Warriors of the Storm

Thirteen

The first fire was lit not long after sunset. It blazed somewhere deep among the woods beyond the ridge’s pastureland, its flames flickering lurid shadows among the trees.

More fires were lit, one after the other, fires that burned bright in the northern woods that stretched between the rivers. So many fires that at times it seemed as if the whole belt of trees burned. Then, deep in the firelit night, we heard hooves on the ridge and I saw the shadow of a horseman galloping towards us, then turning away. ‘They want to keep us awake,’ Sigtryggr said. A second horseman followed, while off to the southern side of the ridge an unseen enemy clashed a blade against a shield.

‘They are keeping us awake,’ I answered, then looked at Stiorra, ‘and why didn’t you ride north?’

‘I forgot,’ she said.

Egill had left two spades in his barn and we were using them to deepen the old trench in front of the earthen wall. It would not be a deep trench, but it would be a small obstacle to an advancing shield wall. I did not have enough men to fight in the open pastureland, so we would make our own shield wall on what remained of the Roman rampart. The Romans, I knew, had made two kinds of fort. There were the great fastnesses like Eoferwic, Lundene or Ceaster that were defended by massive stone walls, and then there were these country forts, scores of them, which were little more than a ditch and a bank topped by a wooden wall. These smaller forts guarded river crossings and road junctions, and though the timbers of this fort had long disappeared, its bank of earth, despite its decay, was still steep enough to make a formidable obstacle. Or so I told myself. Ragnall’s men would have to negotiate the ditch, then clamber up the bank into our axes, spears, and swords, and their dead and wounded would make another barrier to trip men coming to kill us. The weakest point was the fort’s entrance, which was nothing but a flat track through the bank, but there were thorns growing thick by the river junction and my son took a score of men who hacked the bushes down and dragged them back to make a barricade.

Sigtryggr had looked around the fort before the sun set and the darkness shrouded us. ‘We could do with another hundred men,’ he had said grimly.

‘Pray he attacks us straight on,’ I had answered.

‘He’s no fool.’

We had sufficient men to defend one wall of the fort. If Ragnall came down the track that led across the pastureland and assaulted us head-on then I reckoned we could hold till what the Christians called doomsday. But if he also sent men to either side of the fort to attack the eastern and western walls we would be sorely stretched. Luckily the ground fell away towards the rivers on both sides, but the slopes were not impossibly steep, and that meant I would need men on both flanking walls, and more men on the southern wall if Ragnall’s forces surrounded us. The truth, and I knew it, was that Ragnall would overwhelm us. We would put up a fight, we would slaughter some of his best warriors, but by midday we would all be corpses or prisoners unless Ragnall obliged me by simply assaulting the northern wall.

Or unless the Mercians came.

‘We do have the hostages,’ Sigtryggr said. We were standing on the northern wall, watching the threatening fires and listening to the hacking sound of our spades deepening the ditch. Another enemy rode close to the fort, man and horse outlined by the glare of the fires burning in the distant wood.

‘We have the hostages,’ I agreed. The eight women were all wives of Ragnall’s jarls. The youngest was around fourteen, the oldest perhaps thirty. They were, unsurprisingly, sullen and resentful. We had them all in Egill’s hall, guarded there by four men. ‘What did he fear?’ I asked Sigtryggr.

‘Fear?’

‘Why did he take hostages?’

‘Disloyalty,’ he said simply.

‘An oath isn’t enough to make men loyal?’

‘Not for my brother,’ Sigtryggr said, then sighed. ‘Five years ago, maybe six, father led an army to the south of Ireland. Things didn’t go well, and half the army just took to their ships and sailed away.’

‘Which happens,’ I said.

‘If you’re capturing land, slaves, cattle,’ Sigtryggr said, ‘then men stay loyal, but as soon as there are difficulties? They melt away. Hostages are Ragnall’s answer.’

‘You take hostages from the enemy,’ I said, ‘not from your own side.’

‘Unless you’re my brother,’ Sigtryggr said. He was stroking a stone down the edge of his long-sword. The sound was monotonous. I gazed at the far woods and knew our enemies were also sharpening their blades. They had to be confident. They knew the dawn would bring them a battle, victory, plunder, and reputation.

‘What will you do with the hostages?’ Finan asked.

‘Show them,’ Sigtryggr said.

‘And threaten them?’ Stiorra asked.

‘They’re a weapon to use,’ Sigtryggr answered unhappily.

‘And you’ll kill them?’ Stiorra demanded. Sigtryggr did not answer. ‘If you kill them,’ my daughter said, ‘then you lose the power of them.’

‘It should be enough to just threaten their deaths,’ Sigtryggr answered.

‘Those men,’ Stiorra nodded her head towards the fires in the woodland, ‘know you. They know you won’t kill women.’

‘We might have to,’ Sigtryggr said unhappily. ‘One, at least.’

None of us spoke. Behind us, in the fort, men sat around campfires. Some of them sang, though the songs were not happy. They were laments. The men knew what faced them and I wondered how many I could rely on. I was sure of my own men and of Sigtryggr’s, but a quarter of the warriors had been sworn to Ragnall not a week or two before, and how would they fight? Would they desert? Or would their fear of Ragnall’s wrath persuade them to fight even harder for me?

‘Remember Eardwulf?’ Finan suddenly asked.

I half smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Eardwulf?’ Sigtryggr asked.

‘An ambitious man,’ I said, ‘and he had us trapped like this. Just like this. And moments before he slaughtered us the Lady Æthelflaed arrived.’

‘With an army?’

‘He thought she had an army,’ I said, ‘in fact she didn’t, but he thought she did and so he left us alone.’

‘And tomorrow?’ Sigtryggr asked.

‘There should be a Mercian army following Ragnall,’ I said.

‘Should be,’ Sigtryggr said flatly.

