Bernard Cornwell - Death of Kings

It seemed to take for ever to make that short journey through the marshland. I kept glancing anxiously eastwards, hoping the dawn would not break, then looking northwards, hoping the Danes would not join Sigelf’s men. As we drew closer I saw two horsemen on the road, and that took away my doubts. Messengers were travelling between the two forces. The Danes, I supposed, were waiting for the first light before they left the shelter of Huntandon’s houses and moved south, but once they did move they would march swiftly on Lundene unless we stopped them.

And then, at last, we were close to Sigelf’s fires. His men were sleeping or just sitting close to the flames. I had forgotten the ditch that protected them and slid into it, my shield clattering as I fell. Ice cracked as I slithered into the water. A dog barked from the Centish lines, and a man glanced in our direction, but saw nothing to worry him. Another man hit the dog and someone laughed.

I hissed at four of my men to join me in the ditch. They stood there, making a line across it, and those four guided the rest down the treacherously slippery bank, through the water and up the farther side. My boots squelched as I climbed the far bank. I crouched there as my men came over the ditch and as they spread into a battle line. ‘Shield wall!’ I hissed the order at my vanguard of Danes and Frisians. ‘Osferth?’

‘Lord?’

‘You know what to do.’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Then do it.’

I had given Osferth almost half my men and careful instructions. He hesitated. ‘I’ve prayed for you, lord,’ he said.

‘Then let’s hope the damned prayers work,’ I whispered, and touched the hammer around my neck.

My men were forming the shield wall. Any moment, I thought, someone would see us, and the enemy, because for the moment Sigelf’s men were our enemy, would make their own shield wall and would outnumber us by four or five to one, but victory does not come to men who listen to their fears. My shield touched Rollo’s and I drew Serpent-Breath. Her long blade sighed through the scabbard’s throat. ‘Sigurd!’ I hissed. Then louder, ‘Forward!’

We charged. We bellowed our enemy’s name as we ran, ‘Sigurd!’ we shouted, ‘Sigurd! Sigurd!’

‘And kill!’ I shouted in Danish. ‘Kill!’

We killed. We were killing Saxons, men of Wessex, though this night they had been betrayed by their ealdorman into serving the Danes, yet we killed them and ever since there have been rumours of what we did that night. I deny them, of course, but few believe my denials. At first the killing was easy. The Centishmen were half asleep, off-guard, their sentries looking towards the south instead of guarding against an attack from the north, and we sliced and hacked our way deep into their encampment. ‘Sigurd!’ I shouted, and stabbed Serpent-Breath into a waking man, then kicked him into the campfire and heard him scream as I backswung the blade against a youngster, and we were not taking the time to finish off the men we attacked, but leaving that to the rank behind us. We crippled the men of Cent, wounded them, downed them, and the men who followed stabbed down with sword or spear and I heard men shouting for mercy, shouting that they were on our side, and I bellowed our war cry even louder. ‘Sigurd! Sigurd!’ That first charge took us a third of the way into their encampment. Men fled from us. I heard a man bellowing to form a shield wall, but panic had spread through Sigelf’s men. I watched a man trying to find his own shield from a pile, desperately tugging at the arm straps and watching us with terrified eyes. He abandoned the shields and ran. A spear arced through the firelight, vanishing over my shoulder. Our shield wall had lost its cohesion, but it did not need to be tight because the enemy was scattering, though it would only be moments before they realised how ridiculously small my attacking force was, but then the gods proved they were on our side because Ealdorman Sigelf himself galloped towards us on horseback. ‘We’re with you!’ he shouted. ‘For God’s sake, you damned fools, we’re with you!’

My helmet cheek-pieces were closed. We carried no banner, because that had gone with Osferth. Sigelf had no idea who I was, though he undoubtedly saw the richness of my helmet and the finely-forged links of my mud-spattered mail. I held up my sword, checking my men.

Sigelf was shaking with fury. ‘You damned fools,’ he snarled, ‘who are you?’

‘You’re on our side?’ I asked.

‘We’re allied with Jarl Sigurd, you damned fool, and I’ll have your head for this!’

I smiled, though he did not see my smile behind the glinting steel of the cheek-pieces. ‘Lord,’ I said humbly, then backswung Serpent-Breath into his horse’s mouth and the beast reared up, screaming, blood frothing in the night, and Sigelf fell backwards from the saddle. I hauled him down to the mud, slapped the horse’s rump to send it charging into the ealdorman’s scattered men, then kicked Sigelf in the face as he tried to get up. I put my right boot on his skinny chest and pinned him to the ground. ‘I’m Uhtred,’ I said, but only loud enough for Sigelf himself to hear me. ‘You hear me, traitor? I’m Uhtred,’ and I saw his eyes widen before I rammed the sword hard down into his scrawny throat and his scream turned to a gurgle and the blood spilled wide onto the damp ground and he was twisting and shaking as he died.

‘Horn!’ I called to Oswi. ‘Now!’

The horn sounded. My men knew what to do. They turned back towards the marsh, retreating into the dark beyond the fires, and as they went a second horn sounded and I saw Osferth leading a shield wall from the trees. My banner of the wolf’s head and Osferth’s charred cross showed above the advancing wall. ‘Men of Cent!’ Osferth shouted. ‘Men of Cent, your king is coming to save you! To me! To me! Form on me!’

Osferth was the son of a king, and all his ancient lineage was in his voice. In a night of cold and chaos and death, he sounded confident and certain. Men who had seen their ealdorman cut down, who had seen his blood splash colour into the firelit dark, went towards Osferth and joined his shield wall because he promised safety. My men were retreating into the shadows, then going southwards to join Osferth’s right flank. I pulled off my helmet and tossed it to Oswi, then strode along the face of the growing shield wall. ‘Edward sent us to save you!’ I shouted at the Centishmen. ‘The Danes betrayed you! The king is coming with all his army! Form the wall! Shields up!’

There was a grey edge to the eastern sky. The rain was still spitting, but dawn was close. I glanced north and saw horsemen. The Danes must have wondered why the sound of battle and the bray of horns had disturbed the night’s ending, and some were riding down the road to see for themselves and what they saw was a growing shield wall. They saw my banner of the wolf’s head, they saw Osferth’s blackened cross, and they saw men lying amidst the wreckage of the fires. Sigelf’s leaderless men were still in chaos, with no more idea than the Danes what was happening, but our shield wall offered safety and they were picking up their own shields, their helmets and weapons and running to join the ranks. Finan and Osferth were pushing men into position. A tall man, helmetless, but carrying a bare sword ran to me. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Wulferth,’ he said.

‘And who is Wulferth?’ I asked, sounding calm. He was a thegn, one of Sigelf’s richer followers, who had brought forty-three men to East Anglia. ‘Your lord is dead,’ I said, ‘and the Danes will attack us very soon.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘and Edward is coming. We have to hold the Danes till the king reaches us.’ I plucked Wulferth’s elbow and walked him towards the western marsh on the left of our defensive position. ‘Form your men here,’ I said, ‘and fight for your country, for Cent, for Wessex.’