old and he drew his knees up as he waited for the Englishman to switch the strike low to batter his lower legs or ankles, but whether caused by guile or inexperience the move was no feint and a heartbeat later he felt the air driven from his lungs as the stave crashed into his ribs. Erik stumbled forward as his feet came back down to hit the paving, and he threw his shield up instinctively as he sought to regain his balance and buy a little time to recover. The powerful hit had winded him, and Erik saw his opponent take a backward step as he prepared to finish off the big Norseman as he gasped for air. Erik was down on one knee, his ears filled with the sound of rolling thunder as weapons of every kind battered against the boards of his shield: hand axes; spears, ancient swords; even clubs as the levy men seized the chance to earn renown before they were cut down fighting for God and country.
The woodsman had recovered from his first strike and jabbed again with the butt of his stave. With Óðinn luck Erik saw it coming and snatched his head aside, but as the shaft ran along the side of his cheek he felt it rest against his shoulder to lever the shield up and away. The sun blinded him as he looked up to face his end like a warrior, and the image flashed through his mind of all those who had gone on ahead: his own father Harald Fairhair, Thorir hersir; Anlaf Crow; even his brothers Olav, Bjorn Farman, Gudrod and Ragnvald Straight-Boned had died sword in hand, and he imagined the mirth sweeping the benches as they sat at their cups and heard the tale of how Erikr Blóðøx had been sent across the rainbow bridge by a hairy-arsed yokel with a stick.
As Erik struggled to contain his disbelief that it would all end here, the sunlight was snuffed out as a wave of bodies surged forward all around him. Erik was rising as a hand gripped him by the scruff of the neck and a familiar voice sounded in his ear:
‘Come on sunshine, on your feet. We have work to do!’
Erik’s eyes focused again as the glare of the sun diminished, and he wheezed and gulped down air as his lungs began to recover from the blow. Ahead of him the men of his hird were hacking and slashing as they drove the men of Kent before them. The stave-man was already on his back, his expression betraying the surprise and horror he had felt as a Norwegian sword divided his skull, and even as his huskarls threw a protective cordon around him and Sturla carried the battle banner to his side, Erik felt a pang of regret that a brave man would never tread the tracks and pathways of the Weald again.
Helgrim appeared before him blocking his view ahead, and Erik saw the huskarl’s eyes focus on his own as he reached forward to cradle his head in his hands. ‘Are you with it lord?’ Erik’s reply left no room for doubt, and Helgrim’s look of concern melted away as quickly as his mouth broadened into a grin. ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go get ‘em.’
28
THE DREAM
‘Where is it?’ the lad said, ‘I still can’t see it.’
Erik listened in as his brother replied. ‘Follow the flagstaff down and three heads over to the right.’
An arrow flashed in as they looked and the horn sank from sight. ‘They must be running short of volunteers by now. Regenwold’s bowmen sure know how to make their arrows count.’
Erik shook his head as they discussed the goings on before them like they were watching a beery fight at a feast. But it was far from that. Three times they had thrown themselves against the English shield wall, three times they had been repulsed, and all the time the blare of horns had had them casting anxious looks down the Roman Rigg for the returning army of the South. Stood at the head of the svinfylking, the young men would soon be leading the charge which had to smash through the Kentish defence if they were to win the day. Barrel chested with arms like ship’s hawsers, Grettir and Gunnar the lookalike brothers from Hordaland had pleaded with Erik for days to lead the attack. Although he had been reluctant to risk close kinsmen in such a deadly position, the pressing need for a victory and Helgrim’s cheerful advice had persuaded him. The young men were almost impossible to tell apart, and it was true what his big huskarl had said; if the unlikely happened and one or both survived the fighting, it was doubtful that Kentish blade work would leave them looking so alike.
Between the boar head and the enemy a dozen úlfheðnar, Óðinn’s wolf-hide warriors, had all but worked themselves into a fury as they danced and chanted, biting at the rims of their shields as they bared their chests to foreign spears, calling on the Allfather to send his valkyrie to escort them to his hall of the slain.
Erik raised his chin to look over the heads of the warriors gathered around him in the swine head as they waited for the charge. Beyond the men of Kent packed in their shield burh, the famous shield fort of the southern English, earl Regenwold stood out clearly surrounded by his oath sworn, and Erik allowed himself a snort of amusement as he imagined that he could see their faces pale, even at distance, as the heathen madmen prepared to attack. The earl had had the foresight to abandon his strong defensive position and cross the ford, rolling up the fighters at the head of the Kentish column until they had been held by the same knot of seasoned warriors gathered around the ealdorman and his senior thanes.
Although the ground bordering the causeway was still too waterlogged after the recent rains and floods to support manoeuvres by armoured men and horses, Erik had looked on with approval as Regenwold had sent his bowmen out onto the flats to pick off any signallers as they appeared. Protected from return fire by a shield bearing partner, the bowmen had quickly reduced the blare of horns coming from the beleaguered shield fort to a muffled drone as the men of Kent were forced to keep their heads low or quickly pay for their bravery with their lives. That so many had been willing to make just such a sacrifice for their shield brothers had drawn respect and admiration from their enemy in equal measure, but it had also confirmed that they believed rescue was close at hand. With the majority of the Northumbrian army still sheltering behind the walls of York, Erik knew that they had to finish it: fast.
