No, no… Bécc thought. The surprise is not all gone. They don’t know I’m here.
He stepped off the front of the dune, half climbed and half slid to the beach below. He strode along the line of men that Fland and Imchad were forming up. He swung his shield off his back and positioned it on his left arm, pulled his sword with his right and raised it over his head.
Good enough , he thought. The men-at-arms were not positioned as he would have most liked, but it would have to do. The time for preparation was over. It was time for killing now.
Chapter Ten
Lugbad was plundered by the heathens…
and they led away captive bishops and priests and scholars,
and put others to death.
The Annals of Ulster
“You men!” Bécc shouted, his voice loud and carrying easily over the crackling of the flames, the sound of the fighting. “In the name of God Almighty let us drive this filth from Ireland!”
The men cheered. They shouted and cheered and cursed the heathens and then they began to move. They stepped off in a line, with Bécc at the center and ten feet ahead of the nearest man. Their speed began to build and their shouting grew louder, because these men knew enough about battle to know that the shouting would confuse the enemy, and frighten him, and that would give them the upper hand even before they were within their weapons’ reach.
Bécc blinked his one intact eye and turned his head slightly away from the brilliant flames of the nearest fire. The heathens, as far as he could see, were all on the far side of the bonfires, but it was hard to see past the light. Scattered across the sand he could see the dark forms of fallen men, but he could not tell if they were Norse or Faílbe’s men. Both, no doubt.
He moved faster, not running, but a quick walk, closing the distance with long strides. He could see his line of men running nearly from the dunes to the water on their right. They would have been able to hit the heathens in a single line, an unbroken shield wall, if the bonfires had not been in the way. But still they would take the heathens of the flank and drive them back.
Twenty feet from the nearest fire Bécc could feel the heat of the flames on his face. His one eye was tearing up from the brilliant light, and men were slashing and hacking and shouting at one another, moving in and out of the light of the fires. He moved faster and let his battle cry build in his gut and he opened his mouth wide and shouted as he plunged into the fight.
The nearest bonfire was no more than a dozen feet away, the heat almost unbearable, and with the flames and the screaming and the heat it seemed like a preview of hell. One of the heathens came charging out of the light, a battle ax held overhead with both hands, his eyes wild, reflecting the firelight and fixed on Bécc.
Bécc paused, waited for the man to come, his sword and shield held loose at his sides and low, his head and chest open for the strike. The heathen, still shrieking his cry of the damned, hacked down with the ax, and as he did, Bécc lifted his shield and swung it to the left, knocking the ax aside, and using the momentum of the swinging shield to half turn and drive his sword into the heathen’s side.
The scream turned from fury to agony and the heathen stopped in his tracks and his mouth fell open and his eyes rolled wide. Off to hell with you , Bécc thought as he pulled the sword free, and a great rush of memories came back at him. How many times had he thrust his sword through the side of an enemy, felt the resistance, and then the smooth entry as the point tore through flesh, deflected off bone?
Many times, but not once since he had taken his vows. Sure, he had donned mail and carried weapons in the service of the abbot and monastery at Ferns. But never had he been locked in a real fight like this one. He remembered it now, the rush of energy, the way time and motion seemed to slow down, the pure mechanics of killing a worthy opponent. An enemy who needed killing. He remembered it, and he remembered why he liked it.
Another of the bastard Northmen to his left, and one charging at him on his right. The one on the left had an ax, the one on the right a spear, which was the greater threat, so Bécc turned toward that one and ducked low, shield over his head as if he were warding off rain. He swung the sword in an arc and felt it bite the man’s shins and saw him stumble. Bécc straightened and leapt clear as the man came down right where Bécc had been crouching, right in the path of the other man.
The man with the ax stumbled on the fallen spearman, and his arms went out wide to catch himself and Bécc thought, Praise be to God… as he drove the sword through the man’s neck. He saw the blood, bright in the firelight, as he pulled the blade free again.
But there was something wrong, something amiss. In the rush of the fight, his attention on the heathens before him, he had missed it, but now he could hear it in the sound of the voices, the movement of men.
Oh, damn you, you stupid bastard! Bécc silently chastised himself. He should have been looking to what his men were doing, not taking his own pleasure in the fight. And now he could see the heathens were pushing his men back, the line that Fland had led down to the water’s edge, the line that should have been enveloping the heathens, seemed to be collapsing, pushed back by the Northmen. Or so it seemed. It was all confusion on the beach, the madness of a night attack, and Bécc could not tell for certain.
“Stand fast! Stand fast!” he shouted, but he did not think his voice would carry over the sounds of the fighting, nor was anyone listening to him. He started to run toward the water, toward where he saw the men being thrown back by the heathens. It was a frantic melee on the edge of the firelight and it was hard to see what exactly was happening. Men staggering away from the fight, men on knees or tossed down in the sand. Whatever it was, his people seemed to be getting the worst of it.
“Stand fast!” Bécc shouted again, swinging his shield at one who was racing at him, knocking the man off balance. He lifted his sword, saw one of his own men backing away and he hit him hard on the shoulders with the flat of the blade.
