by M J Porter
It was Horic who made the decision for him, with Olaf at his side,
“Well don’t stand there looking like a useless mule, get your things together. Take what you don’t have from the extras in the storage shed.”
His tone was abrupt but kindly, and Northman noticed that his mother had already taken command of Mildryth and Wulfstan. Still, he couldn’t just leave. Not like this. Running to his slight wife, he grabbed her around the waist and turned her towards him.
Running his hands through her unbound hair, he met her fear filled eyes and held them.
“Be safe, my love,” he said, kissing her tenderly.
She grabbed him, holding him close, her soft arms suddenly empowered with a strength he’d not realised.
“And you come home, safe and well,” she murmured after their kiss. “Come back to your son and make amends with your father. Mistakes can be forgiven.”
Shrugging aside her comment about his father as unimportant, he planted a kiss on his protesting son’s face,
“Keep the boy safe for me.”
“I will,” she whispered.
“And mother, keep everyone safe. And mother, please keep my hound for me, he’s old, and this'll kill him.”
A kindly look clouded his mother’s face as she watched the animal being lifted down from the saddle. Grateful to be on the ground, it walked softly to Northman, and he cupped its muzzle in his hand, and then he walked away as if he knew what was to happen. He swallowed and his mother shook her head in exasperation at the emotion for the animal,
“You men and your bloody hounds,” she muttered with rancour and turned away from her son. Mildryth too shook her head at him and reached for his hand one more time,
“Be safe my love,” she uttered, and then she was gone. None of the women wanting to see their sons, fathers and lovers ride out to war once more.
Chapter 43
Late Summer AD1013 - Northman – Winchester/London
By the time he’d reached the king at Winchester, the news flooding in from the entire eastern coast was devastating. The king ensconced in his high chair on the raised dais, could barely process one messenger’s words, before another fell over themselves to report to the king of the calamities befalling his people.
No sooner had Swein overrun Sandwich, then he moved to London, and then along the eastern coastline, towards the mouth of the river Humber. The raids were lightning quick, his intentions a little unclear as he reached accords with the men in the specific places, taking their money, their hostages and moving on to the next place.
Northman, as with everyone within the great hall, watched the king keenly. How would he cope with this threat?
Northman had immediately sought out Eadric once he’d arrived at Winchester, but as ever, he found Eadric too concerned with himself and not the good of the country. Still, he’d thought enough to bring Northman’s men with him, and he’d greeted the small fighting force of ten with delight. With these men at his back, he knew that he’d be able to assist in the defence of the land, wherever the king chose for him to make his stand.
The king was surrounded by his advisors, Thorkell chief among them, his own eyes haunted by the news that became more and more dire with each passing day. Finally, and when news reached them that Uhtred of Northumbria had reached an accord with Swein, giving hostages, his geld and his oath to Swein, a crushing realisation became apparent to all and not just Northman. Swein was after more than just geld. He’d come for the crown.
Thinking quickly, Thorkell had instructed the king to remove himself to London, where his fleet was currently stationed. The first lightning fast raid there had done little harm. It was well defended, and Thorkell was adamant that from there they’d be able to mount an effective counter-attack.
Flailing for some way to counter Swein’s aggressive stance, Æthelred had readily agreed. His wife he left behind at Winchester, far from the ravages of the Raiders reach and surrounded by a full half of the king’s own household troops, the queen placed as their commander. Everyone else marched towards London.
A sense of expectation infected everyone, from the horses to the mightiest warriors. Somehow London would be decisive. One way or another, Swein and Æthelred would resolve this dispute.
At no time did Northman move to make amends with his father. Leofric he spoke to daily, but his father, no matter the efforts he took to resolve their falling out, Northman steadfastly refused to accommodate his apology. No matter how many times Olaf twittered in his ears, he’d not make amends with the man. And he’d damn well dare him to die in the coming battle!
The countryside was preternaturally calm as they rode to London. The smell of smoke often drifted in the breeze, but the fires stayed tantalisingly out of sight. Outriders scouted far ahead, and Athelstan, at his father’s command, took control of his own household troops and those of the king’s who remained. Edmund and Eadwig too rode to battle with their father.
London appeared on the evening of the second day of travel, appearing serenely before them as though the rest of England wasn’t under attack.
On the advice of archbishop Wulfstan and Eadric, the king had sent a message of peace to Swein, but as he entered London, he received a rebuff. The Danish king informed the English that he’d established his power base at Gainsborough, that Uhtred of Northumbria had submitted to him and that he’d be in London as soon as possible, to face the English king and resolve the conflict once and for all.
Eadric took the news badly, and Northman felt embarrassed for the man. His own father had apparently been expecting the rebuff, his troops ready and waiting as he deployed them along the exposed walls of London. A grudging admiration for his father had Northman seek out Leofric and ask where his men could best be sited. Leofric, without a further word, informed Northman that he and his men could stand a watch over the bridge. They feared that Swein would attempt to enter via the river, using his ships or the bridge.
