by Martin Lake
‘You could be right,’ Ulf said. ‘When I was their captive I learnt they prefer to win battles by guile and cunning. They’re more sparing of their men than we’ve realised.’
‘Not so keen to go and feast with their gods in Valhalla, after all,’ said Holdwine.
‘They’re men like us,’ said Ulf. ‘They prefer the certainty of good food, ale and a warm bed in this life than the promise of a paradise none can be sure of.’
‘Well, I for one could cope with the heathen paradise,’ said Grimbold. ‘Feasting, drinking, whoring, fighting. An eternity of that has its attractions.’
‘Don’t let the priests hear you,’ said Ulf. ‘And don’t be too quick to embrace such a fate. I have need of you here.’
The Vikings were now close to the walls. With a mighty roar the Vikings wielding the ladders rushed forward and man-handled them up the wall.
Ulf cried out to the defenders but they had already picked up stones and throwing axes and were flinging them onto the men clambering up the ladders. Many fell, badly injured or thrown off balance. Those who hit the frozen ground hardest cried out in pain as their limbs shattered.
But no matter the number of those knocked off the ladders others dared to climb the walls.
‘Hurry with the oil,’ Ulf yelled. ‘We need it now.’
Boys scooped hot oil from the cauldrons and raced up the steps towards the battlements.
‘Throw it onto the attackers,’ Ulf cried. The boys needed no second bidding. In moments a storm of hot oil was cascading onto the heads of the foremost Vikings.
The missiles had been a powerful weapon but the oil was terrible. It clung to faces and arms; scalding hot, melting the flesh. The air grew loud with agonised, terrified screams. The warriors hit by oil flailed upon the ladders, lost their grip and plummeted to the earth, more often than not dragging their fellows with them. The boys flung yet more oil upon them and soon after, bowls of red hot metal.
At the same time the men Cuthred had organised began to thrust against the ladders with their poles, sending them sliding across the walls to the earth below.
The Viking chieftain ordered the attack on the walls to stop.
But he had more than just one tactic.
While the defenders had been dealing with the assault on the walls a group of Vikings had piled brushwood against the gate below and set fire to it.
Holdwine saw it first, pointing wildly. ‘The gate will be destroyed.’
‘Bring water,’ Ulf cried to the townsfolk below. ‘Bring water.’
They looked bemused at this change of plan but a few boys reacted quick enough and lugged buckets and skins of water to the walls.
Cuthred directed them to throw it on the fire below. It dampened the flames a little but did not extinguish them. ‘We won’t get enough water here in time,’ he cried.
Ulf’s mind worked fast.
‘Bring some of those poles down to the gate,’ he said. ‘We’ll go outside and use them to push the brushwood away from the timbers.’
‘But that’s madness,’ Grimbold cried. ‘We dare not open the gate.’
‘We can if we send out a shield-wall.’
He leapt down the steps, bellowing loudly for the King’s-thegns to follow him. It was a gamble for it left the walls denuded of seasoned defenders but he reckoned that the Vikings would take time to recover before attempting to raise the ladders once again.
His men formed up into a column and on Ulf’s command the gates were opened just enough to let them through. He leapt through the flames, feeling their heat but moving too swiftly to suffer greatly. His men followed and within moments they had formed up in a shield wall. The Vikings were gathered some distance from the gate, fearing the intensity of the fire. They were astonished by the sight of the Saxons leaping through the flames.
‘Charge,’ Ulf cried and the shield-wall advanced at a run, smashing into the Vikings before they had a chance to form their own wall in response. There was carnage as the Saxons smashed into their enemies, hacking ruthlessly at men who stood against them and those who turned to flee. Ulf glanced back at the gate.
Cuthred and his team had used their poles to push the brushwood a dozen yards away from the gate.
‘Retreat,’ Ulf cried. His warriors turned as one and charged back to the gate. A number of Vikings recovered almost as quickly and raced after them.
The first of his men had almost reached the gate when Ulf saw to his horror that young boys were hurrying out of the gate bearing buckets and cauldrons.
