Spear Havoc 1066

by C. R. May

  SPEAR HAVOC

  Alternative Histories

  C. R. May

  Copyright

  This collection of short stories is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.

  It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  ISBN 978-1-9996695-2-2

  Copyright © 2019

  C.R.May

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  GLOSSARY

  1. BLOOD PRICE

  Afterword

  2. THE EXILE

  Afterword

  3. HACON

  Afterword

  4. EARL HAROLD’S WAR

  Afterword

  5. ASSASSINS

  Afterword

  6. SPEAR HAVOC

  Afterword

  7. PEACE WEAVER

  Afterword

  8. STRANGE CATCH!

  Afterword

  9. A CRUSHING VICTORY

  Afterword

  10. WALLINGFORD BURH

  Afterword

  11. THE YEAR OF THE RAVEN

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by C. R. May

  BLOODAXE

  THE RAVEN AND THE CROSS

  SORROW HILL

  WRÆCCA

  MONSTERS

  DAYRAVEN

  FIRE AND STEEL

  GODS OF WAR

  THE SCATHING

  TERROR GALLICUS

  NEMESIS

  Spear Havoc is dedicated to the unnamed uncle of Abbot Æthelwig of Evesham who ‘…died in Harold’s war against the Norse.’

  GLOSSARY

  Burh - A network of fortified towns in Anglo-Saxon England built primarily as local military strongpoints. They also had a secondary role in providing a safe haven for the surrounding communities in time of war in which trade and the minting of coins could carry on in relative safety.

  Butsecarl - Sailor-Warrior - a shipborne fighter.

  Chevalier - A knight.

  Churl - A commoner in Anglo-Saxon society - the lowest class of free man.

  Destrier - A warhorse.

  Dragon - A generic name for the many classes of warship. A longship.

  Earl/Jarl - A regional lord responsible for administrating a province on behalf of the king for whom he collected taxes, duties and owed military service.

  Fyrd - The local militia of Anglo-Saxon England, in which all free men were obliged by law to either serve when called upon or contribute toward its upkeep.

  Gonfalon - A type of heraldic banner, often carried into battle.

  Housecarl - House-man. A bodyguard or retainer to a powerful earl/jarl or king.

  Hundred - A land division within English shires for military and judicial purposes.

  Sokemen - A term used in the old lands of the Danelaw to describe those under the sway of another - tenants.

  Thegn - A minor nobleman in Anglo-Saxon England.

  Wapentake - Weapon-take - the counterpart in the old areas of the Danelaw of the southern English Hundred.

  1

  BLOOD PRICE

  The Kattegat - 9 August 1062

  Finn Arnason gripped the backstay, placing a foot on a wale polished by countless booted feet. He hailed the king across the waves. ‘It’s growing late, lord,’ he said with an instinctive glance to the West. The sun was a balefire, the horizon aflame. ‘The nights are short at this time of the year, maybe we should wait until morning?’ Sweyn Estridsson, king of Danes cupped a hand to his mouth, calling a reply to his underling as the sleek longships churned the surface of the sea all around them. ‘We have Hardrada outnumbered and trapped with his back to the shore Finn,’ he said with a triumphant grin. ‘We may never have a better chance to rid ourselves of the tyrant. Press on: enact our plan and the day will be ours, your brother avenged.’

  The Norwegian’s eyes swept the sea, taking in the mighty fleet porpoising north as the king turned away. Three hundred ships in battle array was a sight to warm the heart of any fighting man, and God knew that he had seen enough of that over the years, first as a loyal follower of the man he now hoped to see dead before the coming battle ended and latterly as a jarl of Danes. Finn reflected on the cause of his defection to the southern kingdom as his gaze moved inboard to encompass the men of his war band. The lads were rechecking straps, gobbets of spit spattering steel as sharpening stones were swept the length of blades long since honed to a razor-like edge. He let out a snort: devils every one of them; battle hardened killers. Eleven summers had passed since Hardrada had knowingly sent Finn’s brother Kalf to his death in a raid on the Danish Island of Funen. King Sweyn was right, the day had arrived to rid the world of the Norwegian despot.

  The harsh cry of a lookout broke into his thoughts, and Finn raised his chin to peer beyond the stem post as men gave their blades a final sweep for luck and returned them to their scabbards. A flash of light from a mast top weathervane, glimpsed rather than seen in the swell; but the following wave lifted the ship, and the jarl watched as the striped sail of an enemy dragon came into full view.

  The helmsman sniffed at his side. ‘They have seen us too, look at her fly.’ The grizzled veteran threw his lord a wry look. ‘That sail is as taut as a bishop’s cassock, we will not catch her.’

  Finn snorted as he made a rejoinder. ‘The guard ship might report our arrival, but Hardrada will stay and fight despite our numbers. He may be a bastard, but he is no coward.’

