Usurper, page 8
Aethelric sighed again. ‘Do you know anyone who’s ever actually seen a dragon, Cerdic?’
‘We all saw the Firedrake.’
‘We all saw something. A strange ball of flame in the heavens. These things have appeared before… they are natural events possibly, things we’ve no understanding of. But they don’t always herald the fall of kingdoms.’
‘Taken alongside King Edward’s terrifying dream, you don’t think it a sign… that the doom of England is upon us?’
Aethelric considered the best way to respond. At present, he was just relieved to have found his young lord. As the morning had dragged on and he’d seen nothing but empty highway ahead of him, he’d genuinely started to fear that the tormented youngster might ride all the way to York. Of course, he still might.
‘It’s inevitable that you’re fearful at a time like this, Cerdic. We all are.’
‘I didn’t say I was fearful. I was riding toward the fight, not away from it.’
‘Forgive my poor choice of words…’ Aethelric dismounted. ‘It wasn’t my intent to impugn your courage.’ He led his beast to the side of the track, and sat himself down on the hummock, nudging the lad with his bony hips to move him along a little. ‘But it’s not unmanly to be alarmed by dangerous prospects.’
Cerdic peered into the distance. ‘I don’t know if I believe in omens and visions.’
‘Well… good. For real ones are thin on the ground.’
‘But… if it’s true, if the Twilight of England is upon us, it’s even worse than I thought… and there am I, sitting at home, apparently with no plan other than to bribe the enemy should they come to our door.’
‘Let me ask you a question, Cerdic.’ Aethelric gave him a level stare. ‘Is a man only a man if he wields a sword? Now, you already know the answer to this. You’ve enjoyed being educated, you’ve seen its potential for changing the world. You fully understand the power of the pen. But it isn’t just that. Think of those who work the land, who run livestock, who cut timber and quarry stone. Think how hard they labour so that our society may function. Are they not men too?’
Cerdic snorted. ‘Many are with Father. Wielding weapons.’
‘The late King Edward lived like a monk,’ the priest said. ‘Yet he reigned for twenty-four years, and all that time his people prospered.’
‘Aye, because men like Father drew steel in his name.’
‘Sparingly, Cerdic. There were fewer massacres under Edward’s rule than there were under belligerents like Canute and Edmund Ironside. But again, you already know this.’
‘I know only one thing for certain. That sometimes one simply can’t avoid a fight. If that’s the sole thing you strive for, you’re likely to be disappointed. As well as enslaved.’
Aethelric pursed his lips. ‘In that case, why are you sitting here by the roadside?’
‘Fireflax had a stone in her hoof. I had to clean it out.’
‘Which you now have done. And yet still you wait.’
Cerdic looked sullen beyond belief, but also tired and resigned. He got to his feet. ‘Can we talk on the way back?’
‘Of course.’ Aethelric stood up too, brushing leaves from his habit.
They rode toward Wulfbury at a walking pace.
‘You realise they mocked me?’ Cerdic said. ‘They’ll mock me even more when I return.’
‘No one mocked you.’
‘They didn’t do it to my face, but I’m sure there’ve been things said behind closed doors.’
‘Even if that’s true, you think your father’s never been mocked?’
Cerdic glanced round. ‘Father?’
‘Oh, you hold him in high esteem, and so you should. But he’s had his share of detractors.’
‘The stories about mother were gutter talk…’
‘I don’t mean that. That tale he told you about the monks by King Edward’s bedside and the portent of doom. There were many who dismissed that as a falsehood.’
Cerdic was even more stunned. ‘A falsehood? My father?’
‘They say Earl Rothgar lied to frighten people, because he wanted Harold Godwinson, the most powerful noble in England, on the throne.’
‘He believed Harold would bring stability.’
‘But there were other factions who didn’t want that, and they scoffed at your father and called him Harold’s lackey.’
Cerdic rode speechless. That his father could have been so disrespected over something so important to the country’s fortunes was a new concept.
‘Myself?’ Aethelric added. ‘I call it statesmanship. Harold is not a perfect man, but your father believed he was the best to be king, so he engineered it. He displayed similar statecraft four years ago when he rode with the Godwinsons against Gruffydd ap Llywelyn. He fought in that war solely to mend his relationship with Harold, and to commence turning him against his brother, Tostig, which he duly did. These were huge achievements, Cerdic. And all accomplished by talking, not fighting.’
Cerdic nodded. But then scowled again. ‘I can’t even be a statesman, though, can I? Because I’ll be a churchman instead.’
‘Churchmen can’t be great too, in their own way? Tell me what you’ve learned about Saint Cuthbert.’
‘He was Bishop of Lindisfarne, and much adored for his holiness and devotion. He once lived eight years as a hermit, surviving on almost nothing, and since his death has worked many miracles. He is the greatest saint of the north.’
Aethelric nodded. ‘Saint Wilfrid?’
‘Bishop of Northumbria. He established the Rule of Benedict, converted the pagans of Sussex, and fixed the dates on which we celebrate Easter.’
Aethelric nodded again. ‘And what of Eric Bloodaxe?’