I still hoped for that Mercian army. I told myself that it could be two hours’ march away, somewhere to the west. Perhaps Merewalh was leading it? He would be wise enough not to light campfires, clever enough to march before dawn to assault Ragnall from the rear. I had to cling to that hope, even though every instinct told me it was a vain hope. Without help, I knew, we were doomed.

‘There are other hostages,’ Finan said unexpectedly. We all looked at him. ‘My brother’s troops,’ he explained.

‘You think they won’t fight?’ I asked him.

‘Of course they’ll fight,’ he said, ‘they’re Irish. But in the morning, lord, lend me your helmet, your arm rings, and all the gold and silver you can find.’

‘They’re mercenaries,’ I said, ‘you’re going to buy them?’

He shook his head. ‘And I want our best horse too.’

‘You can have whatever you want,’ I said.

‘To do what?’ Sigtryggr asked.

And Finan smiled. ‘Sorcery,’ he said, ‘just Irish sorcery.’

We waited for the dawn.

A small mist greeted the wolf-light. The fires in the far wood faded, though they were still there, dim among the misted trees. Finan tried to count those fires, but they were too many. We were all counting. We had just over three hundred and eighty men fit to fight, and the enemy had to have three times that number, maybe four times. We all counted, though no one spoke of it.

The first horsemen came soon after dawn. They were young men from Ragnall’s army and they could not resist taunting us. They came from the trees and cantered till they were squarely in front of our northern wall, and there they would simply wait, usually some thirty or forty paces away, daring any one of us to cross the ditch and fight in single combat. I had given orders that no one was to accept such challenges, and our refusal prompted more of Ragnall’s young men to provoke us. His army was still hidden in the trees that were a half-mile away, but he permitted his hot-headed warriors to confront us.

‘You’re cowards!’ one bellowed.

‘Come and kill me! If you dare!’ Another trotted up and down in front of us.

‘If you’re frightened of me, shall I send my sister to fight one of you?’

They were showing off to each other as much as to us. Such insults have always been a part of battle. It takes time for men to form a shield wall, and even more time to summon the courage to attack another wall, and the ritual of insult and challenge was a part of that summoning. Ragnall had yet to reveal his men, he was keeping them among the trees, though every now and then we would see a glimpse of metal through the far leaves. He would be haranguing his leaders, telling them what he expected and how they would be rewarded, and meanwhile his young men came to mock us.

‘Two of you come and fight!’ a man shouted. ‘I’ll kill you both!’

‘Pup,’ Sigtryggr growled.

‘I seem to remember you taunting me at Ceaster,’ I said.

‘I was young and foolish.’

‘You haven’t changed.’

He smiled. He was in a mail coat that had been scoured with sand and vinegar so that it reflected the new sunlight. His sword belt was studded with gold buttons, and a gold chain was wrapped three times around his neck and from it hung a golden hammer. He wore no helmet, but around his fair hair he had the gilt-bronze circlet we had discovered in Eoferwic. ‘I’ll lend Finan the chain,’ he offered.

Finan was saddling a tall black stallion. Like Sigtryggr he wore polished mail, and he had borrowed my sword belt with its intricate silver panels riveted to the leather. He had braided his hair and hung it with ribbons, while his forearms were thick with warrior rings. The iron rim of his shield had been scraped free of rust, while the faded paint on the willow-boards had also been scraped down to make a Christian cross out of the fresh wood. Whatever sorcery he planned was evidently Christian, but he would not tell me what it was. I watched as he cinched the stallion’s girth tight, then just turned, leaned against the placid horse, and looked out through the thorn-blocked gateway to where a half-dozen of Ragnall’s young warriors still taunted us. The rest had become bored and had ridden back to the far trees, but these six had kicked their horses right to the ditch’s edge where they sneered at us. ‘Are you all so frightened?’ one asked. ‘I’ll fight two of you! Don’t be babies! Come and fight!’

Three more horsemen came from the northern trees and cantered to join the six. ‘I’d love to go and kill some of them,’ Sigtryggr growled.

‘Don’t.’

‘I won’t.’ He watched the three horsemen, who had drawn their swords. ‘Aren’t they eager?’ he asked scornfully.

‘The young always are,’ I said.

‘Were you?’

‘I remember my first shield wall,’ I said, ‘and I was scared.’ It had been against cattle raiders from Wales and I had been terrified. Since then I had fought against the best that the Northmen could send against us, I had clashed shields and smelled my enemy’s stinking breath as I killed him, and I still feared the shield wall. One day I would die in such a wall. I would go down, biting against the pain, and an enemy’s blade would tear the life from me. Maybe today, I thought, probably today. I touched the hammer.

‘What are they doing?’ Sigtryggr asked. He was not looking at me, but at the three approaching horsemen who had spurred their stallions into full gallop and now charged the men insulting us. Those men turned, not certain what was happening, and their hesitation was their doom. All three newcomers unhorsed an opponent, the one in the centre charging his enemy’s horse and throwing it down by the collision, then turning on a second man and lunging with his sword. I saw the long blade sink through mail, saw the Norseman bend over the blade, saw his own sword drop to the grass, then watched his attacker gallop past and almost get pulled from the saddle because his sword’s blade was buried in the dying man’s guts. The attacking rider was wrenched backwards by the blade’s suction, but managed to drag the weapon free. He turned his horse fast and chopped the blade down on the wounded man’s spine. One of the six men who had been jeering us was racing away along the ridge, the other five were either dead or wounded. None was mounted any longer.

The three turned towards us and I saw their leader was my son, Uhtred, who grinned at me as he trotted towards the thorn fence that barred the fort’s entrance. We dragged a section of the fence back to let the three men through and they arrived to cheers. I saw that my son was wearing a big iron hammer amulet about his neck. I held his horse while he dismounted, then embraced him. ‘You pretended to be a Dane?’ I asked, touching his hammer.