  The final headland was receding astern as the crews of the Danish fleet worked the braces, angling the yards to hunt the wind, and as the wide bay opened up the helmsmen put the steering oar hard over to come about at the end of the final dogleg. With the westerly now blowing directly over the stern the ships bounded forward, and as the nearness to danger increased with every moment Finn’s housecarls moved aft to support their lord. Thorvald Helgison offered up the brynja as he came; Finn ducked inside, straightening like a diver breaking the surface as the mail shirt unrolled down his body with a metallic swish. Egil Jarlaskald was there, the jarl-poet all toothy grin and freckles, and Finn responded with a grin of his own as he fastened his helm and took up his bow.

  The enemy longship was a league ahead, and despite the need to remain in formation the Danish fleet was clearly gaining with every passing moment. Within a short while the Norwegian ship shortened sail, and oars sprouted from the flanks as it attempted to steer a direct course for the head of the bay. Finn’s helmsman turned his face landward as he sought out the cause, uttering a curse as it revealed itself to his practised eye. ‘The trees are acting as a wind break,’ he growled before spitting over the side in disgust. ‘We shall all be rowing soon.’

  Finn barely heard as he craned his neck to peer past the place where the frantic rowing of the enemy crewmen was beating the surface to foam, and excitement gripped him as he saw the confirmation that king Sweyn’s plan had worked. Go-betweens had agreed the location and day for the battle which was intended to decide the war between the two kings, a conflict which had already lasted more than a dozen years. Each year Hardrada would scathe the coastal regions of the Danish kingdom, but with the ending of the campaigning season Sweyn would return to reclaim his land. Even the sack of Hedeby, the great trading centre at the head of Slienfjord had failed to sh
ift the allegiance of the Danish folk from their natural lord. The mouth of the River Niså in Finn’s own jarldom of Halland had been agreed as the place where the issue would be decided once and for all, but the wily king of Danes had lingered in the South until the day had passed. Thinking the enemy had cried off King Harald had sent the levy men, the bondaherrin, home as he prepared to lead his choice troops on their annual harrying of Danish lands. Spy ships watched them go, flying south to bring the news to Sweyn as soon as the Norwegians were over the horizon. King Harald’s fleet was now in full view, despite the waning light; outthought and outnumbered two to one, Hardrada must fall.

  In the lee of the land now Finn watched the sail of his own ship slacken as the wind spilled from it, and as oars slid from ports to stroke the sea all around he watched with satisfaction as the helmsmen of the Halland ships began to guide their charges to the rear of the fleet.

  A mile ahead Hardrada’s ships were coming together to form the fighting platform which would utilise their strengths. Built to journey the spume filled wastes of the northern ocean, the bows of the Norwegian dragon ships would tower above the Danish hulls which were more suited for use in the shallower seas and estuaries of the South. Roped together they would form a formidable barrier against the attackers, but the predictability of the action had allowed Sweyn and his leaders to devise a plan which should overcome the manoeuvre. Finn Arnason was also a Norwegian as were the majority in his flotilla, and they sailed the same northern built dragons as the countrymen whom fate had made their enemy. Placed as a reserve when the armies came together, it was planned that they would overwhelm Hardrada’s defences at a crucial point in the battle.

  Heavily outnumbered the Norwegians had anchored the flanks of the line to the shallows at either side of the River Niså — had it not been the fact that it was exactly what the Danes had expected the defence would have been insurmountable. Fearful of fire arrows, Finn watched as the Danish dragons stowed their sails and the first darts began to cloud the air. As the attacking force they would normally have been forced to row until they could grapple the enemy ships, losing men along the way. But the presence of Finn’s ships to the rear had allowed Sweyn’s fleet to form their own platform early, as the ships of the reserve moved in to nudge them onward.

  They were within range now, and Finn flashed a smile as he nocked the first arrow. ‘Time to join the fray, I think!’ Thorvald and Egil moved in to his flanks as Finn stretched the bowstring for the first time that evening, standing four-square as their shields were raised to protect their lord, and the first dart left the bow as battle horns blared and the clamour of war filled the sultry air. It was the signal for the men in Finn’s fleet to add their own bolts to the deadly arrow storm, and as the deck shuddered beneath his feet and the jarl knew that the two fleets had come together, Egil Jarlaskald spoke a verse:

  Halland’s jarl was bending his bow throughout the fight,

  Raining a shower of arrows on the red shields of Norway,

  As bloody spear-points opened holes in iron armour;

  Shields were pierced by arrows from Finn’s deadly dragon.

  The signal came that the two fleets had grappled, and Finn watched as crewmen lashed stout ropes to the stern of the Danish ships in front and another arrow sped away into the dusk. The oarsmen had their eyes fixed upon him, each rower protected by a man with a shield as they awaited the command to pull, and Finn lowered his bow momentarily as his eyes moved out to scan the ships to ether side. The men in the bows were raising an arm, the ties were secure, and as the sky bled crimson Finn Arnason, Jarl of Halland, gave the order to row the fleets into deeper water.

  Thorvald Helgison plucked at his sleeve, and Finn recognised the relief in his words as he spoke. ‘A boat!’ The jarl tore his gaze away from the fighting and looked. A little skipsbåt, the smaller ship’s boats which many of the larger dragons carried for messaging and inshore work was heading towards them, the man in the bow careful to hold the white shield of Denmark aloft to reassure the men in the reserve of their allegiance.

