I showed the battered helmet to the poet. “See the gash?”
Father Selwyn fingered the metal that had split where the stone had crushed the helmet. “That must have hurt, lord.”
I laughed. “I had a headache for days after, but at the time? It didn’t hurt, I was knocked unconscious.”
Father Selwyn ran an ink-stained finger across the scar that disfigured the silver wolf that crested the helmet. “You never had it repaired, lord?”
“It’s a reminder of my stupidity,” I said, making the young man smile. “And I have other helmets.”
“Were you attacking the northern tower when it happened?”
“We hadn’t got that far. The idea was to draw men away from that corner.”
Like almost everything else that day, the plan to weaken the northern corner by attacking the southwestern angle of the fort did not work. Sköll had crammed a small army into Heahburh, and he had no need to weaken any part of his ramparts. All he had to do was let us make futile attacks on his walls until we finally abandoned the assaults, and then pursue us to destruction. That had been his plan ever since he had withdrawn from Bebbanburg, and, like fools, we obliged him.
My attack on the northern stretch of the wall failed. We lost another seven men, Sköll lost two men. We had sixteen wounded, including myself, and Sköll had maybe a half-dozen injured at the most. I did not see our retreat from the wall and its ditches, I was unconscious. I had been struck by the lump of stone that splintered my shield and split my helmet. I fell, and Finan later told me how Gerbruht and Eadric seized my arms, rescued Serpent-Breath, and dragged me back. A spear struck my left thigh while they hauled me over the banks. The blade cut deep, but I was unaware of it. Finan tried to keep the men at the wall, tried to gaff yet another Norseman and haul him down to the inner ditch, but when my men saw me being pulled back to the safer ground beyond the ditches they lost heart. They retreated with me, pursued by Norse jeers and thrown spears.
At first, as I recovered, the only thing I was aware of was the triumphant shouts of a victorious enemy. They bellowed their insults, blew horns, and clattered swords against shields as they invited us back to the ramparts. Sigtryggr’s bigger assault, like mine, had also been driven back, and Sköll’s men were mocking us. “I never even planted one ladder,” Sigtryggr told me later. “There were too many of the bastards.”
The next thing I remember is the sharp pain as Vidarr pulled off my damaged helmet. “Christ, be careful!” Finan snarled at him as blood flowed from my scalp. He poured water on my head. “Lord? Lord?”
I must have mumbled something because I remember Vidarr’s surprised words. “He’s alive!”
“Take more than a bloody rock to kill him,” Finan said. “Bandage his head. You, girl! Come here!”
“Girl?” I muttered, but no one heard me.
Elwina, one of Ieremias’s angels, was evidently on the hilltop. “Tear a strip off your gown,” Finan ordered her, “and tie up his head.”
“I’m all right,” I said, and tried to sit up.
“Stay!” Finan snarled at me as though I was one of his dogs. “Bind it tight, girl.”
“She shouldn’t be here,” I said, or tried to say. I was gazing up at a clearing sky, though the left side of my sight was darkened. I flinched, suddenly aware of the pain in my skull. “Where’s my sword?” I asked in panic.
“Safe in her scabbard, lord,” Finan said, “now lie down and let the girl bandage you.”
“I want to see,” I said, and struggled up, hauling on Elwina’s arm. She was surprisingly strong and managed to pull me into a sitting position. My sight was blurred, still dark on the one side, but I saw Ieremias had come with his angels.
The mad bishop was in his embroidered robes, still carrying his crozier on which he had tied the ram’s skull. He crouched in front of me and stared at me with his intense dark eyes. “The stone, lord,” he hissed, “we need the stone!”
“Bugger off, bishop,” Finan snarled.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“You got a tap on the head,” Finan elbowed Ieremias aside.
“The stone!” Ieremias insisted. “Give me the stone or we lose!”
“He’ll give you the stone when he’s ready,” Finan said, having no idea what he was talking about. “Bind it tight, girl.”
“I need a helmet,” I said.
“The stone!” Ieremias called again.
