Viking Enemy

by M J Porter

  Wulfstan opened his mouth to speak, but Leofwine forestalled him, “You did the right thing Wulfstan, don’t think any differently. Eadric’s a menace.”

  Wulfstan nodded to show he understood and moved to step away. Before he did, he placed his arm on Leofwine’s shoulder.

  “Welcome home, son,” he whispered as he shuffled towards the closed door.

  Grief pierced Leofwine’s rapidly beating heart as with those words his oldest friend acknowledged his advancing years.

  1006 – Part 7

  Anger surged through his being as he stood, feet firmly planted on the as yet unharvested field of golden corn, facing his enemy similarly arrayed further along the field. The raiders had made an impressive show of themselves, and as they hollered and shouted insults at the equally imposing collection of Englishmen, Leofwine let his anger have its way – a rarity for him.

  Months of sneaking attacks and lightning-fast strikes across the homeland of the Wessex King had brought them to this moment, and for once his fear at what may happen in the coming battle had flown from his head. He knew the strength of his men, and he knew the tight fighting formations that would make them a difficult force to attack. He harboured half a hope that he knew these men before him as well, perhaps better, than they knew themselves.

  Away from their homelands and with nothing but their lives to lose, they would fight as best they could, but as they fought only for treasure and gold he didn’t think they’d be too keen to die. And that was what he’d planned. Along with Oscetel and Horic, collected from Deerhurst as they’d shot south to meet the raiders from the heart of the Mercian lands, they’d devised a plan whereby they hoped to inflict upon the enemy as many deaths as possible. With a heap of dead and dying men, a force that showed no signs of tiring and that could constantly be replenished from the other fighting units of the fyrd, they all believed that Swein of Denmark’s men would head back for their ships – once and for all.

  The King’s messages had reached him not long after his return to Lichfield from Powys, demanding that he bring as many of the fyrd as he thought could be spared to the lands surrounding London and further south. The King had mentioned they might need to travel towards Canterbury, where Swein’s men were inflicting irreparable damage upon the nation and its people.

  Putting aside his annoyance that once again the King could not rely on any effective military action being taken under the command of the ageing Ealdorman Ælfric, Leofwine had ordered a full half of the Mercian fyrd to gather near London. Stationing half the men there, he and his own household troop had advanced deep into the lands of Wessex before coming across the raiders almost within spitting distance of Winchester.

  Hasty messengers to the King had ensured he travelled further north with his wife and young children, while messengers to his own fyrd in London had the men flying into the Wessex homelands.

  And now, all assembled, they stood ready and waiting to drive the raiders decisively from their shores. Leofwine had spoken to all his commanders, imparted words of advice and assigned roles to those he knew would be able to follow through with his orders or countermand them as events unfolded. Those incapable of such quick thinking had been forced to form up beside Leofwine in such a way that he could issue commands as and when needed and ensure they only took actions he felt would win the battle.

  Neither was he alone. Athelstan, winning the King’s blessing to join the fight, had brought his own household troops and commanded a sizeable force of the King’s men. Surrounded by his own commanders, young Morcar and Sigeforth, he’d confided in Leofwine of his worries surrounding his father’s ever-growing closeness to Eadric, who was notable by his absence.

  The ǽtheling’s actions now mirrored Leofwine’s own. Whether or not the King chose wisely in the men he surrounded himself with, Athelstan didn’t wish Swein of Denmark to gain any more at the expense of the English. He was here to fight, and not just for his father’s honour.

  Leofwine admired Athelstan’s courage and decisiveness. It could not be easy to serve a father who held him back and refused to impart any real authority on him. Leofwine was struck with the thought of how different their current predicament would be if only Athelstan were King and not his father. Not the most pleasant of thoughts, but the respect he’d once had for his King was being eroded by his constantly less than astute decision-making. The developing relationship with the man who was vocal in claiming Leofwine’s jurisdiction was not helping the situation.