‘I did!’ he said. ‘And no one even questioned us! We came last night.’ His companions were both Danes who had sworn oaths to me. They grinned, proud of what they had just done. I took two rings from my arms and gave one to each of the Danes.

‘You could have stayed with Ragnall,’ I told them, ‘but you didn’t.’

‘You’re our oath-lord,’ one said.

‘And you haven’t led us to defeat yet, lord,’ the other said, and I felt a pang of guilt, because surely they had galloped to their deaths by crossing the wide pasture.

‘You were easy to find,’ my son said. ‘Northmen are swarming here like wasps to honey.’

‘How many?’ Sigtryggr asked.

‘Too many,’ my son said grimly.

‘And the Mercian army?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘What Mercian army?’

I swore and looked back to the pasture that was empty now except for three corpses and two lamed men who were staggering back towards the trees. ‘Lady Æthelflaed didn’t pursue Ragnall?’ I asked.

‘The Lady Æthelflaed,’ my son said, ‘pursued him, but then went back to Ceaster for Bishop Leofstan’s funeral.’

‘She did what?’ I gaped at him.

‘Leofstan died,’ Uhtred said. ‘One minute he lived and the next he was dead. I’m told he was celebrating mass when it happened. He gave a cry of pain and collapsed.’

‘No!’ I was surprised by the grief I felt. I had hated Leofstan when he first came to the city, arriving so full of a humility that I thought must be false, but I had come to like him, even to admire him. ‘He was a good man,’ I said.

‘He was.’

‘And Æthelflaed took the army back for his funeral?’

My son shook his head, then paused to take a cup of water from Berg. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘She went back with a score of men and her usual priests,’ he said, when he had drunk, ‘but she left Cynlæf commanding the army.’

Cynlæf, her favourite, the man marked to marry her daughter. ‘And Cynlæf?’ I asked bitterly.

‘The last I heard he was well south of Ledecestre,’ my son said, ‘and refusing to lead troops into Northumbria.’

‘Bastard,’ I said.

‘We went to Ceaster,’ he said, ‘and pleaded with her.’

‘And?’

‘She sent orders for Cynlæf to march north and find you, but he’s probably only getting those orders today.’

‘And he’s a day’s march away.’

‘At least a day’s march,’ my son said, ‘so we have to beat these bastards all on our own.’ He grinned, then astonished me one more time by turning and looking at Finan. ‘Hey, Irishman!’

Finan looked surprised to be called that, but he took no offence. ‘Lord Uhtred?’ he responded mildly.

My son was grinning like a madman. ‘You owe me two shillings,’ he said.

‘I do?’

‘You said the bishop’s wife would look like a toad, remember?’

Finan nodded. ‘I remember.’

‘She doesn’t. So you owe me two shillings.’

Finan snorted. ‘I only have your word for it, lord! And what’s your word worth? You thought that tavern maid in Gleawecestre was beautiful, and she had a face like a bullock’s backside. Even Gerbruht wouldn’t touch her and I’ve seen him hump things a dog wouldn’t sniff!’

‘Oh, Sister Gomer is beautiful,’ my son said, ‘just ask my father.’

‘Me?’ I exclaimed. ‘How would I know?’

‘Because,’ my son said, ‘Sister Gomer has an apple birthmark, father. Right here,’ and he touched a gloved finger to his forehead.

I was speechless. I just stared at him. I even forgot Ragnall for a moment, thinking only of that ripe body in the hay shed.

‘Well?’ Finan asked.

‘You owe my son two shillings,’ I said, and started laughing.

And Ragnall came to give battle.

I remembered how Ragnall had led his horsemen from the trees at Ceaster when he had taken revenge for the heads arrayed around the remnants of the fort at Eads Byrig. He had brought his men from the wood in a line so they appeared all at once, and now he did it again. One moment the far trees were bright with a sun-drenched morning’s light, their green leaves peaceful, and then they came. Ranks of men on foot, men with shields, men with weapons, a shield wall that was meant to awe us, and it did.

A shield wall is a terrible thing. It is a wall of wood, iron, and steel with one purpose alone, to kill.

And this shield wall was massive, a wall of painted round shields stretching wide across the ridge’s flat top, and above it were the banners of the jarls, chieftains, and kings who had come to kill us. At the centre, of course, was Ragnall’s red axe, but the axe was flanked by forty or fifty other banners bright with ravens, eagles, wolves, serpents, and with creatures that no man had ever seen except in nightmares. The shield-warriors who followed those banners came from the wood and there they stopped and began clashing their shields together, a constant thunder. I counted them as best I could and reckoned they numbered at least a thousand men. The flanks of the wall were on the ridge’s slopes, and that suggested they would wrap that great wall around the fort and attack on three sides. My own men were on the fort’s wall. They could count too, and they were silent as they watched Ragnall’s massive force and listened to the thunder of his shields.

Ragnall was still not ready to attack. He was letting his men see us, letting them realise how few we were. Those men who clashed shields to make the thunder of challenge would see the fort’s wall and, on its summit, a much smaller shield wall than their own. They would see we had just two banners, the wolf’s head and the red axe, and Ragnall wanted them to know how easy this victory would be. I saw him riding a black horse behind his wall and calling to his men. He was assuring them of victory and promising our deaths. He was filling them with confidence, and it was just moments, I knew, before he came to insult us. He would offer us a chance to surrender, and, when we refused, he would bring his shield wall forward.

But before Ragnall could move, Finan rode towards the enemy.

