It was a cold morning, with a mist lying heavily on the ground ahead of them. At the beach, in the security of their stronghold, Rollo had been easy in his mind, but now, leaving the sturdy fortress behind, he felt the first stirrings of anxiety. Ahead of him somewhere there were men watching him. Perhaps practising their manoeuvres.
He had trained with them: he knew how they’d fight. They’d ride to a muster-point, leaving their horses with boys, and run to a ridge or hillock, forming a line six to ten men deep. At the command all would thrust their shields forward, overlapping each with their neighbour, each of them depending upon his neighbour for protection. On the order they could unlink shields, lift them overhead, turn, and reform with a new wall protecting their rear. When directed, they could begin pacing slowly down the hillside, all the while shouting their battle cries and stabbing forward with spears.
Each of them would feel the courage that came from conviction: they knew that Harold had never failed in battle. He was a tough fighter, and he would die rather than lose his kingdom. Each man would be ready, his shield a reassuring weight on his arm, the sword in his fist heartening. Many of the blades that Rollo would encounter would be ancient. Most of them had been used in other battles, older fights. They had been a father’s or grandfather’s weapon, used against Vikings or neighbours over decades, and now brought here to Pevensey to slaughter these latest invaders.
Rollo had served Edward in many a line. His strong right arm had battered and slashed at enough men, and his sword showed its age. It had been his uncle’s sword. His father’s had gone to his brother, of course, his older brother. That one was twice as old even as this battered lump of metal. Rollo had been forced to have this one re-sheathed three times, and it had been given a new hilt a short while before they embarked for this coast.
A thump at his thigh brought him back to the present. Like the others, he wore a massive kite-shaped shield over his shoulder, so that after an attack, as he wheeled and hared off, his back would be protected. It was essential, but by God’s heaven, it was clumsy.
Harnesses squeaked and jingled. At any other time, on another day, the noise would have eased his spirits. The musical sound of thousands of small rings tinkling together from the men’s byrnies and mail neck-covers, sounded like ten thousand tiny bells.
A horse snorted. Another shook his head, and there was a curse as his rider dropped his spear. They were leaving the plain before the fortress where the mist lay spread like a blanket. Before them were thick woods, and Rollo, fearing ambush, spurred his mount into a canter to pass through the dangerous area. It was still and quiet even as he rode in among the trees, and he kept a careful eye open to possible danger, but saw nothing until he heard the scream behind him. He had an urge to crouch low and gallop away, but he restrained himself and glanced over his shoulder. And his bowels turned to ice.
On either side archers had launched missiles at the men behind him. Now, as he watched, three of his men toppled and were leapt upon by the enemy, scramasax blades flashing, and he saw a flurry of blood like red snow erupt from a man’s throat. He and his men couldn’t ride down the attackers, not in among the trees; they must perish. Better that the survivors should be saved. He roared at his men, drew his sword, and spurred his horse on, ignoring the jeers of the enemy. The wind started to rush in his ears as he pelted along the track, and, when they were almost out of the woods, he looked back and saw that the majority of his force was safe.
There was a flash of light, and the sun breached the clouds. He lifted his reins to lash his horse’s flanks again, and then hesitated, feeling a chilly sweat wash over him.
Before him stood a line of byrnie-clad men, at least fifty, all capped with steel and leather, all clutching great round shields, all with the long hair and beards of grown men used to fighting, and all grasping long spears. Even as he set his horse at them, they deployed, and over the howling wind in his ears, the rattle of harnesses and grunts from his hastening steel, he heard the gutteral roar bellowed by the commander. The shields were pushed out, edge on to Rollo, then snapped round so that a row of overlapping circles faced him. Another shout, and he saw the shafts of the spears disappear as they were lowered to point at him, and all he could see now was the deceptively pretty sight of the sun glittering on the spear-points.
There was only a matter of yards to go. He could see no escape: the line blocked his men’s path. The only option they had was to fight their way through this small host. He raised his sword and shrieked his defiance, then lowered his head and flung himself and his horse at the shields.