“Bishop,” Finan said angrily, “unless you want your two angels to spend the next month flat on their backs pleasuring Norsemen you’d better go. Take them back to the horses, then go back home.”
“I’m needed here,” Ieremias said indignantly.
My son pushed the bishop further away and stooped to me. “Father?”
“I’m all right,” I said.
“He’s not,” Finan insisted.
“I need a helmet.”
“Your day’s done, lord,” Finan said.
“A helmet!”
“Stay still, lord,” Elwina said. She finished bandaging my skull. “Does it hurt, lord?”
“Of course it bloody hurts,” Finan said, “now bandage his thigh.”
“Sigtryggr says we should attack again,” my son said.
Finan used a knife to cut open my breeches. “Bind it tight, girl.”
“We have to help Sigtryggr,” I said.
“You’re doing nothing more, lord,” Finan said.
“I’ve done nothing yet,” I said bitterly, and moaned as pain stabbed through my skull.
I do not know how much time had passed. As I sat, half stunned, trying to clear my sight, it seemed as if we had only just arrived and the fight had been as brief as it was disastrous, but the fog had cleared, the sky was blue and the sun high. Horns were sounding from Sigtryggr’s ranks, men were cheering, Svart, huge and fearsome, was calling them back to the fight. “We have to help them,” my son said.
“Stay with your father,” Finan said. “I’ll lead this one.”
“Finan,” I called, and the effort provoked another lance of pain in my head.
“Lord?”
“Be careful!”
He laughed at that. “Lord,” he was talking to my son, “if your father can walk, get him downhill to the horses.”
“We’re not running away,” I insisted.
“I’ll come with you—” my son began speaking to Finan.
“You stay!” Finan ordered him sharply. “And get your father to the horses. You, girl, help him.”
I waited for Finan to leave, tried to stand, and fell back, dizzy. “We stay here,” I growled, and so I just watched the second assault on Sköll’s fortress and it fared no better than the first. We had made such a mess of this fight. We had been impetuous, unwilling to wait, trusting to fate to see us across the ditches and over the wall, and fate had spat in our faces. The defenders were throwing more blocks of masonry pulled from the Roman ruins, and each was heavy enough to crush a skull. Finan, evidently abandoning our plan to attack the northern corner, had ordered Cuthwulf and his archers to harass the men defending the wall we had assaulted before, but most of the arrows were wasted on shields. I could see snarling-wolf shields stuck with a score of arrows, and behind them the Norsemen hurled down stones or thrust with spears. Finan even managed to get one ladder against the wall, but before he or anyone could climb it, a man leaned down and swept it aside with an ax. Gerbruht seized the man’s arm and hauled him over the ramparts, and I saw my men’s spears rising and falling in vengeance, but that was their one small victory.
Sköll’s men gained a far greater triumph. Sigtryggr, filled with a battle-fury born of desperation, had collected spears thrown from the ramparts and had twenty of his men hurling the weapons back at the defenders. I watched, impressed by the number of missiles his men were raining on the wall, and, as the defenders crouched beneath their shields, Sigtryggr led a rush of men across the ditches. They carried two ladders that they rammed against the wall. A brave No
rseman leaned down to throw one ladder aside and succeeded before a spear raked into his shoulder. The ladder fell, but Sigtryggr was already mounting the second ladder when Svart unceremoniously threw him off the lower rungs and climbed himself. He swung his huge ax one-handed, driving back two defenders. I could hear Svart bellowing, hear Sigtryggr yelling at his men to put the first ladder back, saw the spears still flying at the ramparts, and Svart was almost at the short ladder’s top, flailing his ax. He was a huge man, terrifying, and the defending Norsemen were backing away from that massive blade as Svart climbed another rung, was almost over the wall, and then the ladder’s rung snapped. He jarred down, almost fell, and had to reach out with his ax to steady himself and a Norse defender darted forward and rammed a spear at Svart’s neck. The defender was immediately struck by a thrown spear and fell out of sight, but not before his long blade had pierced Svart’s throat. I could see the sudden blood. Somehow Svart stayed upright, swaying. He tried to lift the ax, but another defender, screaming defiance, swung a sword that bit into the bleeding wound, and Svart, a warrior of a hundred victories, fell back into the ditch.
