‘Best not to think,’ Steapa said, ‘it only leads to trouble.’
‘I was wondering why we’re fighting,’ I said.
‘Because the filthy bastards want our country,’ Steapa retorted. ‘So we have to kill them.’
‘Did they all fight before we Saxons came?’ I asked.
‘Of course they did,’ Steapa insisted, ‘stupid bastards fought each other, then fought the Romans and once they’d gone, they fought us. And if they ever beat us, which they won’t, they’ll fight each other again.’
‘So it never ends.’
‘Christ,’ Finan said, ‘you’re gloomy!’
I was thinking of the shield wall, that place of pure terror. As a child, listening to the songs in the hall, we only want to grow up to be warriors, to wear the helmet and the mail, to have a sword men fear, to wear the rings thick on our forearms, to hear the poets sing of our prowess. But the truth was horror, blood, shit, men screaming, weeping, and dying. The songs don’t tell of that, they make it sound glorious. I had stood in too many shield walls and now rode to determine whether I would stand in one more, the biggest yet and, I feared, the worst.
Wyrd bið ful ãræd.
We reached Ceaster late the following afternoon. Leof was relieved to see us, then aghast when I told him the battle might yet be fought on Wirhealum. ‘It can’t be!’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘What if he wins?’
‘We die,’ I said brutally. ‘But the decision isn’t made yet.’
‘What if the king chooses to fight elsewhere?’
‘Then you have to hold Ceaster against a siege till we relieve you.’
‘But—’ he began.
‘You have family here?’ Steapa demanded curtly.
‘A wife, three children.’
‘You want them raped? Enslaved?’
‘No!’
‘Then you hold the city.’
Next morning, still in a persistent drizzle, we rode north towards Anlaf’s chosen field. Steapa was still angry at Leof. ‘Yellow-bellied fool,’ he grumbled.
‘He can be replaced.’
‘He’d better be.’ He rode in silence for a while, then grinned at me. ‘Was good to see Benedetta!’ He had met Benedetta in Ceaster’s great hall.
‘You remember her?’
‘Of course I remember her! You can’t forget a woman like that. I always felt sorry for her. She shouldn’t have been a slave.’
‘She isn’t now.’
‘But you’re not married to her?’
‘Italian superstition,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘So long as she shares your bed, who cares?’
‘And you?’ I asked. I knew his wife had died.
‘I don’t sleep alone, lord,’ he said, then nodded ahead to the bridge that crossed the larger stream, close to where the smaller joined it. ‘That’s the stream?’ he asked.
‘You can see the hazel rods just beyond it.’
‘So the bridge would be behind us?’
‘Yes.’
He spurred to the bridge, which was little more than trimmed oak trunks laid between the high banks and only wide enough to take a small farm cart. He curbed his horse on the bridge and looked along the larger stream, seeing its deep gully and the reeds on either bank. He grunted, but said nothing, just turned to stare at the first hazel rods that were planted a hundred paces north, beyond which the heathland gradually rose towards the low crest. At first sight it was an unpromising battlefield that yielded the higher ground to the enemy and suggested we would be trapped on the boggy ground at the edge of the streams’ gullies.
Steapa urged his horse on, reaching the hazel rods. We were accompanied by Finan, Egil, Thorold, Sihtric and a dozen warriors, two of whom held damp branches with their dripping autumn leaves. ‘I suppose the earslings are watching us?’ Steapa nodded towards the trees on the western ridge.
‘They will be.’
‘What’s that?’ He pointed west to where we could see a broken palisade on the ridge’s summit.
‘Brynstæþ, a farmstead.’
‘Anlaf’s men are there?’
‘They were,’ Egil answered, ‘but they left two days ago.’
‘Probably there now,’ Steapa said unhappily. He rode on, leading us to the low crest marked by the hazel rods where Anlaf hoped to make his shield wall. ‘He’ll think we’re fools if we agree to this place,’ he said.
‘He already thinks Æthelstan is a frivolous idiot.’
He snorted at that, then walked his horse west to the highest point of the crest. ‘So you think he’ll attack down this slope?’ he asked, looking back towards the bridge.
‘I would.’
‘Me too,’ he said after a moment’s thought.
