‘Brave men of Cumbria, time is not on our side. We must stop King Edmund before he reaches Jorvik and makes himself the ruler of all England. He is hungry for the land his brother conquered. Anlaf Cuaran has taken the battle to Edmund to stop him in his tracks. He has marched towards Tamworth to begin the reconquering of the Five Boroughs there. We must follow him and support him. If we do not stand united now, we will have no friends to call on when our turn comes.’
‘So who are those “friends”?’ a voice called out. ‘The two Dublin Kings who fight each other and go chasing across the country? Fine allies they make. Or did you mean that staunch fellow Dunmail? I can’t see him anywhere either.’
The voice was angry, so was Wulfstan. He pointed to Anlaf and glared at me.
‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, your men lack discipline as well as respect, be so kind as to keep them in order.’ But Anlaf had earned my loyalty.
‘Archbishop, Anlaf Yngvarson has the right ...’
I was interrupted by Mord who stood up, supported by his sons. He was pale and shivered with fever as he spoke, ‘Anlaf Yngvarson is a free man with his own land. He has the right to speak up at any gathering of Norsemen. Today he shows the courage to say things that many here think. We answered your call and followed you. We left our homes undefended and at the mercy of attack from robbers and enemies. Some of us will not to see our homes again. Here we shall lay friends and neighbours in the earth without grave-ale or ceremony. We are no cowards but we’re no fools and we need a reason to go on fighting.’
Everything became very still, even the birds and the wind were silent. I held my breath. Nobody spoke to the Archbishop like that, not in front of so many people. Wulfstan was silent. His eyes seemed to seek out each and every one of us. I wondered what he read in our faces.
When he spoke, his bearing and his voice betrayed no emotion. He may as well have wished us a ‘good morning’ as he said, ‘Brave men of Cumbria, if your decision is to go back to your homes and plough your fields then I cannot stop you. But do not deceive yourselves.’
He paused, straightened his shoulders and seemed to grow in stature until he loomed over us and his voice rang out like a blast from a horn. ‘The battle will come. It will come and, when it does, it will be over your homes and your families. Be wise as well as courageous, take the battle to your foe. Do not wait for him to find you, to burn your homes and lay your land to waste. Follow me and stop the tyrant in his tracks. Tamworth, Derby, Leicester, there is glory and honour for the brave whose memory shall live in times to come. There are rich pickings and plenty of plunder for all. Will you follow?’
‘Well spoken,’ rumbled Thorfinn with a sideways glance at Anlaf. ‘Norse men do not run from the battle.’ He beat his axe against his shield. He was joined by others, cheering and shouting: ‘We’ll show the Saxons.’
‘On our own?’ I heard Anlaf ask. Few others heard him in the general shouting. More and more joined in. And so his lone voice was drowned out by the clamour of men hungry again for a fight.
***
We were to break camp and set off without delay. Mord was the most senior man in our company but he was by now only half-conscious and not in a fit state to make any decisions. The Mordsons came to ask my advice. Eirik, the second son, lover of his stepmother, seemed overcome with emotion at the sight of his father wounded and weak. So, I thought, he does have a conscience then.
‘We don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘Can my father ride like this? What are we to do?' He was my age but, I realised he had never had to take any decisions. Being the son of a Lawman, he had been living under Mord’s rule at home as well as away.
‘Of course he can’t ride,’ I said. ‘Two of you Mordsons can continue with us but one of you should take your father home. Let him sleep here tonight. Take two teams of thralls to carry his stretcher and travel only short distances each day. When you get home, send for Kirsten.’ The youngest of the three, Bose, was chosen to go with Mord. I gave him some herbs from my diminishing supply and showed him how to prepare willow bark into a drink to keep the fever down. Other wounded joined them for the journey back home. I noticed some bandages covering what appeared to be entirely healthy limbs but who was I to cast doubt. Four thralls picked up Mord’s stretcher. As they were about to set off, Mord beckoned me to his side.
‘Watch out,’ he said in a voice so weak I couldn’t hear the rest. I kissed his hand as a sign of respect but he had drifted off to sleep.
***
A couple of days into our journey I managed to steer North Wind close enough to Wulfstan to force him to acknowledge me.
‘So you’re coming with us, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter.’
