The lines crunched together.
Shields crashed.
Swords flashed.
Flights of arrows landed among both sides.
Screams of men and metal followed.
Sprays of mud and blood came in their turn.
Ravens and Valkyries wheeled above, eyeing their harvests.
The press crushed all the warriors together. Some died simply because they couldn’t move. They would go to the next world with a memory of steel approaching while they could do nothing. The press held up many who could not stand, but dead or dying, could not yet fall to the ground.
Fortunately, in the rush, Wulfstan had managed to get his shield above his head before the press would have prevented it. “Stand firm,” he yelled. He struggled to get his sword above his head as well. “English! Stand firm!” he repeated. He could strike no other blow. He finally succeeded in raising his sword just in time to block an axe from smashing into the fyrdman next to him.
Something slammed into the block of men. Warriors, English and Dane both, swayed, less in control of this sea of flesh and steel than they had been of the tide. The wave knocked some off their feet. A few of those managed to fall under their shield. After the battle, a dozen or so would manage to dig themselves out of the pile.
The rest simply died, trampled underfoot.
Wulfstan stepped on something too soft to be grass. There’s a farmer who’s sowing days are done. He almost giggled, the moment indescribably funny, but he pushed off the flesh beneath to gain an extra hand’s-breadth of height. That height allowed him to strike at an axe haft.
His first blow earned little but a Danish curse and an attempt to pull the axe back. The press prevented that attempt, and Wulfstan swung again, this time sending splinters flying. A third time and the shaft cracked.
The Northman dropped the axe. For a moment, it sat on various shoulders, floating, then sinking beneath the surface.
An arrow thumped into Wulfstan’s shield. A spear bounced off, careening past him. Warriors near him, on either side, were not so lucky. He could see more arrows rising in the distance. He managed to twist, getting his shield into a better position to ward their steel points. Crashing thumps rewarded his twist, but holding shield and sword above the fray was not without problems. The press and flow wrenched his shoulders back and forth. His muscles, not completely recovered from the fight at the causeway, made their protests known past the fear, mud, and noise.
He pushed the protests down and focused on the front line, now only two ranks away.
“Stand firm!” he yelled again.
Suddenly, the crunch of battle spat Wulfstan out of the press. In front of him a Dane, tossed out of the press in similar fashion, raised his shield and charged. Wulfstan met the charge with his own shield.
Linden wood smashed into linden wood and the two men pushed for any advantage. The Dane stabbed under their shields. Wulfstan rolled to his left and slashed at the Northman’s leg, but the Dane blocked it. The pair exchanged blows crashing on each other’s shield, moving around the battle as if they were the only ones on the field. The Northman got his feet under him and with a bellow of rage, pushed Wulfstan back a few paces. The Dane charged again. This time, Wulfstan did not meet him squarely but instead stepped to his left, pushing the Dane stumbling past to sprawl on the mud.
Another Dane charged Wulfstan before he could pounce on the first one. This time the thegn stepped to the right. He smashed his pommel into the Northman’s nose, splattering both with blood and knocking him back. Wulfstan followed the punch with his blade into the warrior’s throat.
For a moment, no one was within five paces and he bent forward to catch his breath. He straightened to see Godric and his brothers in line with a group of fyrdmen. Bodies, English and Dane, ringed them.
They didn’t run immediately.
But the look in their eyes told Wulfstan their courage would not hold. Especially since a line of Northmen, shields locked together, stepped toward them. The second rank of the Danes raised their axes and bellowed a war cry as they advanced.
Godric and his brothers wavered.
Wulfstan charged into the flank of the Danish line, knocking several into a pile and stumbling on top of them.
Fortunately, several of the fyrdmen stepped around Godric. They bloodied their spears on axe wielders suddenly without their shieldwall.
Godric and the two other sons of Odda simply watched, amazed.
And, in so doing, allowed Wulfstan to push himself up, stabbing blindly beneath him. An axe slashed toward his helm. He blocked it but it the blow sent him stumbling.
Again, Wyrd favored him. His stumbling brought him next to Godric and his brothers. They had their shields raised, but their eyes remained wide and terrified.