Erik dropped his gaze once again as he saw that the wolf-hides had stopped cavorting around and were staring wild-eyed at the enemy, and the mournful howl which rose into the air now came from Norwegian throats as the men keened their death songs. They were close to the English front ranks, too close, and although Regenwold’s bowmen were keeping their heads down for now, one of the snatched shots of the defenders was bound to get through sooner rather than later, and the king send his own invocation to Óðinn that he hurry up and release the dogs of war before the effort was wasted.
The úlfheðnar were pawing the ground now as they prepared to charge, and Erik was aware of the hands of all those surrounding him in the svinfylking moving to their sides, checking again that the peace bands holding their swords safely in their scabbards were loosened; and although like them he had checked and rechecked constantly during the time he had s
tood there waiting for the mad men to launch their attack, he did so again just to make sure.
‘Ready lads,’ Erik said, and the words had barely left his lips before the wolf-men were bursting forward, gaining speed with the animalistic loping gait Erik had witnessed whenever the Allfather came from Valhöll to possess a warrior’s mind and body. There was neither time nor need for elaborate signals, and Erik called the command to set the formation moving. ‘Let’s go!’
Grettir and Gunnar stepped off, and the boar snout began to open out as the men within it gave themselves and their neighbours room to move forward without tripping or stumbling over the dead from the earlier attacks. Within a few steps the Hordalanders were increasing the pace, breaking into a jog as they threw their great shoulders into the boards of their shields and couched spears. From his place five rows back in the wedge, Erik raised his eyes to sweep the field of battle for a final time before he was swallowed by the fray. The ground to his right fell away in a gentle gradient down to the boggy water meadow; it was enough to preclude the use of the svinfylking which worked best where the ground was level or sloping away to the front. Gamli was there, his trusted huskarls Hoskuld and Svan at his shoulders, as Erik’s son led a regular charge at the flank of the enemy beneath the raven flag of Óðinn. Between the two formations Morcar led his hundred, the cross of Christ a point of gold against the blue of the sky; to Erik’s left Harald Eriksson and the men of the Auk were drawing ahead as the flatter ground and their open order formation gave them the advantage in speed if not hitting power over the men of the Draki.
The first sounds of fighting rose into the air as Regenwold’s Northumbrians crashed into the shield burh from the south, but the men around him were picking up the pace and he looked back just in time to see the first of the wolf-skins launch themselves at English spears. Twenty paces ahead the front ranks of the enemy seesawed back and forth as the úlfheðnar smashed into them in a whirl of snarling fury, and twenty paces quickly became ten and then five as the jog became a sprint. Battle hardened veterans to a man the crew of the Draki closed ranks the moment the swine head hit, and Erik watched with satisfaction as the front ranks of the burh finally crumpled beneath the onslaught. Within moments the break was widening as men pushed and stabbed and Erik’s heart leapt as he thought they had the breakthrough, but the sheer numbers of the enemy packed together on the roadway began to tell and the brothers were fought to a halt as they reached the fourth rank. It was obvious from his position further back that the Kentish warriors had been squeezed into a solid block, and Erik’s voice rose above the din even as the men at the centre of the wedge began to throw their shoulders into their shields in an effort to drive the attack forward. ‘Grettir! Gunnar! Hold them there. Flanks, widen the breach!’
Erik watched as the men on the wings of the formation took a pace forward, hunkering down to stab between the shields as the men to their rear jabbed down over their heads into the shoulders and faces if the enemy, and he was about to move forward to support the attack when a gasp of surprise at his shoulder caused him to pause. ‘The flag lord,’ Sturla cried in amazement. ‘It’s gone!’
Erik snapped back in anger as his concentration was broken at a critical time, but the response when it came had the king lifting his eyes in disbelief. ‘No lord, not your own flag. The white horse!’
Erik looked and saw that it was true. The place where the white horse battle flag of Kent had dominated the southern skyline was now a swatch of blue, and the flash of sunlight on steel showed where heavy fighting was taking place at the heart of the English shield burh. Erik’s huskarls had seen it too, and they began to draw their swords as the experience gained from a lifetime of war told them what must quickly follow. ‘Who did it?’ Erik asked in astonishment. ‘Did anyone see who beat the English banner down?’
A dark shape on the skyline slowly revealed itself as a raven in flight, and Erik and his men exchanged looks of incredulity despite the nearness of enemy spears as the war sigil of Óðinn was hoist above the place where the enemy leaders must surely lay pierced and bloodied in death. The news of their leaders’ fall was spreading through the Kentish spearmen like a brushfire, and Erik saw the moment that their discipline, so firm that morning despite the grimness of their position, finally fled them. Trapped between the armies of Erik and Regenwold the only escape route open to the remaining men of king Eadred’s rearguard was across the muddy flood plain, and Erik began to relax now that the victory was assured as the enemy threw down their arms and scattered before them like startled deer. The sound of horses replaced the cries of dying men as the reserve cantered forward, and Erik watched as Arinbjorn, Guttorm and Sigurd led their men past to complete the rout.