‘Yes, Sire, I come from conviction. I believe you’re right, Edmund is hungry for our land.’
‘Hmmm. Well, I know I’m right but why do you think so?’
‘I met Edmund after Brunnanburgh. He’s ambitious and ruthless. He wants – no, he craves – to prove himself the equal of his brother.’
‘So here’s an issue we see eye to eye about. That’s gratifying but I don’t think that’s what you’ve come to tell me.’
‘Archbishop, I need to ask you a question.’
‘I fear you have had too much time to think during this journey, but do ask by all means.’
‘Do you really believe King Hakon will come to our aid, that he would take up arms or even send help against his foster-brother? Because they are, aren’t they, foster-brothers? They grew up together; one the younger brother, the other the fostring of King Æthelstan. How could ...’
‘Shush child,’ Wulfstan steered his horse closer and put a hand on my arm. I realised that I had raised my voice and people were beginning to pay attention. ‘Yes, Sigrid, you are right. Hakon will not come himself, I wouldn’t expect him to. He also won’t send help. The best we can hope from him is that he keeps his promise to me not to side with Edmund.’
‘So, if you know Hakon won’t help us, why do you hold out false hopes to Dunmail?’ I hadn’t intended to put it like that but now it was out and maybe as well. Wulfstan mustn’t think that I was content to be used as bait to lure allies into his camp. He drew apart and I thought he would ignore my comment but after a while he spoke.
‘We each have to play our part in this struggle. I have chosen to side against King Edmund, although he has a point when he claims our land as part of his inheritance after Æthelstan. We were beaten at Brunnanburgh, we accepted Æhelstan as our overlord and Edmund is his successor.’
He fell into thought and, after a while, I prompted, ‘But?’
‘Ah yes, there is always a “but”, isn’t there? In this case it is the desire of the Norse to live according to their own law.’
I wanted to ask, ‘What do you hope to gain?’ but I didn’t dare.
‘I don’t understand it,’ I said to Ragnar during one of our rare moments together. ‘He would still be Archbishop under Edmund. The King can’t change that. Why does he keep fighting?’
Ragnar nodded.
‘It’s hard to think he does it for us. He must have his own reasons. Maybe he simply has more power under a warrior king with one foot in Dublin than under a Saxon king obsessed with ruling and lawmaking. I’ve heard Cuaran, he’s no statesman. He’s more interested in the fight than in what comes after. He listens to Wulfstan, same as Anlaf Guthfrithson did. Maybe Wulfstan gets to decide more that way.’
In my mind’s eye I saw Edmund, in the same mould as Æthelstan, single-minded, autocratic, a ruler not minded to listen. Wulfstan wouldn’t like that, to be treated like a stamp whose seal would appear on laws and statutes whether he agreed to them or not. So there was perhaps not so much difference between them. They both wanted power. I thought Wulfstan the lesser evil, at least as long as he needed me and my countrymen. I sighed. Then I sighed again. Not from the burden of heavy thoughts but because Ragnar walked his fingers up my leg under my tunic which produced a most pleasant sensation.
PART SIX
“Men make laws, Kings pass judgement, Justice belongs to the Gods.”
June 943
We heard them long before we saw them. The shouting, the chanting, the noise of swords and axes against shields. Wulfstan, furious, increased the pace and those of us on horseback left the rest to catch up best they could.
‘I told you!’ he shouted, ‘Those cursed deserters lied. I told you Anlaf Sithricson would not desert the cause.’
Tamworth came into view. It had been the capital of the kings of Mercia for hundreds of years. Æthelflæd, the warrior queen of the Mercians, made it one of her strongholds on the border to the Danelaw. The Danes took it, the Norse overran it but always, always the Mercians took it back. The town showed the scars of successive battles. The centre, where a king’s hall once stood, was black and the buildings looked temporary, as if they were just waiting for the next attack, the next firestorm. It was surrounded by a ditch and earth ramparts with a much-repaired wooden palisade on top. The ditch was deep enough and the ramparts high enough to deter direct attack even if we’d had ladders.
