by H A CULLEY
His fellow ealdorman gave him a sharp look but said nothing further.
‘How many mounted men can you raise overnight, Heremond?’ Ælle asked, frowning at Wulfnoth.
He was a foolish man who believed that he was cleverer than anyone else: a dangerous combination. Ælle would have replaced him but he needed his support and that of the man’s family against his brother.
‘Well, I’ve a warband fifty strong but I only have eighteen riding horses; not that it matters. I don’t have eighteen men who can fight on horseback.’
‘Oh, I’m not talking about using them as cavalry. We just need to arrive before it’s too late; then we’ll fight on foot.’
The king left at dawn with his horsemen, the scouts and two of Heremond’s huntsmen acting as guides. They headed north-west to ford the Derventio two miles south-west of the place where the battle was to be fought, then headed along the far bank.
As they neared the confluence between the Tyne and its tributary they heard the sound of battle. Ælle prayed that he would be in time.
-℣-
Ragnar had reached the west bank of the Derventio two hours previously. He might have been obsessed with obtaining his revenge upon Edmund, but he was no fool. As soon as his scouts came back he knew that he was walking into a trap. Not only was the far bank held in force by warriors behind a rampart but Edmund had anchored his longships out in the Tyne parallel to the shore from where his archers could inflict severe casualties on his men without fear that they could be attacked. He had to admire Edmund’s strategy, but he wasn’t about to do anything so stupid as to assault the Northumbrian’s position.
Instead he turned south westwards out of sight of Edmund’s position and then followed the Derventio until he found a place beyond the marshy area where he could cross the river. Then he retraced his steps along the other bank until he was in a position to attack the Northumbrians in the flank.
Except that they weren’t there anymore.
Hrothwulf and Drefan were two brothers who were constantly up to mischief. One was fifteen and the other fourteen. Their father was one of Edmund’s warband and officially the boys were too young to be there; they were both still training to be warriors. However, they had two attributes useful to Edmund: they were good climbers and they were skilled trackers and hunters.
The boys had watched from the upper branches of two oak trees on the west side of the Derventio as the Vikings came to a halt below. They watched the Viking scouts return to tell their leaders about Edmund’s defensive works, then they saw the army disappear to the south-west. Hrothwulf, the elder of the two, signalled for his brother to go and tell Edmund what was happening whilst he climbed down and proceeded to follow the Vikings.
Once Drefan had reported to Edmund, he made his way stealthily down the east side of the river until he heard the unmistakeable sounds of a large group of men making their way towards him. Then he swiftly retraced his steps.
‘Thank you, Drefan. You’ve done well. Now get back up into one of those trees over there and stay there. You’re too young to fight,’ Edmund said with a smile.
‘But, lord, I can use my bow to good effect from up there,’ the boy pleaded.
‘Do as you’re told,’ his father barked at him. ‘I only agreed to you two scamps coming with me on condition that you didn’t fight.’
Sullenly Drefan nodded and darted away to climb the largest oak he could find. As he did so Edmund had a hasty discussion with Siferth and Cynefrith. Three minutes later the whole army was on the move into the woodland some hundred yards back from the river bank. At the same time a small fishing boat put out from the banks of the Tyne to brief the longship captains about the change of plan.
As Ragnar stood wondering where the Northumbrians had gone, the ships out in the Tyne weighed anchor and started moving slowly downstream powered by a few rowers. Fortunately for them the tide was on the turn and had just begun to flow seawards. The Vikings couldn’t believe their luck as the ships headed towards a beach just to the east of where they were and they started running towards them.
Both Ragnar and Lagertha sensed a trap and yelled for their men to stop, but to no avail. The trees came down to within fifty yards of the beach where the first longship had just run into the shingle strewn sand. The Vikings were a disorganised mass as each man ran to be the first to climb aboard. Suddenly a volley of arrows struck them from the treeline and, at the same time archers appeared all along the side of the beached longship.
The other ships threw their anchors overboard before they reached the beach and the ships slewed around with their bows facing upstream. More archers appeared along the sides of each ship and the Vikings faced volleys of some three hundred arrows every ten seconds or so.
Ragnar watched in dismay as scores of his men were hit before they could swing the shields they carried on their backs around to protect themselves. By the time they had formed a shield wall over a hundred of them had been killed or seriously wounded.
Ragnar yelled at them to close up so that one shield could be placed above another; that way they would be protected from head to foot. This shielded them from the archers on the ships, but those in the trees kept up the attack on their flank.
‘Every alternate man turn and face the trees,’ Lagertha shouted as three more men were hit. Edmund didn’t have many archers in the trees – most were on the ships – but what few he did have were being very effective.
Suddenly, whilst one half of the Vikings remained facing the ships, the other two hundred ran towards the trees, intent on avenging themselves on their tormentors. It was too much for Drefan to resist. He strung his bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. He wet the feathers with his lips and checked that the arrow was straight; then studied the mass of warriors as they approached the treeline.
Edmund’s archers retreated and warriors armed with swords, axes and spears waited in the gloom twenty yards inside the wood for the Vikings to reach them. The charge had been led by what Drefan originally had thought was a young man, but he now realised it was a woman. Her long hair streamed out from under her helmet and, even disguised by a byrnie, he could tell the shapely body was female.
