by Wayne Grant
“They aren’t marching to Chester,” Roland said with finality.
“They’re coming for us,” said Oren, his voice bleak.
For another minute they watched the men labour up the hill toward them.
“How large is this force?” Oren asked. “I counted five hundred as they passed this point, but I don’t know how much further the column stretches.”
“Last month our scouts set their number of foot soldiers at three times that or more,” Roland said. “They have over four hundred heavy cavalry, but mounted troops would be of little use here.”
“We have to warn Thorkell and gather the men,” Oren said.
“Aye, but let’s slow them down and give them something to worry about before we go.”
Roland stood and nocked an arrow. Oren scrambled up beside him and did the same. Roland wondered whether the boy had ever drawn his bow in anger before. This was not a white birch he was aiming at. It was a man’s chest. The brothers drew together.
Oren loosed before he did. A sharp cry from below announced that the arrow had flown true as one of the men on the slope below toppled over backwards. Roland loosed his own shaft and a second man went down. The line of men below now scrambled to find shelter behind stumps and fallen timbers.
Roland looked at Oren. The boy turned away quickly and retched into the bushes. When he’d finished emptying his stomach, he turned back to face his brother.
“Your first?” Roland asked.
Oren nodded mutely.
“It gets easier with practice,” he said grimly, “and those men down there have a lot more practice at killing than we do. They’ll be circling around on either side of us soon.”
He looked at Oren again. His brother still looked stunned at what he had just done. But now was no time to contemplate the right and wrong of such things or to offer comfort.
“Oren, take the lead. We have to get to Thorkell.” The boy blinked and seemed to come out of his daze.
“Right, follow me,” he said, and headed back up the game trail, back to warn Thorkell.
War had come in earnest to the Danes.
***
Roland and Oren dove behind a cluster of deadfall trees as two crossbow bolts buzzed over their heads. They landed beside Sir Edgar who had staked out this spot for their next defensive stand. They had been fighting almost continually for three days as the troops of the mercenary army slowly pushed up the slopes of Kinder Scout.
The longbowmen had taken a heavy toll on the invaders, but these Flemish and Irish soldiers were not fools. They quickly adapted their tactics to the steep terrain and the threat posed by the lethal longbows of the Danes. The mercenary troops had pushed relentlessly up every trail, the lead ranks of infantry carrying shields to protect the crossbowmen who were assigned to each assault group.
Behind the deadfall, Roland’s chest heaved as he took in great gasps of air. Sweat stung his eyes and, beside him, Oren was sucking in air. They had bolted from their hiding place a hundred yards down the trail having been flushed out by troops sent to circle around them.
“Any sign of flankers?” he gasped to Sir Edgar who was peering cautiously over the trunk of a huge fallen oak.
The big Saxon shook his head.
“Not yet, but soon I’d wager.” He sank down and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “The game trail just to our front—I think some of the Danish lads are down that way. By the looks of it, they should be along any minute.”
Roland nodded wearily. Thorkell had organized his men to guard the main trails, but they could not keep watch on every approach. Time after time, the Danes were forced back when the enemy found a way around them. It had become an exhausting routine of fight, then run, then fight again. By the third day, the thin line of bowmen had been forced to retreat to just below the long north-south ridge that led up to the summit of Kinder Scout. Another day of this and they would be swept off the crest of the mountains and lose the advantage of the high ground.
The families of those who worked farms on the eastern side of the mountain had already fled as the danger crept closer. Roland, Oren and Sir Edgar had retreated past the farm they had seen three days before. The woman, her two sons and the pig were gone. Soon after, a column of black smoke rose from where the abandoned steading lay. To the north and south, other black smudges in the sky marked other farms being burnt.
Roland heard a shout in Danish from below, then movement off to their left front. The three men huddled in the deadfall grasped their weapons and eased into position to see what was coming toward them from down the slope. There were three of them. One man watched back down the trail with his bow half drawn. The second dragged the third who had a crossbow bolt imbedded in his calf. The wounded man was Svein.
Roland rose from cover.
“Here! Bring him here!”
The man dragging Svein swerved off the trail and almost tumbled his burden to the ground, but Sir Edgar reached out a massive hand to catch the wounded Dane. Svein looked more angry than injured as he was lowered to the ground.
“Pull it out!” he ordered.
Roland squatted to examine the wound. The steel head of the bolt had passed clean through the calf muscle and protruded a full inch from the exit wound. He drew his dagger from his boot. Svein eyed the weapon with its jewelled hilt.
“Fancy blade there,” he said.
“It was once Ivo Brun’s,” Roland replied. “Someone hold him still. This will hurt.”
Svein waved off the man who reached to steady him, but gave an involuntary gasp of pain as Roland took hold of the head of the bolt and began gouging the wood of the shaft. He had learned how to deal with such a wound in the Clocaenog forest when Millicent de Laval had taken an arrow from his thigh.