Cerdic looked vague. ‘Bloodaxe was a Norse king of Northumbria. He created the Hold of Ripon and conferred that title upon Wulfric, a Viking supporter of his. For his new capital, that Viking renovated an old fortress of the Britons, which he called “Wulfric’s Burh”, or as we know it today, Wulfbury. He was driven out when King Eadred reduced Northumbria’s status from kingdom to earldom, and granted Ripon to an Englishman, Sigobert Aelfricsson, my great-great-grandfather.’
‘So, you know about your family’s personal connection to Bloodaxe, but do you know about his actual reign? The role he played nationally, the edicts he passed?’
Cerdic frowned. ‘If memory serves, it was precious little.’
‘You mean in comparison to the lives of those great churchmen?’
‘In truth, I mainly remember Saint Wilfrid for his love of drinking.’
Aethelric shook his head in near despair.
‘Wilfrid makes it easier to bear the thought of a life in Holy Orders, Aethelric. But will I have to be tonsured? No disrespect, but it looks ludicrous.’
The priest tinged pink as he rode. ‘I’m just pleased you’ve made the decision to turn back. It shows a maturity I wasn’t aware you possessed.’
‘As to that, I had no choice.’
‘No?’
Cerdic was a little more his normal self now, but still seemed doleful. ‘Yesterday, you nearly persuaded me that I was planning my defence of Wulfbury against a foe drawn from the imagination.’
‘Nearly persuaded you?’
‘The foe is real.’ Cerdic said this without any particular excitement or animation. He peered along the road ahead as though seeing phantom shapes that weren’t actually there, or weren’t there yet. ‘England is in the grip of another barbarian horde, is it not?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Then you’re wrong to dismiss it. Whatever you say, Aethelric… they are in Northumbria, and we don’t know what the Hardraada intends. He may seek to subdue the north before he goes south, in which case Wulfbury could lie directly in his line of march.’
‘And you thought the addition of one more man to the northern earls’ army would prevent this?’
‘No. But I still had to go.’ Cerdic pondered. ‘Yesterday, I was half-prepared to stay at home. But all last night I dreamed of these omens. The faceless monks, the Firedrake. And now Land Waster, the Viking Raven… that monstrous bird that always foretells Odin’s coming, that means his dark spirit is abroad in the land. Don’t get me wrong. I said I don’t believe in visions, and I don’t. But these dreams were so vivid that they enforced on me how real this war actually is. Even if it hasn’t come to Wulfbury yet, even if it never comes to Wulfbury, the mother of all battles is now.’
‘So, why,’ Aethelric enquired, ‘and I’ve asked you this question today already and still haven’t had a clear answer, are we riding the other way?’
‘Because I’d be abrogating my duty if we weren’t.’ Cerdic gave a sigh that seemed to come from his very core. ‘All the way along this road today, I heard Father’s voice telling me that if leadership was easy, anyone could do it. That hardship and responsibility go hand in hand, that difficult choices must be made.’ He paused, his gaze narrowing. ‘It also struck me that there are different forms of leadership. That buying off our enemies might also be considered buying time… time we could use to build resistance. That maybe the key to defeating the Norse is to be clever, to lure them into a false sense of victory, as Alfred did. Pay on some occasions, fight and fortify on others. Though none of those options, or any combination of them, would have been open to me had I gone all the way to York.’
Aethelric made no immediate response, though inside he was pleased and impressed that Cerdic had reached this complicated rationalisation on his own. To start with, the priest wasn’t quite as convinced the risk to Wulfbury was as insignificant as he’d been letting on, but he’d seen no sense in making people more frightened than they already were. It was good though, that Cerdic, after some contemplation, had seen through this, and yet had also kept his worst fears to himself. A series of intense nightmares had finally provoked him into abandoning his post and heading south, but after a relatively short distance, he’d restrained himself again.
Maturity at last. A clear sign of budding maturity.
* * *
An hour later, as they rode back through Brackley-on-the-Water, the river running so shallow at the ford that their hooves clipped on dry stones, Cerdic felt very self-conscious.
‘You might as well be leading me by the ear,’ he muttered.
‘No one cares.’
That seemed to be true. It was evening now, whale-oil lamps sparking to life in the village houses. The one or two folk out and about, mostly women, paid him no heed.
‘They have other matters on their minds,’ Aethelric said.
On second glance, the women looked preoccupied with worry. They wanted their men to come back to them, preferably unbroken. Even in the event of victory, not all would.
‘These are trying times for everyone, I suppose,’ Cerdic said as they ascended the brae track.
‘Indeed,’ the priest replied.
Even inside the burh, no one seemed interested that the lad had returned, if they’d even noticed he’d gone. That was hardly flattering, but perhaps it was better to go unnoticed than be thought a fool.
CHAPTER 9
The two armies faced each other across a relatively narrow front, a raised stretch of road running between the River Ouse and a glimmering expanse of marshland.