“Get back and fight, you damned coward!” Bécc shouted, but the man seemed not to notice as he took another step back, then turned and ran up the beach. Bécc looked around for Fland, but the captain was nowhere to be seen. Dead or run away. Dead, most likely. And more and more of his men, leaderless, were backing away from the wild, screaming Northmen before them.
“Oh, damn you all!” Bécc shouted. He could see the men were ready to break, ready to turn and run. “Stand…” he began again, but it was too late. One after another the men-at-arms turned and fled up the beach, overwhelmed by the drink-maddened heathens, and there was nothing that Bécc could do but stand and die or follow them.
He chose to follow them. He gave it no thought, just turned and ran himself. There was no fear in his heart, just a desire to keep on killing heathens, and he could not do that if he was dead. He had no qualms about sacrificing his life for the defense of Christ and Ireland, but this was not the moment.
They ran past the fires, ran toward the wall of dunes that rose up ahead, reflecting the orange light of the fires. Bécc was sure the men would scramble up the dunes and into the marsh and he did not know how he would rally them again once they did. Nor did he know if they would get that far. With their backs to the heathens, slowed down by the sandy slope of the dunes, they might all be struck down before they made it over.
But the men were not climbing the dunes, not rushing away like rats from a burning barn. They were stopping, turning, weapons ready. Then Bécc heard a voice, a single voice calling orders and he saw men grabbing those who were running and physically stopping them, turning them toward the flames and the heathens on the far side.
It was Faílbe. Bécc could see him, in his bright mail and shining helmet, sword over his head, shouting and pushing the men and making them turn and form a line with the dunes to their backs. Faílbe’s captains were there as well, helping form the defense, and as Bécc’s men reached the line they turned them as well, extending the shield wall right and left.
Bécc stopped an
d bent half over and gasped for breath. He was not a young man anymore, and the life of a monk was no preparation for this sort of work, nor was running in the sand an easy thing. He could feel the sweat running down his face and under the padded tunic he wore under his mail. His palm was slick where he held his sword.
He straightened again and jogged the last few yards to where Faílbe stood. He expected the heathens to hit them again, to follow up on their unimaginable victory, and wondered why they had not. He reached Faílbe’s side and turned to look down the beach.
The heathens were barely visible down by the water, far back from the fires that were burning high. He could just make them out, the light glancing off their shields, vague forms in the darkness by the water. They were not moving. Bécc sucked in another lung-full of air.
“Where were you?” Faílbe asked. There was an unambiguous note of anger in his voice.
“One of the bastards saw us and raised the alarm,” Bécc said. Humility, obedience, those were all part of his vows and he was trying mightily to keep them now. “You heard the heathens getting ready, thought it was us attacking. You came at them too soon.”
Faílbe was frowning, but he said nothing. It was a bad situation, mistakes all around. “The heathens, do you think they’re making ready to attack?” Faílbe asked.
Bécc turned and looked down the beach toward the water. The half-circle of bonfires were like a defensive ring: it was hard to see past them, and they would once more prevent the Irish from attacking with an unbroken shield wall. And Bécc wondered for the first time if perhaps that was not an accident.
“No,” Bécc said. It was hard to see, but the heathens did not seem to be making ready for an attack. They seemed to be collecting themselves, gathering together by the water’s edge. He could see a knot of men who seemed to be conferring with one another, the leaders, no doubt, discussing what they would do next. Not that they had much choice.
“They’re off balance now,” Bécc said. “Now is the time we attack. Let’s move down the beach quickly, fall on them while they’re in confusion.”
Faílbe shook his head. “We’re in confusion, too,” he said, pointing at the men-at-arms clustered near the dunes. Some were standing, some sitting, some attending to the wounded or dressing their own wounds. Some were carrying the dead clear of the battlefield. Their shields were laid in the sand, swords in scabbards.
“These men, our men, are ready to fight,” Bécc said. “They’re trained warriors. If I tell them to attack, they’ll attack, and they’ll kill anyone before them.”
“No,” Faílbe said. “The heathens are organizing, we will, too.” He turned to the men behind them. “You men fought well, but our work is not done. Go to your captains now. Get ready. We must be ready when the heathens attack again.”
Slowly the men sorted themselves out, and every moment that passed only added to Bécc’s impatience and outrage. An enemy no more than two hundred feet away and Faílbe was dithering in this bizarre standoff. It was driving Bécc to madness.
At last the men-at-arms had sorted themselves out, mostly, standing in knots of men with the captains who commanded them. Bécc looked past the fires, down to where the heathens stood. They might have been in a disorganized mob before, but they were no longer.
“Shield wall,” Bécc said. “They’re getting into a shield wall.” He hoped he was seeing right. He had only one eye remaining, and the sight in that eye was nothing great.
“Yes,” Faílbe said. “They seem to be. And they seem to be waiting for us to come to them.”
“Then let us go to them,” Bécc said. “We’ll form the men into two shield walls, one behind the other. We can push them down to the water, and there we’ll kill them. Or drown them. Either is fine.”
Suddenly a shout went up from the heathen ranks, a loud, wild sound, voices rising and undulating, and with them the din of swords beating on shields. The whole line began to advance, moving as one up the gently sloping beach, the shields and weapons and bearded faces growing more distinct as they approached the flames.