After all the hard fighting which had gone before, the final collapse and defeat of the enemy had come so quickly and been so overwhelming that the úlfheðnar were still slavering beasts. Men were attempting to calm them, pinning them with their shields until the madness retreated, but several were suffering the ultimate betrayal as their strength and ferocity left the Norwegians no alternative than to put them to death to save themselves from Óðinn’s fury.
Erik looked out across the battlefield as the cloying stench of blood and death blanketed the sweet smell of yarrow and meadowsweet. Arinbjorn had crossed the ford, and a strong detachment was heading away to give warning of any relief effort from the south. As experienced as any man on the field, he could be counted upon to finish off the survivors and follow on without exposing himself to unnecessary danger. ‘Sturla, sound the rally,’ Erik said as he watched the butchery along the riverbank with satisfaction. ‘We have shown what type of men we are, and given Northumbria a victory. It is time for us to go.’
‘I have never seen men so fearful of glory,’ Gamli said as they entered the final mile before the city. ‘Perhaps we should have lost?’
Regenwold cleared his throat and replied, but it was obvious to them all that the bluff Northumbrian felt more than a little embarrassed and ashamed of his countrymen. ‘As I have said before, city boys are not the best of us.’ He turned his head aside to spit into the roadside dust, sniffing to show his disdain. ‘They are the type of men who value worth by the weight of a purse, not by deeds and honour.’
Men had come to the roadside to gape, as King Erik led his army back to the city in triumph following the crushing defeat of at least part of the invading army of the southern king; here and there a half-hearted cheer only served to emphasise the fears of the majority.
‘Tell us again how you gained the victory,’ Regenwold said to Gamli as he attempted to lighten the atmosphere. ‘No West Saxon led force has been defeated in a shield-on-shield fight for almost half a century. Wave after wave of English attacks have scoured the island of Britain since that time, killing kings and exacting tribute at will to fill southern coffers.’ The Northumbrian’s voice took on a dreamy quality at odds with his warlike looks as he luxuriated in the day. ‘If only my father had lived to see it…’
‘It was not my victory,’ Gamli replied with a modesty that had Erik glancing across in surprise. ‘Father’s idea to use the úlfheðnar won the day. Squeezed between your own attack in the south and the Norwegians and Morcar’s men to the north, as soon as the wolf-skins got among them the defenders were thrown on the back foot.’ He held up a fist to illustrate his point. ‘Already as tightly packed as it was practicable to be and still have elbow room to wield their weapons, as the long walls of the burh were forced together the only way more space could be found was if the sides moved outwards.’ He gave the fist a squeeze. ‘The ends burst open like an overripe pear as the shield wall lost its cohesion.’ He gave a self deprecating shrug. ‘We just saw the opportunity and poured through the gaps. I kept my head up, hacking at any men who appeared before me, and my hopes began to rise as the quality of arms and armour continued to increase with every step taken. Suddenly Hoskuld and Svan were forcing their way to my side, bellowing like bulls, everyone seemed to fall away and
I found myself looking into the eyes of the English banner man.’ Gamli’s voice lowered a notch as he recalled the culmination of the battle. ‘I saw an acceptance there that he was about to meet his end, but also a grim determination that he would die with honour.’ He paused, and those around him acknowledged the death of a fellow warrior as Gamli took in the faces of a group of men who had never lacked courage. ‘He was a brave man.’
Erik continued to ride in silence as he ran his eyes over the city of York, but the tale had thrilled him as he listened in and he wondered for a moment if he had made the right choice. It was still not too late to change his mind and he yearned to do so, but in his heart he knew that his decision was the correct one for himself, his family, and the loyalists in the kingdom be they archbishop, earl or Sheptun priest. He had often thought on Morcar’s words that summer as the army of king Eadred had ridden at will across his land, and the passage came back to him once again as he rode. For a moment in time the summer sun faded to grey, and he was back on the rain-lashed bank of the Tees:
With Bernician warriors and Yorkish gold, a reunified Northumbria could once again become the greatest power on the island.
The twin spires of the Minster of St Peter dominated the skyline beneath a dark cap of rooks, the fingers of stone and glass still creating a sense of awe in the king as they did in all men. The shacks of the southern approaches were giving way to the bustling heart of the dockside, the real spiritual home of the city where those who worshipped the universal god of mammon struck their deals. Beyond the Ouse Bridge lay the city itself, and Erik said his first words for a time as they came into the shadow of the gate. ‘Sturla,’ he said as his humour recovered with the finality of his decision. ‘Give the banners a wave. Let us upset as many of the good folk of York as we are able.’