by M J Porter
“Live, you bastard,” Wulfstan muttered into his ear.
“Provided you do,” was Ælfgar’s terse reply, and then Wulfstan took his horse, forcing it between the other animals so that the contingent of Earl Leofric’s men all had their horses together in one place when they were able to escape. If they could.
Before him, Ælfwine offered a twisted smirk.
“Well, we shall see who’s the better man, at long last,” he tried to quip, but Ælfgar stepped toward him and offered him the same embrace he’d given Wulfstan.
“For Mercia,” Ælfgar muttered.
“For the sake of your father,” Ælfwine retorted, and Ælfgar turned to Orkning and then the remainder of the men.
“We’re all brothers here,” he shouted. “We all live through this, or God help us all, I’ll kill you my damn self,” he instructed the men he’d known for so much of his life. There were seasoned warriors here, and men almost as green as himself. But they all fought for his father, and in his father’s name.
“My Uncle has made his instructions clear. If this goes poorly, we make a break for it, when we can. As many of us as we can. We’ll not be massacred by the Welsh bastards, and we’ll live to avenge those we lose here today.”
As Ælfgar spoke, the words centred his resolve, and all fear fled.
He would do his father proud, and he’d carry out his Uncle’s instructions, provided he could, and if he couldn’t, well, he’d do whatever it took to cause as much damage as possible to the Welsh warriors.
“For Mercia,” the cry began from amongst his own warriors, respect on their faces, but quickly it was taken up by the entire force.
Orkning instructed ten of the men to form up and protect the rear from the force of mounted Welsh warriors. Ælfgar watched them with admiration. Their role was the most immediately in peril. They’d meet the blades of the enemy first. And they looked like a well-provisioned enemy, as scabbards flashed in the bright sunlight, calling for blood and the life of those who’d threatened the kingdom of Powys.
Ælfgar licked suddenly dry lips but ran to take his place beside Orkning and his cousins.
Living or dying was not his choice to make, not anymore, as he replaced his seax on his war belt and took hold of his axe instead.
An excellent weapon, the weapon of choice for the Danish men he’s spent so much of his life training with, he now turned it toward the Welsh.
Whatever happened, he would acquit himself well.
Chapter Seventeen
AD1039 Powys Ælfgar
Ælfgar could see little from his place among the Mercian men. The sum all that was known to him was the warriors in front of him, and those to his side.
Noises drifted to him from behind, but he kept his head forward. When the attack came from the rear, one of the ten warriors there would ensure the Mercians knew their backs were under threat.
For now, events at the front of the shield wall were what mattered.
Ælfgar knew the two sides had clashed. He felt it, rather than saw it, in the quiver of the men before him, and heard it too, in the grunts of men pushed to their greatest physical exertion.
“Keep close,” Orkning barked at his side, his voice harsh.
“And you,” Ælfgar replied, placing his weight on his back foot so that he could better balance the shield he held above the head of the warrior in front of him. The man was of smaller stature than Ælfgar and the gap above his head, from where the shields of the Mercians overlapped, felt like a vast, yawning gape, just waiting for a spear or an arrow to work its way through.
Ælfgar glanced at it fearfully. It would be too easy for the space to be used against him. He prayed that none of the enemy thought to use the shields as a jumping off platform. He knew his arm would buckle under the weight. Already it threatened to shake with the exertion of holding something so heavy above, not his own head, but that of the man before him.
Ælfgar bit his lip, hard, forcing his mind away from his useless thoughts to focus on what was happening in front of him.
The line of the shield wall seemed to be holding, in so much as he could determine, and yet he could hear the terrible cries of wounded men and men fighting for their lives, and as of yet, no forward progress had been made by the Mercians.
Neither had they been forced backwards. Was it possible that a stalemate had already been reached?
The next moment, Ælfgar’s faint hope faded.
It began as a small thing, a flicker passing through the men before him, but then he was being forced backwards, despite his best efforts. His back foot, braced to support the weight of his shield, was quickly joined by his front foot as those before him tried to retrace the ground they’d only just walked over.
