by C. R. May
Oswald swallowed hard before replying, his pinched expression revealing the turmoil he felt within. ‘Yes, King Erik, I know the town well. These dwellings are mostly workshops which open out onto the road for trade: the workers and their families live in rooms at the rear.’
Erik moved his head as he made an attempt to pierce the gloomy margin between the long walls of the nearest buildings. Crammed together and with what little space remaining between them a jumble of rubbish and filth, there was only one way to go. ‘Well, they are about to have a hundred fired-up Norse trample their vegetable plots and trudge mud through their homes. Let us hope they possess the wits to hold their tongue and stay well clear.’
Erik made a fist to punch the man lightly on the arm as he fixed him with a look. ‘I am glad that you are here,’ he said softly, ‘and Archbishop Wulfstan would be proud if he knew. Come on,’ he said with a final nod of encouragement, ‘let us see off those who mean us ill together.’ Oswald’s mouth turned up into a watery smile at the mention of his master, the old prelate now languishing in southern captivity for his part in bringing Erik back to the kingdom. Erik looked away as he saw that his words had bolstered the Northumbrian as they had been meant to do, and with the men of the Draki in position, poised like runners awaiting the off, Erik raised his spear and bellowed his war cry: Blóðøx!
As the answering roar shook the timbers of Corebricg, Erik broke into a run. Ahead of him a wooden latch went up with a clack, and Erik swept his shield to throw the door wide as the pale oval of a female face appeared there. The handle snatched from her hand, the woman just had time to gape in surprise at the approach of a king in his battle glory before Erik had shouldered her roughly aside. Ducking beneath the lintel he raised his chin to peer the length of the smoky room, and was gratified to see that the doorway which led to the street had already been thrown wide. Marching men could be seen there, the metal of their arms aglitter in the soft morning light, and Erik saw the questioning looks on their faces changing to horror as their minds came to recognise just what the earlier battlecry must mean. A glimpse of a young girl still abed, the wide-eyed features gone in a flash as she ducked beneath the blanket and Erik was past the hearth, clutching his spear a little tighter as he lowered the shaft and prepared to strike. In moments he was through the workshop leaving the screams of the woman and the sound of splintering pots in his wake, and Erik drew back his arm as the doorway grew to fill the view ahead.
A figure hardened from the glare as he burst into the open, the momentary glimpse of a black bushy beard beneath a cap of hardened leather, and Erik drew the first blood that day as the spear stabbed forward to disappear into the gaping maw. Erik swung his shield in an arc before him the moment he had cleared the portal, releasing his grip on the spear as he shouldered the dying man aside. The quick witted among the men of Strathclyde were reaching for their weapons before the body had hit the roadway, but Erik’s sword was already in his hand and he chopped down onto shoulders and heads, driving the enemy before him as he hewed a salient for the men following on.
Jomal bounced at his shoulder as he hacked and hacked, Harald Fairhair’s gift seemingly indignant at missing the fight, but Erik knew that the sweep of a Dane axe within the press of men would be equally deadly to friend and foe alike, and he took a pace forward as Thorstein’s familiar war cry came to his ear. Erik risked a look along the line of the roadway as more of his men exited the shopfront to push the enemy back. To the north Erland and his men had tossed aside the flags of Cumbraland, the wild boar banner of Orkney flying proudly above them as they chased the rearguard from the junction of the Roman roads. Switching his gaze to the south, Erik saw that Arnkel and his men were having a harder time of it. Assailed on both flanks by the armies of Strathclyde and the Scots of Alba, their flags nevertheless appeared to be inching forward as they fought to seal off the approach to the bridge. When he succeeded, Mael Colm and his men would be left relying on the dubious mercy of Regenwold and his army of York to witness the dusk that day — Erik doubted they were in the mood. The sweep of his vision had spied the man he had most hoped to see above all others, and Erik called out as he set off towards him:
‘There he is! To me!’