‘But he’ll attack all along the line as well.’
Steapa nodded. ‘But this will be his heaviest attack, right here.’
‘Straight down the slope,’ I said.
Steapa gazed down the gentle slope. ‘That’s what I’d do,’ he said. He frowned, and I knew he was thinking of what else Anlaf might do, but ever since I had first seen this place I could not imagine another plan. Attacking from his right would pin Æthelstan’s army against the deeper stream. Some men would escape across the gully, but in the panic many would drown, most would be slaughtered, and the fugitives could be pursued and killed by Anlaf’s horsemen, most of whom would be Ingilmundr’s men, the same ones we had seen setting off eastwards to ravage Mercia beyond Ceaster. I doubted that either Anlaf or Constantine had brought many horses, they were difficult and awkward to ship, which meant only those horses already on Wirhealum would make the pursuit. But if my charcoal-sketched plans came true then the pursuit would be the other way, with Anlaf fleeing and our men following.
‘Suppose his main attack is from his left?’ Steapa suggested.
‘He’ll force us back onto the smaller stream and it’s easier to cross.’
‘And he loses the advantage of the slope,’ Finan put in.
Steapa frowned. He knew what I had suggested to Æthelstan, but he also knew that the enemy had ideas of their own. ‘How clever is Anlaf?’
‘He’s no fool.’
‘He’ll think we’re fools to accept.’
‘Let’s hope he does think that. Let him think we’re arrogant, that we’re confident we can shatter his shield wall. We treat him with derision.’
‘You’ll have a chance to do that right now,’ Thorolf growled and we turned to see a score of horsemen coming from the north. Like us they displayed the branches of truce.
‘I need a moment,’ Steapa said, then spurred his horse down the slope where we believed Anlaf would launch his most brutal attack. He galloped to the lower land where Æthelstan’s left flank would make its shield wall, then curved around so he could follow the stream’s bank. I could see him looking into the smaller stream, then he spurred again and came back to join us. By then I could see that Anlaf was among the approaching horsemen and with him were Constantine and Ingilmundr. We waited.
‘The bastard,’ Steapa growled as he saw the approaching horsemen.
‘Ingilmundr?’
‘Treacherous bastard,’ Steapa spat.
‘He knows Æthelstan is no fool.’
‘Except he fooled the king for long enough, didn’t he?’
We fell silent as the horsemen came closer. They reined in a dozen paces away and Anlaf grinned. ‘Lord Uhtred! You return. You bring your king’s answer?’
‘I was exercising my horse,’ I said, ‘and showing Lord Steapa the countryside.’
‘Lord Steapa,’ Anlaf said the name. He would have heard of Steapa, but only as a man from his grandfather’s time. ‘Another old man?’
‘He says you’re an old man,’ I told Steapa.
‘Tell him he’s an earsling, and that I’ll gut him from his balls to his gullet.’
I had no need to translate, Ingilmundr did that and Anlaf laughed. I ignored him, looking at Constantine i
nstead. I had met him often enough and I respected him. I bowed my head briefly. ‘Lord King, I am sorry to see you here.’
‘I had no wish to be here,’ he said, ‘but your king is insufferable. Monarch of all Britain!’
‘He’s the most powerful monarch in Britain,’ I suggested.
‘That, Lord Uhtred, is what we are here to decide.’ He spoke stiffly, but I sensed some regret in his voice. He was old too, maybe a handful of years younger than me, and his stern, handsome face was lined and his beard white. He wore, as he always did, a cloak of rich blue.
‘If you abandon your claim in Cumbria,’ I told him, ‘and march your men back to Alba, then we have nothing to decide.’
‘Except who rules Northumbria,’ Constantine said.
‘You would let a pagan rule there?’ I asked, nodding at Anlaf, who was listening to Ingilmundr’s translation as we spoke.
‘Better a pagan ally than an arrogant whelp who treats us like dogs.’
‘He believes you are a good Christian, lord King,’ I said, ‘and that all the Christians of Britain should live in peace.’
‘Under his rule?’ Constantine snarled.
‘Under his protection.’
‘I don’t need Saxons to protect me. I want to teach them that Scotland will not be humiliated.’