The death of Svart gave the defenders new confidence and drained Sigtryggr’s men of their defiance. I did not know it, but Sigtryggr had also been wounded. A spear had bitten into his shoulder. His men pulled him back, and Finan, seeing the retreat of that larger group, called an end to his own futile attack. Sköll’s men were laughing again, cheering, calling us cowards, inviting us to surrender and telling us they would enjoy our women and enslave our children. Sköll himself came to the wall, the first time I had seen him that day, and he stood, massive in his white fur cloak that he wore above his shining mail. His helmet, I saw, was ringed with a circlet of gold, his sign of kingship. He mocked us. “Have you had enough? You want to come to my wall again? You’ll be welcome! If you try harder maybe I’ll have to wake some of my other warriors.” One of Sigtryggr’s men threw a spear and Sköll took one contemptuous sideways step so that the weapon flew past him. “You have to do better than that!” he called. He was searching the hundreds of men gathered on the far side of the ditches. “Is Sigtryggr Ivarson here?” No one answered, and Sköll laughed, still searching among his enemies. Then he saw me, sitting off to one side. He pointed. “The old man’s here! Are you hurt, old man?”
“Get me up,” I growled, and my son gave me his arm and I forced myself up. I swayed, my head hurt, but I stayed on my feet.
“Don’t die, Lord Uhtred!” Sköll shouted. “I want to kill you myself. I will add your head and your banner to the trophies in my hall.” His ramparts were crowded. His men were grinning and laughing. We were beaten, and Sköll knew it. “But don’t go away yet!” he called. “Stay an hour or so and I’ll wake up my úlfhéðnar.” He laughed again, then went from the parapet.
And I knew it could only get worse. The úlfhéðnar would be unleashed to crown Sköll’s victory. And two kings would die.
Twelve
Many a carcass they left to be carrion,
Left for the white-tail’d eagle to tear it, and
Left for the horny-nibb’d raven to rend it, and
Gave to the scavenging war-hawk to gorge it, and
That gray beast, the wolf . . .
I had to smile. “Horny-nibbed raven?”
“You think it should be horny-beaked, lord?” Father Selwyn asked anxiously.
“You’re the poet,” I said, “not me.” I remembered the ravens flying up from the Tine valley, hosts of black wings in a dread morning, coming to the feast we were preparing for them. “But I didn’t see any wolves,” I told the young priest, “except of course for the úlfhéðnar.”
“So Sköll,” he said, “sent his úlf—” he paused, uncertain of the word again.
“His úlfhéðnar.”
“His úlfhéðnar to fight you, lord?”
I nodded. “We didn’t think he would, at least not while we were so close to his walls.”
“Why not, lord?”
“He had us beaten! We had a choice. Either we assaulted again and more of our men would die, or else we ran away. That would be the time for Sköll to let loose his savages. When he said he’d wake up his úlfhéðnar we thought he was just trying to frighten us. Trying to persuade us to give up and retreat down the hill.” I closed my eyes, imagining. “Can you understand what would have happened?” I asked the poet. “Broken men, wounded men, defeated men, stumbling down a steep hillside pursued by the wolf-fighters. Our men would have panicked. It would have been a slaughter.”
We almost gave Sköll the chance to inflict that slaughter. I was standing unsteadily, my sword arm around my son’s shoulders, and still dazed when Sigtryggr came to find me. He walked slowly, there was blood on his left shoulder where his mail had been torn open, and his shield arm was hanging limp. He frowned when he saw me. “You’re hurt,” he said. I was wearing a dead man’s helmet that had blood on its rim.
“So are you, lord King.”
“Spear-thrust,” he said dismissively.
“You can still hold a shield?”
He shook his head, then turned to look at the fort. “It’s a bastard,” he said quietly, and I knew that was an admission of failure.
“It is,” I agreed.
He paused. “Svart’s dead.”
“I know, I saw.”
Sigtryggr’s one good eye gleamed. “He was a good man. The best.”
“He was.”
“He died holding his ax.”