As his trusted huskarls closed around him and the hirdmen drove the enemy back from his path, Erik knew that the time had arrived to use his axe. Before he could draw the weapon a brutish warrior emerged from the crowd to bar his path, the quality of his arms and clothing, of the silver hoops festooning his forearms, telling Erik that here was a fellow Norsemen with renown to gain as the killer of Erik Bloodaxe. Erik instinctively shifted his weight forward as the swordsman prepared to strike, perfectly balanced as he waited to see which way to go. The blow when it came was pulled at the last moment, the warrior flicking a wrist to send the blade arcing in towards Erik’s knee — but no king lived to an age if he fell easily for such a trick, and he was already darting in to parry with his shield before the steel could bite flesh. Erik raised his elbow high as he did so, angling the point of his sword downwards, and as Thorstein and Helgrim Smiter rushed forward to beat back the attacker’s companions, the king thrust down with all his strength. The power of Erik’s shield strike had forced the warrior’s arm wide, his body opening up as he sought to bring the blade back under control, and Erik saw the look of disbelief that he had been bested so easily change to agonised horror as the long blade sliced into his groin. Erik released his grip on the handle, reaching up to finally draw Jomal across his shoulder as the Viking fell. The Dane axe was already screaming down as the man hit the roadway, and before he could roll away or recover the wicked steel blade had crushed his face to a bloody mash.
The length of Dere Street the men of the Draki were surging forward as all hope of an ordered resistance collapsed, and Erik raised his eyes to fix upon the flag of his enemy and the gold bedecked figure at its base. ‘There he is!’ he cried again as his guardsmen rallied to his side. ‘There is Dyfnwal of Strathclyde — Kill him!’
8
Maccus the Easterner
The army of Strathclyde, bursting with confidence as they marched to war only a short while before, had been reduced to isolated knots of desperate men by the ferocity of the Norwegian attack. Taken unawares as Erik’s hirdmen had erupted from the doorways, scores had fallen before they had slipped shields from carrying straps or had the chance to bring their weapons to bear. Now the survivors were backing against the walls of the buildings on the eastern side of Dere Street as they sought to escape the carnage, and Jomal sang its death song as Erik cut a bloody swathe through those who stood in his path. The enemy scattered like ships before a storm, but as Erik grasped the opportunity to spy out how close he had come to his goal, he saw to his consternation that king Dyfnwal and the Strathclyde banners were gone. The king’s retainers, his most trusted men, remained in a skjald-borg as they covered their lord’s escape, and Erik pulled up short as he searched for an easier way through. The buildings on the far side of the street differed from those through which they had passed such a short while before. Larger and more widely spaced, it was obvious to the king that these were some of the warehouses and stores which supplied the needs of the workshops opposite and the wider town beyond. Those men of Strathclyde who were able were already pouring through the wide gaps between the storehouses, and Thorstein’s voice sounded in his ear as they watched Dyfnwal’s guards begin to back out of sight.
‘If they are going, their lord is already safely away Erik.’ He spat into the dust to show his contempt.
Erik nodded as he recognised the truth of it. ‘The meadow beyond is one giant corral,’ he agreed. ‘I saw the horses from the top of the hill when I came forward with Olvir.’ Dere Street was filled with his hirdmen now; never one to go blindly forward in a fight, Erik paused as his father’s motto came again into his mind: first win the battle — and then fight it. It was pointless to blunder on and become entangled in a running fight with levy men and churls; if he vanished into
an alleyway the cohesion of the attack would unravel as men lost sight of their king. Despite his blood lust, Erik knew that he must remain beneath his banner so that the men could regroup to fight again. At his side Thorstein was still speaking, and the king blinked in surprise as his hearth man began wittering on about a battle from long ago. ‘So, this Dyfnwal ab Owain is even less worthy than his father then?’
Erik’s eyes narrowed as his focus returned, and his huskarl explained as the last of the trapped men fell to Norwegian arms and the alleyways opposite filled with enemy dead. ‘Remember when Arnkel described the battle at Brunanburh, that time in your hall in king Gorm’s land?’
Erik shook his head in wonder. Only Thorstein could pause mid battle for a chat. ‘That was a dozen years ago!’
Thorstein agreed. ‘Aye, it was. But I had never heard of a king abandoning his men on a battlefield before, and the cowardliness of it has always stayed with me; Owain’s retreat could have cost the northern army victory that day, it certainly cost the lives of a good many men who had answered his war arrow when the flags went back and the English broke through.’
