by H A CULLEY
‘How are they deployed?’ I asked.
‘Right across the area between the river and the hills,’ one of the scouts replied. ‘They are in no particular formation; more like a vast herd of sheep on the move.’
‘Have they put out any scouts?’
‘There is a screen of about twenty mounted warriors travelling three hundred yards or so in front of the leading elements.’
‘Then they are our first target, but not until they are further along the road.’
As the Viking horde advanced they must have seen us on the slopes above them but they ignored us. I prayed fervently that that wouldn’t last.
Just before they reached the village of Penicuik we suddenly kicked our horses into a mad gallop down the grassy sides of the hill and headed for the enemy scouts. They were taken by surprise and milled about in confusion. Someone evidently kept their head because they suddenly dismounted and rushed to form a shield wall to fend off our attack.
It was what I had expected. Neither the Norse nor the Danes fought on horseback. We each carried two spears and, as we came within ten yards of the shield wall we hurled our first spear and then wheeled and rode away.
About half of our spears stuck in shields, but others hit exposed legs and a few even found the gap between the helmet brim and the top of their round shields. When they saw us riding away they roared their anger and chased after us, despite the yells of the more level headed to keep the shield wall intact.
After a hundred yards we wheeled back and charged again. This time the Vikings were exposed and we charged into them, spearing them and then drawing swords and axes to cut them down. After a few minutes I gave the signal and Ulfric blew his horn and we broke off the fight. As we cantered away we left all but five of the scouts either dead or badly wounded.
By now the mass of the main body were running towards us and it was time to withdraw. We rode away, skirting the village to the north, towards the entrance to the re-entrant. A few hot heads chased after us but they stopped, out of breath, when they realised that they weren’t going to catch us.
I turned back and saw that a group of men had got themselves separated from the main body and were dejectedly retracing their steps. They were a good three hundred yards from the rest and so I ordered another charge. We had covered half the distance between where we had halted and the nearest stragglers before they realised their danger. To give them credit, they didn’t panic but turned to face us, hefting swords, axes and spears to meet our charge.
Most horses would baulk at charging into a man but ours had been trained for war. We barrelled into the dozen men, knocking them down to be trampled by hooves or cutting them down as we burst through their hastily formed shield wall. Then we kept going, cutting down other individual warriors as they turned to meet our unexpected charge.
By then we were getting close to the main body again and our horses were getting blown, so Ulfric blew the signal to break off the engagement once more. We trotted back out of reach of the Norsemen, who were now furious with us.
When we reached the entrance to the re-entrant we halted and watched as the Norsemen came towards us. They were moving much faster than I had expected at a sort of jog and the front ranks were only a quarter of a mile away now. We collected the spears, which we had positioned there stuck into the ground, so that we now had three more each.
As the Norse ran towards us we moved into an extended line and rode at them, throwing our spears high over the leading ranks to strike the men behind them. It was unexpected so the men who were our targets still had their shields on their backs; many of them must have been hit. We cast our second spears and then rode away again.
A roar of anger from thousands of throats followed us. It was, of course, exactly what I was aiming for. We repeated the manoeuvre one more time and then we rode up into the re-entrant.
The Vikings yelled with excitement. It looked as if they had us trapped. The steep sided hills surrounding us were covered in rocks and they thought that they had us at their mercy. Certainly it was not possible to ride a horse up into the hills and any sort of charge was out of the question. We picked our way carefully along both banks of the burn which ran down the re-entrant. Because we were anxious not to lose horses with broken legs, the Norsemen slowly gained on us. Then, just as someone spotted the Bernician army standing on the skyline at the head of the re-entrant, we turned to follow an animal track off to the left.
The Vikings forgot all about us and formed up to advance towards my father’s army. Our task was over, for now. We continued up the track until we reached the col between Capslaw and Castlelaw Hills and then we paused to look back across at the battle taking place between our army and the Norsemen. The front ranks of the Vikings had now engaged with our shield wall and I expected that any second the Scots would pour down the hill from their position the other side of the ridge and crash into the Vikings’ right flank. We needed to make haste if we were going to be in position ready for the next phase of the plan.
~~~
The first part of the descent on the far side of the col was as difficult as the ascent had been and I fretted at our slow progress. However, the slow pace allowed our mounts to recover. The lower we went the less steep the slope became and there were fewer and fewer rocks. After a while we were able to mount. At first it was unsafe to ride at more than a walk but soon we were able to increase the pace to a trot, then a canter.
We could hear the faint noise of combat as we rode along the base of the hills towards the re-entrant where the battle was taking place. I had expected to see some of the Vikings already fleeing by the time we turned into it but I was amazed to see that our men were still fighting the Norse army on their own. They were doing their best to hold the ridge line but it was evident that they were close to defeat.
I didn’t know what to do. It was obvious that the Scots had betrayed us; they should have joined in the fray as soon as battle was joined. Then, just as I had made up my mind that I couldn’t sit idly by and was about to give the order for us to charge to our certain deaths, the sound of horns came from behind Castlelaw Hill and the Scots ran downhill in a disorganised mass of warriors towards the right flank of the Norsemen.