“Fyrd of Essex. Get back into your line!” Wulfstan then hissed at Godric, “Raise your shields, or I shall name you nithing and the scops will sing of your cowardice until the world ends.”
Godric hesitated, eyes flicking to his brothers.
“You fight, or I will kill Odda’s sons first,” continued Wulfstan.
The three brothers flinched, but raised their shields. Wulfstan looked at the fyrd around him, who generally hid grins as they moved into place. He then locked his shield with the others and they advanced into the swirling mass of steel and blood.
A few Danes, startled to see a unit in good order marching at them, backed away in search of allies.
Behind them, not ten paces away, Byrhtnoth and his thegns stood, heavily beset.
“To the ealdorman! To Byrhtnoth!” yelled Wulfstan. His line advanced, but a group of Northmen appeared out of the melee. They smashed their shields into his line, blades slithering past the iron-shod linden.
Wulfstan pushed back, struggling to keep his feet.
One of the fyrdmen supported him and Odda’s sons by holding his spear in both hands along their backs, his breath coming out in harsh grunts as he pushed with all his strength. Other fyrdmen slipped their spear tips at any opening they could see.
Danish spearmen returned the favor, stabbing past their front line.
Wulfstan chopped at a spear tip aimed at his face. The Danish shieldman in front of him stuck his leg out in his effort to push through the line. Wulfstan slashed down, turning the Dane’s madder-dyed pants more crimson than before.
The shieldman fell to his knee, and suddenly Wulfstan could see his face. He thrust his blade through the Dane’s eye and then stepped over him to attack the second line. Inside the preferred range of their axes and spears, the blood of two more Danes reddened his steel.
The Danish line collapsed. Suddenly, Godric and his brothers had openings. They desperately slashed, driving the Northmen in front of them down. Spear tips in eyes and cheeks finished them off.
Wulfstan tried to command them to reform, but his voice caught in his suddenly desert-dry throat. After a moment, he croaked, “Back into a line.”
The fyrd, also trying to recover, started to move with limbs clearly leaden. Godric shook his head, mouth open.
“Get into a line!” Wulfstan repeated with a snarl.
Odda’s sons, exhausted and terrified, hesitated.
Before Wulfstan could do or say anything, a fyrdman tapped Godric’s shoulder with his bloodied spear. “You heard the lad.”
While they arranged themselves, Wulfstan looked for the ealdorman. He didn’t see him, but then he heard his voice rising over the fray. He advanced his group around another cluster. On the other side, Byrhtnoth stood surrounded by a line of bodies. “Come, my friends! My blade still thirsts!” he yelled.
But his fight had not been completely one-sided. Blood flowed from wounds on Byrhtnoth’s arms and a spear point had ripped along his cheek. Wulfstan also saw many friends with whom he’d never again share a meadbench in this world.
Yet he didn’t stand alone. Eadric and other thegns remained at his side despite their own wounds. More Danes pressed in. Axes flashed around the ealdorma
n.
Eadric stepped forward to keep them away from Byrhtnoth, but there were too many. One he warded with his shield, but the blow pushed his shield out of the way and the next blow crashed into his helm. As he fell, Eadric desperately tried to block yet another blow with what strength remained.
It wasn’t enough. His blade hit the axe, but without enough power to stop it. However, the head of the axe twisted and instead of chopping through Byrhtnoth’s boar-crested helm, the flat of the axe slammed into the ealdorman.
Byrhtnoth fell. The other thegns stepped over him as the Danes pushed to finish him off.
His height and flowing white hair had always proven useful in battles. He had been able to rally his warriors many times, simply by being there. Today, his easily recognizable presence meant many of the English saw him fall, despite all their prayers and blood.
“The ealdorman is down!” yelled one of Godric’s brothers. Fear and panic drove him to swing wildly at all around him. Two Danes fell, but so did a fyrdman behind him. The other brother was no better, and he spilled more of both English and Danish blood onto the trampled mud.