The crash was shocking. Wooden shields shivered with the appalling collision, and he saw grim faces recoil as his horse rammed into them. A man fell back, then down as hooves rose and battered at him. Men stared at opponents, and slashed and stabbed and hacked and thrust, determined to kill before dying. A tall, dark man was in front of him now, a man whose cap came down over his features and left only his eyes shining at either side of his nose-guard. Fleetingly Rollo caught sight of his great sword, sparkling like a diamond in the sun, but then his mount sprang aside, and he lost sight of him.
He saw Swein at his side, the huge man wielding his axe with broad strokes. The huge axe-head clove through caps and skulls, and about him there was already a mess of limbs and sprawled men, but still the shield-wall held, and then Rollo saw a lance thrust forward and pierce Swein’s horse’s breast. There was already a stub of lance jutting from the beast’s flank, and now he seemed to realize that he was dying. He reared, throwing his hooves in all directions, and tossed his mane, but his eyes were wild not with the rage of battle, but with the terror of encroaching death.
Even as he grew conscious of Swein’s mount, Rollo realized that his own was floundering. There was less energy in his movements, and Rollo knew that a spear must have reached his vitals. He waved his sword and roared at the top of his voice to call his men to retreat, to pull back so that they might win space to charge again, but as he shouted, there was a high whistling noise, a fluttering whine that ended in a wet slap, and he saw one of his men fall, grabbing frantically for the arrow’s fletching that protruded from his back, rolling on the ground and screaming until his own horse, stamping about the field, crushed his head.
The archers were back–there was no escape that way. Rollo knew his horse was soon to die. He kicked his feet from the stirrups, and managed to leap from the saddle just before the brute collapsed, crushing a section of the wall as he fell.
It was the opening he had needed. Hoarsely bellowing to his men, Rollo gripped his sword in both hands and sprang forward. He felt, rather than saw, Swein run to his side, and he knew that two more of his men were behind him. Forming a compact group, they met shoulder to shoulder, heavy shields protecting their flanks as they stamped their way in among their enemies. The enemy withdrew, and suddenly Rollo knew that the decisive moment had arrived. He saw a glint, and into his mind flashed the memory of the man in the midst of the line, the warrior with the dark hair under his Saxon helm. With a weapon like his, he must be the leader.
‘With me!’ he shouted, and threw aside his shield. Instead he grabbed a small, circular wooden shield that lay on the ground near its dead owner. The shield was covered in fresh skin which had dried on the wood, forming a solid, strong, but light protection. There was a bronze boss in the centre, and now he used that to ram at the men who stood in his path. A lance came near, and he knocked it away, running his blade down the length of the shaft. He saw fingers fly off, a shriek, and the pole dropped, the man falling back among the press. Another man thrust at him from his side, but Rollo blocked the stab and slammed the boss into his face, feeling bones crunch; he punched his sword into the man’s belly and ripped it aside. He shoved another from his path, swept his sword across, the point lifted. The blade ripped through the man’s throat; there was a gush of blood, bubbles, horror in the man’s eyes, and then…then he was before the commander.
It took no thought. The man a
ppeared, and Rollo instantly crossed to meet him. The others were with him, he knew that. From the corner of his eye he saw Swein’s axe part an arm from a torso, saw a second man approach, and saw the axe whirl into his stomach. It sliced through his cheap shirt of mail, and his entrails were spilled.
Then Rollo was on him.
Dudda had been shocked by the sudden appearance of the cavalry force. He and his men had only arrived last night, tired and footsore from the march, and he had counted on drilling them before a fight. These madmen had arrived before he’d been able to put them through their most basic paces, and now his men were pressed hard. Bartholomew was somewhere near. He only hoped his friend wasn’t dead.
The captain was plain enough, sitting up there on his horse. Terrifying in his metal clothing, so high above everyone else. None of the men, including Dudda, had seen men riding horses into battle. Men rode to war, yes, but they left their mounts safe behind the battle lines. These men pelted towards their enemy like demons on their chargers.