Northman accepted his deployment in silence but took a moment to grab his brother in a fierce hug. He wished he knew him better, but that was, after all, another grudge to hold against his father. Although, Leofric’s knowledge of where he'd take his troops reeked of his father pre-empting his decision. That annoyed him. He wished his father knew him a little less well.
The battle came only the next morning. Further messengers had ridden in to inform the king that Swein had entrusted his hostages and his ships to his son, Cnut, and now travelled overland to meet the king in London.
A quick scramble, and the host of troops, both household and the fyrd, were arranged against Swein’s approach. There was no mystery as to where they’d come from. Æthelred had made his position well known, and Swein, in his arrogance, came to meet it, head on. News reached them that while Æthelred had made his journey to London, Swein had circled him and set fire to both Winchester and Oxford. Horror at the news had swept through the camp at London, but then the next messenger confirmed that the queen had sought shelter closer to London and would soon join the king.
With the lightening of the day, Northman saw the combined host of the Danish king. Its sheer size took his breath away; its organisation astoundingly efficient. No dishevelled shield wall linked loosely, but instead, warriors, tightly packed together, their heads covered by helms, their shields painted a devilish red and their war axes, spears or swords, ready in their hands.
Unable to see their faces from such a distance, Northman felt a moment of fear, as though he was gearing himself to mount an attack against faceless foes from an ancient legend.
Around him, he could hear the men of the fyrd moving into position. The Danish king, coming as he did from the south-west had perhaps not fully considered the placement of his troops, for before them all stretched the expanse of the great river. Northman wondered if the river would be their major defence and quickly banished the thought. Whether it would be or not, he had bigger things to consider. The high wooden bridge, with its stone standings, was his to pr
otect, and he mustn't let the Danish take it. With their ships effectively excluded from entering London by Thorkell’s ships, this, for the time being, was their only way into London itself.
On the far side of the river, the English king’s troops were lined up and ready, Northman marking the spot where, if the Danish broke through, the English would be able to make a final stand against them. If the Danish broke through the English shield wall, they’d yet have Northman and his men, and the reserve warriors to defeat.
As in the Battle of Ringmere, a final attempt was made to make peace, Leofwine taking it up himself to approach Swein. Even from this great distance, Northman could tell that the exchange was friendly, Swein greeting Leofwine expansively. A murmur of disgust swept through the men that Northman didn’t decry. He too felt a little sickened to see his father with their sworn enemy.
The meeting was over quickly, Leofwine returning to the shield wall, his stance clear to read. No agreement had been reached.
Swein and the men who’d accompanied him to the brief meeting, stayed where he was, looking at the English and their war leaders, eyeing London with what Northman could only assume to be acquisitive eyes. Everywhere else had fallen before Swein, and he expected the same here.
A shout from his shield wall and Swein was racing back to his men and calling for order. The English stood silent, waiting to see what would happen. Northman knew a moment of complete calm and acceptance of what was to come. Rage did not fuel him this time, not like at Ringmere. Instead he felt a resolve to defeat these men, these upstarts, these warriors who fancied that they could just take England.
A further cry, and another and another, and the Danish were advancing slowly and in tight formation, Swein proudly flying his flag so that all knew where he stood and fought, staking his claim to London.
Northman watched in satisfaction as the English archers loosed their arrows, falling amongst the enemy, but as he knew would happen, they had little effect. Swein’s men were too battle seasoned, too well trained to let possible death falling from the sky distract them.
A sudden burst of speed and the men met in a howling screech of rage from the English, professionalism from the Danish. Northman felt himself stir in admiration for the Danish king’s troops. They were truly terrifying to behold. Disciplined and precise, they did their best to strike directly through the English. Only the English, with far more at stake than the Danish, fought with passion and desire. And for the time being, that was the winning force.
A concerted effort was made to slice through the defence guarding the bridge to London itself, and Northman called his men to attention. It was their opportunity to fight the attackers.
Already moving into position, Northman directed the men to line the bridge crossing. Other household warriors also stood there, the shield wall still at least five men deep, but the crushing force of the attack was being directed here, the remainder of the Danish men seeming to work to distract the English from their real intent. Immediately he saw that in giving him this command, his father had done him a great honour. To him would fall the ultimate task of repelling the Raiders.
His men stood firm around him, still and resolved so that when the first Danish warrior somehow fought his way through the tight shield wall, they were ready for him. Covered in blood and grime, the warrior had a crazed look in his eyes, his professionalism long fled. In the centre of the shield wall guarding the bridge, Northman met the eyes of the man. This was his kill, pure and simple.
The rest of the battle faded from his consciousness as he stepped forward, the shield wall immediately closing behind him.
The warrior grinned with delight, taking a moment to wipe the blood that marred his eyes from his face. In doing so, he left streaks of bright red blood running from his forehead to his chin, a chilling sight.
Northman smiled at the warrior tauntingly, and he took the bait. A screech of rage and he was moving towards Northman, his shield ready, his war axe held firm in his hand. Northman had, by contrast, chosen his sword for this encounter and he hefted it from hand to hand as he looked at the warrior.