He rode alone and he rode slowly, his horse high-stepping in the lush pasture. Man and horse were magnificent, gold-hung, silver-shining. He had Sigtryggr’s thick golden chain about his neck, though he had removed the hammer, and he wore my helmet with its crouching silver wolf on the crown from which he had hung strips of dark cloth that mimicked the horse’s tail plume of his brother’s helmet. And it was to his brother that he rode, towards the banner of the dark ship sailing on a blood-red sea. That banner was on the right of Ragnall’s line, at the edge of the plateau. The Irish carried other flags decorated with the Christian cross, the same symbol that Finan had scraped into his shield that hung at his left side above the glittering scabbard in which he carried Soul-Stealer, a sword he had taken from a Norseman in battle. Soul-Stealer was lighter than most swords, though its reach was just as long, a blade that I feared could be easily broken by the heavy swords most of us carried. But Finan, who had given the sword its name, loved Soul-Stealer.

Two men rode from Ragnall’s ranks to challenge Finan. Their horses must have been kept close behind the shield wall, and I assumed Ragnall had given them permission to fight, and I heard his army cheering as the two men rode. I had no doubt that the two were battle-tested, full of sword-craft and terrible in combat, and Ragnall, and all his men too, must have assumed Finan would accept the challenge of one or the other, but instead he rode past them. They followed him, taunting, but neither attacked him. That too was part of battle’s ritual. Finan had ridden alone and he would choose his enemy. He rode on, slow and deliberate, until he faced the Irishmen beneath their banners.

And he spoke to them.

I was much too far away to hear anything he said, and even if I had been at his elbow I would not have understood his tongue. The two champions, perhaps realising that the challenge was from one Irishman to his countrymen, turned away, and Finan spoke on.

He must have taunted them. And in his thoughts there must have been a girl lovely as a dream, a dark-haired girl of the Ó Domhnaill, a girl worth defying fate for, a girl to love and to worship, and a girl who had been dragged through the mud to be his brother’s plaything, a girl who had haunted Finan in all the long years since her death.

And a man stepped out of the Irish ranks.

It was not Conall. The enemy shield wall was a long way off, but even I could see that this man was much bigger than Conall, bigger than Finan too. He was a great brute of a man, hulking in his mail, carrying a shield larger than any other in the wall and hefting a sword that looked as if it were made for a god, not for a man, a sword as heavy as a war axe, a sword for butchery. And Finan slid from his saddle.

Two armies watched.

Finan threw away his shield, and I remembered that far-off day, so long ago, when I had faced Steapa in single combat. That was before we became friends, and no man had given me a chance against Steapa. He had been known then as Steapa Snotor, Steapa the Clever, which was a cruel joke because he was not the cleverest of men, but he was loyal, he was thoughtful, and he was unstoppable in battle. He, like the man striding towards Finan, was huge and hugely strong, a giver of death, and I had fought him, supposedly to the death, and one of us would have died that day had the Danes not surged across the frontier that same morning. And when I had fought Steapa I had begun by casting aside my shield and even taking off my mail coat. Steapa had watched me, expressionless. He knew what I was doing. I was making myself fast. I would not be cumbered by weight, I would be quick and I would dance around the larger man like a nimble dog baiting a bull.

Finan kept his mail coat, but he threw the shield down, then just waited.

And we saw the big man charge, using his shield to batter Finan away, and what happened next was so swift that none of us could be certain of what we saw. It was far away, too far to see clearly, but the two figures closed, I saw the big man ram the shield to slam Finan and, thinking he had struck Finan, begin to turn with the massive sword raised to kill. And then he just dropped.

It was fast, so fast, but I have never known a man swifter than Finan. He was not big, indeed he looked skinny, but he was quick. He could carry Soul-Stealer because he rarely needed to parry with the blade, he could dance out of a blow’s way. I had fought him in practice often enough and I had rarely got past his guard. The big man, I assumed he was Conall’s champion, dropped to his knees, and Finan sliced Soul-Stealer down onto his neck and that was the end of the fight. It had been over in two or three heartbeats and Finan had made it look so easy. The thunder of the far shields stopped.

And Finan spoke to his countrymen again. I never learned what he said, but I saw him walk to the shield wall, walk within the reach of their swords and spears, and there he spoke to his brother. I could see it was his brother because Conall’s helmet was brighter than the rest and he stood directly beneath the blood-red banner. The brothers stood face to face. I remembered the hatred between them at Ceaster, and the same hatred must have been there, but Conall did not move. He had seen his champion die and had no wish to follow him down to hell.

Finan took one pace backwards.

Two armies watched.

Finan turned his back on his brother and began walking towards his horse.

And Conall charged.

We gasped. I think every man on the field who saw it gasped. Conall charged, his sword reaching for Finan’s spine, and Finan spun.

Soul-Stealer flashed. I did not hear the clash of blades, just saw Conall’s sword fly up as it was deflected, saw Soul-Stealer slice at Conall’s face, then saw Finan turn his back and walk away again. No one who watched spoke. They saw Conall step back, blood on his face, and watched Finan walk away. And again Conall attacked. This time he lunged for the nape of Finan’s neck, and Finan ducked, turned again, and punched Soul-Stealer’s hilt into his brother’s face. Conall staggered, then tripped on his heel and sat heavily.

Finan walked to him. He ignored his brother’s sword, but just held Soul-Stealer at Conall’s neck. I expected to see the lunge and the sudden splash of blood, but instead Finan held the blade at his brother’s throat and spoke to his brother’s men. Conall tried to lift his sword, but Finan kicked it contemptuously aside, then he stooped and, using his left hand, seized his brother’s helmet.

He dragged it free.

He still stood over his brother. Now, with even greater contempt, he sheathed Soul-Stealer. He took off my helmet and replaced it with his brother’s black horse-tailed helmet with its royal circlet. King Finan.

Then he just walked away and, retrieving his shield from the grass, he climbed back into his saddle. He had humiliated his brother and now he rode the stallion along the face of Ragnall’s whole line. He did not hurry. He dared men to come and face him and none did. There was scorn in that ride. The horse-tail of the gold-ringed helmet streamed behind him as at last he kicked his stallion into a canter and rode back to us.