***
We joined the ranks of Cuaran’s army lined up outside the ditch. We were just out of reach of the arrows and spears that occasionally came from the stronghold. Many hundreds of us chanted ‘Come and get us,’ while banging on our shields with axes and swords. As time went on, some worked themselves into a frenzy, berserkers roared and Wulfhednar howled. Some ran out in front to collect a spear or issue a challenge to single combat. As the morning turned to day, such challenges became too much for the defenders to ignore. The time for shouting insults and obscenities was over and the first challenge was accepted.
The gate opened enough to let a man through. A tall warrior with no other protection than a bearskin over his naked shoulders ran across the wooden bridge that spanned the ditch. The bear’s head bounced on his back at each step. He carried a two-edged battleaxe on a shaft at least two ells long. The challenger met him shield and sword at the ready. The first blow of the mighty axe bit into his shield and stuck there. He let go. The berserker lifted his axe with the shield on it. Our man held on to the shield and went in close. When he stepped back the bear dropped axe and shield, sunk to his knees and keeled over. The point of the sword protruded from his back. The victor raised both arms and accepted our tribute. It had all seemed very easy, far too easy.
‘Useless,’ muttered Varg. ‘Probably sacrifice.’
‘Could be punishment,’ said Thorfinn. ‘Not a bad way to go, weapon in hand, could be worse.’
I didn’t want to show my ignorance so was pleased when Ylva asked what they meant.
‘A felon sentenced to death could be sent to his end like that,’ said Varg, ‘or it could be a sacrifice to Odin to ensure victory.’
‘But I thought they were meant to be Christians,’ said Ylva. Varg showed his filed teeth in what passed for a smile.
‘The priests would never know. See that banner up there on the cliff, right in the middle, the blue snake. That’s Erlend the Dane, he’s fought all over the world, he’s served more masters than he can remember and he’s worshipped more gods too. He’d know how to hedge his bets.’ But Ylva was not satisfied.
‘Why send someone out to lose?’
‘If he’d won, he’d be pardoned.’
Ylva and I exchanged a look that said, Is this another of Varg’s tall stories?
***
The shouting resumed until another of our warriors stepped forward to call out a contemptuous challenge. He was not much more than a boy carried away by the ease of his predecessor’s victory. There was a roar of approval and encouragement from our forces. The youngster shook his spear, he raised his shield. Only he knew what he called to the fortress, his words lost in the noise. Then someone walked across the bridge. Tall and broad in the shoulder, dressed in mail shirt and helmet. This was no pretend berserker. Even from a distance I thought I saw, below the rim of his helmet, a glimpse of eyes belonging to a cold, calculating killer. He approached in measured steps. A rock of a man. The young challenger seemed to hesitate but he had made his choice and had to stand firm. It may have ended differently had he done just that but instead, egged on by his comrades, he rushed to attack. He threw a spear but too early. It was easily sidestepped. He drew his sword and coming close aimed a mighty swing at the head. His opponent had plenty of time to take it on his shield. The sword got caught on the boss and slid down the shield. The youngster stepped back and the two began circling each other.
Both sides shouted advice, threats, ridicule and obscenities. The Mercian seemed content to wait. Our young man got impatient and began attacking, a sword swipe to the leg, rewarded with a blow to his helmet. He fell on his side and should have been butchered. But the Mercian stood back and waited while the boy scrambled out of the way and got back on his feet.
‘Keep your shield up, you little snot,’ shouted Varg.
‘Playing with the poor little bastard,’ said Thorfinn. ‘That’s insulting, should have done him there and then.’
The fight became a game of cat and mouse. Onlookers got bored and shouted for a kill. The Mercian rammed his shield into the exhausted boy, knocking him over. The final cut was swift.
The Mercian hardly bothered to acknowledge his victory. He raised his hands to his mouth and shouted. All round men fell silent to hear. The Mercian shouted again.
‘Ragnar Sweinson, come out! Show yourself! Ragnaaaar.’ He removed his helmet.
‘Odin’s balls, it’s him!’ Thorfinn and Varg with one voice. ‘Erlend, the son of a viper and a goblin, it’s him.’
Then Varg to me, ‘No sound now, Princess. Whatever happens, no sound. The daughter of Kveldulf Arnvidson and granddaughter of Harald Finehair does not show anything but courage.’
I closed my mouth although my whole body screamed in terror.
