The horsemen wheeled left and began to arc around the Northumbrians. Edwin urged the men on faster, picking the pace up to as near a flat-out run as he dared – any faster and the line would splinter, leaving the individual men easy pickings for pursuing horsemen. He looked ahead to the line of trees; only a hundred yards to go, but the horsemen were sweeping in now, aiming to get behind the line.
“Shieldwall!”
Edwin brought the charge to a shuddering halt, and Osfrith and Eadfrith began pushing their wing back towards the watercourse. The riders urged their mounts on, aiming to get in behind the shieldwall, arms raised and ready to hurl throwing spears.
“Back, back, back!” Edwin pushed the men around him to the rear, dressing the line to left and right to keep its formation, while at the wing Osfrith and Eadfrith locked shields as the riders hurtled closer.
The shieldwall stumbled backwards, tripping over rush and sedge, scrambling towards the water’s edge. Edwin checked to his left. Guthlaf had the left wing firm against the water. Any horseman charging in behind the line would be trapped.
The king pushed through the line, looking towards the closing gap and saw there the leading horseman, leaning low beside his horse, urging the beast into the space.
With a scream, the Briton threw his short spear. The haft sprouted from a man’s back and he went down. The rider screamed his triumph but as swiftly cut off his shout, for he saw the gap closing in front of him. Hauling back his horse’s head, he tried to bring the beast to a stop, but it slid on over the wet ground, almost sitting on its hindquarters as it tried to halt.
Edwin saw it coming. The rider was a youth, barely out of childhood, light and easily carried – no wonder the horse had outdistanced all the others. The youth was pulling back on the bridle with both hands, his face a frenzied mask of fear and excitement. It was almost with regret that Edwin stepped forward and drove his sword through the boy’s throat. For a moment, his gaze locked with the boy’s; as always, surprise came before fear and pain. The young never expected to die.
Edwin twitched his sword, pitching the rattling, dying boy from the horse, and grabbed the bridle, pulling with all his strength and forcing the horse’s head down so that it could not take flight.
“Bassus!” Edwin yelled, searching around for the thegn. “Bassus.”
The thegn ran along the rear of the line and took the reins from Edwin, gentling the horse and speaking soft words to it as he made ready to mount.
“Wait,” said Edwin. “Wait for my signal, then mount and ride. Ride with God’s speed.”
The king pushed his way back into the centre of the shieldwall, his shield men parting to make way for him, but covering him with their shields as he took measure of the field.
To left and right the shieldwall bristled with spears as Cadwallon’s men rode across the length of the wall, aiming and throwing their spears. After unleashing their spears, the riders swirled around in a loose circle, collecting a fresh javelin from the bundles that stood upended near the line of trees. Penda had formed his men into line and they were advancing now, in rough order, although they were still a few hundred yards distant. Once they were in place, it would be a pushing match, man against man, and anyone peeling off would be finished by the riders. He had to get Bassus free before then.
“Move left, in line, towards the trees.”
Shieldwalls moved forwards or backwards. They did not shuffle sideways. But that is what Edwin asked his men to do, with Guthlaf on the left pulling them along while trying to keep the line firm. The horsemen streamed past in another sweep and the shields sprouted a fresh crop of spears, but there was nothing the riders could do to stop the slow, steady shuffle of the line.
Penda urged his men on, but they were too far away; they would not engage before the Northumbrians reached the trees.
“Dismount. Form line.” Cadwallon’s order cut across the battlefield. Riders slid from their beasts, leaving the animals to be collected by the youngest, and ran towards Cadwallon’s pennant. The dragon whipped backwards and forwards as Cadwallon’s standard bearer waved the flag, calling the running men towards him. Cadwallon, screaming with frustration at the prospect of Edwin slipping away, pushed the men into a rough shieldwall and sent them stumbling towards the watercourse, aiming to block the Northumbrians’ retreat to the trees by sheer weight of bodies.
Edwin turned to Bassus.