Erik nodded his agreement, but his mind was already elsewhere as he put the bravery or otherwise shown by the kings of Strathclyde from his mind. To the south he could see that Arnkel and his men had managed to fight their way upslope to seal the river crossing, and the approach now bristled with Iron Beard spears beneath the Orkney sigil. As word spread of the disaster which had overtaken their king and the remainder of the column, the last of the Strathclyde fighters were streaming away from the approaches as they too placed survival above honour and raced to saddle a horse. Lifting his chin, Erik saw that his own attack had been the signal for the army of York to advance, and he thrilled to the sight as the morning sun reflected back from helm and spearpoint and they came on beneath the battle flags of his kin and kingdom. Switching his gaze back to the North, Erik was surprised to see that although Erland Torf-Einarsson and his crewmen had dismounted and secured the crossroads as ordered, there were still no signs that they had come under sustained attack. He turned back to Thorstein as he saw what he must do. ‘I am going to reinforce Erland and his men. We will make sure that the forts are empty and then swing south to clear the meadow of any lingering threat there; with the alleyways blocked by the dead and dying we don’t want to give Dyfnwal the chance to rediscover his manhood, regroup and rejoin the fight. Take half of the crew down to the bridge to bolster Arnkel and his lads. After going through all the trouble to divide and trap the enemy, we don’t want the Scots to force the crossing and escape at the last moment.’
Thorstein could not hide his surprise at Erik’s orders, and he cleared his throat before venturing a reply. It was not the done thing to question the king, but they had spent decades together side by side in peace and war and he had earned the right. ‘What if Earl Oswulf and his Bernicians are just waiting for us to split our force before they leave the fort, or offer our flank to him by chasing Dyfnwal and his men along the riverfront? Kill you and the war is won.’
Erik thumbed his nose as he thought, finally shaking his head as he confirmed his decision. ‘We need to keep them on the back foot. The moment the army of Strathclyde realises just how few we are things could turn very ugly for us. Even if the Bernicians have seen which way the way the wind is blowing and decided to hedge their bets, if we can deny the bridge to the Scots my half crew and Erland’s men should be enough to drive those remaining from the field.’ He turned to Helgrim, Sturla, Kolbein and Oswald Thane. ‘Let us see why Oswulf and his Bernicians have failed to put in an appearance. You know the man, Oswald,’ he said. ‘We may never again be in such a strong position — our victory here may even persuade him to join us.’
The quartet moved back to the western side of Dere Street as they picked their way through the dead and dying. The bodies were far fewer on this side of the road with just the odd man fallen here and there, the first to succumb to the initial rush as Erik and his men had burst from cover. Helgrim snorted as they walked. ‘You can see where we passed by lord,’ he said proudly. ‘Jomal sure makes a mess.’ Erik looked. A distinct ridge of bodies marked the passage of Erik and his huskarls, the lopped arms and severed heads which were typical of the war axe’s savagery plain to see. A crewman came across as he saw the king, and Erik shot him a smile and a word of thanks as the man returned his sword. The bloodletting was almost over now, the few injured men remaining from Dyfnwal’s invading army being dispatched to Óðinn or Christ’s safekeeping by Erik’s fighters, and the king returned his sword to its scabbard before resting the haft of his axe on a shoulder as they walked north. Erland had seen him coming, and the Orkney man walked down to greet his king as a great roar rent the air to the south. ‘I have brought you some help,’ Erik quipped, with a rearward flick of his head towards the half crew bustling along in his wake. ‘You look like you need it.’
Erland appeared crestfallen as he replied. ‘It is the hardest thing I have had to ask my men to do lord,’ he said. ‘To stand guard upon a deserted roadway while men fight a stone’s throw away.’
Erik plucked at his sleeve as they made their way back to the place where Stane Gate bisected the town. ‘I know that full well,’ he assured his friend. ‘And don’t think for a moment that their sacrifice went unnoticed by the king or his men. Knowing that our flank was secure meant that we could put all our effort into driving the enemy from the roadway.’ He threw Erland a look as he explained the reason for his arrival. ‘I have come to see where our friend the earl of Bebbanburh is hiding — there is still no sign?’