  Leofwine’s anger reawakened within him and he relished its heat. He was going to prove his worth to his King by being the man to finally oversee the banishment of Swein’s men. He only wished that Swein was leading the men, but from the information his scouts had so far discovered it seemed as though Swein had felt no need to leave his haven near his ships. Leofwine thought him almost as much of a fool as his own King: better to be involved and show his value as a commander than hide until the action was all done with and then claim the glory. It would make him look an idiot.

  With a cry of command, Leofwine ordered his men to advance, shields before the men in the first row and also above their heads, held there by the men in the second rank. The jeering and calls of derision from the motley collection of raiders didn’t stop but grew louder at their tactic, and Leofwine smiled. They were all bloody half-wits. His men, led by Oscetel and Horic, stopped a hundred paces or more from the assembled enemy and hunkered down behind their shields … waiting.

  Long moments passed as the cries of Swein’s men slowly died in confusion. This tactic they’d not seen before. In the distance, Leofwine could see the opposition’s commanders looking at each other uneasily. The five men were interspersed amongst their own men, but Leofwine knew who they were. It was easy to catch sight of the men who claimed the most arm bands from their king as they flashed in the bright summer sunshine.

  When Leofwine’s men didn’t move even a step closer, but stayed silent and still behind their shields, a ripple of derision shot through the assembled enemy. First one man and then another, unable to contain their battle joy, rushed forward before the orders were given by their commanders. Leofwine knew he had them as soon as they broke ranks.

  He watched with satisfaction from atop his horse as one section of the advancing force broke off from their untidy line of defence. They rushed toward what now looked like an insignificant amount of men marooned in the middle of the summer-ripened crop, a smudge of aged brown wood in a field of summer gold. There were uneasy looks between the rest of the attackers, unsure how they should proceed, and suddenly all the men were rushing across the empty space, angry cries of rage floating through the air, and Leofwine gave his command.

  In an ordered line, his handful of archers advanced from below the small hillock they’d been hiding beneath, where Leofwine could easily see them but the opposition couldn’t. In perfect unison, they let loose with their deadly arrows and the cries of battle from the advancing raiders, who’d sensed an easy victory, turned to cries of fear at the rain of death that descended from the sky.

  Wave after wave of arrows flew almost silently through the air, and Leofwine watched as men stumbled where they stood, many admittedly almost upon Horic and the men, but only a handful managing to escape the deadly shower.

  When the first man met the shield wall, he momentarily stopped, wondering where his comrades had fallen. Leofwine watched him pause and look behind. What the man saw must have filled him with fear.

  Leofwine could clearly see crumpled bodies curled in pain or in death, and the uncertainty of the commanders was evident in the milling around of the rest of the fighting force. Like Leofwine’s small force of archers, they’d been hidden from plain sight. Leofwine, however, had known they were there. It was evident, though, that Swein’s men had not known about Leofwine’s archers.

  The lone warrior at the shield wall, having weighed up his odds of leaving the battlefield alive, raised his hammer above his head and with an elongated war cry, rushe
d towards the spot that Leofwine knew Horic would be occupying. With an efficiency Leofwine admired every time he saw it, Horic stepped from his place in the shield wall and dispatched the man’s head from his shoulders as if it were a head of corn. The momentarily stunned body stopped where it stood, and slowly collapsed to the floor, while Horic roared his own battle cry and re-joined the shield wall.

  A shout of approval greeted Horic’s actions while a roar of anger erupted from the opposing side. Any confusion at the strange battle tactics dissolved and suddenly, as a man, the men were running and screaming, seaxs and hammers raised in a ready position to batter against the shield wall.

  Leofwine counted in his head, measuring the steps the men took, and then he too signalled his reserve collection of archers and they, combined with the men who’d already loosed half of their arrows at the enemy, let their arrows fly.