Ælfgar knew he needed to yield, if only for the sake of the construction of the shield wall and yet he fought against it until he was left with no choice. Before him, his fellow warrior turned.
“Move you fucking bastard,” the man hollered, spittle flying from his open mouth, as he was forced ever closer to Ælfgar by those being obliged to retreat. For a quick moment, Ælfgar caught a view of the front of the fighting men, through the space below his shield. He gazed at the scene of devastation, at the rage of the enemy fighting warriors they’d trapped, and he finally stepped backwards.
The Welsh not only vastly outnumbered them, but they’d chosen the battle site as well. As Ælfgar tried to keep his eyes on events at the front of the shield wall, shuffling backwards one small step at a time, he realised the enemy was looking down on him. Unrealised until now, the place of battle was on a slight rise, to the advantage of the Welsh.
Step by small step, he moved ever backwards, his cousins staying beside him, Orkning as well until abruptly, he felt the touch of another. Turning, Ælfgar was dismayed to see the backs of those men who’d been tasked with protecting the rear of their attack.
They’d not yet engaged in their own battle, but there was nowhere else for any to go, as they too yelled in anger and outrage. The only way for the men to go was into the waiting embrace of the warriors who’d ridden them down through the valley and now taunted them.
“Fuck,” Wulfstan cursed, his voice loud enough even through the shouts and yells of the warriors who faced an enemy already.
“What the fuck do we do now?” Wulfstan demanded, frustration thrumming through his voice.
“Hold men, hold,” Orkning bellowed. He too was looking all around him, trying to remember the way they’d come and what lay close to them.
“We should turn and fight. Carve a way back into the valley,” Ælfgar called, his voice pitched so that it only carried to Orkning.
“Agreed,” was the terse reply. “Tell the men. I’ll give the command.”
Pressing close to Wulfstan, Ælfgar told him their intentions and Wulfstan, his eyes agape, nodded, and turned to his brother. Wulfstan gave no indication as to whether or not he thought they stood a chance, evidently pleased to be given instruction.
Orkning waited barely a handful of breaths before he yelled.
“For Mercia, turn,” he raged, and ignoring the surprised glance from the warrior directly in front of him, Ælfgar did as commanded, moving his shield so that it covered the head of his father’s warrior. There was a screech of outrage from behind him, but Ælfgar dismissed it. It wasn’t possible to protect his front and his back at the same time, and right now, the only option was to forge a path back the way they’d come. Easier to kill the twenty men behind, than the hundred or more who fought from the front.
“Forward,” Orkning commanded, and now the rear shield wall, reinforced by Ælfgar and his father’s men, pushed the front line forward. Axe loose in his hand, he waited to forge a path through the desultory force at their back.
Ælfgar could feel the empty space behind pressing on him, as surely as an enemy, but he focused on what needed to be done in front. The shield wall of his Uncle was in tatters, and if he was to fulfil his oath to Eadwine, he and his fellow warr
iors needed to break open the small group of men blocking the only available exit.
Ælfgar had a far clearer view of events in front of him now, as they rushed the small group that had guarded the rear. Caught unprepared, and assured of their success, it took the men long moments to stand with unity, prepared for battle and in that time a handful of Mercians had cleaved right through them, led by Wulfstan. Ælfgar could see the chance of escape before him, opening as a chasm of bright light, guiding him away from the fight.
But he paused, hesitant to take the exodus he’d been presented with. There was little chance of the Mercians in their entirety making their way to safety, and he was loath to leave men to a fate that could potentially be avoided if he just held his ground a bit longer.
Before he could take a step, either way, a hulking shadow passed into his line of sight. A great beast of a warrior stood before him, blood dripping from a loose hanging short sword in his right hand, and a bellow of enjoyment on his lips. The sword caught Ælfgar’s attention. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. This man then was a warrior by trade as well as size.
“Christ,” Ælfgar groaned, his temporary indecision forcing him to this fight when he might have escaped without engaging the enemy at all.