‘Not a trace, lord,’ Erland replied. ‘The doors have remained closed since we arrived, and we have not spotted a single spearman on the walls.’
‘Have you sent anyone forward to take a look?’
Erland nodded. ‘Half a dozen, mounted in case they needed to beat a hasty retreat. The northern fort is further away than the two which open onto the road on the opposite side, and I was loathe to risk any more in case it was a trap. My task was to secure your wing, and I would not do that by dividing my crew. If the Bernicians had come pouring through the doors as we approached or there were still men in the southern forts, there would have a been a good chance that they could have swept us aside and fallen on you before you knew it.’
Erik clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You did the right thing, but we have seen off the army of Strathclyde and I can now add a half crew to your own. Take the lead,’ he said, ‘you have earned the honour by your steadfastness. Let us call on our brave lord of Bebbanburh and see what has been keeping him.’
Erland returned to his men as Erik began to address his own. ‘We are going to see what is keeping our Bernician friends. I will be leading the rearguard so stay alert, especially when we pass the doorways into the other forts on the southern side of the road.’ Erik raised his eyes as the men formed themselves into a column four abreast. Half a mile to the South the rival armies were about to come together, and Erik felt a pang of regret that he had taken the decision to lead the flanking attack in person. A king must lead, fighting in the centre where every man on the field could see his flag going forward or standing firm amid the onslaught like a sea stack in a storm, but he pushed the regrets aside and knew deep down that the decision he had taken had been the correct one for the kingdom as a whole.
The year following the ending of his first reign in York the armies of Alba and Strathclyde had come south, wasting the land as far as the River Tees. Flying columns had crossed into the kingdom itself, carrying away cattle and slaves as they completed the destruction wrought the previous summer by king Eadred and his southern English. Eadred’s place-man Olaf Cuaran had ruled then, and the king’s response had been feeble and ill coordinated. With the country devastated by invaders in consecutive years and starvation rife among the populace the traders of York, the same men who had been so lukewarm in their support to Erik, had suffered financial loss when they were compelled by Olaf to import grain
and other foodstuff in place of more profitable items. Now the counterattack was being led by the same earls whose lands had suffered the most from the Scottish harrying, and the victory when it came would boost their standing among the folk in their earldoms as the thanes and levy men took revenge for the deprivation their families had suffered. It could only help to bind men who had always shown Erik loyalty closer still — it was a price well worth paying.
Erik looked back to the junction. In the short time needed to take in the goings on to the south the Orkneymen had broken their shield-fort and reordered themselves ready for the advance, and Erik watched them move eastward until the time came to lead his own men and fall in to the rear. Stane Gate stretched before them, and Erik took in the details as the heads of Erland’s men moved this way and that as their eyes probed the shadows. This close to the old forts the majority of the buildings lining the roadway were similar to those which had allowed king Dyfnwal and the remnants of his army to escape, long storehouses and workshops sheltering in the protection offered by the legions and helping to cater for their needs. Beyond them the walls of the forts themselves rose into the early morning air, and although the majority of the crenelations had long since gone the way of the men who had laboured to build them, the limestone walls still towered over the buildings which surrounded them.
Oswald Thane murmured something about the spookiness of it all, and although the observation had been made more to himself than the king, Erik moved to settle the Englishman’s nerves all the same. ‘You are in the midst of over a hundred of my finest warriors — you have little to concern yourself with old friend.’
The Northumbrian flushed that his fears had been uncovered and moved to ask forgiveness, but the distinctive clatter made by interlocking shields from the Iron Beards interrupted him and the apology was stillborn. Taller than most Erik could see beyond the front of the column, and he called out to let the men following on know what was happening as his hand moved instinctively to the handle of his sword. ‘A dozen men have left the fort and are walking our way. They are shieldless and appear to have their spears upended as a sign they wish to talk, but be on your guard all the same.’ Erik turned to those at his side. ‘Oswald, they came from the fort flying the earl of Bernicia’s flag. Come along with me, you will have met these men and it may help to settle their nerves if they recognise a familiar face among us.’ He cast a quick look at his huskarls and snapped a command. ‘Sturla and Kolbein come with us — Helgrim take over here.’