‘Then leave this land,’ I said, ‘because King Æthelstan is bringing his army, an undefeated army, and your humiliation will be greater.’
‘Bring the army,’ Ingilmundr said in the Saxon tongue, ‘because our spears are hungry.’
‘As for you,’ I said, ‘you treacherous piece of shit, I’ll feed your corpse to Saxon pigs.’
‘Enough,’ Steapa growled. ‘You want to fight my king here?’
‘If he dares come,’ Ingilmundr translated Anlaf’s answer.
‘Then keep the truce for one more week,’ Steapa said.
There was silence after Ingilmundr translated that. Anlaf looked surprised, then suspicious. ‘You accept this battlefield?’ he finally asked.
‘Tell him we accept,’ Steapa said, ‘we will beat you here. It’s as good a place as any, and the army we bring cannot be beaten!’
‘And you want another week?’ Anlaf asked. ‘So you can assemble more men to be slaughtered?’
‘We need a week to bring our army here,’ Steapa said.
Anlaf did not look at Constantine, which surprised me, he just nodded. ‘One week from today,’ he agreed.
‘And until then,’ Steapa demanded, ‘you stay north of these hazel rods, and we stay south of those.’ He pointed at the line of rods north of the bridge.
‘Agreed,’ Constantine said hurriedly, perhaps to show that he was Anlaf’s equal.
‘Then we shall meet again,’ Steapa said, turned his horse and, without another word, spurred towards the bridge.
Ingilmundr watched Steapa ride down the shallow slope. ‘Æthelstan gave him the authority to make the decision?’ he asked.
‘He did,’ I said.
‘And they call him Steapa Snotor!’ Ingilmundr sneered, then translated the old insult to Anlaf.
Anlaf laughed. ‘Steapa the stupid! We shall meet one week from today, Lord Uhtred.’
I said nothing, just turned Snawgebland and spurred to follow Steapa. I caught up with him as we approached the bridge. ‘So you agree with me?’ I said.
‘If we don’t fight him here,’ Steapa said, ‘we lose Ceaster and he marches into northern Mercia. We’ll fight him eventually, but he’ll choose a higher hill than this one, a steeper slope, and the fight will be twice as hard. This isn’t the best place to fight, but you’re right. There’s a good chance we can win here.’ The hooves of our horses clattered loud on the bridge. ‘He’s got the advantage,’ Steapa went on, ‘and it won’t be easy.’
‘It never is.’
‘But if God is on our side? We can win.’ He made the sign of the cross.
Next day he rode south to meet Æthelstan who was bringing his army north. The decision was made. We would fight at Wirhealum.
Steapa had insisted on a week’s truce to give Æthelstan’s army time to arrive in Ceaster, though that only took three days. On the evening of the third day there was a service in the church Æthelflaed had built, and Æthelstan insisted all his commanders attended and brought men with them. I took fifty of my Christians. Monks chanted, men bowed, knelt and stood, and finally my son, the bishop, stood before the altar and preached.
I had not wanted to attend, but Æthelstan had ordered me to be present, and so I stood at the back, among the shadows cast by the tall candles, and braced myself for whatever my son would say. He was known for his hatred of pagans and I expected a rant, ostensibly aimed at Anlaf, but doubtless meant for me too.
But he surprised me. He spoke of the land we protected; a land, he said, of farms and coppiced woodlands, of lakes and high pastures. He spoke of families, of wives and children. He spoke well, not loudly, but his voice reached us clearly enough. ‘God,’ he said, ‘is on our side! It is our land that has been invaded, how can God not support us?’ I listened to that and supposed that Constantine’s bishops had claimed the same when Æthelstan invaded his land. ‘We will claim all the land that is rightfully ours,’ my son went on, ‘because Northumbria is a part of Englaland, and we fight for Englaland. And yes, I know that Northumbria is rife with pagans!’ I groaned inwardly. ‘But Englaland has its pagans too. Bishop Oda was born a pagan! I was raised as a Northumbrian pagan! Yet we are both Ænglisc!’ His voice was rising. ‘We are both Christians! Both bishops! How many in this church had pagan parents?’ That question took everyone by surprise, but gradually the hands went up, including my son’s hand. I was astonished by how many raised an arm, but of course the majority of Æthelstan’s troops were from Mercia, and the northern part of that country had been ruled and settled by the Danes for a long time. My son lowered his hand. ‘But now we are not Danes or Saxons,’ he went on strongly, ‘neither pagans nor Christians, but Ænglisc! And God will be with us!’
