Бернард Корнуэлл: War Lord

The Scots, being furthest from the place where Steapa’s horsemen had shattered the shield wall, were the last to break. It took them a few moments to even realise the disaster, but seeing their pagan allies broken they too turned and fled. I was looking for Ræt and my horse, then realised he must have crossed the bridge before Æthelstan’s men retreated past it. I looked towards the encampment and bellowed his name, but could not see him. Then Wibrund brought me a bay stallion. ‘He probably belongs to one of the king’s bodyguard, lord,’ he said, ‘and that man’s probably dead.’

‘Help me up!’

I spurred northwards, shouting for Egil as I neared my men. He turned and looked at me. ‘Don’t pursue!’ I called to him. ‘Stay here!’

‘Why?’

‘You’re Norsemen. You think Æthelstan’s men will know the difference?’ I called for Berg, Egil’s youngest brother, and told him to keep twenty Christians to guard Egil’s troops, then I spurred on. Finan and my son wanted to come with me, but had no horses. ‘Catch up with me!’ I shouted at them.

My borrowed stallion picked his way through the piles of corpses that marked where the shield walls had met. Some of the dead were my men. I recognised Roric, his throat slashed open, his face drenched in blood, and I suspected I had sent him to his death when I ordered him to leave the plunder. Beornoth, a good fighter who had met a better one, now lay on his back, a look of surprise on his face where flies crawled across his open eyes and mouth. I could not see what had killed him. Oswi, his face pale, lay with his mangled leg tightly bandaged and he tried to smile. Blood seeped through the bandages. ‘You’ll live,’ I told him, ‘I’ve seen others worse.’ There would be others, too many others, just as there would be widows and orphans in Constantine’s land. Once past the stinking ridge of bodies I put spurs to the horse.

It was late afternoon, the shadows were lengthening, and I was surprised by that. The battle had seemed short to me, short and terrifying, yet it must have lasted much longer than I realised. The clouds were clearing and the sun threw shadows from the corpses of men who had been killed as they tried to run away. Men were plundering the bodies, stripping mail, searching for coins. The crows and ravens would come soon to enjoy the battle feast. The heathland was littered with swords, spears, axes, bows, helmets, and countless shields, all thrown away by men desperate to escape our pursuit. I could see Steapa’s horsemen ahead. They were riding just fast enough to overtake the fugitives who they would cripple with a spear or a slash of a sword, then leave them to be killed by the men who followed on foot. I could see Æthelstan’s banner, the victorious dragon with its lightning bolt, on the Roman road and I spurred towards it. I came to the low rise of ground where Anlaf’s army had assembled and checked the stallion because the view was so startling. The wide shallow valley was filled with fleeing men, and behind them and among them were our merciless troops. They were wolves among sheep. I saw men try to yield, saw them cut down, and knew that Æthelstan’s men, freed from the almost certain doom of imminent defeat, were releasing their relief in an orgy of slaughter.

I stayed on the higher ground, watching in amazement. I felt relief too, and a strange detachment as if this was not my battle. This was Æthelstan’s victory. I touched my chest, feeling for the hammer amulet I had hidden beneath my mail, fearing to be mistaken for an enemy pagan. I had not expected to survive, despite the sorcery of Benedetta’s cross. When the enemy had come in sight, that great horde of shields and blades, I had sensed a doom. Yet here I was, watching a gleeful slaughter. A man staggered past, miraculously drunk, carrying an ornate helmet and an empty scabbard decorated with silver plaques. ‘We beat them, lord!’ he called.

‘We beat them,’ I agreed, and thought of Alfred. This was how his dream was coming true. His dream of a godly country, one country for all the Saxons, and I knew Northumbria was no more. My country was gone. This was now Englaland, born in a welter of killing in a valley of blood.

‘The Lord has wrought a great thing!’ a voice called to me, and I turned to see Bishop Oda riding from behind. He was smiling. ‘God has given us the victory!’ He held out his hand and I grasped it with my left hand, my right still holding the borrowed sword. ‘And you wear the cross, lord!’ he said with delight.

‘Benedetta gave it to me.’

‘To protect you?’

‘So she said.’

‘And it has! Come, lord!’ He spurred his horse and I followed, thinking how women’s sorcery had protected me through the years.

There was one last fight before that day ended. The Scottish and Norse chieftains were mounted on swift horses and they outpaced the pursuit, galloping desperately towards the safety of the ships, but some men stayed to delay us. They formed a shield wall on a low rise and among them I saw Ingilmundr and realised that these must be the men who lived in Wirhealum. They had been granted the land, they had pretended to be Christians, their women and children still lived in the steadings of Wirhealum and now they would fight for their homes. There were no more than three hundred men in two ranks, their shields touching. They surely knew they must die, or perhaps they believed mercy would be given. Æthelstan’s men faced them in a ragged crowd over a thousand strong and growing larger every minute. Steapa’s men on tired horses were there, as was Æthelstan’s mounted bodyguard.

Ingilmundr walked out of the shield wall, going towards Æthelstan who still held Serpent-Breath. I saw him talk to the king, but could not hear what he said, nor what Æthelstan answered, but after a moment Ingilmundr knelt in submission. He laid his sword on the ground, which surely meant that Æthelstan was letting him live, for no pagan would die without a sword in his hand. Oda thought the same. ‘The king is too merciful,’ he said disapprovingly.

Æthelstan urged his horse forward till he was close to Ingilmundr. He leaned from the saddle and said something and I saw Ingilmundr smile and nod. Then Æthelstan struck, Serpent-Breath slicing down in a sudden savage stroke, and the blood spurted from Ingilmundr’s neck, and Æthelstan struck again, and again, and his men cheered and swarmed forward to overwhelm the Norsemen. There was the hammering of shields again, the clash of blades, the screams, but it was over so quickly and the pursuit went on leaving a rill of dead and dying men on the small rise.

By dusk we had reached Dingesmere and could see the escaping ships rowing into the Mærse. Almost all were gone, but most of those fleeing ships were empty, the crews left to guard them had taken them to sea to escape pursuit and so abandoned hundreds of enemy who were slaughtered in the shallow waters of the marsh. Some begged for mercy, but Æthelstan’s men had none and the water between the rushes turned red.

Finan and my son had found me and watched with me. ‘It’s over, then,’ Finan said in a tone of disbelief.

‘It’s over,’ I agreed. ‘We can go home.’ And I suddenly longed for Bebbanburg, for the clean sea and the long beach and the wind from the water.

Æthelstan found me. He looked stern. His mail, cloak, horse, and saddle cloth were stained dark with blood. ‘Well done, lord King,’ I said.

‘God gave us the victory.’ He sounded tired, and no wonder, for I doubted that any man had fought harder in the shield wall that day. He looked down at Serpent-Breath and gave me a wry smile. ‘She served me well, lord.’

‘She’s a great sword, lord King.’

He held her out to me, hilt first. ‘You will dine with me tonight, Lord Uhtred.’