***
Ragnar stepped forward. His face was obscured by the nose guard and side flaps. I tried to believe it was not my Ragnar out there, his life and honour to be gained or lost in front of a crowd baying for blood. But there was no denying it was him. Tall as his opponent but lighter, younger, less experienced. Or was he? I knew very little of Ragnar the raider, the fighter, the killer.
This fight was different from the previous ones. The two warriors saluted each other. They stepped back. It looked like they were speaking but nobody except the two of them could hear what they said. Varg turned to Thorfinn.
‘Old scores to settle, is it?’
‘They’ve met once or twice,’ said Thorfinn. ‘I was there on one occasion. Ragnar did one of his clever raids and Erlend lost out. But it may go back further, back to old Jarl Swein even.’
The two combatants began the circling, so disliked by onlookers eager for action.
Erlend struck the first blow. It looked like he just tapped lightly at the edge of Ragnar’s shield but it must have been heavy because the shield dropped for a moment. A moment long enough for Erlend to thrust his sword over the edge towards Ragnar’s head.
‘Arrrgh,’ growled Thorfinn.
‘No, no,’ said Varg. ‘He’s out of reach. By Thor and his goats, that’s a strong arm to hold the shield so far in front.’ Ragnar tried a swipe below Erlend’s shield but his sword slipped off the leg.
‘So now he knows Erlend wears leg-irons,’ said Varg. ‘Look girls, how he angled his shield upwards. That’s how it’s done. Watch and learn, so you don’t join that poor lad before your time. Oh, you bastard of a sheep’s turd! Ha! Now that is good.’
Ragnar had sprung up and with the force of his whole body, slammed his shield into Erlend’s. It should have pushed Erlend off balance. It didn’t. He hardly moved. But Ragnar had placed himself opposite Erlend’s sword-hand and aimed a thrust at his side. It must have hit home for Erlend’s roar could be heard above all other noise. It was a roar of anger but instead of hitting out he stepped back and resumed the watchful circling.
‘Two masters at their art,’ said Varg
and Thorfinn rumbled agreement. ‘A joy to watch.’
I bit back a groan, clasped my Mjölnir and invoked Thor and Odin.
The crowd became increasingly restive, demanding action, craving blood. Ragnar became impatient and made some rash attacks.
‘What does he think he’s doing!’ cried Varg. Thorfinn shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, ‘he’ll be fine.’ But he sounded less sure than I would have liked. The two combatants could be seen speaking but nobody heard except themselves.
The fight went on and on. I shook, turning hot and cold, sweating and shivering, the bile of naked fear rising in my throat. I gagged and swallowed. Then it was all over. Ragnar took a step back. He stumbled. His shield went down as he staggered sideways. The Dane roared. He raised his sword for the final blow. But Ragnar, still on his feet, sidestepped, ducked and sent Bearslayer under the raised arm into the side of the Dane.
‘Ha, well done!’ cried Varg. ‘it really looked like a stumble. Couldn’t have done it better myself.’ We watched as Erlend the Dane dropped his sword, let go of his shield, clutched his side and fell to his knees. Ragnar stood back. Erlend crumpled sideways on to the ground. He rolled on to his back. He said something and pointed to his sword. Ragnar shook his head. The Dane twisted round, reached for his sword and lay back with it firmly grasped in both hands. Ragnar still stayed back.
‘Yes, stay away until you’re sure,’ muttered Varg. And Ragnar stood watching Erlend the Dane for what seemed an eternity. Then Erlend drew a deep breath. His body began twitching. Ragnar moved closer.
I heard Varg under his breath, ‘Wait, wait.’
He was right. Ragnar moved too early. Erlend thrust his sword upwards. Ragnar wasn’t quick enough to leap aside. The sword caught his leg. Was that great roar one of pain or anger? Maybe both for Bearslayer danced and brought forth a great river of blood. Erlend’s hand, still grasping the sword lay on the ground. A last swing and Bearslayer severed Erlend’s head from his body. This roar, neither pain nor anger, was one of triumph. It soared and echoed and multiplied as our army joined in. I shouted with the rest even though I still trembled. Ragnar didn’t look seriously hurt. I couldn’t see any blood. I thanked Odin and Thor for giving him victory. Then I was carried along by the crowd. Weapons beat against shields and as one. we moved against the town of Tamworth where, deprived of their figurehead, the defenders joined the population in flight.
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