I breathed a sigh of relief as the surprised Vikings broke off the fight with our army and tried to form a shield wall to face the new threat. It was all in vain, however. The Scots cascaded down the hillside, leaping from rock to rock at great speed. Of course a few misjudged it and broke an ankle or a leg and I saw one fellow fall and bash his brains out, but there were few casualties in comparison to the numbers that crashed into the shield wall.
Some Scots leaped into the air and landed deep inside the ranks of Norsemen; others just seemed to flow over the row of shields like waves crashing against the shore. A third of the Vikings were unable to break off the fight with our men and many hundreds were caught in the open trying to move to reinforce the hastily formed defensive line against the Scot’s onslaught.
Now was our moment and I gave the order to advance up the re-entrant at a canter. Some of the enemy saw us coming towards them and hesitated, not knowing whether to rush to the aid of the thousand or so Vikings facing Malcolm’s army or form a shield wall to face my fifty horsemen. Their hesitation was their undoing. Small groups tried to lock shields to defend themselves, others ran hither and thither to avoid us and some crouched down behind their shields, but they did so individually or in twos and threes, not as a shield wall.
We swept around the groups like water around rocks and concentrated on spearing individuals or cutting them down with our swords. I used my shield to brush aside the spear of one man who tried to gut me and chopped down at his neck. I felt my arm jar as I half severed his head from his body and was nearly dragged from my saddle as I tried to extract my blade.
It came free and the corpse fell away just as an axeman aimed a blow at my horse’s head. I yanked the reins viciously to the right and my horse turned out of the way just in time.
He would have a bruised and bleeding mouth but he was still alive. I shoved my shield into the Viking’s head and he fell away to be trampled to death by the horses behind me.
We carried on until we hit the rear of the Vikings still attacking my father’s army. We had arrived just in time. Despite the fact that only a few hundred of the enemy were still attacking what remained of our shield wall, we had suffered grievously. I learned later that we lost six hundred killed and almost as many badly wounded that day. Bernicia had lost so many men that it would take a generation for us to recover. No doubt that was Malcolm’s intention when he delayed his attack until the last possible moment. I could forget any notion of trying to recover Edinburgh and its shire from the Scots for a long time to come.
~~~
I was so angry at what I regarded Malcolm’s betrayal that I would have gone to confront him in the aftermath of the battle, and no doubt have been killed for my temerity, but I had more important things to worry about. One of those grievously wounded was my father. A Norse axe had cut deeply into his thigh, right down to the bone, which had snapped.
By the time I reached him he had lost a lot of blood and he was deathly pale. I looked around desperately seeking a priest, most of whom were also healers, but couldn’t see one. Then to my amazement, Borg appeared with a satchel and pushed me out of the way.
‘I clean and sew up,’ he said in halting English.
I had half expected him to join the few hundred fleeing Vikings who had survived the massacre. But I was later told that he had followed me closely in our mad charge and had saved my life. Ulfric had seen a Viking with a spear run at me from behind with the obvious intention of thrusting it through my chain mail and into my back. Even if he hadn’t killed me I would have been unseated and, once on the ground and wounded, I would have then been a dead man in any case. Several of my horsemen had been dragged from their horses and none had survived.
Ulfric had tried to reach me but he was too far away. The only horseman near me was Borg but I had forbidden him to carry a weapon. However, he still had the Wolf banner of Bebbanburg and that had a sharpened tip at the bottom so that it could be thrust into the ground. He had reversed his hold on the standard and drove the sharp base into the spearman’s neck.
Now he was about to save my father’s life as well. He uncorked a flask of mead and washed the blood and muck from the wound before producing a clean strip of linen, some moss and a needle and length of catgut from his satchel. He stitched the gaping would together and then tied the moss over it with the bandage.
‘Now he rest. Not move. Erect tent over him.’ He instructed me.
‘Thank you, Borg. You were never a slave but now you are not only free but one of my companions.’
I’m not sure if he understood but he nodded and smiled.
To make my meaning clear I looked around and saw my father’s sword lying nearby. I picked it up and presented it to him. He looked at me blankly so I took his hand and folded it around the hilt.
‘You now warrior. My friend.’ I said in my poor Norse.
He beamed and turned away. I was puzzled until I realised that he was hiding his tears from me.
I gripped his shoulder and squeezed it briefly, then looked at Ulfric, expecting him to be appalled at the fact that I had made a Norse boy one of my companions. He wasn’t.
‘That was well done, Uhtred,’ he said before sending men to the baggage train to find the earl’s tent.
We were busy for the rest of that day and the next tending to the wounded, piling up our dead ready for burial in a mass grave and looting those Vikings we had killed for weapons, armour, coins and valuables. The Scots seemed happy to steer well clear of us and only looted the dead that they had killed. I had thought of going to see Malcolm now that I had calmed down somewhat, but by the time I’d made up my mind to do so, they were already leaving for home.
I rode across to the head of their column nevertheless but found out that Malcolm had left the previous day, leaving the three mormaers to deal with the aftermath. They smirked at each other when I asked why they had delayed their attack and I felt my temper rising again.