It was a good sermon. We were all nervous. Every man in Æthelstan’s army knew we were fighting on land the enemy had chosen, and a rumour had hurried through the army that Æthelstan himself had disapproved of Steapa’s acceptance. ‘It’s nonsense,’ Æthelstan told me irritably. ‘It’s not perfect ground, but probably as good as we can expect.’
It was the day after my son’s sermon and there were twelve of us exploring the wooded ridge that would lie on the left of Æthelstan’s battle line. I had sent Eadric and Oswi to scout the ridge as far as the ruined palisade of Brynstæþ, and they had assured us there was no enemy among the trees beyond the settlement. Meanwhile fifty other horsemen were riding the chosen battlefield, going as far north as the truce allowed, and one of them wore Æthelstan’s distinctive cloak and his helmet with its gold ring like a coronet. The enemy would be watching them, but so far Anlaf’s men had not been seen coming further south than they had agreed, and I was confident that Æthelstan’s exploration of the ridge was hidden from enemy scouts.
Æthelstan wore a drab mail coat and a battered helmet, looking like any other soldier who would have to stand in the shield wall. He was mostly silent, staring down from the ridge at the battlefield, then going as far as Brynstæþ’s ruined palisade. ‘What was here?’
‘A Saxon family,’ I said. ‘They owned most of the land around here. They sold timber and kept some sheep.’
He grunted. ‘It will do,’ he said, then turned to look again at the valley where the road ran straight towards the distant sea. ‘Egil’s Norsemen will fight?’
‘They’re Norsemen, lord King, of course they’ll fight.’
‘I’ll put you on the right,’ he said, ‘hard against that stream.’ He meant the deeper stream. ‘Your job will be to push their left back, make them think that’s our plan.’
I felt an unworthy relief that I was not being posted on Æthelstan’s left where we expected the assault of Anlaf’s fiercest warriors. ‘We’ll push,’ I
said, ‘but not too far.’
‘Not too far,’ he agreed, ‘maybe not far at all. Just hold them still, that will be enough.’ We would have fewer men than the enemy and if we pushed too far forward we would have to thin our ranks to fill the growing space between the streams. ‘There’s something else you can do for me, lord,’ he went on.
‘Tell me, lord King.’
‘We have to win this battle,’ he said, ‘and afterwards we have to occupy Cumbria. We have to hit them hard! They’ve rebelled!’ He meant the Danes and Norse who had settled in that restless region and who had flocked to join Constantine’s army as it marched south.
‘It can be done, lord King,’ I said, ‘but you’ll need a lot of men to do it.’
‘You’ll need a lot more men,’ he corrected me, then paused, still looking down into the valley. ‘Ealdorman Godric left no heir.’ Godric had been the man Æthelstan had appointed as ealdorman of northern Cumbria, and who had died trying to stop Constantine’s advance. He had been young, wealthy and, reports said, brave. He had been overwhelmed by the Scottish attack, his shield wall broken, and he had been cut down trying to rally his men. ‘Some two hundred of his men escaped the battle,’ Æthelstan said, ‘and others are probably still alive, hiding in the hills.’
‘I hope so.’
‘So I want you to take over his land and his men.’
I said nothing for a moment. Godric had been given vast tracts of northern Cumbria, and if I became their owner, then Bebbanburg’s land would stretch from sea to sea across Britain. I would have to garrison Cair Ligualid and a dozen other places. I would become the Saxon shield against the Scots, and that, I thought, was good. Yet for that silent moment I also felt confusion. ‘Not three months ago, lord King, you were trying to take Bebbanburg from me. Now you’re doubling my lands?’
He flinched at that. ‘I need a strong man on the Scottish frontier.’
‘An old man?’
‘Your son will inherit.’
‘He will, lord King.’
I saw a buzzard circle high over the battlefield. It tipped its wings to the small wind, then soared northwards. I touched my hammer, thanking Thor for sending a good omen.
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