  Finn turned back to follow the fighting, puffed up with pride at the valiant defence offered by his countrymen despite his enmity towards their king. Brands cast a spectral glow over the carnage on board the Norwegian ships as men stabbed and slashed in the gloom. Sword and axe blades flamed before they were swallowed again by the night, here and there a face appeared from the heaving mass, blood-red in the firelight, only to be snuffed out in an instant. It was a vision of Hell, but the jarl was no stranger to the push of shields and he ached to join the fray.

  The small rowboat bumped against the strakes of his own ship, and willing hands hauled the leading man aboard as his companions stroked oars to keep their station against the ebbing tide. Crewmen pointed his way, and the Dane hurried aft brandishing king Sweyn’s tokens before him as he confirmed the source of the message he carried. Finn nodded that he speak even before he had drawn up before him.

  ‘I come directly from King Sweyn, lord,’ the messenger announced. ‘The king says that the enemy flanks are fully exposed, and the time to take Blood Price for the death of your brother has arrived.’

  Finn suppressed a snort as all eyes on the ship looked his way. The communication was cunningly worded. Sweyn was aware that he was expecting Norwegians to fight against fellow countrymen, victory may very well depend upon it, so a gentle reminder of the reason why they were there would be far more effective than an outright order. He nodded as he tossed his bow gratefully aside, flexing fingers made sore and numb by the repeated plucking of the bowstring. ‘How goes the fight?’

  The Dane’s face lit up. ‘The fight goes well, lord,’ he chirruped proudly. ‘The king’s housecarls hold the enemy bows and the grapples remain firmly in place.’

  Finn’s eyes flashed. ‘Then it is time to send this Harðráði to Hell. God keeps no place for Hard-rulers in Heaven, nor those who knowingly send loyal men on an errand of death.’ Egil Jarlaskald was his banner man, and the jarl indicated that he signal the attack with a curt nod. The battle horn came up, and Egil spat to clear his mouth an instant before the familiar yip-yip-yip filled the darkness. The signal was taken up on the other ships, and as the oarsmen began to pull towards the enemy wings, now left fearfully exposed far from the safety of the shallows by the pull of Danish oars and the outgoing tide, Finn led his housecarls to the bow. Thorvald was prow man, the very tip of the svinfylking, and the prow beast soon disappeared behind his huge frame as the other members of Finn’s bodyguard formed a protective wedge about their lord to complete the swine array. As banner man Egil took up position to his lord’s rear, and as the wooden wall of the first ship in the Norwegian fleet began to grow in his vision and the war banner unfurled in the breeze, Finn thrilled to the words as Egil spoke again:

  Battle-eager Finn bade his crew be steadfast,

  warriors made a bulwark along the wales.

  The doughty jarl of Halland lined his dragon

  ship with a wall of living shields;

  No foe could find a gap there.

  A faint lightening in the sky to the East told of the approaching day, and Finn realised with a start that the fighting had lasted throughout the hours of darkness. Faces began to appear on the enemy ship, pale and drawn after the rigours of the night, but a volley of javelins drove them back and the jarl hefted his shield as he tightened the grip on his sword and prepared to board. A quick look to starboard confirmed that the ships in his formation were alongside, the furthermost already pulling ahead to sweep around the rear of the enemy battle-raft, and his war cry was taken up all along the line as the hulls finally crashed together:

  Onward! Onward! Freemen!

  Arrows hissed overhead to mottle enemy shields as Norwegian men rushed back to repulse the attack. Thorvald scythed his war axe in a death dealing arc, and with an animal cry he was over the bows to disappear from sight as he crashed into his opponents, the first man to board the enemy vessel as his reputation demanded. As th
e wolf light of the predawn grew, his housecarls were vaulting the gap as they came to their friend’s aid; Finn followed on, landing on a deck made slick by blood as his men chased the opposition away.

  With the return of daylight the jarl was able to gauge the depth the Norwegian defences for the first time: the enemy fleet had been arrayed in three ranks, fifty ships to a line, each roped to its neighbours by a web of running rigging, hawsers and spars. Masts had been set athwart the beam forming a series of barricades between the defenders and king Sweyn’s Danes. But despite their hard work the ramparts and bulwarks now acted against the defenders, segmenting the ships and making a cohesive defence all but impossible now that the danger came from the southern flank. Finn gave a grudging nod of recognition to his countrymen’s efforts to turn a disparate collection of ships into an impregnable fortress, despite the fact that his attack had now rendered their efforts worse than useless as the last of the enemy crewmen on the captured ship were finished off near the stern. The look had shown him the location of the prize which would draw every man of reputation in the fleet like drunks to a skirt. In the very centre of the formation Harald Hardrada’s Landøyðan, the Land-waster battle flag famous throughout the north, flew above the longship of the king. Egil had seen it too, and he leaned in to speak as men continued to teem aboard and those already on deck regrouped to renew the attack. ‘It’s a strong position, lord,’ he said grudgingly. ‘And he has Hakon Ivarsson and his Tronds alongside.’