‘One day you will all pay for your perfidy,’ I said, but they just laughed.
‘Go home and lick your wounds, boy. Kenneth gave his oath not to attack you but he’s getting old. Malcolm will succeed him soon and then we’ll come back and take the rest of Lothian from you,’ the Mormaer of Fife boasted.
‘Aye, and Bernicia too if he’s a mind to do so,’ another added.
I rode away fuming impotently, determined that we would be ready for that day and this time it would be the treacherous Scots who would pay dearly.
Chapter Four – Saint Cuthbert’s Bones
Summer 995 to Spring 996
I stormed out of the hall at Bebbanburg, furious with my father and with my brother Eadwulf. Waltheof had survived thanks to the ministrations of Borg after the battle but the broken femur had mended badly and he walked with a limp once he’d recovered.
For some reason he blamed me for this, and for making Borg one of my companions, despite the fact that the former Norse boy had saved his life. We had never got on well but now we couldn’t speak together without arguing. Of necessity I had taken on many of his duties as earl as he couldn’t ride or walk any distance. However, every decision I made was criticised and, as often as not, reversed once I returned to Bebbanburg and reported to him.
Eadwulf, who was now nineteen, had become my father’s favourite and he indulged him. My brother was by nature, indolent and dissolute. He rarely bothered to train with weapons or help me to administer the earldom. Instead, he got drunk, bedded the female slaves and indulged in acts of petty spite.
Perhaps my mother might have been able to curb some of Eadwulf’s excesses, but she had died five years ago when he was fourteen and only just beginning to indulge his passions.
This most recent disagreement was over a request from Aldhun, still called the Bishop of Lindisfarne even though the seat of the diocese had been moved to Chester le Street a long time ago. Now Aldhun wanted to move from there to Durham where he felt he and his monastery would be safer. This had been agreed by the Archbishop of York and by my father in whose earldom both Chester le Street and Durham lay.
Moreover Bishop Aldhun had requested my father’s support to encourage the local people to help build the new church in which Saint Cuthbert’s body would be laid to rest. He had been a venerated man during his lifetime and had attracted hundreds of pilgrims after his death.
It was expected that everyone would help to build the church, which would be the resting place of his remains for all eternity an act of piety, but it would help enormously if the earl, or a member of his family, was present to lead by example.
The Ealdorman at Alnwick had recently died without a male heir and, pro tem, I was carrying out his duties as well as most of my father’s as earl. When I was told that I was to lead the escort to Durham and then remain there until the new church was built I practically exploded.
‘Father, you know how busy I am, looking after the shire of Alnwick as well as helping you. I can’t possibly be spared at the moment,’ I had protested.
‘Eadwulf can help me administer my lands and I have decided to appoint him as the new ealdorman for Alnwick as well. So you see you can’t use that as an excuse for shirking your duty.’
‘Eadwulf! He doesn’t know how to run a pig sty led alone a shire! What are you thinking of? You know how hard I’m working to build up our army again after Penicuik. Eadwulf has no more idea of how to lead men that I have about sewing.’
‘That’s enough! One more word and I will cut you off without a penny and make your brother my heir.’
‘Then God help Bernicia; you might as well make a present of it to the Scots or the Danes.’
I thought my father was going to have a heart attack, so purple in the face had he become. I quickly left the hall before he had a chance to carry out his threat. Shor
tly afterwards I rode out of Bebbanburg with Ulfric, Borg and half a dozen of my companions. They included Kenric but Feran had long since deserted my side. He was now my dear brother’s closest companion and shared his love of decadence and idleness.
I bitterly resented wasting time, as I saw it, on this fool’s errand but my attitude changed as soon as I met the bishop or, more correctly, as soon as I saw his daughter. Ecgfrida was nineteen, five years younger than me, when we first met but she looked younger. However, her intellect was not what you might expect of a young girl. I sat between her and her father on the high table that evening and I found that she could hold her own on any subject in which I was interested. Moreover she made me look like a dullard when the conversation turned to topics I knew little about.
I wondered why she was still unmarried. Most girls were married long before they reached her age. I didn’t think it was because she was the child of a priest. Daughters of members of the clergy were not as common as they used to be - Rome frowned on married priests - but the practice had yet to be forbidden. Only monks were expected to remain celibate. I tried to probe gently for the reason behind her spinsterhood but she immediately changed the subject.
I retired to bed that night intrigued by Ecgfrida and, I readily confessed to myself, smitten by her. She was unlike any other girl I had ever met. Most had seemed to me to be superficial and more interested in my status and potential wealth than in me as a person. My father often made withering remarks about my lack of a wife but I was determined not to wed just to beget an heir. I decided to wait until I found someone who would be my soul mate. Now I thought I might have done just that.
The six mile journey from Chester le Street to Durham was uneventful, if tedious. The monks carrying Saint Cuthbert’s lead lined coffin moved slowly and had to rest and change over pall bearers frequently. I had hoped that Ecgfrida would ride so that we could talk as it wasn’t far, but Aldhun decided that his daughter should ride in one of the wagons with the other ladies rather than on horseback. I was disappointed but, of course, I was at pains not to show this.