The thought left him as soon as it had entered his mind. He was the Earl of Mercia’s son, and he’d die for these men if only some of them managed to win free.
“Come, young strappling,” the hulk bellowed in a lisping tongue that assured Ælfgar he fought the Welsh.
Hefting his axe, his shield in the other hand, Ælfgar stepped forward, accepting the challenge. All around him, he felt the battle unravelling, but he focused on his own part in it.
The giant came to meet him with laughter bellowing from his chest, whether from the enjoyment at the prospect of a fight or because of the berserker rage, Ælfgar was unsure. A man who loved to fight, and who’d garnered himself with such fine weapons, would be a skilled warrior. A man sent beserk by the attack, might well be far less skilled, if not genuinely terrified.
Ælfgar’s enemy held no shield but had a weapon in either hand, a helm on his head that glinted maliciously, and Ælfgar thought that spoke volumes about the man. Overconfidence could get a man killed as quickly as a lack of skill.
Ælfgar shrugged to himself. All that mattered was killing the man, and ensuring the Mercians could escape back along the valley they’d just traversed. That was it. It came down to this one moment.
His shield before him, ready to knock the second short dagger from his opponent’s hand, Ælfgar struck out with his axe. It scythed passed the man, as the giant dodged it, instead forcing him into the unyielding wood of the shield. Ælfgar heard a thud of impact, as he quickly swerved his body, ready to attack the man from the side instead of the front.
The enemy, trying to keep hold of his second dagger as it slipped from the hand that had slammed into the shield, was momentarily distracted. The first dagger still menaced Ælfgar, but he stepped passed it, hammering his shield once more onto the second dagger, as he slid his own weapon down the front of the man’s byrnie.
It made little impact, but so close, Ælfgar concentrated on what else he could do. Raising his shield, Ælfgar smashed it into the exposed neck of the warrior, catching him off-guard and stunning him slightly. It didn’t quite have the impact Ælfgar had hoped for, the giant angrily spitting into his face, so Ælfgar rammed the shield ever higher, trying to hit the windpipe and deny his enemy breath.
This time, Ælfgar strained to force the shield upwards, the enemy failing to protect himself as he finally lost grip on the second dagger. It fell to the ground, landing almost on Ælfgar’s foot and he spared a moment to thank his good fortune that he hadn’t been impaled.
Yet, Ælfgar still hadn’t struck first blood, and as the man gulped, panting for air, he used his axe to hack at the one weapon his enemy had retained. The strike struck in a fortuitous place, the blade falling from crushed fingers. Now weaponless and almost unable to breathe, the man glared at Ælfgar. No doubt he’d have sneered had air remained to him, but Ælfgar thrust his shield one final time, dislodging the helm on the man’s head with a lucky clatter on the nosepiece, his arms screaming in agony.
As the enemy’s nose shattered under the onslaught, Ælfgar lowered his shield and swung his axe. The impact, squarely on the already bleeding nose, staggered the giant, and he went down on one knee, swaying so far backwards, Ælfgar thought he’d lie down. Only the man fought to remain upright, as Ælfgar swiftly grasped his seax from his weapons belt in place of his axe, and leant in for the killing blow.
Exposed as the man was, it seemed almost too easy to hack at the white neck and to hear the rasp of wet air flooding from the open wound, instead of from the mouth.
Ælfgar stepped back, breathing heavily, keen to survey his bloody work. Dying eyes met his own, fury in the black pits of his enemy, as Ælfgar became aware once more of events around him.
The clamour of battle was no longer distant but instead echoed loudly in his ear. He could see where Orkning and Wulfstan fought on, whereas Ælfwine, his byrnie already sheeted in blood, rushed to grab hold of their horses, huddled together, the whites of their eyes showing their fear.
Few of the rear enemy yet stood, the Mercians having dispatched them quickly, but behind them, the battle still raged. Ælfgar was assaulted with the shouts of wounded men, the screams of outrage and denial only ever heard on a battlefield. He could make out none of the men in the melee, but he could see where the attackers moved almost freely through the battle site.