He reached the thorn fence and tossed me my helmet. ‘Conall’s men won’t fight us now,’ was all he said.

Which only left about a thousand men who would.

We had given Ragnall a problem and Finan had worsened it. Ragnall had to be confident that he could beat us, but knew he would pay a price for that victory. The Roman fort was old, but its walls were steep, and men climbing those short slopes would be vulnerable. In the end he would break us. He had too many men and we had too few, but too many of Ragnall’s men would die in killing us. That is why battles of the shield wall are slow to start. Men have to nerve themselves for the horror. The fort’s ditches were not much of an obstacle, but we had hammered short stakes into the ditch during the night, and men advancing behind shields can see little, and, especially if they are pushed on by the rank behind, they can trip, and a man who falls in the shield wall is as good as dead. At Æsc’s Hill, so many years ago, I had seen an army of victorious Danes defeated by a ditch that Alfred defended. The rearmost ranks had pushed the shield wall forward and the front ranks had stumbled in the ditch where the West Saxon warriors had killed them till the ditch was brimming red. So Ragnall’s men were reluctant to attack, and made more reluctant by the omen of Conall’s humiliation. It was Ragnall’s task to fire them now, to fill them with anger as well as ale. You can smell the ale on an enemy’s breath in the shield wall. We had none. We would fight sober.

The sun was halfway to his summit by the time Ragnall came to insult us. That too was a part of the pattern of battle. First the young fools challenge the enemy to single combat, then the speeches are made to fire men with the lust for blood, and finally the enemy is insulted. ‘Maggots!’ Ragnall called to us. ‘Sow turds! You want to die here?’ My men rhythmically clashed seax blades against shields, making the music of death to drown his words. ‘Send me my little brother,’ Ragnall shouted, ‘and you can live!’

Ragnall had donned mail and helmet for battle. He rode his black stallion, and, for a weapon, carried a massive axe. A dozen men accompanied him, grim warriors on big horses, their faces made mysterious by closed cheek-pieces. They were inspecting the ditch and wall, readying to warn their men what difficulties they would face. Two rode towards the thorn fence and only turned away when a spear struck the ground between their horses. One of them seized the quivering haft and carried it away.

‘We have ravaged Mercia!’ Ragnall shouted. ‘Razed farmsteads, taken captives, stripped the fields of cattle! The old hag who calls herself the ruler of Mercia is hiding behind stone walls! Her country is ours and I have her land to give away! You want good land, rich land? Come to me!’

Instead of insulting us he was trying to bribe us. Behind him, across the ridge’s wide pastureland, I could see the ale-skins being passed among the enemy. Shields were resting on the ground, their upper rims against men’s thighs, and spears were held upright, their points glinting in the sun. There was a mass of those spear-points beneath Ragnall’s banner at the centre of his line, and that told me he planned to use the long spears to shatter the centre of our line. It was what I would have done. He would have assembled his biggest men there, the most savage, the men who revelled in killing and who boasted of the widows they had made, and he would loose those men at the fort’s entrance and follow it with a rush of swordsmen to peel our wall apart and kill us like trapped rats.

He tired of shouting. We had not responded, and the clash of blades on shields had not ceased, and besides, his men had seen what obstacles we had waiting and they needed to see no more and Ragnall, after spitting towards us and shouting that we had chosen death instead of life, rode back to his men. And those men, seeing him come, picked up their shields, and I watched as the shields were hefted and overlapped. The spearmen parted to let Ragnall and his companions ride through the wall, then the shields closed again. I saw Ragnall dismount, saw him push through to the front rank. They were coming.

But first Sigtryggr rode.

He rode with eight warriors and with the eight hostages. The women’s hands were tied in front of their bodies, and their horses were led by the eight men. Ragnall must have known we had captured the women when we had taken Eoferwic, but it would have been a surprise for him to see them here. A surprise and a shock. And the eight men whose women we had as captives? I remembered Orvar’s words that men liked Sigtryggr, but feared Ragnall, and now Sigtryggr, resplendent in his shining mail and with the kingly circlet about his helmet, rode towards them, and behind him came the hostages, each escorted by a man with a drawn sword, and Ragnall’s men must have thought they would see blood and I heard a murmur of anger swelling from the pasture’s far side.

Sigtryggr stopped halfway between the armies. The women were in a line, each woman threatened with a blade. The message was obvious. If Ragnall attacked, then the women would die, but it was equally clear that if Sigtryggr killed the hostages he would merely provoke an attack. ‘He should just bring them back here,’ Finan said.

‘Why?’

‘He can’t kill them there! If they’re hidden in the hall then the enemy won’t know what’s happening to them.’

Instead Sigtryggr raised his right arm in a signal to his eight men, then dropped it fast. ‘Now!’ he called.

The eight swords were used to cut the bonds that had loosely tied the women’s wrists. ‘Go,’ Sigtryggr told them, ‘go find your husbands, just go.’

The women hesitated a moment, then clumsily kicked their horses towards Ragnall’s line that had fallen abruptly silent when Sigtryggr, instead of slaughtering the wives, had released them. One woman, unable to control her nervous horse, climbed out of the saddle and ran towards her husband’s banner. I saw two men come the other way, hurrying to greet their women, and Ragnall, understanding that he had lost power over men he wanted to fear him, also understood that he had to attack now. I saw him turn and shout, saw him beckon his shield wall forward. Horns brayed, banners were lifted, the spear-points dropped to the attack, and men started forward. They cheered.

But not every man was cheering.

The shield wall did start forward. The men at the centre, the men I feared most, were advancing steadily and, either side of them, other men were coming, but out at the flanks there was hesitation. The Irish had not moved, and the contingents next to them also stayed still. Other men stayed put. I saw a man embracing his wife, and his followers were not moving either. Maybe half of Ragnall’s line was marching towards us, the other half had lost their fear of him.