‘You’ll never douse it,’ he cried to Cuthred. ‘Get them back inside.’
But Cuthred grinned and spurred the boys forward.
‘Now,’ he cried and they threw the contents of their buckets onto the flames. Far from dousing it, the flames exploded high above the wood.
Cuthred ordered the boys back.
‘It’s oil,’ he cried to Ulf. ‘They’ll be no wood left in a moment.’
He turned to run after the boys, laughing with glee. He did not see the corpse lying in front of him until too late. He tripped, tried to keep his footing and fell.
The nearest of the Viking pursuers had reached the fire and with a yell of fury he charged towards where Cuthred sprawled.
His sword flashed down but was parried by another. Grimbold had raced back and now stood over Cuthred, fighting furiously.
‘Get back, Cuthred,’ he cried. ‘Get back inside.’
Cuthred needed no encouragement. He was on his feet in an instant and fast as a hare fled back to safety.
But three more Vikings had reached Grimbold now. He fought against them skilfully, killing one and wounding another. But then the third struck. His sword plunged into Grimbold’s chest, hammering through flesh and bone to his heart.
Grimbold stood a moment, gazing down at the blade. Then he dropped, a strong tree felled in a forest, and died.
‘No,’ Ulf gasped, taking a step back towards him.
‘It’s too late,’ Holdwine gasped. He grabbed Ulf by the shoulders and dragged him through the gate which was slammed behind them.
‘He saved my life,’ Cuthred said in amazement.
‘And lost his own,’ said Holdwine, weeping for his friend.
CLAIMING COURAGE
Ulf rubbed his eyes wearily. He had tried to stay awake throughout the night but had failed. Sometime, in the darkest hour, he had slid from his vantage point on the wall and sprawled on the ground. Wearily, he forced himself to his feet. He felt hollow with exhaustion. His legs shook and he did not know whether this was due to fatigue, cold or fear.
The smell of burning lingered in the air. Most of it was from the brushwood fire the Vikings had laid against the gate. But underlying this was a fouler smell, the gagging stench of burnt and broiling flesh.
He stared across the surrounding land. The Vikings had retreated from the walls, returned to their encampments to lick their wounds and plot anew a way to seize the city.
They left behind the corpses of their friends. They lay as they had fallen, broken, bleeding, burnt, their limbs twisted in grotesque parody of their last movements. A few still remained alive, groaning with thirst and unrelenting pain. Ulf wondered if he should send men to put them out of their misery but immediately dismissed the idea. It was not beyond the Vikings to use wounded men to lure their enemies from safety and trap them.
He shook his head, ruefully. He was coming to think like his enemy. How long would it be before people found it impossible to distinguish between him and them?
The thought struck him to his core, burrowing with gall and spite.
He was a berserker. No matter how much his friends disputed it, he knew it to be true. Was he only one step away from the savagery of the Vikings? Half a step?
He had heard of dogs who yearned for the wild, who had slipped their master’s leash and gone to run with wolves, never to return.
One of his friends had owned an especially vicious tom-cat which disappeared one day.
At first the boy imagined it had died. But it had turned feral, slinking back to haunt its old home, biting open the throats of chickens and lambs and dragging them off to its lair.
One step. Half a step.
He shuddered at the thought and glanced across to the Viking camp, his stomach a knot of foreboding.
He did not notice anyone approach until he felt a touch on his arm.
‘It’s me,’ Rebekah said. She looked at him anxiously. ‘I’ve brought food and ale.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘But you will eat,’ she said, pushing bread into his hand.
He thanked her and tore at the bread. The smell of burning flesh seemed to infiltrate it, adulterating the taste and making him almost gag.
‘It’s freshly baked,’ she said, not realising this was the worst thing she could have said. Only when her eye happened to fall on a blackened, smoking body, did she realise her mistake.
He struggled to swallow but just about managed.
‘How is your heart?’ she said, softly. ‘You must be grieving for Grimbold.’