Godric echoed the cry, “The ealdorman is down!” He, too, slashed about and warriors of both sides scattered away. He suddenly realized he had a chance to flee.
Wulfstan saw the wild look in the son of Odda’s eyes. He stepped forward, punching out with his shield. Godric chopped into it. For a moment, Godric’s blade stuck in the wood. Wulfstan’s sword, almost before either thegn realized, chopped down, slamming into the mail just above Godric’s knee.
The thegn cried and fell to his knees.
His brothers turned their desperate focus on Wulfstan. They struck wildly with their swords.
Wulfstan released his shield and spun away from their blows. He slashed down through the neck and shoulder of one and crunched his blade into the other’s helm. The last of Odda’s sons fell, but whether dead or simply unconscious, Wulfstan never knew.
He looked down at Godric, sword raised.
“No!” Godric pushed himself to his feet, eyes wide in terror. Wulfstan’s sword came down, but to each’s surprise, Godric blocked it with his own. “No,” he cried again.
“Then follow me to Byrhtnoth!” snarled Wulfstan.
Godric, eyes closed, nodded.
Wulfstan leaned in and hissed, “I’ll give you leave to rest when Byrhtnoth is rescued or avenged, not before!”
The terrified thegn didn’t do anything.
“Understand?” demanded Wulfstan.
Godric whispered. “Yes, Wulfstan.”
“Then make ready.” Wulfstan looked about and yelled at all the English in sight. “We go to Byrhtnoth,” he declared. “We’ll save him or leave our bodies atop his.”
A ragged cheer rose, and the English formed up again, this time with Godric at the point. The fyrd followed the limping thegn, and they advanced on the cluster around the ealdorman. The slow pace allowed the English line to not only stay together, but also tighten up. By the time they reached Byrhtnoth, they were as strong a line of shields and spears as ever faced the Danes.
But they also took time, time which the thegns of Byrhtnoth did not have.
Aelfwine had often boasted of his lineage in meadhalls. Many he slew with his spear on that day, but an axe ended his line.
Offa shoved his stern sword into that Dane and rushed into three others. He slew one, wounded another, and then fell as his namesake would have wished, blade to blade with the third.
Dunnere, who had chosen to stay at his farm instead of accepting Byrhtnoth’s rings as a thegn, did not flinch. His spear spilled the blood of many Northmen until two northern axes rent him apart.
Above them all was Eadweard, taller even than Byrhtnoth. He broke through an advancing wall of shields. His sword flashed, but in the end the Danes surrounded and overwhelmed him.
Wulfstan cried at each death. Tears ran down his face. He opened his mouth to order the charge, but…
No! We must get there in good order!
So he kept pace with Godric.
Step.
Step.
And then it was time. Wulfstan charged into the Danes. Since he had no shield of his own, he simply rammed his shoulder into the middle of one of the Danish shields. He stabbed into the nose of the Northman to his right, the spun around, his back to the shield.
The eyes of the Dane suddenly next to him suddenly widened, but Wulfstan slashed across his neck.
Then the spears of the fyrd were there.
And, to Wulfstan’s surprise, so was the sword of Godric. The hobbled thegn had taken advantage of the hole created by Wulfstan. With the help of the spearmen, they pressed past the line of Danish shields into the axes and spears behind.
Wulfstan fed many more ravens, as did Godric and all of the fyrd. They pushed past the Danish line and there was Byrhtnoth.
He lives!
The ealdorman, clearly dazed, kept trying to rise, but the press around him prevented it. Just as clearly, only the shelter of his few remaining thegns prevented the Northmen from finishing him off.
Wulfstan watched in dismay as three Danish spearmen struck at once and Leofsunu fell, his battered shield rolling away. Into the opening jumped a Dane, who slew the brothers Oswald and Eadwold with his axe. Byrhtwold, their father, avenged his sons. The axeman’s head flew away.
But three more followed, axes raised high. Wulfstan rushed them, but before he could reach them, their axes felled the father upon the bodies of his sons. In his rage, Wulfstan slew not only Byrhtwold’s killer, but also the other two Northmen.