Her helmet was banded in gold and her upper arms were covered by silver and gold arm rings. He had never heard of a shield maiden, but he knew that this woman had to be one of the leaders of the accursed Vikings.
He took careful aim and, allowing for her movement and the slight breeze, he released the arrow. To Drefan it seemed to fly towards its target too slowly and for an instant he thought he’d miscalculated; then it hit.
One moment Lagertha was running, the adrenalin pumping through her body as she screamed her rage at the enemy then, just five yards short of the tree line, she felt a tremendous pain in her neck. Her steps faltered and, as the blood spurted out of her jugular, she fell to the ground and lay still.
Her men faltered, seeing their jarl fall, but then they recovered and cursing their enemies, they charged into the trees. In the woods it wasn’t a matter of fighting together as a group. The trees made that impossible and the charge deteriorated into a series of individual combats. However, the Vikings were now outnumbered by the experienced members of Edmund’s and Siferth’s warbands. Gradually the Northumbrians gained the upper hand.
Meanwhile Ragnar had realised that staying where he was achieved nothing and he gave the order to retreat towards the trees whilst keeping shields facing the arrows coming from the ships. The volleys were now slower as the archers on board got tired and their supply of arrows ran low. As he neared the treeline Ragnar gave the order to form a line and advance into the trees to support Lagertha’s men.
It was only then that he saw her body lying, her limbs akimbo, just short of the treeline. From the angle of the arrow protruding from her neck he knew that the archer must have been high up in one of the larger oaks and, urging his men on, he swiftly decided which tree the shield maiden’s killer was likely to be hiding in.
Ragnar stood out from the rest. His helmet was plain but his byrnie was polished, unlike the dull and sometimes rusty chain mail worn by most of the Vikings. His beard was grey and, like the woman, his upper arms were covered in rings. A man with a red banner tied to his spear followed him and Drefan recognised the device on the banner. It was a spread-eagled raven – the same as that on several of the Viking longships.
Of course, Drefan didn’t know that his target was the infamous Ragnar Lodbrok, but he knew that he had to be an important man. Once again he took careful aim and let fly. However, this time the wind gusted just as the arrow darted towards Ragnar and it was blown slightly off course. Instead of striking the Norse king’s neck it lodged in his thigh just below the hem of his byrnie.
The leg gave way and Ragnar collapsed, clutching his leg as the pain began to build. Drefan couldn’t resist a whoop of triumph and that was his downfall. The Viking warrior standing immediately below the tree he was in had just killed two of Edmund’s men and was looking around for a new adversary when he heard the sound from above him. Looking up, at first he saw nothing but as he circled the tree he caught a glimpse of a boy with a bow.
Dropping his shield and axe and putting his dagger between his teeth he leapt up and grabbed the first branch. Slowly he hauled himself up the oak. He wasn’t as young and agile as Drefan, but the boy had nowhere to go so the young Viking took his time. Drefan wasn’t aware of his predicament until he heard leaves rustling below him. He looked down and yelped in dismay when he saw a fierce bearded face grinning up at him.
For an instant Drefan was paralysed by fear, then he pulled himself together. He had the advantage of height so he waited as calmly as he could until the Viking was just below him. Then he grabbed the branch above him in both hands and swung his legs back before kicking forwards with them locked together. His leather shoes connected solidly with the Viking’s head, driving the blade held between his teeth back and cutting deeply into his cheeks.
The young man was knocked from his perch and he went tumbling earthwards, his body striking several thick branches on the way down. By the time he hit the ground below several of his ribs had been broken and one of these was driven into his right lung as he landed. He lay there unconscious until he died.
Drefan was left shaking, but euphoric. He was just fourteen and he had killed two of the enemy and badly wounded another. He couldn’t wait to tell Hrothwulf.
-℣-
By the time the king arrived the battle was all but over. Only eighty of the Vikings had survived and they had seized the beached longship, killing its crew of archers. They pushed it clear of the mud and sailed away pursued by the rest of Edmund’s fleet. As the latter were mainly manned by members of the fyrd with a handful of ships’ boys and experienced rowers to help them, it wasn’t long before the last of the Vikings made good their escape. No quarter had been given to the rest and Ragnar had only been spared because he was a Norse king.
When Drefan had claimed to have killed the shield maiden and another Viking as well as wounding Ragnar, he wasn’t believed at first. However Edmund changed his mind when Ragnar confirmed that the arrow that had laid him low had come from the top of the trees.
Suddenly the boy was hailed as a hero and his father stood proudly with his hand on his shoulder whilst King Ælle congratulated him. Flushed with pride, Drefan glanced at his brother, expecting Hrothwulf to share his delight. The two had always been close, but now Drefan saw that Hrothwulf was scowling. When his brother noticed Drefan looking at him, the stare he gave him was full of malice. Then he turned and stomped away.
It was a salutary lesson for the younger boy. Hrothwulf evidently hated to be eclipsed. Of course, he knew that Hrothwulf could be jealous at times, but those moments didn’t last, nor did they harm their relationship. This time it was different, his brother had tarnished his moment of glory and Drefan was furious with him.