He nodded but did not dare to speak. Grimbold had been one of the first of Alfred’s thegns to befriend him, a man prepared to accept and countenance a foolish, eager boy. A man willing to be led by him.
‘Cuthred feels worse, I suspect,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible to have a debt you can never repay.’
‘And now you know why I grieve so,’ he said quietly.
She took his hand. ‘Then pay back your debt to Grimbold by holding to his honour and courage.’
She kissed him gently on his lips and then placed her finger on them to stop him saying more. She knew which way his thoughts were running and wished to stop them becoming words.
He sighed. Grimbold had courage right enough but it was not like his. Not the mad frenzy of a berserker who had lost control.
Yet even as he thought it, another memory came to him.
It was the day after the battle outside Lundenburh, the day when he had first fought like a berserker. He had awoken in dismay, horrified at the thought of his terrible flaw. But then the Horse-thegn, Edgwulf had sought him out and spoken with him. He had listened patiently to Ulf’s doubts and fears but then dismissed them.
‘Who says that the heathens have sole claim to wild courage?’ he had said. ‘Who says that they alone should have warriors who fight with skill and boldness and reckon not the danger?’
Edgwulf’s words gave him pause now. He repeated them in his mind, wondering, pondering. And finally he heard their truth, felt their weight and solidity, realised, as they settled in his heart, their wisdom.
For a little longer he felt doubtful. Skill and boldness and courage were attributes desired by all warriors. But wild courage?
‘Remember how you escaped Hæstenn’s cage,’ Rebekah murmured, her voice so low he could only just hear it. ‘Recall how you tamed the furies. Believe that you can do so again.’
Ulf swallowed. When he had first told her this he instantly regretted doing so. Yet as he looked at her now, those doubts faded like morning mist.
He recalled the determined look that Edgwulf had showed him that morning and saw something akin in Rebekah today.
‘Claim my wild courage?’ he murmured. His heart began to race.
‘You must,’ she said. ‘It is your right.’
He turned to look at her, saw the earnest entreaty in her eyes.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘But can I be sure?’
‘We can be sure of very little,’ she said. ‘If we dare not act until we are certain then we might as well give up and die.’
He felt the truth of her words, their weight, their power. He glanced towards the Viking camp and all weariness and fear left him.
‘You must go now,’ he said, at last. ‘It’s not safe up here. Of that I am certain.’
He drew his sword from its scabbard. ‘It’s notched, almost blunt in parts.’
‘Is there time to sharpen it?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I shall have to fight with it. It’s damaged but it can still do harm.’
‘I shall see if I can find a better,’ she said. She hurried down the steps, giving him a last look as she reached the bottom.
‘They’re coming,’ one of the men on the wall shouted. ‘The Vikings are coming.’
Ulf spun round and gazed towards the Viking encampment. But to his relief there was no mass of men racing to attack. Instead half a dozen men trudged towards him. They stopped when they were mid-way, placed their swords on the ground, and then continued towards the walls.
They halted half a furlong distant, just out of bow-shot.
One man stepped to the front and drew his gaze across the battlements.
Ulf blinked in surprise, strained his eyes to see more clearly. But even as he did so, the Viking called out, his voice carrying over the walls.
‘I wish to discuss your surrender,’ he cried. ‘Who is your chief man, that I may talk with him?’
Ulf drew breath at the sound, realising for certain who the man was. He leaned over the walls and looked at him.
‘That would be me, Dag,’ he said. ‘Ulf, son of Brand.’
The Viking searched the walls, and his mouth opened in amazement. ‘The caged beast,’ he yelled. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘As you can see, far from it.’
Dag took a few steps closer, as if he doubted his eyes and ears.
‘We were told that you had been flayed and fed to the dogs,’ he said. He crossed his arms and shook his head. ‘The lying bastard.’
‘Let me guess which lying bastard you mean,’ Ulf said. ‘Hrólfr? The man whose shadow is the greater part of him.’
Dag laughed at his words. ‘You have the truth of it there, Saxon.’