Sigtryggr was riding back to us, but he paused when he heard the loud horns. He turned his horse and saw how half of his brother’s shield wall was reluctant to attack. Horsemen were galloping behind Ragnall’s shields, bellowing at reluctant men to advance. The Irish had not even picked up their shields, but stood stubbornly still. We were watching an army in two minds, an army that had lost confidence. The men whose wives had been restored to them were weighing their loyalty, and we could see it in their hesitation.

Sigtryggr turned and looked at me. ‘Lord Uhtred!’ he called. His voice was urgent. ‘Lord Uhtred!’ he called again.

‘I know!’ I shouted.

He laughed. My son-in-law took a delight in war. He was a warrior born, a lord of war, a Norseman, and he had seen what I saw. If a man rules by fear he must succeed. He must keep his followers docile by showing that he cannot be beaten, that his fate is victory and riches. Wyrd bið ful āræd. Fate is inexorable. A man who rules by fear cannot afford a single setback, and Sigtryggr’s release of the hostages had loosened the bonds of fear. But the men who hesitated would not stay defiant for long. If they saw Ragnall’s spearmen cut their savage way through the thorn fence and through the fort’s entrance, if they saw men swarming up the wall, if they saw the axes chopping at our shields on the wall’s top, then they would join the battle. Men want to be on the winning side. In a few moments all they would see was Ragnall’s men crowding at our defences and outflanking them, and they would fear that Ragnall’s victory would bring Ragnall’s revenge on those who had hung back.

What Sigtryggr had seen and what I had seen was that they must not be given that glimpse of Ragnall’s victory. We could not defend the fort even though it was made for defence, because those of Ragnall’s men who advanced were still more than enough to overwhelm us, and the sight of those men forcing their way into the fort would bring the rest of Ragnall’s army into the battle.

So we had to give the rest of Ragnall’s army a glimpse of Ragnall’s defeat.

We had to offer them hope.

We had to leave our refuge.

We had to attack.

‘Forward!’ I shouted. ‘Forward and kill them!’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Finan said beside me.

My men hesitated for a heartbeat, not out of reluctance, but from surprise. All night we had prepared them to defend the fort and now we were leaving it to carry our blades to the enemy. I jumped down the wall into the ditch. ‘Come on!’ I shouted. ‘We’re going to kill them!’

Men kicked the thorn fence aside. Other men scrambled down the fort’s wall and through the ditch to reform the shield wall on its far side. ‘Keep going!’ I shouted. ‘Keep going and kill them!’

Sigtryggr and his horsemen scattered from our path. We advanced along the ridge’s flat top, still clashing blades on shields. The enemy had stopped, astonished.

Men need a battle cry. I could not ask them to shout for Mercia, because most of my force were not Mercians, they were Norsemen. I could have called Sigtryggr’s name and doubtless all my men would have echoed that because we fought for his throne, but some impulse made me offer a different shout. ‘For Mus,’ I bellowed, ‘for the best whore in Britain! For Mus!’

There was a pause, and then my men burst into laughter. ‘For Mus!’ they shouted.

An enemy sees his attackers laughing? It is better than all the insults. A man who laughs as he goes into battle is a man who has confidence, and a man with confidence is terrifying to an enemy. ‘For the whore!’ I shouted. ‘For Mus!’ And the shout spread along my line as men who had never heard of Mus learned she was a whore and a good one too. They loved the idea. They were all laughing or shouting her name now. Shouting for a whore as they went to death’s embrace. ‘Mus! Mus! Mus!’

‘She’d better reward them,’ Finan said grimly.

‘She will!’ my son called from my other side.

Ragnall was shouting for his spearmen to advance, but they were watching Sigtryggr, who had ridden with his horsemen off to their right. He was shouting at the men who had not joined the advance, men who were now lagging behind Ragnall’s shield wall. He was encouraging them to turn against Ragnall.

‘Just kill them!’ I shouted and quickened my pace. We had to close on the enemy before the laggards decided we were doomed. Men love to be on the winning side, so we needed to win! ‘Faster,’ I shouted, ‘for the whore!’ Thirty paces, twenty, and you can see the eyes of the men who will try to kill you, and see the spear-blades, and the instinct is to stop, to straighten the shields. We cringe from battle, fear claws at us, time seems to stop, there is silence though a thousand men shout, and at that moment, when terror savages the heart like a trapped beast, you must hurl yourself into the horror.

Because the enemy feels the same.

And you have come to kill him. You are the beast from his nightmares. The man facing me had crouched slightly, his spear levelled and his shield high. I knew he would either raise or lower the blade as I closed, and I wanted him to raise it so I deliberately let my shield down so it covered my legs. I did not think about it. I knew what would happen. I had fought too many battles, and sure enough the spear-blade came up, aimed at my chest or neck as he braced himself, and I lifted the shield so the spear glanced off it to go high in the air, and then we hit.

The crash of the shield walls, the sudden noise, the hammering of wood and steel and men screaming their war cries, and I thrust Wasp-Sting into the gap between two shields and the man behind me had hooked the enemy’s shield with his axe and was tugging, and the man was struggling to pull his spear back as I rammed the seax up into his ribs. I felt it burst through the links of his mail, slice through the leather beneath to grate on bone. I twisted the blade and tugged her back as a sword struck my shield a ringing blow. Finan was protecting my right, his own seax stabbing. My opponent let go of his spear, it was far too long a weapon for the shield wall. It was meant to break open another wall and was almost useless in defence. He drew his seax, but before the blade had left the scabbard I raked Wasp-Sting across his face that was inked with ravens. She left an open wound spilling blood that blinded him and turned his short beard red. Another stab, this to his throat and he was down and the man in the rank behind him lunged over the falling body with a sword thrust that turned my shield and sliced into my son’s arm. I almost tripped on the fallen man, who still tried to stab up with his seax.

