Paul Kearney - The Heretic Kings

Andruw was similarly impressed. “Good men,” he said, as they sucked along through the rutted mud of the winter roads towards Hedeby. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pack of fellows so keen for a fight. I’d give my left ball for a good battery of culverins, though.”

Corfe chuckled. Humour was coming with a strange ease to him lately. Perhaps it was being free, in the field, his own man. Perhaps it was the prospect of slaughter. At any rate, he did not care to examine the reasons too closely.

“They’d not get far in this mud, your culverins. Nor would cavalry. I’m starting to think it’s as well this force of ours is all infantry. We may find it more mobile than we supposed.”

“They march fast enough, no doubt of that,” Andruw agreed ruefully. “I’ll be a short man by the time we get to Hedeby. I’ve walked at least an inch off each heel.”

They were half a day’s march from Hedeby when they sighted a small group of armoured cavalry outlined against the horizon ahead, watching them. Their banners flapped in the cold wind that winnowed the hills on either side of the road.

“Ordinac, I’ll bet,” Corfe said on sighting the horsemen, “come to have a look at what he’s up against. Unfurl the banner, Andruw.”

Andruw had their standard-bearer, a massive-thewed tribesman named Kyrn, pull loose the cathedral banner and let it snap out atop its twelve-foot staff, a point of vivid colour in the monochrome winter afternoon. The rest of the men gave out a cry at the sight, a five-hundred-voiced inarticulate roar which made the skylined horses flinch and toss their heads.

“Line of battle,” Corfe said calmly. “He’s having a look, so we might as well give him something to see. Andruw, take the fifth tercio forward and chase those riders away as soon as the others have shaken out.”

Andruw’s boyish face lit up. “With pleasure, sir.”

The five tercios of Corfe’s command got into line. Five men deep, the line extended for a hundred yards. As soon as it was in place, the standard flapping with the colour party in the centre, Andruw led one tercio up the hill towards the watching riders.

There were less than a score of horsemen there, though they wore the heavy three-quarter armour of the old nobility. When the tercio was within fifty paces they turned their horses and trotted away, not liking the odds. Andruw placed his men on the hilltop and soon a gasping runner was jogging down from his position. He handed Corfe a note.

Enemy camp half a league ahead, some three leagues out of town , it read. Looks like they are beginning to deploy.

“Your orders, sir?” Ensign Ebro asked. Like everyone else’s, his scarlet armour was so liberally plastered with muck that it had become a rust-brown colour.

“We’ll join Andruw’s tercio,” Corfe said. “After that, we’ll see.”

“Yes, sir.” Ebro’s voice was throbbing like the wing-beat of a trapped bird and his face was pale under its spattering of mud. “Is there anything wrong, Ensign?” Corfe asked him.

“No, sir. I-it’s just that-I’ve never been in a battle before, sir.”

Corfe stared at him for a moment, somehow liking him better for this admission. “You’ll do all right, Ensign.”

The rest of the formation joined Andruw’s men on the hilltop and stared down to where the leather tents of the enemy camp dotted the land. Off to the left, perhaps a mile away, was the sea, as grey and solid as stone. Ordinac’s castle at Hedeby could be made out as a dark pinnacle in the distance. Corfe examined the duke’s men with a practised eye.

“A thousand maybe, as we were told. Perhaps a hundred cavalry, the duke’s personal bodyguard and mostly pikemen apart from that. I can’t see too many arquebusiers. These are second-rate troops, no match for the regular army. His guns-he has two, see? Light falcons-are not even unlimbered yet. Holy Saints, I do believe he’s going to offer us battle at once.”

“You mean today, sir?” Ebro asked.

“I mean right now, Ensign.”

Andruw came over. “Time to fight, I believe. He’ll come to us if we wait for him, though look at the mobs down there: he’ll be half the day getting them into formation.”

Crowds of men were collecting their stacked arms and milling about whilst gesticulating officers tried to sort them into some kind of order. The only organized group seemed to be that of the duke’s bodyguard, who were drawn up in a two-deep line on their heavy horses ahead of the other troops, acting as a screen until their deployment was complete.

Corfe took in the situation in a moment. He was outnumbered: he was expected to fight a defensive battle. He occupied the high ground and thus had a good position. But his men had no firearms. The enemy could close to within firing range and blast away at him half the day whilst the cavalry threatened to cave in his flanks if he tried to close.

“We will attack,” he said crisply. “Andruw, Ebro, go to your tercios. Marsch, inform the men that we are to charge the enemy at once and throw them into disorder before they have time to deploy.”

“But the cavalry-” Ebro said.

“Obey your orders, Ensign. Marsch, peel off the rear rank and keep it back as a tactical reserve. I’ll call for it when it’s needed. Understood?”

The big tribesman nodded and pushed his way through the men behind him.

“Are you sure about this, Corfe?” Andruw asked.

“I’m not going to sit here and wait for them, Andruw. This is our only chance. We must be quick. I want everything at the double. We have to catch them while they’re trying to deploy.”

“Half a league at the double in this armour?” Andruw said doubtfully.

“The men can do it. Come, let’s get to work.”

The colour party moved out first, whilst the ranks of men behind it retied their helmstrings and loosened their swords in the scabbards. Then the formation began to move. Corfe had taught them a few words of command in Normannic, and he shouted one now, emphasizing the order with a wave of his sabre.

“ Double!”

The men broke into a lumbering trot, sounding like a moving ironmonger’s stall. The formation began to coalesce as they slogged downhill through the soft ground, tearing it into a morass as they went. Behind the main body, Marsch had his hundred of the reserve in a more compact mass following in the wake of their comrades.

Tearing effort, at first quite easy because of the downhill slope, then getting harder as the feet began to drag, the lungs began to fight for air and the heavy armour crushed down on the shoulders. The men would be tired when they made contact, but the enemy would be disorganized and in disarray. It was an exchange Corfe was willing to make.

Half a mile gone by, and the formation ground on in silence except for the suck of boots or bare feet in the mud, the clank and crash of iron, and laboured, gasping breathing. There was no energy to spare for battlecries.

Hard to fight the head up and make the brain work, to keep thinking. But the furious thinking and planning kept the mind off the physical pain.

The screen of heavily armoured horsemen seemed at a loss. They had obviously not expected this move. A bugle call sounded, and the riders kicked their mounts into motion up the hill. The animals were heavily laden, moving in soft, mucky ground up a gradient. The best they could do was a fast trot, counting on their weight and momentum to break Corfe’s formation; that, and the fear of coming to grips with lancers.

The tribesmen uttered a hoarse, tearing whoop as the two bodies of troops met with a ringing crash, the horses struggling uphill and the infantry running down to meet them. The line was staggered, the ranks intermingling as the horsemen drove wedges of iron and muscle into it. Corfe saw one of his men speared clean through by a lance, armour and all, and tossed aside like a gutted fish.