Were all of the Norse men left handed?
The warrior grinned once more, raising his war axe, and Northman quickly switched his hands, the shield in his right, and the sword in his left. The warrior furrowed his brow in consternation, and at that moment, Northman stepped in. A swipe of his blade to the unprotected left-hand side of the man’s body, a howl of outrage and a brutal pounding on his now raised shield.
Northman grinned with delight. The easiest way to excite a Dane was to defeat them at their own game. He’d learnt that at Ringmere.
Once more, he swapped his shield and his sword arm, while crouching behind his shield. When the ferocious attack lessened, he lashed out with his sword, slicing the other side of the man’s unprotected neck, and then lightening quick, he slashed at the man’s feet, his blade encountering little resistance as it wiped through his right ankle. The warrior howled once more in outrage, but Northman had heard enough, stepping forward, he dug his sword through the man’s protective tunic and straight through his flesh, feeling the grate of his sword on the man’s ribs. The warrior’s eyes closed in pain, and Northman leant forward and held the man’s discarded war axe out to him. The man grasped it, his death coming, and a faint smile upon his lips.
These bloody Danish, Northman thought with admiration, and their love of a good death.
A moment to assess the situation and he was back within the shield wall. No others had yet made it through. But they would. He knew it.
His sword was slick with blood, and he wiped it absentmindedly on his trousers as he watched the shield wall in front of him. It was holding firm, but bodies were being dragged backwards by those not yet actively engaged in the battle. He approved of the move. It would have made the retreat at Ringmere so much easier if the bodies of his fallen comrades had been removed.
At his side, Olaf was speaking to him and belatedly he listened,
“You fought well Northman. He was a big man, but you downed him quickly enough.”
Olaf’s was clearly impressed by his friend, and Northman grinned with delight.
“The big ones always think they can win because they’re so powerful. Like everyone else, they have their weak points.”
Suddenly a roar from in front and Northman felt rather than saw, the shield wall collapse at a juncture in front of him. Other warriors rushed to fill the gap, but before they could, a contingent of men rushed through, shields protectively in front of them, their heads protected by warriors from behind.
Northman called his men to order, not that they weren’t already prepared. Within moments, the first clash of war axe on shield set the shield wall reverberating and Northman grinned a little manically. Now he’d learn just how good his abilities were.
Head down, he was unable to see what happened on the battlefront at the further shield wall, but he hoped that the gaping hole there would soon be filled, effectively trapping this small horde of men between the two English sides.
He heard the cries of the warriors as their leader beckoned them on, promising glory and golden riches when they entered London. The roar his words received shook the shield wall as surely as the impact of the war axes.
“Hold men,” Northman bellowed to those around him. The shuffle of feet behind him alerted him to reinforcement coming hastily to his aid, and he once more praised his father’s forethought, for it was he and Thorkell who’d devised the battle strategy.
A crack on his shield, a volley of spears above his head, he ignored, pressing against the combined mass of the men of the other side of his shield.
His arms, once so weak that they trembled all through the battle at Ringmere, held firm and he delighted in his greater strength. A few years older and a lot of practice later.
Beside him, Olaf grunted and ducked all at the same time as a sword attempted to wind its way between the two shields protecting him. A quick glance to his right,
and his sword was burying itself in the exposed underarm of the warrior there. A cry of shock and the man gaped at him I surprise. The man fell to his knees, slipping from the glistening blade as he did so, and Northman was once more behind his shield.
“My thanks, Northman,” Olaf breathed, but Northman didn’t reply, his attention on the next attacker.
This time, the sword came under his shield, trying to play the same trick on him that had downed the first warrior, but Northman was ready. He ducked his shield, trapping the sword where it was and adding his foot to it when he could. Annoyed grunts greeted his efforts, but Olaf had seen the opportunity and acted, sticking his sword through the man’s side as he laboured to free his sword. Suddenly, the sword stopped moving, and the man slumped to his knees, death quickly taking him.
“Well done Olaf,” Northman crowed with delight, his voice ringing loudly in a strange silence that had descended upon the bridge. Dismayed, Northman lowered his shield and looked in front of him, but there was little to see.
The attacking force had been decimated. All lay dead, and at the original shield wall, the defenders had ceased their efforts. Swein and his men had retreated, running as far and as fast as they could.
Grinning wildly with delight, Northman turned to Olaf to share their success, but he was too slow. Olaf grabbed him in a joyful embrace, banging him on the back and exclaiming,
“We did it. We beat the bastards.”
Northman couldn’t have phrased it better if he’d tried.
Chapter 44
AD1013 – Northman – London
He woke abruptly, having managed to sleep, somehow. Around him, there was a swirl of conversation, urgent and none too quiet.
Sitting, he blearily rubbed at his sleep encrusted eyes and looked at those who surrounded him; the king, his foster-father, the tall Dane, Thorkell, the king’s older sons, Athelstan and Edmund and of course, his father, Leofwine.