Dudda raised his sword, the blade tapping the front of his helmet, and he closed his eyes, uttering a short prayer on the cross for victory. His sword’s blade gleamed, and he was reminded of that day, many years ago, when he had sat with his father and helped sharpen and polish a blade which his father said was the best he had ever made. He had said, what? ‘When a man holds this blade in his hand, he shall be invincible!’
It was enough to make him smile to himself. This sword made him feel invincible. Bartholomew said he was sure it was that same sword, his father’s best creation. It felt it, certainly. Today, here, he would test it.
Dudda saw the mad captain of his enemies approaching, and lowered his sword, hefting his shield. He was thegn, and no foreign murderers would take these lands from his people again. No more rapes, no more slaughters.
‘To me! To me!’
The invaders must perish!
Seeing the man smile under his cap, Rollo snarled and lifted his own worn, chipped blade. Circling, he bent, left shoulder to the man, peering over the rim of the shield, waiting for an opportunity. The man’s eyes remained fixed on his, and Rollo knew he had an opponent worthy of the name. This was no poor brutish peasant who’d been called to the fyrd at the last moment to try to stem the tide of Norman warriors, but a leader of warriors.
There was a flash in the man’s eyes: he’d caught sight of Swein. The axeman was approaching from Rollo’s right. While the man was distracted, Rollo bared his teeth and leapt forward. His blade caught on the other man’s, he felt the clash of steel, heard the ringing of tempered metal, then the slam as his blade bit into the man’s shield, and the two whirled away from each other, circling again.
Rollo grinned, then bounded forward again, his sword hanging low, only to jab upwards at the man’s legs, but he had already moved away; Rollo tried a slash at his hamstrings, but he blocked the blow with a casual backwards hack of his sword, followed by a sweeping blow towards Rollo’s shoulder. It was a pathetic attempt, and Rollo moved his shield to prevent it, and then realized that the man’s sword wasn’t where it should have been. A flick of his wrist had brought the blade almost to Rollo’s gut. He had to join shield and sword together, pressing down as he sucked in his belly and bent his back away. It was only just in time, and he felt the snag as the steel caught on his byrnie.
His relief was short-lived. He stumbled on a discarded limb and instantly started to tumble. The man’s attack was immediate. Rollo could only throw himself sideways, falling painfully on one arm. There he swung up with his sword, and the clang of steel striking was a shivering impact deep in his bones. His shoulder seemed to reverberate with the clamour.
Scrambling to his feet, he saw the sword swing, blocked it, but this time there was a subtle difference in the clash of weapons. A niggle of doubt assailed him. There had been a strange thrill in his blade.
He knew his sword all too well. This blade had been his since his uncle had died, nearly twenty years ago. He’d worn it ever since; had killed fifteen men with it, slaking the steel’s thirst for human blood, and never had he felt that odd little twitch.
Another smashing blow, and he felt it give. There was a weakness! The hilt had come loose, or the blade was cracked. It could not continue to take such a hammering from this man. He moved away, retreating, trying to keep his eyes from betraying his sudden concern, but the fellow started to set about him more seriously. The sword flashed and sparkled redly in the sun’s glare, and then the commander was harrying him hard, the bloody blade whirling about him, and suddenly Rollo knew he must die.
His hilt was broken, and the leather-covered wooden grip moved in his hand. The blade was no longer fixed to it, and the blade turned without his wanting it to. Now there was no let up, and he could do little but block the attacks. It was pointless to return to the assault, for the blade would turn and not hit true. It was all but useless. There was a shivering in the blade, and he saw it fall in two, his fingers stinging, and saw the fierce delight in the other man’s face.
Suddenly there was a roar, and Swein launched himself at the man from his side. Rollo saw the commander’s eyes narrow as he turned to face the new threat.
Dudda’s blood sang in his ears. He felt as though the spirits of his ancestors were with him. He could not be harmed, not while he wielded this sword, his father’s sword. It was a guarantee of victory, and soon he would conquer this rabble of murderers and cut-throats, ready for the real battle when King Harold returned and put the Norman Bastard’s host to the sword.