He cut halfway through the wood, then with a quick twist of his wrist, he broke off the head, tossing it aside. Svein’s jaw was clinched shut to cut off any cry as the jolt of pain hit him, but his face was covered in sweat as Roland grasped the five inches of shaft that protruded from the other side of the man’s calf. He looked at Svein, who nodded.
In one motion, he yanked the bolt back through the passage it had made in the man’s flesh. Fresh blood seeped from the wound, but slowly. No major vessel had been hit. Sir Edgar had been watching the proceedings and handed him a length of rag. It was filthy, but it would stop the bleeding. Roland tied it firmly around Svein’s calf.
“Can you walk?”
Svein nodded and hauled himself up gingerly. He winced but was able to put weight on his injured leg.
“They were already behind us when I took this,” he said gesturing at his leg. “They’ll be around us by…”
His words were cut off by the sound of movement up the slope behind them. They turned to see five men with shields and lances charging down the trail from above with two crossbowmen following. They’d been flanked.
A crossbow bolt flew by just to Roland’s left and dug itself into the great fallen oak behind them. Three longbows came up as one and, in an instant, both crossbowmen were down. But the five men to the front were committed now. For three days they had endured death and wounds as they watched the lightly armed Danes flee whenever they sought to close on them. Soldiers for hire they might be, but this fight was no longer about money. The wild, wailing Gaelic war cry that burst from their lips was filled with genuine hatred.
Sir Edgar sprang forward to meet them. Seeing the huge shaggy warrior rise up with axe in hand, the mercenaries hesitated, but it was too late to check their headlong charge. If these hireling warriors had been frustrated by the long distance nature of the fighting, the big Saxon was even more so. With an evil smile he swung his axe in a slow sweeping arc from side to side as he waited to finally strike a blow at the enemy.
The narrow trail could only give passage to two men abreast and the two leading the charge sought to use their bulk and momentum to bludgeon the lone man blocking their way. They were not prepared for the thundering impact of Sir Edgar’s b
ig war axe, which splintered one of the shields and drove its owner into the man next to him. Unbalanced, the two tried to recover, but staggered off the trail into thick brush.
Trusting that his companions would deal with them, Sir Edgar moved up the trail to meet the three men who followed. These men had now stopped dead on the trail. The mercenary in the middle was almost as big as Sir Edgar, with heavily muscled shoulders and a neck like a bull. He edged forward, his shield held high and his lance resting easily on its top edge. While the others might hesitate, this man had earned his living for fifteen years killing other men and was not overawed by the big man to his front. He had killed bigger.
Sir Edgar grinned at the man. He had heard a brief clash of steel followed by groans behind him and knew without looking that the first two mercenaries were no longer a threat. He beckoned the big Irish warrior forward.
The man was happy to oblige. He thrust with his lance, but it was a feint meant to draw his enemy out of position. Sir Edgar did not take the feint and as the mercenary drove the lance at the big man’s stomach, he twisted to the side, swatting the weapon away with a massive paw as though it were a bothersome insect.
The Irishman’s momentum had taken him inside the killing arc of Edgar’s axe. He desperately swung his oaken shield up but it could not save him. It splintered as the razor sharp steel did its work and the man felt his entire left arm go numb from the blow. He swung the lance around in a final effort to defend himself, but knew he had drawn his last pay for killing men.
The two remaining men on the trail had watched in horror as their comrades fell, their thirst for revenge now replaced with raw fear. They began backing away, keeping their shields high. When they reached the game trail they had crept down to get behind these Danes, they turned and ran.
“Let them go,” Roland said. “There’ll be others behind us ‘fore long. We need to move.” He looked at the downed mercenaries around them. “Take their lances and retrieve your arrows, we may have need of those—and get that wound cleaned out before it festers,” he said, pointing at Svein’s leg.
Svein moved forward, gingerly at first, but the pain was manageable and he shook off help from his companions. He nodded to Roland.
“I’ll be back before nightfall.”
Roland nodded back.
“Good, we need you.”
As the day wore on, they were forced further up the slope. It was only a few hundred yards now to the crest of the ridge as they watched the trail below them. A sound came from behind and all three men whirled around, expecting trouble from the rear once more. But it was Thorkell, coming down the trail from above at a crouching run. The war leader ducked as a well-aimed crossbow bolt flew overhead. He looked at their exhausted faces and Roland looked back at a man who looked beyond weary.
“We can’t stop them,” Thorkell said flatly. “There are too many.”
Roland nodded.
“These are not de Ferrers’ men, but I see his hand in this. The mercenaries have no interest in us or this land and I doubt the Prince does either. There is no loot here. They are doing the Earl’s work for him. The Danes have plagued the de Ferrers family for generations and he wants us dead or driven from Derbyshire. This is his chance to do it.”
Thorkell gave a weary nod. Roland studied the older man. He’d seen the wiry strength that had kept the war leader moving at a killing pace throughout the long days of fighting as they tried in vain to throw back the enemy. But no man could sustain that effort forever. Now, for the first time, Thorkell looked old.
“So what are we to do?” he asked, but Roland could sense he already knew the answer. He spoke the word that now was their only hope.