He turned and said a few words to his companions who stared at Ulf with heightened interest.
Dag paced up and down for a little while, debating something in his mind. At length he stopped and walked even closer to the walls. He was now within easy shot of a bow, had put himself in great peril.
‘Now I think about it,’ he said, ‘I’m not surprised to see it’s you who leads the defence of this town. You’ve done well, young beast.’ He put a hand upon his heart and gave a bow. It looked contemptuous although he had not intended it to. He seemed to realise his error, gave a grin and shrugged.
‘I tell you what I’ll do,’ he continued. ‘I’ll let you join me. You can be one of my chief men. Perhaps, in time, a jarl.’
‘Are you sure that Hæstenn will allow that?’ Ulf said in a mocking tone. ‘He might not take kindly to you making such an offer.’
Dag’s face split in a wide grin. ‘You forget that Hæstenn is my brother,’ he said. ‘We speak with one voice.’
‘I doubt you even talk to yourself with one voice, Dag.’
Dag laughed aloud at the jest, and his companions even more so. He held his arms aloft. ‘See, you even speak like a Viking. You’re one of us, Ulf. Come join me.’
‘You’ll have to come and get me,’ he answered.
‘That won’t be hard.’
‘You think so? Then why did you come to parlay with me?’
For a moment Dag hesitated and Ulf saw it.
‘Because I would not have unnecessary bloodshed,’ Dag said. ‘Why should brave men die when they can live together as friends?’
‘We do not wish to be your friends,’ Ulf said.
Dag heaved a loud sigh. ‘Do not try to fool me, Ulf. Your milk-sop king has made peace with Guthrum and with other Danish lords. I’m certain he will be as happy to embrace Hæstenn.’
‘Unlike your brother, Guthrum has honour,’ Ulf said.
‘You think so?’ Dag said. He pretended to look surprised.
‘Enough talk,’ one of the men behind Dag called.
Dag quelled him with a look and then turned back to Ulf.
‘I tell you what I’ll do, young beast Ulf. I shall fight you man to man. An
d the winner shall take the city. As its lord. Could anyone say fairer than that?’
Ulf’s mind worked fast. ‘I doubt your words, Dag,’ he called at last. ‘But I shall ponder them. Return here at sunset and I will give you my answer.’
‘Sunset is so long away,’ Dag answered. ‘I shall return at noon.’
Ulf almost argued but knew it would be pointless. But he had won several more hours in which to put their defence in still better order.
THE BEAST AT THE GATE
It was almost noon. Ulf and Holdwine stood on the battlements and watched as the Viking army marched towards the city.
‘I don’t think they believe you and Dag are going to fight for the city,’ Holdwine said.
‘Of course not. I’m surprised that some of our people thought we would.’ He glanced back at the city. ‘I just hope that Cuthred has made best use of the time it has bought him.’
‘And that the Vikings haven’t done the same.’
Ulf nodded. ‘Dag must have made the offer to gain time to prepare some ruse. It’s worrying we can see no sign of it.’
At that moment Cuthred clattered up the steps and joined them. ‘All done,’ he said.
He rubbed his hands with glee and turned towards the advancing army. ‘They’ve got a mighty surprise waiting for them.’
‘Well done,’ Ulf said. ‘Have all your men returned to the walls?’
Cuthred nodded. ‘I let them drink some ale to warm them first but they’re all in place now.’
Ulf’s gaze went over the city. The fires were lit once more, the cauldrons of oil and metal hot and readied. All along the battlements lay piles of stones and throwing axes. They were better prepared today than they had been the day before. He felt his confidence rise. He was sure they would be able to repulse any attack.
‘You sent for us,’ a man said at his ear.
Three men stared at him expectantly.
Ulf shook his head. ‘No. Who told you that I had?’
‘Father Theobald,’ one said. ‘He said we were all to leave straight away.’
‘Leave where?’ A sense of foreboding gripped him. ‘What was your post?’
‘The sally gate.’