The shield wall had long ago disintegrated, and while Ælfgar wanted nothing more than to prolong the fight, he knew it was hopeless. He had but moments to escape, and even then, he anticipated being chased deep into Powys.
They’d be hunted, all those who survived, until they either managed to escape into Mercia, or until the enemy found them once more, and tried to kill them again.
“Get a move on,” Wulfstan screamed into his face, and Ælfgar, gulping air, acted without thought. He bent to retrieve his shield and jumped into the waiting saddle of his horse.
In front of him, a handful of men had already kicked their horses to a gallop and careered down the suddenly open valley.
Wulfstan too was on his horse, looking at Ælfgar with barely disguised fury. Wishing he could do more than abandon the battle, Ælfgar booted his horse. With a fleeting glance to ensure Orkning and Ælfwine wouldn’t be far behind, he bent low over his horse’s back, ignoring the uncomfortable positioning of his shield, which was wedged between him and his saddle.
Ælfgar urged his horse ever onward, aware that at any moment he might need to stop abruptly should any enemy be haunting the trackway still. He tried to blank his thoughts as to his Uncle’s probable fate.
Ælfgar thought it impossible that his Uncle would have survived the attack, and yet he still prayed that he had. He didn’t wish to inform his father of the death of his younger brother, not when he’d managed to escape. He felt jaded by the knowledge of what Uncle Eadwine had forced him to do. Yet, he had honoured his Uncle by following his instructions, even if he hadn’t wanted to. That thought sustained him.
Or at least, he’d managed to escape so far. The trackway they travelled, would take them back into the heart of the Powysian hills. The most straightforward and most direct route to Mercia was denied them. They’d need to forge their own path, as soon as they reached the end of this enclosed valley, but should they head North or South, when they came to the end?
While Ælfgar was now convinced that the enemy they’d fought was Welsh he didn’t know which Welsh they’d been, although he had his suspicions that it was the men of Gwynedd.
Or should they even continue their journey west and hope they came to the coast and could barter a passage back to the English coast from a trader or a Dublin Viking?
Ælfgar’s mind teamed with possibilities, and as he raced ever onwards, he strained to hear the sound of
attack in front of them or that of the chase behind them. But he heard nothing but the fleeing of his horse’s hooves, heavy on the lush vegetation. He daren’t even turn to see who else followed him.
The sun, which had blinded him and his allies at the beginning of the attack, lit his way until it began to tumble behind the steep hills. They’d long since passed the camp of the night before, and even that of the warriors who’d shepherded them into the attack, without realising, and still Ælfgar allowed his horse to race. The beast had long since stumbled from a full-blown gallop to an easier trot, as Ælfgar searched in the gathering gloom for those warriors, including his cousin, who’d first taken advantage of their opportunity to flee.
The ground was growing treacherous in the gathering dusk, but he didn’t want to stop. He struggled to hear the sound of any in front of him, unable to call out for fear he’d direct the enemy to his side once more. Eventually, as his horse slithered down a rocky incline, he caught sight of a small group of men before him.
They numbered no more than four but had gathered together to form a small shield wall across the trackway.
“Name Lord Ælfgar’s heir?” a voice warned ominously as Ælfgar slowed to a stop. He grinned from ear to ear. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.
“Burgheard you damn fool,” he shouted to his cousin, as the four men lowered their shields, and let his spent horse through.
The men all bore traces of the fight around them. Cuts on exposed chins were the least of their worries, as Ælfgar stumbled from his horse and into the welcoming embrace of Ælfwine.
“It’s good to see you,” he cried, only to be distracted by the arrival of another horse and rider.
Hastily, too dark to see if they were an enemy or an ally, the five formed their own shield wall, and this time it was Ælfgar who called the challenge.
“Name the firstborn of Lord Northman’s sons?”
“I am he,” Wulfstan cried, “Wulfstan, you damn fools.” He added just to be sure they allowed him inside.