Spear Havoc 1066

by C. R. May

  Waltheof stole a look as his hand moved down to unfasten the ties which held his sword secure in its scabbard, stifling a snort as he saw again the type of men there. Where the Lincolnshire thegn had unearthed a band of cutthroats and ne’er-do-wells from his land of sokemen and wapentakes at such short notice he hadn’t a clue, and it was plain that there was not an honest warrior among them. Dressed in the earthy colours of their trade, spears and lashes replaced the showier arms of his own men; but they were just the type for the task ahead, and he sent a word of thanks to God that the Wæcnan clan and their acquaintances were on his side. The earl twisted around further, exchanging a nod with the men who would fight at his side: his own cousin Cospatric, shining like a silver penny alongside his housecarl Swegn; Brand, the leading man in Waltheof’s own hearth troop tensed like a bowstring ready to loose.

  He looked back towards the town, just in time to see the buttery glow of the torch move into view and the shadowy outlines of signaller and gatehouse harden in its light. As the flames began to arc back and forth, Waltheof clapped Ulfketil on the shoulder and put back his heels.

  On the higher ground to the East, the leaders of Northumbria burst into life as the horsemen spilled from the distant tree line. ‘Here they come!’ Morcar exclaimed. He shot the man at his side a look of joy. ‘Now we will see how far these Normans can get without horses.’ Oswulf’s lids narrowed as he followed their progress through the murk. As head of the family dominating the old kingdom of Bernicia from its fortress of Bamburgh, he had as much riding on the attack as any man — even the West Saxon wretch Edgar who still thought he would be king of all England. He snorted. Tonight, the southern fetters which had bound them for a century or more would be cast off forever.

  Morcar edged his horse forward with a squeeze of his knees. One last look to the South, and he watched as the attackers slid from their saddles and began to run towards the town gate. Sure now that the attack was going to plan, he turned his head aside to call a command. ‘Light the fires!’

  Sparks flashed as men bent over flints and steel fire starters, and soon the battle line was aglow as brands were carried forward and thrust into pyres. As the flames took hold, Morcar looked on with satisfaction as the flickering light slowly revealed the conquering army of Northumbria. A look to the north and the army of his brother Edwin of Mercia were doing likewise, and as the shield wall emerged from the gloom, the air above the rising ground was filled with the shrill blare of war horns. ‘That should grab their attention,’ he said as the first battle cries rolled down towards the Thames.

  Oswulf turned to Morcar and pulled a lupine grin. ‘We shall have to remember to thank the duke for choosing the ideal place to rest up for our attack.’

  The earl returned the look. ‘I rather doubt that he will get the chance.’

  It was true the Bernician reflected as the first flames appeared in the town below, duke William and his ragtag army had been most obliging in choosing to cross the River Thames at this point. Although the main northern armies were already in London when the Normans arrived on the South Bank and had shadowed them as they moved inland, an army requires far more than arms and armour to fight a prolonged campaign. The burh which had developed into the town of Wallingford had been placed deliberately to guard, not only the crossing place, but the route known as the Icknield Way. Thought by learned men to have been already ancient when Caesar’s legions had covered the earth, the Way traversed the high chalk hills of the Chilterns to intersect the later Roman roads of Watling Street and Ermine Street north of London. Along these arteries could flow not only fresh fighting men, but supplies from the Mercian and Northumbrian hinterlands. With the harvest safely gathered food for the men and fodder for horses was abundant, and Oswulf allowed himself a smile; not only could they lay siege for the entirety of that winter if needs be, they could rotate the men in the besieging army to keep them fit and disease free. With Godwinson dead the English leadership had become a hydra: chop off any head and another sprouted in its place.

  Morcar interrupted his thoughts as the battle line set up a din. ‘It’s a shame about the inhabitants.’

  Oswulf looked. The fires near the northern gate were taking hold, leaping from rooftop to rooftop as a gusting breeze got up. He sniffed and gave a shrug of indifference. ‘Saxons? War and fire are like sausages and mustard — they are both tasty enough, but they are far better together.’