‘Kill him!’ I shouted to the man behind me and rammed my shield at the swordsman, who snarled as he tried to lunge with the blade again, and my shield slammed into his body and I stabbed Wasp-Sting down to open his thigh from groin to knee. A blade crashed against my helmet. An axe swung overhead and I ducked down fast, raising the shield, and the axe split the iron rim, shattered willow, and tilted the shield over my head, but I could see the bleeding thigh and I stabbed again, upwards this time in the wicked blow that made the man shriek and took him from the fight. Finan ripped the axeman’s cheek away from his jaw with his seax and stabbed again, aiming for the eyes. Gerbruht, behind me, seized the axe and turned it against the enemy. He thought, because I was crouching, that I was wounded, and he bellowed in anger as he pushed past me and swung the huge weapon with all the force of his huge strength. A sword pierced his upper chest, but slid upwards as his axe cut a helmet and a skull in two, and there was a mist of blood as a spatter of brains slapped on my helmet. I stood, covering Gerbruht with my shield. My son was heaving forward on my left, stamping his foot on an enemy’s face. We had taken down Ragnall’s two front ranks and the men behind were stepping back, trying to escape our blood-painted shields, our wet blades, our snarling love of slaughter.

And I heard another clash and heard shouting and though I could not see what happened I felt the shudder from my left and knew that other men had joined the fight. ‘For the whore!’ I shouted. ‘For the whore!’

That was a mad shout! But now the battle-joy had come, the song of slaughter. Folcbald had arrived to the left of my son, and he was as strong as Gerbruht and armed with a short-handled axe that had a massive head, and he was hooking down enemy shields so my son could lunge over them. A spear slid beneath my shield to strike against the iron strips in my boot. I stamped on the blade, rammed Wasp-Sting between two shields, felt her bite. I was keening a wordless song. Finan was using his seax to give short fast lunges between shields, raking his enemies’ forearms with the blade till their weapons dropped, when he would slice the blade up into their ribcage. Folcbald had abandoned his shattered shield and was hacking with the axe, bellowing a Frisian challenge, smashing the heavy blade through helmets and skulls, making a pile of blood-spattered enemy dead and shouting at men to come and be killed. Somewhere ahead, not far, I could see Ragnall’s banner. I shouted for him. ‘Ragnall! You bastard! Ragnall! You shrivelled piece of shit! Come and die, you bastard! For the whore!’

Oh the madness of battle! We fear it, we celebrate it, the poets sing of it, and when it fills the blood like fire it is a real madness. It is joy! All the terror is swept away, a man feels he could live for ever, he sees the enemy retreating, knows he himself is invincible, that even the gods would shrink from his blade and his bloodied shield. And I was still keening that mad song, the battle song of slaughter, the sound that blotted out the screams of dying men and the crying of the wounded. It is fear, of course, that feeds the battle madness, the release of fear into savagery. You win in the shield wall by being more savage than your enemy, by turning his savagery back into fear.

I wanted to kill Ragnall, but I could not see him. All I could see were shield rims, bearded faces, blades, men snarling, a man spitting teeth from a mouth filled with blood, a boy screaming for his mother, another weeping on the ground and shaking. A wounded man groaned and turned over on the grass, and I thought he was trying to lift a seax to stab me and I slid Wasp-Sting down into his throat and the jet of blood struck warm on my face. I ground the blade downwards, cursing the man, then ripped the blade free as I saw a short man come from my right. I back-handed the blade, striking the man, who sank down and shrieked, ‘Father!’ It was a boy, not a man. ‘Father!’ That second call was my son, pulling me backwards. The weeping and shaking boy was crying hysterically, gasping for breath, his face laced with blood. I had put him on the ground. I had not known. I had just seen him coming from my right and struck at him, but he could not have been more than nine years old, maybe ten, and I had half severed his left arm. ‘It’s over,’ my son said, holding my sword arm, ‘it’s over.’

It was not quite over. Men still clashed shield against shield, the blades still hacked and lunged, but Ragnall’s own men had turned on him. The Irish had joined the fight, but on our side. They were keening their battle sound, a high-pitched scream as they savaged Ragnall’s remaining warriors. The men whose wives we had released had also turned against Ragnall and, of his thousand men, only a few were left, maybe two hundred or so, but they were surrounded.

‘Enough!’ Sigtryggr shouted. ‘Enough!’ He had found a horse from somewhere and hauled himself into the saddle. He carried his bloodied sword as he shouted at the men struggling to kill his brother. ‘Enough! Let them live!’ His brother was in the centre of the men who still fought for him, the outnumbered and encircled men who now lowered their weapons as the battle died.

‘Look after that boy,’ I told my son. The boy was crouching over his dead father, weeping hysterically. That had been me, I thought, at Eoferwic, how many years ago? I looked at Finan. ‘How old are we?’ I asked.

‘Too old, lord.’ There was blood on his face. His beard was grey, trickling blood.

‘Are you hurt?’ I asked, and he shook his head. He still wore his brother’s helmet with its golden circlet that had been dented by a sword blow. ‘Are you going home?’ I asked him.

‘Home?’ he was puzzled by my question.

‘To Ireland,’ I said. I looked at the circlet, ‘King Finan.’

He smiled. ‘I am home, lord.’

‘And your brother?’

Finan shrugged. ‘He’ll have to live with the shame of this day for ever. He’s finished. Besides,’ he made the sign of the cross, ‘a man shouldn’t kill his own brother.’

Sigtryggr killed his own brother. He offered life to the men who would surrender, and afterwards, as those men deserted Ragnall, Sigtryggr fought him. It was a fair fight. I did not watch, but afterwards Sigtryggr had a sword slash on one hip and a broken rib. ‘He could fight,’ he said happily, ‘but I fought better.’