“Chester.”
Thorkell sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I did not speak at the gathering, but I favoured your bargain. I feared a day such as this might come. Now it has and the Danes must seek refuge where they can. Can we reach the city before we are overwhelmed?”
Roland wiped the sweat from his eyes and considered the distance from these mountains to the walls of Chester. The Danes were hardy, but there would be women and children and the mercenaries would press them hard.
“I don’t know, Thorkell, but we must try.”
The war leader of the Danes seemed to gather himself.
“Aye, I see no other way. I will send runners to gather the people. We must hold this side of the mountain as long as we can.”
Roland put a hand on Thorkell’s shoulder.
“We’ll hold them,” he said, grimly. “Gather the people in the valley.”
***
Night was falling around the flanks of Kinder Scout when the families assembled in the sheltered valley west of the summit. There were over eight hundred souls gathered there—grandfathers, babes being suckled in their mother’s arms, skinny girls, dirty-faced boys—and all looked frightened.
It had been over a hundred years since the Danes had been pushed into these high hills. Generations had sweated and bled for their little patch of earth and none in this high valley could remember any other home. Most had never been more than ten miles from their farmstead and now they must march off into the darkness to find shelter in a place they had never seen. It was terrifying, but they knew what awaited them if they stayed.
Roland looked out over the clearing at the mass of people milling in the twilight and felt his gut clinch. These were his people. He had sprung from them and now they were staking their lives on his promise of refuge in Chester. A strong man could make the hike from these mountains to the gates of the city in a long day and a night, but it would take at least twice that for this collection of the young and old to cover the distance. The Danes would leave no one behind and thus all would move at the speed of the slowest.
Their fighting strength was down to one hundred and seventy, though some of them were wounded and many were hardly more than boys. Twenty of the youngest who could wield a bow were given the task of staying close to the families on the long march to Chester. Sir Edgar would lead them. The rest would delay the advance of the mercenaries wherever they could and for as long as they could.
Roland had wanted to send Oren with Sir Edgar, but there were younger boys than his brother who could handle a longbow. Oren had given him a look of pure defiance that ended any notion of sending him with the women and children. Roland had watched his brother fight over the past five days. Had seen him struggle at first with the killing, but the boy had never wavered. He looked at Oren’s lined and dirty face and had to admit that he was more man now than boy. His brother would stay with the rear guard and face the mercenaries with the other men.
Thorkell approached him as the twilight thickened.
“These are all that are coming. A few families could not bring themselves to leave their homes. They’ve gone into the caves and cloughs. We must pray they aren’t found.”
“Aye, leaving these mountains…it’s hard. We must hope those who remain escape notice. Now we have to get the rest moving.”
Roland turned and looked back to the east. As the night grew darker, the glow of campfires from the mercenary army could be plainly seen above the tree line that capped the ridge. His own men tended fires in the valley and would keep them burning through the night so that any enemy watchers would be unaware the Danes were preparing to flee. He turned back to Thorkell.
“They’ll come in force up every trail and ravine at dawn,” he said. “They know if they reach the crest of the ridge they will have won. We will hold them as long as we can up there, then fall back when we must. It’s a good fifty miles to Chester. Every hour we hold them is an hour closer to safety for the families.”
Thorkell nodded just as Sir Edgar hurried up, slightly dragging his bad leg. He saw Roland glance at it.
“All this clamberin’ up and down the mountains has made it stiff,” he said with an injured tone. “It’ll be fine once we reach the flatlands.”
Roland smiled at him. There was no gamer man than Edgar Langton.
“It’s time to get them moving, Sir Edgar. God go with you and I’ll see you in Chester.”
“In Chester,” he replied curtly and turned on his heel. In short order, he had his twenty boys with longbows assigned to their places in the column, some with torches that they lit from the campfires. A family at a time, the Danes began to rise and move off into the darkness.
The trail narrowed quickly as it left the clearing, making progress slow, but each family waited quietly until it was their turn to join the exodus. Thirty minutes after the order was given, the last of them had disappeared into the night. Men drifted to the western edge of the high valley and watched the faint points of light bob in the darkness as the moving column made its way toward the lowlands. Many were thankful that the darkness hid their tears.
Roland watched the flickering lights grow smaller and worried about what the morrow would bring. The Danes had seen the force arrayed against them. Over a thousand seasoned troops would be coming up every trail and along every ridgeline in the morning. They had to hold this army at bay as long as they could for the sake of their families.
Once the families were well on their way, Thorkell called the men together. He turned and nodded to Roland who faced those gathered around the largest bonfire. He saw Svein standing in the front rank, as dirty and weary as the rest. Before he could begin, the tall Dane stepped forward and turned to the crowd.
“You all know I spoke against the bargain Inness brought us. Had a thousand enemies not invaded our mountains, I would still speak against it! I do not trust the Normans, but our people must live and to stay here means death. If we must now stake our lives on the word of the Earl of Chester and that of Roland Inness, then we must.” He paused for a moment, and looked back at Roland.