The Medieval Murderers: Sword of Shame

Bartholomew was exhausted. He was in London with Bishop Leofric, and had been sent to acquire provisions for the household. Many were congregating on London, desperate to hear how the battle had gone in the north where good King Harold was protecting the realm from the devils from over the sea.

The thought that the Norsemen could be ravaging the lands was terrifying. Down in Wessex, the folk had grown used to peace. The Danes tried to land and ransack towns and churches when they could, and while their attacks had grown rarer, no one could forget the tales of men hacked to death, women raped and discarded to lie beside their dead husbands and children, farms laid waste, priests cut down before their altars…Bartholomew was terrified that all this could come to pass again. Well, if the land was invaded, he would go with the host to protect his land, his people. He wouldn’t wait to be slaughtered.

He wanted a sword too. He walked with Dudda to Paul’s shop, a pleasant house in West Ceape, the busy road that held so many stalls and shops. Inside there were weapons of all descriptions, all serviceable, and some beautifully made.

‘I have met you,’ Bartholomew said when he saw Paul. ‘You bought blades from Exeter.’

‘I seem to recall your face,’ Paul admitted cautiously. A merchant should always be wary of those who claimed to remember him-it could be this priest remembered a bargain that went sour.

‘You picked up a marvellous blade there. We saw one like it earlier today,’ Bartholomew murmured. ‘One that had a lovely inscription on it.’

‘Oh, of course. Yes, I remember now. That is a magnificent sword, isn’t it? It took time and skill to have it mounted.’

Bartholomew studied the swords about the room while the other men argued about the price of the sword. It would be a source of pride to Bran, he felt, were the old smith to know that the sword would be bought and used by his own son.

It was as he haggled over another, cheaper but serviceable sword, that the cry was heard in the streets.

‘The Normans! The Normans have landed!’

Two days later, Rollo took a force of thirty men to engage any small groups nearby. They must harry any attempted muster, and send messengers if they found a large force.

It was a cold morning, with a mist lying heavily on the ground ahead of them. At the beach, in the security of their stronghold, Rollo had been easy in his mind, but now, leaving the sturdy fortress behind, he felt the first stirrings of anxiety. Ahead of him somewhere there were men watching him. Perhaps practising their manoeuvres.

He had trained with them: he knew how they’d fight. They’d ride to a muster-point, leaving their horses with boys, and run to a ridge or hillock, forming a line six to ten men deep. At the command all would thrust their shields forward, overlapping each with their neighbour, each of them depending upon his neighbour for protection. On the order they could unlink shields, lift them overhead, turn, and reform with a new wall protecting their rear. When directed, they could begin pacing slowly down the hillside, all the while shouting their battle cries and stabbing forward with spears.

Each of them would feel the courage that came from conviction: they knew that Harold had never failed in battle. He was a tough fighter, and he would die rather than lose his kingdom. Each man would be ready, his shield a reassuring weight on his arm, the sword in his fist heartening. Many of the blades that Rollo would encounter would be ancient. Most of them had been used in other battles, older fights. They had been a father’s or grandfather’s weapon, used against Vikings or neighbours over decades, and now brought here to Pevensey to slaughter these latest invaders.

Rollo had served Edward in many a line. His strong right arm had battered and slashed at enough men, and his sword showed its age. It had been his uncle’s sword. His father’s had gone to his brother, of course, his older brother. That one was twice as old even as this battered lump of metal. Rollo had been forced to have this one re-sheathed three times, and it had been given a new hilt a short while before they embarked for this coast.

A thump at his thigh brought him back to the present. Like the others, he wore a massive kite-shaped shield over his shoulder, so that after an attack, as he wheeled and hared off, his back would be protected. It was essential, but by God’s heaven, it was clumsy.

Harnesses squeaked and jingled. At any other time, on another day, the noise would have eased his spirits. The musical sound of thousands of small rings tinkling together from the men’s byrnies and mail neck-covers, sounded like ten thousand tiny bells.

A horse snorted. Another shook his head, and there was a curse as his rider dropped his spear. They were leaving the plain before the fortress where the mist lay spread like a blanket. Before them were thick woods, and Rollo, fearing ambush, spurred his mount into a canter to pass through the dangerous area. It was still and quiet even as he rode in among the trees, and he kept a careful eye open to possible danger, but saw nothing until he heard the scream behind him. He had an urge to crouch low and gallop away, but he restrained himself and glanced over his shoulder. And his bowels turned to ice.

On either side archers had launched missiles at the men behind him. Now, as he watched, three of his men toppled and were leapt upon by the enemy, scramasax blades flashing, and he saw a flurry of blood like red snow erupt from a man’s throat. He and his men couldn’t ride down the attackers, not in among the trees; they must perish. Better that the survivors should be saved. He roared at his men, drew his sword, and spurred his horse on, ignoring the jeers of the enemy. The wind started to rush in his ears as he pelted along the track, and, when they were almost out of the woods, he looked back and saw that the majority of his force was safe.

There was a flash of light, and the sun breached the clouds. He lifted his reins to lash his horse’s flanks again, and then hesitated, feeling a chilly sweat wash over him.

Before him stood a line of byrnie-clad men, at least fifty, all capped with steel and leather, all clutching great round shields, all with the long hair and beards of grown men used to fighting, and all grasping long spears. Even as he set his horse at them, they deployed, and over the howling wind in his ears, the rattle of harnesses and grunts from his hastening steel, he heard the gutteral roar bellowed by the commander. The shields were pushed out, edge on to Rollo, then snapped round so that a row of overlapping circles faced him. Another shout, and he saw the shafts of the spears disappear as they were lowered to point at him, and all he could see now was the deceptively pretty sight of the sun glittering on the spear-points.

There was only a matter of yards to go. He could see no escape: the line blocked his men’s path. The only option they had was to fight their way through this small host. He raised his sword and shrieked his defiance, then lowered his head and flung himself and his horse at the shields.

The crash was shocking. Wooden shields shivered with the appalling collision, and he saw grim faces recoil as his horse rammed into them. A man fell back, then down as hooves rose and battered at him. Men stared at opponents, and slashed and stabbed and hacked and thrust, determined to kill before dying. A tall, dark man was in front of him now, a man whose cap came down over his features and left only his eyes shining at either side of his nose-guard. Fleetingly Rollo caught sight of his great sword, sparkling like a diamond in the sun, but then his mount sprang aside, and he lost sight of him.

He saw Swein at his side, the huge man wielding his axe with broad strokes. The huge axe-head clove through caps and skulls, and about him there was already a mess of limbs and sprawled men, but still the shield-wall held, and then Rollo saw a lance thrust forward and pierce Swein’s horse’s breast. There was already a stub of lance jutting from the beast’s flank, and now he seemed to realize that he was dying. He reared, throwing his hooves in all directions, and tossed his mane, but his eyes were wild not with the rage of battle, but with the terror of encroaching death.