‘What do you want to do with him, Cyning?’ Edmund asked, gesturing towards Ragnar as he lay on the ground being attended to by one of the monks skilled in healing. He had arrived from Jarrow with several of his fellow monks to deal with the Northumbrian wounded and bless the dying. The Norse wounded didn’t need their ministrations; they’d already been killed.
Ragnar had suffered the removal of the arrow and the cauterisation of the wound in silence, though he passed out as the red hot blade was applied to the wound. His byrnie had been removed, along with his blood soaked trousers, but at least they’d left him his goatskin jerkin to cover his nakedness.
As Ælle contemplated how to answer Edmund’s question there was a disturbance a short distance away and four men carried Hrothwulf into the space around Ragnar, pushing others out of the way in their haste.
Full of anger at Drefan’s sudden fame, Hrothwulf hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going. He didn’t notice the viper sunning itself in his path until he stood on it. The sudden pain in his right leg, just above the ankle, caused him to cry out and luckily a few men standing nearby realised what had happened. One chopped the snake in half with his axe whilst several others rushed the boy to the monk.
‘Quick, give me a dagger.’
When one of the warriors did so, the monk cut across the two angry marks left by the snake’s fangs and sucked at the wound, spitting out blood and venom and then returning to suck again.
‘I’ve got as much out as possible, now leave him to rest. He’ll either die or recover, it’s in God’s hands. Someone please give me some water to rinse my mouth out.’
Drefan forgot his brother’s animosity and cradled him in his arms, trying to comfort him. Hrothwulf stared at him for a moment, then gave him a weak smile before dropping into unconsciousness.
The king had ordered that Ragnar’s wound should be attended to because he didn’t want him to die from loss of blood. He would be the arbiter of his fate and the incident had given Ælle an idea. He sent some of his men to gather as many of the venomous snakes as they could find, whilst others dug a pit eight feet deep. They came back with eight of the creatures in sacks which wriggled and hissed as the vipers struggled to get out.
When the pit was ready the men held the sacks over the pit and shook them until the last snake had dropped into the bottom of the pit. Their anger at their treatment was all too apparent. They tended to avoid humans and were not normally aggressive, unless attacked. However, these eight were now extremely agitated. By this time Ragnar had regained consciousness and, spotting the Northumbrian king, he struggled to stand, leaning on a length of wood the monk gave him.
‘My sons will pay a large ransom if you are prepared to let me go. I give you my oath not to attack Northumbria again.’
‘A heathen’s oath is worth nothing; no you are going to die, Ragnar Lodbrok.’
‘Do you think that will save you from my sons? The squealing of the piglets will deafen you when they hear of the death of the old boar. I tell you that they will visit your land with fire, rape and pillage until you wish with all your heart that you had spared me.’
‘Bleat all you like, Ragnar, it won’t help you. They say that you sacked Paris but, Charles the Bald must have been a weakling to have allowed it.’
‘I had five times the number of warriors then that I brought here with me. My sons will come for vengeance with twice the number of men that I took to Paris.’
‘Let them come. I don’t fear them.’
‘Then you are a fool. At least give me a sword to grasp whilst you kill me so that I may enter Valhalla and dine with Odin tonight.’
‘I don’t hold with your pagan beliefs. You will die and go to hell.’
Ragnar knew something of the religion of the White Christ. Hell was a place of fire and torment where those who had
led an evil life were sent, whereas Ragnar believed that Helheim was a cold world reserved for those who died of old age or illness.
Ragnar shook his head.
‘No, my fame is too great for me to wait until Ragnarök in Helheim with the elderly and the feeble. Whether you give me a sword or not, the Valkyries will take me to Odin.’
‘Pah, what utter nonsense.’
So saying Ælle pushed Ragnar so that he toppled backwards into the snake pit. At first the angry vipers tried to bite through Ragnar’s goatskin jerkin, but without success. He succeeded in strangling two of them before one fastened its fangs into his calf. Then another bit him on the hand and a third struck at his wounded thigh.
Ragnar stopped moving and Ælle told his men to fill the pit in again. As they did so Edmund threw a discarded sword into the pit and he thought he saw Ragnar grab it before he disappeared under the soil. Ælle gave him an angry look, but Edmund just shrugged. It was the least he could do for a worthy adversary.
Afterwards no one could be certain whether Ragnar had died from snake venom or because he had been buried alive.
Epilogue
Autumn 862
As soon as the longship sailed into Arendal the news spread like wildfire. Those Vikings who had escaped on Edmund’s snekkja couldn’t be certain what had happened after they’d fled, but they were afraid of being branded as cowards, and so the tale they told was worthy of any skáld.
They had seen both Lagertha and Ragnar fall, they said, surrounded by hundreds of enemies, many of whom they had killed between them. Of course, this was a long way from the truth: that they had both been brought down by a fourteen year old boy up a tree.
They claimed that they had only escaped themselves after heroically fighting their way through a thousand Northumbrians and capturing one of their ships. At least the last bit was true.