“So we’ll meet in Valhalla.”
“We will,” he said, “and maybe sooner than we want.” He offered me a skin. “There’s no ale left, so it’s water.” He watched me drink. “So what do we do?”
I winced as a pain seared through my skull. “Try again?”
“The northern corner? As your madman suggested?”
“If you bring your men around to this side,” I suggested, “I can take mine to the northern corner.”
“Not many arrows left,” my son muttered.
Sigtryggr looked at the bodies we had left in the ditch. He grimaced. A Norseman, to taunt us, was standing on the rampart pissing on our dead. “The bastard,” Sigtryggr said quietly. Behind us, on the rising ground, our wounded were lying in pain. A boy, one of those who had helped carry the ladders up to the fort, was weeping over his dying father. Sigtryggr flinched, then looked back to the ramparts. “He has too many men,” he said, “and he hasn’t moved anyone from that far corner.” Which meant our efforts to persuade Sköll to weaken the north to reinforce the west had failed.
“We can’t leave,” I said, “they’ll cut us down like sheep.”
“They will,” he agreed, “but we might have to.”
“No,” I said as forcefully as I could, “we have to attack.”
Sigtryggr tried to move his shield arm and flinched at the pain. “And if another attack fails?” he asked.
“It mustn’t fail,” I said, “because if it does we’re doomed.”
Sigtryggr appeared not to hear those words, which were, I admit, little more than dutiful. I might sound defiant, but at that moment both of us knew we were doomed. He had turned to look back the way we had come in the morning’s fog, a fog that had utterly vanished. “I’m thinking,” he said, “that if we make a shield wall across the track then we can send away the men we want to save. Like your son.”
“No—” my son began.
“Quiet!” Sigtryggr snarled at him and turned back to me. “We make one long shield wall, and that should hold up their pursuit long enough.”
“You should leave too,” I said.
He scoffed at that suggestion. “I’ve failed. I can’t run away and leave my men to die.” He looked again at the fort. “I’ll send a dozen good men to take my children to Bebbanburg. Your son can protect them there.”
“He will,” I said. I remember the chill wind blowing across the spur as I realized that this was the place where my life thread would be severed. Two kings must die, an
d I, the king without a crown, was one of them. I touched the hammer and thought how I had let down my daughter. I had come for revenge and I was failing. I could see my men gazing at me, wanting me to lead them to a surprise victory. They had an absurd faith in me. “We’ve been at the arse end of fate before,” I had heard Eadric telling Immar Hergildson, the young man I had saved from hanging at Mameceaster, “and he always gets us out. Don’t worry, lad, we have Lord Uhtred. We’ll win!”
Except I knew of no way to win. We had been fools to assault the fort, and now we must take the bitter consequences. Sigtryggr knew it too. “So we make the shield wall?” he asked bleakly.
“If Sköll sees men slipping away,” I pointed out, “he’ll send horsemen after them. They’ll ride around our shield wall and kill the men we send away.”
Sigtryggr knew I was right, but knew, as I did, that we could do nothing about that threat. “We must try,” was all he could say.
And then the gate opened.
We were standing on the rising ground to the west of the ramparts and could look down the fort’s long side toward the northern corner that Ieremias had encouraged us to assault. Two-thirds of the way down that wall was one of Heahburh’s three remaining gates, and it swung open.
For a moment no one appeared there. We just stared, waiting, then there was an unearthly scream, and Snorri, the sorcerer, appeared on the earthen causeway that crossed the ditches. Sigtryggr and I both touched our hammers, while Finan and my son clutched at their crosses. Heahburh’s hill spur went silent after the scream because blind Snorri’s appearance had ended the jeering from the ramparts, and the defenders just watched as the sorcerer was guided across the ditches by his small white dog, then as he stopped and faced us. Snorri seemed to be gazing at us, while his small dog wagged its stubby tail. I remember that. It seemed so unnatural in that place of death, a little dog’s tail wagging. “Who is that?” one of Sigtryggr’s men asked.
“His galdre,” my son answered quietly.
“His sorcerer,” I translated the Saxon word.
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