“Go!” he yelled.
The thegn mounted the horse in one smooth movement and in an instant had the horse galloping towards the trees. There was hardly a man left on horseback among the Britons, and those who were were rounding up riderless horses.
“Stop him!” yelled Cadwallon. He pointed at the two nearest riders, who drove their animals after Bassus, but already he was halfway to the trees. Edwin measured the distance. They would not catch him before he got to cover; then it would be a contest of Bassus’s horsemanship and animal against his pursuers.
All he could do to help was to drive on to the shelter of the trees, stopping Cadwallon sending any more men after Bassus.
Edwin checked behind. Penda’s line was still far off and Cadwallon’s men had dismounted; he could no longer be outflanked by riders.
“Right, come round.” The men of Gwynedd outnumbered them many times over, but their line was loose and still forming, their armour and their weapons lighter.
“Push them back to the trees!”
The shieldwalls closed, the Northumbrians raising their pace from walk to jog, the men of Gwynedd standing fast, still pulling in reinforcements on the flanks and to the rear. Edwin searched along the line for Cadwallon, but he could not see him, and then he focused ahead, on the man behind the shield that faced him, face red, eyes squinting against the sweat trickling into them but unable to wipe his sight clear, spear pricking out from behind shield but his leading shin and foot exposed.
Screaming his battle cry, but not even hearing it, nor those of the men pressed up against him, Edwin shoved his shield against the man’s spearhead, pushing it up, then rammed the heavy metal boss with all his weight against the Briton’s shield, while with his non-pushing shoulder he drove his sword into the man’s shin and knee.
Face to face, more intimate than lovers, Edwin stared into the Briton’s eyes and pushed him backwards, against the press of the men behind him, saw the pain and helplessness in his eyes, then drove his sword into the gap.
“On, push on, push on!”
Such was the crush that, even dead, the man did not fall, but shielded the men behind him with his body. To either side, Edwin’s shield companions pushed their shields forward, using them as weapons and as rams, and the shieldwall of the Britons trembled, like a tree before the final axe stroke.
“They’re breaking.” To his right, Edwin’s shield companion shouted in triumph. “They’re break…” His words were choked off. Edwin looked to him and saw a spear point emerge from his throat. The warrior clutched at it, as surprised as any man, then pitched forward.
Edwin twisted and as he did so, a spear point slid past his shoulder and buried itself in the corpse of the dead Briton. His right hand free, Edwin stabbed out at the spear man, who was struggling to pull his spear free. The man went down, screaming, clutching his guts, and Edwin saw that Penda had broken his shieldwall and sent the men running pell mell into the rear of the Northumbrians. Already, five, six men were down, and the men of Gwynedd, who had been about to break, were rallying, pushing forward again. For a moment, behind the Britons, Edwin saw the treeline, less than ten yards away, then he was pulling the men around him back, forming a rough circle, facing out to the calling, gesticulating, screaming ring of enemies.
The battle fell into lull, men gasping, while the injured groaned and screamed and crawled, and the battle birds, crows and ravens, assembled about the field.
Edwin checked his men. His sons still stood, but both
bled from cuts, while Guthlaf grinned at him wolfishly, although one arm hung all but useless at his side. They were down to some twenty men all told. Edwin counted up the enemy. They had been done great hurt, but between them Cadwallon and Penda still mustered more than one hundred and fifty men. The shelter of the trees was so close, but Cadwallon and Penda had mustered their best men there. With the warriors he had left, there was no breaking through. Looking around, Edwin knew there was no breaking through anywhere. But there was no sign of the men who had pursued Bassus returning in triumph, and the longer they fought here, the greater chance Bassus had of escaping.
“Ten to one, and we still fight!” Edwin yelled, stepping a little forward from his line. “Find nine men willing to fight alongside you, Cadwallon, and I will fight you on my own.”
The prince of Gwynedd pushed his way through his own lines and faced Edwin. “A pig has more honour than you, hearth thief. So know this: I do not fight pigs; I butcher them. I will butcher you.” He turned to his men. “Bring the spears.”