  This time, the men fought through the hail of arrows to reach the shield wall. When the archers had exhausted as many arrows as Leofwine had prescribed, they dove back behind the advancing shield wall that Leofwine had allowed Athelstan to command and lead.

  This shield wall stretched twice as long as Oscetel’s own, but it was not as deep. Jumping from his horse and passing the reins to the boy who was serving as his squire, Leofwine rushed to join Athelstan’s forces. There was no possibility that he was going to allow the men to have all the glory. When he informed the King of his victory, he wanted it to be a victory that he’d taken a full part within.

  Above the din of battle, Athelstan shouted encouragement to the men, which Leofwine echoed down the line of his own warriors, personally chosen by Horic to see to his Lord’s protection.

  The crops before them tumbled under the weight of the combined feet of the mass of men, and Leofwine laughed joyously at the similarity of the crops’ fate to the men he now faced.

  The sounds of the battle were intensifying, and Leofwine grabbed a firm hold of his sword and his shield. In a carefully practised manoeuvre, Athelstan’s force split neatly in two when it reached the smaller force, and Leofwine advanced, pleased when he felt more than heard the two forces join.

  Faced with such a long shield wall, the raiders, as Leofwine had hoped, split their offensive hastily. There was a scrum of men as some went to do their commanders bidding while other remained to hammer against the might of Oscetel’s and Horic’s original shield wall.

  This was the moment when care needed to be taken. He didn’t want the additional shield wall to push further forward than the original one. He didn’t want his men to wrap themselves around those of the attacking force who’d managed to survive the rain of arrows. He’d spoken abruptly to Athelstan on this point, and he only hoped that he’d heed his advice in the heat of battle.

  And then a loud thunk on his shield distracted him from his thoughts as he felt the arrival of the enemy; blow after blow landed on his shield but he held firm, the man behind him covering his head with his own shield and the two men to either side holding firmly to their shields. A brief cry of strangled pain and the hammering ceased as the man to his right, Wighard, struck below his shield and hamstrung the attacker. Neatly, Leofwine made a small step forward and stabbed the man with his own seax. A gurgle of blood from the cut across his throat and Leofwine was back within the shield wall.

  He could feel the reverberation of more hammers and swords on the toughened wooden shields that lined the shield wall, but for now he had no one attacking him. He took a moment to breathe deeply, feeling the tension of the last few months ease through his shoulders, and then he felt another thump on his shield. Employing the same tactics as before, he and Wighard dealt with the raider as a further whoosh of arrows flew through the air. Never raising his head from below his shield, he listened with delight as the man behind him, Leofgar, recounted what he could see of the battle.

  In a methodical manner, he and his men stayed firmly in place as wave after wave of raiders attacked their shield wall. Each time he dispatched the man who sought his death, and each time his hope increased that this time a host of men would lie dead at battle’s end, and that this battle would put paid to Swein of Denmark’s intentions towards England.

  When he finally lifted his head, to assess the damage his force had inflicted, a roar of delight bubbled from his chest. The field of crops was destroyed and in the distance he could see a remnant of the original force either running from the battle or chasing a horse so it could carry them away. Swein’s commanders were long since gone and in their stead they left only the dead and dying.

  From his place amongst his shield wall, Leofwine heard a massive snarl of approval from Horic join his own laughter, and suddenly all the men were cheering and shouting, calling to friends and family they’d worried they’d not see again.

  Hastily, Leofwine called his household troops together, exhausted or not, and ordered them to follow the withdrawing troops. Athelstan shouted to him, desperate to offer further assistance, and with the joy of winning encircling him Leofwine agreed, leaving the commander of the archers to deal with the aftermath of the battle while they hunted down any who were trying to escape.

  With his horse beneath him and Hammer at his side, Leofwine raced forward, noting with a detachment he was proud of the injuries his side had inflicted on their enemy. Men wore grisly cuts across their faces, the stark red of their lost blood making their pale, dead faces even more frightful to look upon. Arrows protruded from the faces of other men as well as from their stomachs and backs. With compassion he hastily killed a man staggering blindly around the scene of devastation, an arrow clean through his unprotected stomach and a massive gaping wound running the length of his face.