Byrhtnoth tried to rise, but a new rush pushed Wulfstan back into him, knocking the ealdorman down again.
Wulfstan’s blade flashed above them all, sending blood spraying about as he fed raven after raven. However, a Northman’s ribs held Wulfstan’s sword for just a moment. Not long, but enough to give a Danish spearman his chance. His spear slithered through the fray. Wulfstan never saw the spearpoint before it entered his side.
But Godric did, to his horror and shame.
Then the spearman stepped over Wulfstan’s body and aimed at Byrhtnoth, now clear of defenders.
Godric did not hesitate.
He forgot the pain in his knee.
Moved faster than at any point in his life.
And for the first time in his life, Godric, son of Odda, charged into the fray. He gutted the spearman, slew another behind him, and then another. He dropped his shield to push bodies, shield, and broken weapons off his ealdorman.
A shadow loomed over him. Another Dane, axe raised high, stood above. He struck down, and Godric raised his hands desperately.
But the fyrd had followed. A spear struck the Dane’s byrnie. It did not penetrate, but it caused his blow to fall awkwardly. Instead of chopping through hands, arms, and helm, the back of the axe merely crunched onto Godric’s raised hands.
Byrhtnoth, from a knee, stabbed the Dane. He pushed off Godric’s shoulder and rose.
On that cloudy day, all could see his swan-white hair.
As if with one voice, all on the field, English and Dane both, cried, “He lives! Byrhtnoth lives!”
Soon after, a horn blew. The battle halted and everyone looked over. Olaf stood amidst a pile of English dead.
With a small, twisted smile, he yelled over to Byrhtnoth, “I think, perhaps, your god is mightier.”
“I think He is.” Byrhtnoth looked at the slaughter and the ravens already swooping down. “But there are many here that are dear to me. I would not mind if your god took them to his meadhall for a time that they can boast of their glories.”
“The Valkyries bear their souls away as we speak.” Olaf looked around. “Where is the one who held the center of the causeway?”
Godric knelt and cradled Wulfstan’s body. “He lies here, Northman.”
“I hope Woden keeps him until I get there myself. He was a good man.”
The thegn nodded, washing Wulfstan’s face with his tears. He igno
red everything around him until Byrhtnoth came to him.
The ealdorman held out a gold ring. “Godric, your bravery has earned this.”
“Mine?” Godric snorted. “I’m the least of men. Nithing, I am. The scops should write of how we forgot the oaths made on golden rings. We would have fled. Would have taken the best horses and run. Wulfstan stopped us.”
“If you had fled, many of the fyrd would have followed.” Byrhtnoth looked about. “And if that had happened, who knows when England could have stopped Olaf and those who followed him.”
“I know. I cared not.”
Byrhtnoth sighed, running his hand over his face. “Stay here with Wulfstan. My head hurts, and there is much to do.”
“My sword is there.” Godric nodded his chin at the blade. “Give it to someone worthy.”
“You didn’t flee.”
“Only because of Wulfstan who would not lie dead in my arms but for my shame,” Godric snarled. “And the same for the other brothers I betrayed who lie here.”
Byrhtnoth said nothing more, but he picked up Godric’s sword and left.
* * *
The sun flowed through the scriptorium now, filling it with heaven’s golden light.
The scribe placed the quill down and looked at the parchment with satisfaction. His letters ran in even rows, all well-formed, and he had not needed to scratch any away to fix a mistake.
He bowed his head again. Thank you, Mary. His eyes focused on his fingers, which he suddenly realized ached so much he couldn’t open his hands.
A familiar voice spoke in his ear, “The battle is over. You have my leave to rest.”
Startled, he looked about, but there was no one in the room but his assistant.
“Do you need something, brother?” he asked.
“Oh, uh—” The archivist shook his head. “I just thought I heard something. No one came in just now, did they?”
A puzzled look crossed his assistant’s face. “No, brother.”
“Strange. I could have sworn I heard something.” His face cleared. “But there is something you could do. Would you please go to the abbot and ask him to join us?”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, lad, but I think he needs to be here.”
Trouble in the Wind Page 8