by Jayden Woods
*
Three long weeks later, Hastings stood holding his shield before him, trembling from head to foot. The stench of death already clung to the air, a smell Hastings had quickly come to associate with the Vikings’ presence. Only a few miles away, Thetford already lay in ruin: homes burned to the ground, inhabitants stabbed, blood soaking the earth, food and corpses smoldering.
From the smoke, the first black shapes of the Viking army crawled towards them.
Hastings stood on the front line of the Anglo-Saxon shield wall between the Vikings and their ships, along with all of Ulfcytel’s bravest and strongest men. To be in such a situation seemed to foretell certain death. He wondered how he had ever come to be in such a ridiculous position, and even though the truth was evident, it seemed as if suddenly he could not comprehend it.
As soon as Ulfcytel had learned that Sweyn had turned his fleet towards Thetford, despite having accepted the East Anglians’ terms to sue for peace, he flew into a horrendous rage. He yanked his short hair and nearly ripped off his tunic as he imagined tearing his Danish enemies apart. He was quick to renounce any notion of a Danegald, and declare that he would employ almost any tactic necessary to keep the Vikings from encroaching deeper into his lands.
Ulfcytel’s anger, however, seemed to cloud his judgment. He did not immediately gather the fyrd as he should have, assuming he would not have time. Instead he flung reason to the wind and sent a small band of warriors to try and destroy the Vikings’ ships while their inhabitants were on land. It was a nice tactic in theory, of course, but Sweyn knew better to leave his precious ships unattended, and the mission was an utter failure. Rather than dealing the Viking king a severe blow, Ulfcytel only managed to announce that he was on Sweyn’s trail.
Thus he had gathered what small army he could in the time available and hurried further south. At last he had decided to employ the Golden Cross’s advice, and used it to arrange their current position, with all the best men forming the front shield wall while the lesser soldiers protected the back. In the worst case scenario some of Sweyn’s men guarding his ships might leave their posts to strike Ulfcytel’s army from behind, anyway. What tactics Ulfcytel utilized mattered little to Hastings, as long as they worked. What mattered most, and what would also please Aydith, was that Ulfcytel fought at all.
Now, Hastings wished he had never brought the Golden Cross’s battle tactics in the first place, for they were what now forced him to stand at the very front of the shield wall. There would be nothing between him and the Viking army but a simple piece of wood.
Sweyn’s men continued to pour through the muddy field, some on horseback, most on foot, slow and leisurely from their recent spoils. They were weighed down by stolen food, gold, and slaves. But they did not seem to care. They did not even hesitate as they came upon Ulfcytel’s army, but kept walking, as if towards a shrub they could easily chop from their path.
Hastings hoped that the men around him could not hear his teeth chattering. He did not consider himself to be a coward. But how could he not be afraid when he knew for certain that he would die today? He did not even consider himself to be particularly afraid of death. But this was far from how he had ever expected to die.
He had fought in skirmishes before, but he had never fought a battle like this, and certainly not on the front lines. He was not a typical fyrd-man: he was a retainer. A troop of the noble house. A gesitha. A hearth companion. He fought to protect those he cared about, those he swore fealty to, and for them—for her—he would lay down his life. To die in a quick and frantic clash such as this, his life snuffed out in a flare of deaths, did not seem as meaningful to him. He wanted to look his enemy in the eye. He wanted to see the gratefulness and love of those he saved as he bled his life away. This was not how he wanted to go.
At least he knew that Aydith would be proud of him. It was not enough, but it was all he had. He tried to imagine her face, certain he would never see it again.
It was hard to imagine someone so beautiful and noble, however, as he watched the pagans advance. Some of the warriors on foot were falling back, no doubt the ones weighed down by their plundered goods, while those carrying nothing but axes and spears moved forward. They began to form their own shield wall, the well-known Viking formation, in which the shields were locked tightly together, and the paint on them was so bright it was nearly blinding. That was the purpose, of course: to distract the eye, and to conceal the lines of the wood, so they would be harder to crack apart.
“Second line, down!” yelled Ulfcytel.
The high reeve’s voice, so close and thunderous, set Hastings’s heart pounding. Even Ulfcytel stood near the front lines, only a few men away. When he had decided to heed the Golden Cross’s scroll, he had not done so half-heartedly.
Per Ulfcytel’s instructions, the second row of men crouched down. They did this for several reasons. Some would poke at the Vikings’ feet with spears. Some would crawl through the shields once a clearing was made and plunge directly into the fighting. Better still, some would serve as a platform from which the third row of men could step and jump over the shield wall. To Hastings the idea seemed ridiculous, but some soldiers had volunteered nonetheless, and Ulfcytel claimed that it would catch the Danes by such surprise.
For a moment, the clattering of weapons and scraping of locked shields filled Hastings’s ears as if no other sound existed. But then something incredible happened, and the shield wall became so silent that all Hastings heard instead was the calm, steady breaths of his neighbors. The men were settled now, forming what seemed an impenetrable barrier, as if not even an earthquake would shake them.
“Hold,” said Ulfcytel, quietly now, for he no longer needed to raise his voice.
Meanwhile the Vikings came closer and closer, their faces either leering or emotionless. All of their movements were so practiced they seemed without effort. And though their arrangement did not appear orderly, inconsistent in movement and formation, they nonetheless advanced as if a single beast, knowing each other’s minds, connected by a single goal, unbarred by fear.
“Advance,” said Ulfcytel.