  Beside him, Horic and Oscetel and the rest of the household troops raced to keep up with Leofwine’s horse as it ate up the distance between them and the retreating warriors.

  Leofwine tried to count how many still lived but found it impossible. However many men they’d killed and left to the ravens and crows, there were many more attempting to make their escape. Most of them had found horses from behind their battle line, and as Leofwine raced through the sea of abandoned tents and still smouldering campfires, a sobering thought pressed down on him: this force was tremendous; it was no wonder they’d caused so much damage and had sent Ealdorman Ælfric hurrying to his King in desperation.

  He resolved that he wanted as many of the men as possible dead, but even more importantly he wanted them gone from his land. With a restraint that surprised him, he pulled back his horse’s wild ride and allowed Athelstan and his own men to catch him.

  “We should let them get ahead of us,” he shouted breathlessly. “It’s better that they leave with tales of their defeat than we kill them now. I don’t want another set-piece battle, not when we’ve left so many of our warriors behind them.”

  Athelstan glanced at the retreating shapes before them and quickly nodded in agreement.

  “I think we should split up, though; the men are scattering all over the place and I want to herd as many of them as possible.”

  Leofwine himself nodded.

  “Agreed; we’ll follow that group over there …” and he pointed to where the retreating backs of the men could be seen racing through a small stream, “… and you travel that way. And don’t forget to light the beacons if we reach the coast. If we can arrange for the ship army to chase them far out to sea, that’s even better.”

  With nothing more to say, he kicked his horse back to a slower gallop and steered him towards the stream. He was going to enjoy this, and when he spoke to his King he was damn well going to get an apology for his years of neglect.

  1006 – Midwinter

  Eadric eyed him with obvious amusement from his place next to the King while Leofwine openly returned his stare. For whatever reason, Eadric had decided that Leofwine was, if not his enemy, then certainly not his friend. It was an irrational hatred that Leofwine could only understand in a similar context to Swein of Denmark’s enmity. Eadric seemed to h
old Leofwine in contempt for his position as Ealdorman, claiming loudly and to any who would listen that it should be his command, not Leofwine’s, although his reasoning was never fully explained.

  The King, starting to show his age with grey streaking his hair and tidy beard and moustache, glanced knowingly between Eadric and Leofwine before fixing Leofwine with a stony stare. Leofwine nodded to recognise his King’s scrutiny, if not his hard stare. He’d not seen his King throughout the long summer’s campaigning, and he could already tell that in his absence Eadric had become the King’s firm favourite.

  He cursed his King for a fool, again. Finally, he’d accepted that he’d never understand his King and his need for sycophants and liars, but he didn’t like it. Without them all, the King would have been a far superior figure.

  He was also unhappy to find himself dependent on Eadric’s hospitality, within his home near the border with the Kingdom of Powys. It was an elegant home, well built and constructed against the harsh winter storm that blew fiercely outside, but the very King’s presence within it marked Eadric with far more favour than Leofwine thought he deserved. He’d done nothing all summer long but stayed safe beside the King and cast doubt on the actions of those who’d mounted an attack against Swein of Denmark.

  Athelstan had greeted him on his arrival at the house and had confided in him that after their stunning defeat of the raiders, Eadric had gone out of his way to find fault with the battle tactics Leofwine had employed.

  Leofwine had not been surprised, and neither was he alarmed that the very aged Ealdorman Ælfric had added his own voice to Eadric’s. Uhtred and Ulfcytel had not been as vocal in their denouncement of the battle, but then they were firmly in the King’s favour already and didn’t need to rely on underhand techniques as Eadric did. They were both linked through marriage to the King. Uhtred had married the King’s second oldest daughter when the King had been informed of his stunning victory over the Scots and the tactics he’d used at Durham.