Edwin, seeing the first bundle already approaching, backed in among his men. He looked around, saw the men licking lips, others speaking prayers beneath their breath, and he nodded to each and every one in turn and smiled. Many returned his smile, others his acknowledgement, for Edwin stood among them now as one warrior among others, and king no longer. They stood together. They would fall together.
As the spear bundles were laid out in front of Cadwallon and Penda, the Northumbrians backed up against each other, forming a two-sided shieldwall. Without words, Osfrith and Eadfrith placed themselves beside their father, and Guthlaf stood back to back with him.
Then the spears began to fly. Like hail they came thudding into shields, so many at once that to move to stop one spear was to leave a gap for another to fly through. Shields prickled with shafts, the weight of wood slowly pulling arms down and exposing heads and helmets.
One by one, men began to stagger and fall, pierced by spears, clutching at shoulders or throats or clawing at their backs. From behind the shelter of his shield, Edwin could glimpse the harvest of bodies reaped by the spear fall.
Guthlaf, standing behind him, suddenly fell away and Edwin saw the warmaster on his knees, trying to pull a spear from his shoulder.
In his ears, humming between the screams and yells of battle, Edwin heard the blood music and he saw the gore that covered his sword vibrate with the music of death, but he knew that the death it sang this day was its wielder’s.
They were like animals being slaughtered, and rage rose up in him, red and blind, as it had never done before.
“Death,” he cried, and his sons and his men took up the cry.
“Death,” they shouted, and as the spear fall slackened they ran forward, line breaking, swinging sword, thrusting spear, throwing shield.
“Death,” they cried and death they brought, crashing into the enemy who had thought them broken and bowed. But death they suffered too, pulled down beneath the weight of the enemy as a hunted bear is brought down by many dogs.
Eadfrith fell, his body limp from the clubbing blow that struck him, but the man who brought him down, a huge Mercian, snarled the battlefield despoilers away from the prince and dragged him to the edge of the field. Edwin saw no blood – it was possible Eadfrith still lived.
Edwin saw the spear pierce Osfrith, saw his son turn his face to him, saw the life light leave his eyes as the spear was pulled from his body and men like jackals began to fall on him, tugging at arm rings and tearing ear rings, and he leapt at them, sweeping the ground clear around his son, turning this way and that to keep the pack at bay. No longer human, the pack howled at him, leaping and snapping, but his sword pushed them back. Edwin reached down and closed his son’s eyes.
“Wait for me,” he said.
Then he looked down, surprised, at the spear shaft that had sprouted from his chest.
Edwin, king of Deira, lord of Bernicia, High King of Britain, sat down in the mud beside his son, and there he died.
There was little silence on the battlefield when the battle was over. The weapon noise had gone, the battle cries had fallen silent, but the wounded cried out, and the battle birds, knowing their time was near, sent up their victory calls.
Cadwallon and Penda, victorious, stalked forward through the ranks of their men, the living and the dead, and stood in front of Edwin.
Cadwallon toed up Edwin’s sword and took it in his hand. His eyes widened as he held it, and he put the blade up to his ear. “It sings,” he said.
Penda knelt down and pulled at one of Edwin’s arm rings.
“What are you doing?” asked Cadwallon.
“I said, when the time was right, I would take the king’s rings and take them right gladly.” Penda held up the thick, golden arm ring. “The time is right.”
“Take his rings, if you want them. I shall take his sword. And his head.” Cadwallon turned away and signalled his men. “Gather our wounded, strip the dead; we ride for York.”
Chapter 9
“The night was filled with bad dreams.” The queen turned to Paulinus and James as they walked back to the great hall from the church where priest and deacon had just said Mass. “Do you know what that portends?”