The Vikings did not expect them to advance. Even Hastings, who felt so secured by their solid formation, had temporarily forgotten that this was part of the plan. When Hastings began moving his legs, finding an unexpected harmony in the steps of the entire shield wall, his heart surged with joy to see the surprise on the Vikings’ faces. Most of them stopped, reconsidering what to do. Their front lines wavered, some of the warriors bumping into each other. A shield wall was meant to be a barrier. It was not meant to move.
Then Hastings thought he saw Sweyn Forkbeard, mounted on a horse and lurking within the haze of smoke. The king of the Vikings wore glittering mail and so many weapons that he seemed to have sharp steel points protruding from every corner of his body. Hastings squinted, hoping to see the man’s thick tufts of hair on either side of his mouth for which he was so famous; and even if he could not see it, he imagined it, the forked beard twisting as he scowled with rage.
Sweyn shouted in Danish, and whatever the word was, it made all of his warriors rush forward at incredible speed.
Hastings nearly froze with terror. But his feet kept moving, for he had no choice.
In a jolt that smacked the bones of his arms and overwhelmed his eardrums, the two armies clashed.
He moved instinctively, shifting his shield up and down, shuffling his feet as the first Viking sword tried to chop off his toes. Whether it was a wise battle tactic or not, Hastings did not know, but he found that he survived his first opponent by not looking him in the face at all, nor even staring directly at his weapon. Instead his eyes remained forward, focused on nothing and everything at the same time, and his body reacted accordingly. He moved, blocked, thrust his shield forward, and stabbed. Meanwhile he stayed aware of the man behind him, crouched low and thrusting a spear around his legs. It would be all too easy to slice himself against a friendly blade.
The dance of the shield wall was a complex one. Just as he could not stare into his enemy’s face, he could not ponder all the things he ought to be doing at once, or all of it seemed too complicated. Instinct took over, so that he was little more aware of what he did than a beast would be; and yet his survival was at stake, so his body reacted dependably.
He held his shield in one arm and his sword in the other, though often both arms were braced against the wood, absorbing the blows of the enemy. He had to watch the men who rushed forward with swords and axes, but he also had to watch for the spears flying through the sky. As he blocked himself from an axe at his fore, he glanced a spear descending on him from above. In one fleeting moment he had to decide which part of himself to protect. At last he decided to swipe his sword over his head, knocking away the spear just in time.
The earth at his feet soon became squishy with blood, and now as Ulfcytel’s army tried to push forward, they nearly stumbled over the freshly injured. Some of the dying men were their own, but sometimes it was hard to tell; Hastings, less familiar with the faces of the East Anglian men, dared not kill anyone still alive, lest it be an ally. Many of Ulfcytel’s men compromised by taking the weapons and shields of the injured. This served two purposes, for it robbed the enemies while reinforcing their own supplies.
“Foist!” Ulfcytel’s voice rang over the melee.
Hastings froze in a moment of panic, trying to remember what he ought to do. He heard the sound of heavy boots thundering behind him, and knew that these were the warriors who would break into the front lines of the enemy. No doubt their swords were already bared, and they would run him through if he did not get out of their way. But if he moved too soon, he would expose them to danger. So he watched the lines in front of him and he listened to the shuffling behind him; and when the moment was right, he swept himself to the side, arching his shield around him.
“Now!” he screamed, and one of Ulfcytel’s warriors rushed by, roaring with rage, chainmail and belt jangling like a thousand bells. The tip of his sword seemed to graze by Hastings’s ear, then plunge into a Viking’s chest. Above the sunken sword, the enemy’s face became locked in a permanent expression of surprise as death seeped into his body.
From one end of the shrinking shield wall to the next, great warriors slipped through the openings, their swords clanging in a cacophony against the Vikings’ axes, their spears twirling about their bodies like barbed tornadoes. He wanted to watch the strange phenomenon, the brave Anglo-Saxon warriors throwing themselves fearlessly into the heat of the battle, the Vikings scurrying in confusion. It was like nothing he had seen before.
He knew better than to keep watching, but he could not help himself; and of a sudden, he felt a jolt go through his arms as if his bones were shattering.
It was not his bones that shattered, however. It was his shield. In a spray of splinters, the wood cracked and ripped apart. Hastings watched in horror as the edge of a Viking’s axe worked its way from the wooden wreckage, then rose up again, ready to split Hastings’s unprotected body just as easily.
Hastings dodged aside, twirling his sword like a madman. He made another mistake, and looked his opponent in the face. The man had a blood-speckled beard, and smoke lurked in his eyes like storm-clouds; but worst of all, he wore a sneer, and it filled Hastings’s heart with dread. He realized that the Dane had achieved two victories at once, for by breaking Hastings’s shield, he had created a vulnerability in the shield wall, and that vulnerability was Hastings.
He considered for a moment what to do. He realized that his opponent had no reason to kill him immediately; the longer he stood there, shield-less and petrified, the more time he gave the Vikings’ friends a chance to gather around him, then force their way through him and into the heart of the Anglo-Saxon army. They were already collecting in a chainmailed bundle, prepared to run him over.
There was only one thing to do. Hastings had become a weakness in the shield wall. He had to remove himself.
He tried to picture Aydith again. He hoped she would be proud of him. He imagined her gratefulness and love, as he would no longer be alive to see it.
He screamed and leapt forward, into the writhing mass of Viking warriors.
“Aaaydiiith!” he cried.
And behind him, the shield wall closed itself, never to let him in again.