  The walls of Wallingford burh rose before him as the horse galloped down the road. Waltheof Siwardson, earl of Huntingdon, hunched his shoulders as he rode, half expecting the searing pain which would accompany the arrival of an arrow from the walkways ahead. When none came he stole a last look away to the west. Ulfketil and his band of ruffians were already more than a hundred yards away, barely visible as a darker mass against the night sky beyond as they swung around to the south. Brand came up blocking his view, the housecarl’s eyes already stabbing the defences as his shield came around to protect his lord. Waltheof raised his head; the doors of the burh had been drawn inward as they rode and he could see the first buildings within by the light of the signaller’s torch, but he hauled at the reins as he came into the shadow of the walls and skittered to a halt before he passed through the gateway into the small clearing beyond. He was on his feet before the dust had settled, sliding his left hand into the shield grip as he drew his sword with the right, and he set off at a run as the sound of armoured men dropping to the ground filled the air.

  His duty fulfilled the torch carrier moved aside, and Waltheof hunkered into his shield as he pounded past him into the town. The earl’s head whirled from side to side, his eyes knifing the shadows as Brand and Cospatric arrived at his shoulders, and satisfied that he had not been led into a trap he relaxed a touch as the courtyard filled with his men. His arm shot out, stabbing the tracks and alleyways which led into the heart of the burh, and within moments the groups of heavily armed men were disappearing into their inky blackness. Waltheof stomped across to the man who still held the torch and made a demand: ‘who are you?’

  ‘Wigod, lord,’ he replied, ‘the thegn here.’ Before Waltheof could speak again the man was beckoning to the shadows, and the earl spun on a heel as he prepared to defend himself. Wigod cut in as a group of folk appeared from the door of a nearby building and he recognised the danger. ‘They are my kin and the other important inhabitants of the town. I persuaded them to remain in the burh until the Normans arrived,’ he explained. ‘If the invaders had realised that Wallingford was without its leading families they would have suspected that all was not as it seemed.’

  Waltheof nodded. ‘Get them out of the town and into cover. Your king and the old West Saxon lords have drawn up their army across the western road. I cannot spare you any horses,’ he said with an apologetic look towards the women and children gathering by the gatehouse, ‘but they are not too far away.’ He clapped the thegn on the shoulder as the first shouts of alarm in a foreign tongue carried to the yard. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a hand to take the flaming torch. ‘Let me have that, and go to your lord.’

  Waltheof switched his gaze to the grassy bank enclosing the town, and the parapet and walkway which topped them. He could see that his men had already chased away any opposition, and with his escape route secure he turned back and beckoned Cospatric. ‘Kinsman,’ he said, offering up the blazing torch. ‘Can you get your men to fire the thatch while I see to our defences.’ He shot his cousin a smile. ‘I suspect that it is about to get much hotter around here in more ways than one!’ He turned to find Brand as Cospatric began to bellow his orders, only to find the big housecarl already at his shoulder where any bodyguard should be. ‘Let us go and wet our swords and axes,’ he said with a scowl. ‘As soon as the fires take hold we pull back.’ Both men looked up as the first fronds of flame began to show at the eaves of the nearest hall. Near the centre of the town they could see the lion flag of Normandy stretched out to the south, and they shared a look as they realised its import
ance. ‘Well, the rising wind should speed things along — let’s get going.’

  As Waltheof and his hearth troop pounded along the road which led to the heart of the town, the earl raised his chin to look ahead. He had been in enough burhs, the fortified towns built in the days of king Alfred and his successors, to know that the layout had been standardised; four roads intersected at the centre, each running away to exit at a gateway cut through the enclosing ditch and bank with a palisade and walkway above. He had instructed the leading men to draw up into a defensive position well before the centre was reached, and as the backs of his men appeared barring the roadway ahead he began to check his stride.