Paulinus had been loath to leave his church, now all but complete, but he thought it best to escort Æthelburh and her children – Eanflæd and Wuscfrea – back to the great hall. The princess was six now, and a fine, healthy little girl, while her younger brother had fought off the distemper that had taken the twins, and was now running off to play whenever he could slip from his sister’s grasp.
“I have no great skill at telling dreams, my lady,” said Paulinus. “But we are doing God’s work here, spreading his word; he will surely bless you and your kin all the days of your life.”
“I hope so,” said Æthelburh. “But I fear for my husband.”
“He is a great warrior and a great king,” said Paulinus, “and he has God’s favour. No harm will come to him.”
James coughed, and coughed again.
“Excuse me, my lady,” said Paulinus, turning to a doubled-over deacon. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Can we promise the king will be all right?” James whispered in between further coughs.
“Of course,” said Paulinus. “He must be. He is bringing God’s word to this land – the Lord would not allow anyone to stand in the way of his purpose.”
“But think about what happened when Sæberht of the East Saxons died – his successor reverted to paganism. The same happened with the East Angles.”
“Enough,” hissed Paulinus. “That will not happen here. Edwin is High King; he will bring all this land to the Lord.”
“Is James well, Paulinus?” asked Æthelburh.
“Oh yes, very well.” Paulinus slapped the deacon on the back, causing a genuine coughing fit, and returned to the queen’s side.
“Mamma, Mamma, Mamma!” The young princess pulled the queen’s hand, pointing to an approaching rider. “Why is that man coming so quick?”
Æthelburh saw the horse approaching and suddenly she felt ice water in her veins. “Eanflæd, take your brother to the hall,” she said, her eyes not leaving the rider.
“But Mummy…”
“Take him now! James, go with them, please.”
James was a favourite of the princess, so she protested only a little when, after swinging Wuscfrea up onto his hip, he took her hand and began leading her to the royal enclosure.
The rider, beating his horse to a final lung-bursting effort, raced towards them. Æthelburh stared at him as he approached, willing the rider to be unknown to her, but as he neared she realized she knew the man: Bassus. Beside her, she heard Paulinus reciting a psalm, but her mind had frozen and she could not decipher the words.
Everybody – the slaves about their errands, the men working
on the jetty, the children playing – stopped what they were doing and tracked the rider as he approached the queen. Only at the last moment did he rein his beast in, pulling its head up and back until it all but slid on its rear to a panting, heaving halt. Bassus half jumped, half fell from the saddle and stood swaying in front of the queen and Paulinus.
Æthelburh said nothing. She could not say anything. To speak was to bring on the news the man standing in front of her had come to deliver.
But he spoke, gasping out his message, and the words drove like nails into the queen.
“You – you must flee. The king’s command. G-go to your brother.”
“The – the king?”
“He sent me, my lady.”
“He is not dead?”
“Not when I left.” But seeing the hope spring in the queen’s face, Bassus stepped forward. “He was surrounded by two hundred or more warriors, my lady. Cadwallon and Penda. I have never seen such an army.”
“He is a great warrior.” Æthelburh looked at Paulinus, standing pale beside her. “He has God’s favour. You said he has God’s favour. He will come back. I will see him again.”
“My lady, there is no time. You must take your children and go. Cadwallon and Penda know where you are.”
Æthelburh gripped Paulinus’s shoulder. The strength had drained from her legs and she feared that if she let go she would fall and never stand again, but a cold clarity filled her mind. At her husband’s command, she would take her children to safety at her brother’s court. Edwin knew where she would be. He would come and find them. But now she had to take thought for the children.
“A boat.” She turned to Paulinus. “Get us a boat; with children I cannot travel fast enough to escape them on land, but we can escape by sea. I will bring the children.” She turned to Bassus. “Come with us. I would know more.”
*
In the confusion of the next hours, much was lost but much was saved. The children, excited at the adventure and too young to know what was happening, were put onto a long-prowed boat, arrived from Francia, that was waiting to be loaded with goods for the return journey. The ship’s master found himself carrying a queen and her children rather than the cargo of furs he had expected.
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