The Medieval Murderers: Sword of Shame

Even as he grew conscious of Swein’s mount, Rollo realized that his own was floundering. There was less energy in his movements, and Rollo knew that a spear must have reached his vitals. He waved his sword and roared at the top of his voice to call his men to retreat, to pull back so that they might win space to charge again, but as he shouted, there was a high whistling noise, a fluttering whine that ended in a wet slap, and he saw one of his men fall, grabbing frantically for the arrow’s fletching that protruded from his back, rolling on the ground and screaming until his own horse, stamping about the field, crushed his head.

The archers were back-there was no escape that way. Rollo knew his horse was soon to die. He kicked his feet from the stirrups, and managed to leap from the saddle just before the brute collapsed, crushing a section of the wall as he fell.

It was the opening he had needed. Hoarsely bellowing to his men, Rollo gripped his sword in both hands and sprang forward. He felt, rather than saw, Swein run to his side, and he knew that two more of his men were behind him. Forming a compact group, they met shoulder to shoulder, heavy shields protecting their flanks as they stamped their way in among their enemies. The enemy withdrew, and suddenly Rollo knew that the decisive moment had arrived. He saw a glint, and into his mind flashed the memory of the man in the midst of the line, the warrior with the dark hair under his Saxon helm. With a weapon like his, he must be the leader.

‘With me!’ he shouted, and threw aside his shield. Instead he grabbed a small, circular wooden shield that lay on the ground near its dead owner. The shield was covered in fresh skin which had dried on the wood, forming a solid, strong, but light protection. There was a bronze boss in the centre, and now he used that to ram at the men who stood in his path. A lance came near, and he knocked it away, running his blade down the length of the shaft. He saw fingers fly off, a shriek, and the pole dropped, the man falling back among the press. Another man thrust at him from his side, but Rollo blocked the stab and slammed the boss into his face, feeling bones crunch; he punched his sword into the man’s belly and ripped it aside. He shoved another from his path, swept his sword across, the point lifted. The blade ripped through the man’s throat; there was a gush of blood, bubbles, horror in the man’s eyes, and then…then he was before the commander.

It took no thought. The man appeared, and Rollo instantly crossed to meet him. The others were with him, he knew that. From the corner of his eye he saw Swein’s axe part an arm from a torso, saw a second man approach, and saw the axe whirl into his stomach. It sliced through his cheap shirt of mail, and his entrails were spilled.

Then Rollo was on him.

Dudda had been shocked by the sudden appearance of the cavalry force. He and his men had only arrived last night, tired and footsore from the march, and he had counted on drilling them before a fight. These madmen had arrived before he’d been able to put them through their most basic paces, and now his men were pressed hard. Bartholomew was somewhere near. He only hoped his friend wasn’t dead.

The captain was plain enough, sitting up there on his horse. Terrifying in his metal clothing, so high above everyone else. None of the men, including Dudda, had seen men riding horses into battle. Men rode to war, yes, but they left their mounts safe behind the battle lines. These men pelted towards their enemy like demons on their chargers.

Dudda raised his sword, the blade tapping the front of his helmet, and he closed his eyes, uttering a short prayer on the cross for victory. His sword’s blade gleamed, and he was reminded of that day, many years ago, when he had sat with his father and helped sharpen and polish a blade which his father said was the best he had ever made. He had said, what? ‘When a man holds this blade in his hand, he shall be invincible!’

It was enough to make him smile to himself. This sword made him feel invincible. Bartholomew said he was sure it was that same sword, his father’s best creation. It felt it, certainly. Today, here, he would test it.

Dudda saw the mad captain of his enemies approaching, and lowered his sword, hefting his shield. He was thegn, and no foreign murderers would take these lands from his people again. No more rapes, no more slaughters.

‘To me! To me !’

The invaders must perish!

Seeing the man smile under his cap, Rollo snarled and lifted his own worn, chipped blade. Circling, he bent, left shoulder to the man, peering over the rim of the shield, waiting for an opportunity. The man’s eyes remained fixed on his, and Rollo knew he had an opponent worthy of the name. This was no poor brutish peasant who’d been called to the fyrd at the last moment to try to stem the tide of Norman warriors, but a leader of warriors.

There was a flash in the man’s eyes: he’d caught sight of Swein. The axeman was approaching from Rollo’s right. While the man was distracted, Rollo bared his teeth and leapt forward. His blade caught on the other man’s, he felt the clash of steel, heard the ringing of tempered metal, then the slam as his blade bit into the man’s shield, and the two whirled away from each other, circling again.

Rollo grinned, then bounded forward again, his sword hanging low, only to jab upwards at the man’s legs, but he had already moved away; Rollo tried a slash at his hamstrings, but he blocked the blow with a casual backwards hack of his sword, followed by a sweeping blow towards Rollo’s shoulder. It was a pathetic attempt, and Rollo moved his shield to prevent it, and then realized that the man’s sword wasn’t where it should have been. A flick of his wrist had brought the blade almost to Rollo’s gut. He had to join shield and sword together, pressing down as he sucked in his belly and bent his back away. It was only just in time, and he felt the snag as the steel caught on his byrnie.

His relief was short-lived. He stumbled on a discarded limb and instantly started to tumble. The man’s attack was immediate. Rollo could only throw himself sideways, falling painfully on one arm. There he swung up with his sword, and the clang of steel striking was a shivering impact deep in his bones. His shoulder seemed to reverberate with the clamour.

Scrambling to his feet, he saw the sword swing, blocked it, but this time there was a subtle difference in the clash of weapons. A niggle of doubt assailed him. There had been a strange thrill in his blade.

He knew his sword all too well. This blade had been his since his uncle had died, nearly twenty years ago. He’d worn it ever since; had killed fifteen men with it, slaking the steel’s thirst for human blood, and never had he felt that odd little twitch.

Another smashing blow, and he felt it give. There was a weakness! The hilt had come loose, or the blade was cracked. It could not continue to take such a hammering from this man. He moved away, retreating, trying to keep his eyes from betraying his sudden concern, but the fellow started to set about him more seriously. The sword flashed and sparkled redly in the sun’s glare, and then the commander was harrying him hard, the bloody blade whirling about him, and suddenly Rollo knew he must die.

His hilt was broken, and the leather-covered wooden grip moved in his hand. The blade was no longer fixed to it, and the blade turned without his wanting it to. Now there was no let up, and he could do little but block the attacks. It was pointless to return to the assault, for the blade would turn and not hit true. It was all but useless. There was a shivering in the blade, and he saw it fall in two, his fingers stinging, and saw the fierce delight in the other man’s face.