But as he was about to end this man’s life, another man came roaring at him, approaching from his left front, running at him with that axe like a Viking from the sagas. Dudda tested his sword in his hand, swinging it up in a wide arc, feeling the way that it came alive. Then he saw Bartholomew run at the new enemy, his cheap sword smeared with gore, his shield, broken and splintered, still on his arm.
Bartholomew lifted his sword, but the huge Norseman swept his axe aside, clashing with the sword, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it flying away. The axehead swept back towards the priest’s head, and Bartholomew ducked. His feet were entangled with a set of reins from a dead horse, and he tumbled to the ground.
‘No!’ Dudda started forward, convinced he was already too late. He reached the Norseman as the axe began to descend, and slammed into the man, slashing at his hamstrings. The man collapsed screaming in agony, the giant tendons snapping with a sound like bones breaking, and Dudda hefted his sword, ready to stab, and then thrust down with all his strength.
He roared with savage delight, and went to Bartholomew. The priest was all right, and he turned back to finish off the axeman…and then hesitated, staring. Horror washed over him, and the sword fell from his nerveless fingers.
‘Brada? Brada?’
Rollo saw his chance. His own sword was useless, but the other was near. He sprang up and launched himself forward. Without breaking his run, he snatched up the Saxon’s sword, and let his momentum carry him on. His thrust passed through the man’s bicep near his elbow, and carried on into his flank.
Dudda gave a bestial roar of rage and agony, and tried to release his sword arm, but Rollo was on him. He shoved the blade deeper and deeper, feeling the warm wash of blood over his hands. Even as Dudda toppled backwards, Rollo kicked his body, held the sword aloft and screamed:
‘Victory! Victory!’
There was a pause, and then a collective moan seemed to come from the enemy as they saw their leader shivering on the ground, and while they watched, Rollo kicked at his helmet, sending it spinning. He found himself looking down at a man who was younger than him, dark, square-jawed, grey-eyed. There was no time to consider. The man closed his eyes, and Rollo leaned down casually, resting the sword’s point on his throat. He lifted it a short distance, ready to plunge it down, and…
…There was a slamming buffet at his side. He felt the air explode from his lungs. There was a blankness in his mind, and he shook his head with confusion
, glancing about him. When he looked down, he saw that a great axehead was buried in his ribs, and he gazed at it with astonishment. It was Swein’s.
He lifted his arm to stab with his new sword–but his arm was gone. It lay twitching on the ground beside him, and he had just enough energy left in him to pick up the sword in his left hand and try to turn to repay his executioner, when he felt the axehead move.
Bartholomew wept as he jerked at the axe-haft, sobbing with exhaustion and despair. Setting his foot on Rollo’s body, he pushed with all his might, and the axe came free.
As he stood there, gazing dully at the bodies lying on the ground, he saw Dudda slowly crawl to the great Norseman, whose fair hair was red with gore where it lay on the sodden earth. Dudda was weeping with the effort, but the priest heard his quiet voice:
‘Brada! My brother! I am sorry! Forgive me!’
Rollo felt a shiver run through him. He tried to remove his helmet, but his hand wouldn’t respond, and he remembered it had been cut off. His left hand was too weak to do anything but lie on the ground.
‘Brother! My brother! No!’
They were the last words Rollo heard spoken. He was suddenly exhausted, and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness as Dudda, Bran’s son, sobbed beside his brother on his knees, and then slowly sank forward to slump, dead, over him.
Some hours later, a party of cavalry was sent to find out what had happened to the raiding force.
They found the tracks easily enough, and in the middle of woods, a man trotted back to the leader. ‘There are arrows all over the place. They must have been ambushed.’
Sir Ralph de la Pomeroy nodded and saddles creaked as men felt for their weapons. There was a heightened tension among them all as they continued. Soon they were out of the trees, and found the battlefield.
‘Dear Lord God,’ a man sighed.
It was a slaughterhouse. Limbs and bloody torsos lay about the grass, which was red with gore.
Sword of Shame Page 3