  A face appeared at a doorway and was quickly pulled back; Waltheof turned aside to kick the door open before it could be slammed shut and barred. Ducking inside his shield swung up and around, and as his sword arm went back and the room resounded to his battle cry he took a pace aside as Brand followed on. In the grips of his war fury it was all that the earl could do to stay his hand as the candlelight revealed the occupants to be a churl and his family, and he spoke quickly as the terrified group shrank back against the wall. ‘Are there Normans here?’

  The man shook his head and blurted a reply. ‘No, lord.’

  Waltheof quickly ran his eyes around the room as Brand moved forward to overturn settles and make sure. He could see why. The single roomed hovel was barely big enough for the family, the floor of beaten earth without rushes, the walls bare of any decoration. ‘Leave this place,’ he growled, ‘and get yourselves into the woods as fast as you can. There is an English army outside, they will feed you until you can return.’ Without waiting for a reply Waltheof indicated to Brand with a flick of his head, and a moment later they were back on the roadway and closing in on the rear of the English shield wall. Men turned his way as they heard the tramp of booted feet, the wide smiles all-telling as the battle line opened to admit their leader, and Waltheof’s heart leapt as he came up and saw the strength of the position they had chosen. A small brook cut the road on its way down to the Thames, its banks now steep sided as the need for more building space within the town walls had taken precedence over the years. What had once been a thing of natural beauty had now become little more than a drainage ditch, and the stench of animal and human waste was cloying despite the chilliness of the November air. Immediately ahead a short wooden bridge carried the main north-south roadway across the watercourse, and mid span the imposing form of Ulf of Torksey stood amid the bloodied corpses of the latest enemies to fall to his axe.

  ‘He has been there since we arrived, lord,’ a voice said at his elbow, ‘and nowt will cross while he remains.’

  Waltheof nodded. He had witnessed Ulf’s axe work already that year, when they had chased away Tostig Godwinson and his Vikings from the Humber in the spring and more recently against the same man and his Norwegian friends at Stamford Bridge outside York, and knew the spearman’s words were true. On the far side of the channel enemy soldiers were beginning to gather in numbers, but the sight of Ulf and the results of his butchery were enough to dissuade them for the moment.

  Safe from attack for now, the earl looked along the bank. English shields stretched away in both directions, and lifting his head he saw Cospatric and his northerners anchoring the line. Their spears were less than he would have liked to defend such a wide position but the trench would form a formidable obstacle, and if the men at his side were lacking in numbers he knew that their qualities and fighting spirit were second to none. The first hint of smoke reached Waltheof’s nostrils, and a quick glance across his shoulder showed flames spurting from rooftops beneath a crown of windblown embers as the fires took hold. The counterattack could not be long in coming, and he decided on a change of tactics while they still had time. ‘Brand,’ he snapped.

  ‘Yes, lord?’

  ‘Send men to tell the battle line to withdraw far enough to let the housecarls swing their axes. Reform the shield wall half a dozen paces from the lip of the ditch, and tell them to be ready to pull back to the main gate when they hear a long falling note on the war horn.’ He raised his eyes again before turning back. In the short time that had passed since he last looked the fires had grown, sinuous flames now licking the night sky. He called again, and the giant stopped and turned back. ‘Tell them to be ready to repel an attack at any moment. The Normans and their lackeys have awoken to find themselves surrounded by fire, noise and enemies; but they will see us taking up a defensive stance, and they will take heart thinking that our own attack has stalled at the trench.’ Brand nodded, hustling away to pass his orders, and Waltheof returned his gaze to the far side of the ditch as the flicker of distant flames to the East reflected from Northumbrian mail, helms and spear points on the hillside. Shouts and curses in French drew his attention back to the south. A member of the Norman nobility, the shaven nape confirmation enough, had arrived and was cajoling the disparate group into some semblance of order. Another attack would be coming, and soon; Waltheof watched as the English line reordered itself and the axemen advanced. Brand was back: Waltheof opened his mouth to speak but the housecarl answered the question before he had time to ask it. ‘My place is at your side, lord,’ he said. ‘We have enough axemen.’

