The Medieval Murderers: Sword of Shame

Suddenly there was a roar, and Swein launched himself at the man from his side. Rollo saw the commander’s eyes narrow as he turned to face the new threat.

Dudda’s blood sang in his ears. He felt as though the spirits of his ancestors were with him. He could not be harmed, not while he wielded this sword, his father’s sword. It was a guarantee of victory, and soon he would conquer this rabble of murderers and cut-throats, ready for the real battle when King Harold returned and put the Norman Bastard’s host to the sword.

But as he was about to end this man’s life, another man came roaring at him, approaching from his left front, running at him with that axe like a Viking from the sagas. Dudda tested his sword in his hand, swinging it up in a wide arc, feeling the way that it came alive. Then he saw Bartholomew run at the new enemy, his cheap sword smeared with gore, his shield, broken and splintered, still on his arm.

Bartholomew lifted his sword, but the huge Norseman swept his axe aside, clashing with the sword, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it flying away. The axehead swept back towards the priest’s head, and Bartholomew ducked. His feet were entangled with a set of reins from a dead horse, and he tumbled to the ground.

‘No!’ Dudda started forward, convinced he was already too late. He reached the Norseman as the axe began to descend, and slammed into the man, slashing at his hamstrings. The man collapsed screaming in agony, the giant tendons snapping with a sound like bones breaking, and Dudda hefted his sword, ready to stab, and then thrust down with all his strength.

He roared with savage delight, and went to Bartholomew. The priest was all right, and he turned back to finish off the axeman…and then hesitated, staring. Horror washed over him, and the sword fell from his nerveless fingers.

‘Brada? Brada ?’

Rollo saw his chance. His own sword was useless, but the other was near. He sprang up and launched himself forward. Without breaking his run, he snatched up the Saxon’s sword, and let his momentum carry him on. His thrust passed through the man’s bicep near his elbow, and carried on into his flank.

Dudda gave a bestial roar of rage and agony, and tried to release his sword arm, but Rollo was on him. He shoved the blade deeper and deeper, feeling the warm wash of blood over his hands. Even as Dudda toppled backwards, Rollo kicked his body, held the sword aloft and screamed:

‘Victory! Victory!’

There was a pause, and then a collective moan seemed to come from the enemy as they saw their leader shivering on the ground, and while they watched, Rollo kicked at his helmet, sending it spinning. He found himself looking down at a man who was younger than him, dark, square-jawed, grey-eyed. There was no time to consider. The man closed his eyes, and Rollo leaned down casually, resting the sword’s point on his throat. He lifted it a short distance, ready to plunge it down, and…

…There was a slamming buffet at his side. He felt the air explode from his lungs. There was a blankness in his mind, and he shook his head with confusion, glancing about him. When he looked down, he saw that a great axehead was buried in his ribs, and he gazed at it with astonishment. It was Swein’s.

He lifted his arm to stab with his new sword-but his arm was gone. It lay twitching on the ground beside him, and he had just enough energy left in him to pick up the sword in his left hand and try to turn to repay his executioner, when he felt the axehead move.

Bartholomew wept as he jerked at the axe-haft, sobbing with exhaustion and despair. Setting his foot on Rollo’s body, he pushed with all his might, and the axe came free.

As he stood there, gazing dully at the bodies lying on the ground, he saw Dudda slowly crawl to the great Norseman, whose fair hair was red with gore where it lay on the sodden earth. Dudda was weeping with the effort, but the priest heard his quiet voice:

‘Brada! My brother! I am sorry! Forgive me!’

Rollo felt a shiver run through him. He tried to remove his helmet, but his hand wouldn’t respond, and he remembered it had been cut off. His left hand was too weak to do anything but lie on the ground.

‘Brother! My brother! No !’

They were the last words Rollo heard spoken. He was suddenly exhausted, and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness as Dudda, Bran’s son, sobbed beside his brother on his knees, and then slowly sank forward to slump, dead, over him.

Some hours later, a party of cavalry was sent to find out what had happened to the raiding force.

They found the tracks easily enough, and in the middle of woods, a man trotted back to the leader. ‘There are arrows all over the place. They must have been ambushed.’

Sir Ralph de la Pomeroy nodded and saddles creaked as men felt for their weapons. There was a heightened tension among them all as they continued. Soon they were out of the trees, and found the battlefield.

‘Dear Lord God,’ a man sighed.

It was a slaughterhouse. Limbs and bloody torsos lay about the grass, which was red with gore.

‘Kill any still living,’ the knight said dispassionately. They had no facilities for prisoners. His horse began to pick his way through the mess while he glanced about him. He had no feeling for the tatty mercenaries lying dead. None were from his homeland. ‘Any we should take back?’ he demanded.

‘Rollo fitzRollo, the leader. He’s here.’

‘Bring him, then.’

The horseman nodded and went with another to fetch the body. They threw it onto a horse and bound it carefully with rope about the remaining wrist and ankles to hold it in place, and looked about them cautiously as they worked.

‘Do you think we’ll win this?’ asked a man-at-arms from Bordeaux called Odo.

‘I hope so. If not, we’re shafted. There’s no escape for us.’

‘If they can do this…’

‘A lucky ambush, that’s all,’ a man muttered from his horse nearby.

‘Lucky? They got Swein.’

‘Him?’ Odo asked.

‘The mad axeman. He was right close to Rollo-just here.’

It was sobering to see him lying there, a gaping sword wound in his breast. Many had thought him invincible.

A cough from another man made them both reach for their knives, and they stepped forward cautiously. A wounded mercenary lay nearby, hidden by a horse’s corpse. Seeing he was an ally, the two released the grip on their weapons as he choked, blood trickling from his mouth. Odo went to his side as the other wandered off to a Saxon’s body, tugging at a ring on a dead forefinger.

Odo patted the man’s hand and helped him to a sip or two of water while his companion grunted, pulling at the ring, then shrugged and took out his knife. Soon the ring was in his purse, the finger discarded, and he strolled back to Swein. Then he hesitated, frowned, and leaned down. He pushed Swein’s body aside. ‘Odo: look at this!’

Hearing the cry, Sir Ralph glanced in their direction. He spurred his horse forward. As Swein was pulled away they saw he had been lying on top of a sword-a marvellous sword with a great disc pommel and curving cross. ‘Give that to me!’

‘I found it!’

The knight glanced at him. A miserable cur from the wharves of Le Havre or somewhere, he guessed. ‘And I have taken it,’ he said with deliberation. He picked it up, and saw the inscription. ‘“Who lives in falsehood kills his soul…?” was that you, then, axeman? Anyway, come to my quarters when we’re back at the fort, and I’ll pay you for finding this,’ he said to the scowling man-at-arms.

As he passed his sergeant, he murmured. ‘If that scruffy churl appears, give him a kicking for his nerve and tell him the sword’s worth nothing to him. It’s mine.’