“Form a shield wall! Form up!” Bécc shouted. “The men with me in the front ranks, Lord Faílbe’s men behind! Two ranks! Quickly!” For all Faílbe’s efforts, the Irishmen were still in disarray from their ugly retreat and the confusion of the fight, and the heathens would tear them apart if they overran them like that.
The men-at-arms moved fast. They knew what they had to do and they understood the threat and they did not hesitate to form their ranks, Bécc’s men in the forward rank, Faílbe’s behind them. Their shields clattered as they came together in overlapping order. Bécc and Faílbe stepped in front of the double line and looked down the beach. The heathens were still advancing. And then they stopped.
“What the devil?” Faílbe muttered. Ten feet from the half circle of bonfires the heathen line stopped, shields overlapping, weapons held high. The shouting continued, loud and manic as ever.
“They want us to attack them where they stand,” Bécc said. “We’ll have to break our lines to get around the fires, and that’s what they want. They want our shield wall to come apart, and then they’ll attack.”
Faílbe nodded. “So what do we do?”
“We attack, Lord Faílbe,” Bécc said. “We advance and we butcher them all.”
Faílbe frowned. He pulled his gaze from the Northmen and regarded Bécc. “Attack? You just said that was what they want us to do.”
“Yes, and we will. We’re stronger than them. We outnumber them. And God looks with favor on us.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a wise idea,” Faílbe said. “I think we had better fall back, take up defense at the monastery. In the daylight, when they don’t have the advantage of the fires, then we can attack again.”
“If we retreat now they’ll take to their ships and escape,” Bécc argued.
“What of it?” Faílbe said. “We came here to drive the heathens away. If they sail off then we’ve accomplished that, with no more men’s lives wasted.”
“No. We don’t just want the heathens gone from here!” Bécc said, controlling his voice with some effort. “We want them dead. We want them wiped from the earth. Lord.”
“Brother Bécc, I insist—” Faílbe began and got no further.
Bécc raised his sword and shouted, “Shield wall! Advance! Forward! Kill them all!”
“Damn your impertinence!” Faílbe shouted. “I said we will…” But he was too late. That much was clear. The Irish men-at-arms had already begun to advance, and like the heathens they were shouting and banging swords on shields. Their blood was up. The heathens had beaten them once, had killed their fellow warriors, and now they were ready to strike back.
“Go! Go! Kill them all!” Bécc shouted, sword held above his head. He advanced toward the flames. He saw Faílbe hesitate for just a heartbeat before moving forward as well. The man was cautious, but he was no coward. But Bécc was quite done with caution.
The men-at-arms were matching the heathens shout for shout as they advanced on the half circle of fire pits, thirty feet between each. Bécc could see the Northmen clearly now, their mouths open and shouting, the firelight dancing off the faces of their shields. Hard men, but so were the warriors under his command.
He looked left and right. The captains, each with their division of men, were bringing them forward through the gaps between the bonfires, keeping them in as good order as they could. And as they came past the ring of flames, the heathens attacked.
It was like a monumental crosscurrent, wave smashing on wave as the Irishmen and heathens came together. A great clashing of shield on shield, furious shouts and weapons rising and falling. Bécc found himself pressed up against the heathens’ shield wall, pushing with his own shield, pushed from behind by his men. He braced his legs in that familiar way and pushed and worked his sword back and forth, jabbing where he could through the gaps in the enemy’s shields.
He felt something hit the blade of his sword and he
jerked it back, then thrust it forward and felt the tip rip into something, and with that sensation came a scream and whatever his sword had hit fell away. Bécc felt the heathens’ shield wall give, just a bit, and he thrust again.
He did not know what was going on along the line of struggling men. His sight, and his attention, was entirely on the few feet of sand he was defending, the three or four men directly in front of him, the Irish men-at-arms on either side. He thrust again and found nothing, drew back and thrust again.
The heathens seemed to fall back, just a step, but Bécc had stood in enough shield walls to know that was a good sign. One step, then another, and soon the enemy’s formation would collapse and they would be running. He lifted his voice in a great roar and pushed harder with his shield and lashed out with his sword.
And then it happened, just as he knew it would. The heathens took a step back, quicker now, and then another, and then as if on some signal they turned and ran, fleeing down toward the edge of the water, running in confusion, and confusion would mean death.
Bécc took half a dozen steps forward, turned and faced his men. “Stand fast! Stand fast!” he shouted. If the Irishmen started chasing after the heathens then they too would fall into disorder and all their advantage would be lost.
“Hold your shield wall! Follow me!” Bécc shouted. He turned and began to walk after the fleeing enemy, a quick pace, the rest of the men at his back. There was triumph in the Irishmen’s shouting now, the sense that they were going to stamp the vermin out.
The heathens had reached the water’s edge. Bécc could just see them in the light of the bonfires at his back, the orange light reaching down to where the sea lapped over the edge of the sand. The Northmen were up to their ankles, mostly, turned and facing the bloody death that was marching toward them.
A Vengeful Wind: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 8) Page 10