  The harsh note of a trumpet call cut the air, and Waltheof turned back just as the Normans gave a cry and burst forward into the attack. Ahead the housecarls began to swing, the cold steel of their blades reflecting the approaching flames as they whirled faster and faster. The first of the enemy were down in the ditch, and Waltheof ran his eyes along the nearside lip as he waited for them to reappear. A line of shields edged into view as the first Norman fighters struggled up the bank, and the English battle line watched gleefully as they were swept away by the death dealing axes. The housecarls took a pace forward, the blades continuing to scythe the air in deadly arcs as they reaped a grisly harvest, but more were appearing by the moment and soon sheer weight of numbers told. As the first Norman spearmen broke through, Waltheof advanced. Off balance the first attempted to throw his shield across to deflect the blow, but the earl’s sword was already in motion and Waltheof felt the blade bite through flesh and bone as the Norman’s shoulder crumpled. The sword blade came back, Waltheof hacking down onto the head of the spreadeagled enemy as he raised his eyes to pick out the next threat.

  To his right a housecarl fell, spitted by a handful of spears like a cornered boar, and as the gap opened up before them the Normans gave a cry of victory and surged forward. But if the momentum was with the attackers the stout hearts of the defenders had their measure, and as English shields crashed together and spear points stabbed out in reply the Norman breakthrough was driven back into the gully.

  To the fore another Norman squirmed past the sweep of the housecarl’s axe and Waltheof stepped up. But Brand edged past his lord in his eagerness, and the earl was forced to watch as the big man hammered the attacker to his knees with the power of his blows. Floundering in the mud the Norman did not even see the killer strike when it arrived, and Waltheof watched in admiration as the follow-up severed his head to send it spinning away. Despite the intensity of the attack, the earl’s expression lit up as the housecarl shot him a wink on his return to the line, and they began to move forward together as another Norman broke through. Brand swung overhead and the attacker moved his shield to parry; but the move was a feint and Waltheof’s sword blade was already punching through mail and woollen undershirt to bury itself in his belly before the man could react.

  As the Norman fell away and Brand’s sword chopped down to finish him off, Waltheof stole a look along the line. Several of the housecarls had been overwhelmed by the onslaught, and although the remainder were fighting manfully to close the gaps the earl knew that the time to retreat had arrived. He called back across his shoulder as he watched the next wave of Normans approach the cut. ‘Hrafn?’

  His banner man replied instantly. ‘Yes, lord?’

  ‘Make the signal to withdraw.’

&nb
sp; The war horn sang, its drawn-out pitch deepening as the sound trailed away. Immediately the shield wall contracted as the line bowed until the ends anchored themselves against the sides of the buildings flanking the roadway. Waltheof threw a look to the west and was thankful to see that Cospatric and his men had followed suit, backing up against the warren of alleyways which had carried them to the clearing. As the line opened up to readmit the surviving axemen, Waltheof was glad to see that Ulf of Torksey had heard the command and had finally abandoned his position on the bridge. Bespattered with the blood and gore of his foemen, the hulking axeman resembled a dēofol from Hell as he cut his way back towards safety, and Waltheof clasped the man by the sleeve as he regained the English line. ‘Welcome home Horatius!’ he exclaimed. ‘Get yourself back to the gatehouse, you have done enough for today.’ The acclamation was met by a blank look but now was not the time to describe the heroism of an ancient Roman, and the earl sent the man to the rear with a hefty clap on his slab-like shoulder.

  With the attack on the burh apparently thwarted, the ferocity of the Norman assault lessened as the English retreated back down the roadway behind a wall of shields. They may have been rebuffed but their fighting qualities were undiminished, and no man would want to throw his life away needlessly against a strong defence flanked by walls of flame. Within a short time the first men were back in the courtyard before the gatehouse, and Waltheof thrilled to the sight as he ran his eyes along the burh walls. The wooden paling and walkways were sheets of flame, and lowering his gaze the earl saw that the twin doors had been wrenched from their posts and carried away. Soon the fire would spread to engulf the gateway itself — it was time to leave. ‘Out you go lads,’ he called as the final fighters seeped into the clearing, ‘we have done all we set out to do.’