I looked at the men in the pasture. Hundreds of men. ‘They’re all yours now,’ I said.

‘Mine,’ he agreed.

‘You should return to Eoferwic,’ I told him. ‘Give away land, but make sure you have sufficient men to guard the city walls. Four men for every five paces. Some of those men can be butchers, bakers, leather-workers, labourers, but salt them with your warriors. And capture Dunholm.’

‘I will.’ He looked at me, grinned, and we embraced. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘For making your daughter a queen.’

I took my men away next morning. We had lost sixteen in the battle, only sixteen, though another forty were too wounded to move. I embraced my daughter, then bowed to her because she was indeed a queen. Sigtryggr tried to give me his great gold chain, but I refused it. ‘I have enough gold,’ I told him, ‘and you are now the gold-giver. Be generous.’

And we rode away.

I met Æthelflaed six days later. We met in the Great Hall of Ceaster. Cynlæf was there, as were Merewalh, Osferth, and young Prince Æthelstan. The warriors of Mercia were there too, the men who had not pursued Ragnall north of Ledecestre. Ceolnoth and Ceolberht stood among their fellow priests. My other son, Father Oswald, was also there, and he stood protectively close to Bishop Leofstan’s widow, Sister Gomer, the Mus. She smiled at me, but the smile vanished when I glared at her.

I had not cleaned my mail. Rain had washed most of the blood away, but the blade-torn gaps in the rings were still there and the leather beneath was stained with blood. My helmet had a gash in one side from an axe blow that I had hardly felt in the heat of battle, though now my head still throbbed with a dull pain. I stalked into the hall with Uhtred, my son, with Finan, and with Rorik. That was the boy’s name, the boy I had wounded in battle, and he carried the same name as Ragnar’s son, my boyhood friend. This Rorik’s arm was healing, indeed was healed well enough for him to hold a big bronze casket that had pictures of saints around its sides and a depiction of Christ in glory on its lid. He was a good boy, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a strong mischievous face. He had never known his mother and I had killed his father. ‘This is Rorik,’ I introduced him to Æthelflaed and the company, ‘and he is as a son to me.’ I touched the golden hammer amulet around Rorik’s neck. The amulet had belonged to his father, as did the sword that hung, far too big, at his skinny waist. ‘Rorik,’ I went on, ‘is what you call a pagan, and he will stay a pagan.’ I looked at the priests, and only Father Oswald met my eye. He nodded.

‘I have a daughter,’ I said, looking back to Æthelflaed who sat in the chair that passed for a throne in Ceaster, ‘and she is now queen of Northumbria. Her husband is king. He has sworn not to attack Mercia. He will also cede to you some Mercian land that is presently under Danish rule as a gesture of his friendship, and he will make a treaty with you.’

‘Thank you, Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelflaed said. Her face was unreadable, but she met my gaze and held it for a moment before looking at the boy beside me. ‘And welcome, Rorik.’

‘It seemed best, my lady,’ I said, ‘to put a friendly pagan on Northumbria’s throne because it seems the men of Mercia are too cowardly to enter that country,’ I was looking at Cynlæf, ‘even to pursue their enemies.’

Cynlæf bridled. ‘I …’ he began, then faltered.

‘You what?’ I challenged him.

He looked to Æthelflaed for help, but she offered none. ‘I was advised,’ he finally said weakly.

‘By a priest?’ I asked, looking at Ceolnoth.

‘We were commanded not to enter Northumbria!’ Cynlæf protested.

‘You will learn from the Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelflaed said, still looking at me even though she spoke to Cynlæf, ‘that there are times when you disobey orders.’ She turned to him, and her voice was icy. ‘You made the wrong decision.’

‘But it’s of no consequence,’ I said, looking at Father Ceolnoth, ‘because Thor and Woden answered my prayers.’

Æthelflaed gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘You will eat with us tonight, Lord Uhtred?’

‘And leave tomorrow,’ I said, ‘with my men and their families.’ I looked to the side of the hall where Eadith stood among the shadows. ‘And with you too,’ I said, and she nodded.

‘Tomorrow! You’re leaving?’ Æthelflaed asked, surprised and indignant.

‘By your leave, lady, yes.’

‘To go where?’

‘To go north, my lady, north.’

‘North?’ she frowned.

‘But before I leave,’ I said, ‘I have a gift for you.’

‘Where in the north?’

‘I have business in the north, lady,’ I said, then touched Rorik’s shoulder. ‘Go, boy,’ I said, ‘lay it at her feet.’

The boy carried the heavy bronze casket around the hearth, then knelt and dropped his burden with a clang at the foot of Æthelflaed’s throne. He backed away to my side, the big sword dragging through the stale rushes on the hall floor. ‘I planned to give you Eoferwic, my lady,’ I told her, ‘but I gave that city to Sigtryggr instead. That gift is in its place.’

She knew what was in the box even before it was opened, but she snapped her fingers and a servant hurried from the shadows, knelt, and opened the heavy lid. Men craned to see what was inside and I heard some of the priests hiss with distaste, but Æthelflaed just smiled. Ragnall’s bloody head grimaced at her from the casket. ‘Thank you, Lord Uhtred,’ she said calmly, ‘the gift is most generous.’

‘And what you wanted,’ I said.

‘It is.’

‘Then with your permission, lady,’ I bowed, ‘my work is done and I would rest.’

She nodded. I beckoned to Eadith and walked to the hall’s great doors. ‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed called, and I turned. ‘What business in the north?’ she asked.

I hesitated, then told her the truth. ‘I am the Lord of Bebbanburg, lady.’

And I am. I have ancient parchments that say that Uhtred, son of Uhtred, is the lawful and sole owner of the lands that are carefully marked by stones and by dykes, by oaks and by ash, by marsh and by sea. They are wave-beaten lands, wild beneath the wind-driven sky, and they were stolen from me.

I had business in the north.