Though Harald Sigurdsson had left at least half his host to guard his anchorage at Riccall, the numbers he had with him this morning had swelled overnight, so that now they were close to nine thousand. On top of that, they were in strong formation, rank after mailed and helmeted rank wedged behind their shields, all of which were painted with vivid colours and monstrous images, and which they now beat upon with fist and pommel. In the Vikings’ foremost rank, the berzerkers, men of colossal size and strength, whose fanatical fury carried them past all pain and reason in the heat of battle, howled like the wolves whose fur they wore over their ring-mail, and shouted their black-hearted chant, the dread Merseburgsgaldr.
The English numbered around ten thousand and were arrayed in similar phalanx. They could have put more on the field, but late the previous evening the earls had decided that they too should leave levies behind, mainly as a reserve, but also to guard the city and its approach roads. They made a din of their own, blasting horns and pipes, offering ecstatic prayers to Wilfrid, Cuthbert and John of Beverley, another great saint of the north.
‘Last night, I didn’t think the earls Edwin and Morcar had the belly for this,’ Unferth said to his father, having to shout to be heard.
‘It comes easier to some men than others,’ Rothgar replied, watching their opponents. ‘But I’d have avoided this fight, too, if I could. Diplomacy is better than war, always.’
‘Of course.’
‘That must be your way, too, when you are earl. But sometimes there’s no option.’
Unferth also eyed the ranks of the enemy. ‘They seem very confident.’
‘Viking armies are famous for that. To die in battle guarantees them a place in Odin’s drinking-hall. It reinforces their courage.’ Unferth nodded and swallowed. ‘Don’t be intimidated by that,’ his father said. ‘We know they’re fierce opponents, but that’s a good thing. It means we won’t underestimate them.’
He lowered his helmet over his head, fastening the chinstrap.
Unferth was relieved to do the same. He was pale-faced and nauseated, but his iron nose-guard and cheekpieces went some way to concealing it. Hands damp inside his gauntlets, he unslung the limewood shield from his back and gripped the hilt of his broadsword in what he hoped was a fearless manner, trying to draw comfort from the strength massed around him.
In the normal fashion of his people, and of the Northmen too, the decision had been taken to fight on foot, but today it was an obvious strategy. With advance knowledge of their coming, the enemy had deployed early, blocking the road from York to Fulford at a point where the hardpacked track ascended to the village’s outer hovels. This gave them higher vantage, but also meant that, with unmanageable ground to east and west, only a direct frontal attack was possible, rendering cavalry useless. In fact, this was a strong position in every sense. So much so that, on first viewing it, Rothgar had been hesitant to engage. But after a quick discussion with his allies, the decision had been taken to proceed. A retreat now would give their enemy heart, while discouraging their own men, who wouldn’t understand the reason for it and might assume their leaders had been cowed.
This was another complexity that Rothgar had explained to Unferth. In battle, a leader needed to be visible. He had to be with his men at the forefront, sharing both the risk and the glory. But only a fool of a leader placed himself at the spearpoint. When a leader was killed, a battle often ended; the entire cause could be lost in an instant. Even if his warriors strove on, there was nothing surer than that, without aim or direction, they too would ultimately succumb. As such, Unferth and his father were located in the midst of their housecarls, alongside the earl’s Blue Boar banner and about three ranks from the front.
Their position on the field was to the left. In the middle, Morcar’s Red Bear fluttered alongside Edwin’s Black Eagle. Far over on the right, Unferth could just about distinguish Waltheof’s Wolf. Also on the right, a burning cross indicated where a significant number of priests and monks had sallied from the city, and not just to offer comfort or spiritual succour. For too long they’d been brutalised and slain by the Vikings. Now, they wore ring-mail over their black robes and brandished maces, and when the fighting commenced, they would advance behind their fiery symbol.
Of course, the Northmen had brought heraldry too. On the highest point of ground to their rear, two immense battle-standards streamed alongside each other: Earl Tostig’s Golden Lion of Northumbria, and the symbol that England had come to dread over many centuries of fire and slaughter, a gigantic black bird, its wings spread on a field of white… Land Waster, the raven of doom.
However, though all now were deployed, the wait went on. At length, Rothgar pushed his way to the right, seeking further counsel with the Aelfgarsons. Athelbere, who stood in front of his two masters, his huge frame blocking much of the opposition from view, turned round and grinned. ‘How do you fare, Lord Unferth?’
‘Sick as a dog,’ Unferth admitted.
The marshal of the house laughed. ‘It’s always that way in your first battle.’
Unferth nodded. As Cerdic had reminded him, though he’d gone to war with Athelbere and his father the previous year, also against Earl Tostig, on that occasion no blows had been struck.
‘Stay close to me, and don’t tackle any big ones,’ Athelbere advised. ‘Especially don’t tackle their berzerkers. They’ll not be concerned about claiming ransom.’
Unferth nodded. This also had been his father’s advice. If he went down and found spears at his throat, it was neither sin nor shame to yield. These Northmen were opportunists. The quality of his arms and armour would imply his status; he’d be a prize catch. But the prospect of ransom would mean nothing to those of berzerkergang, that crazed, fur-clad priesthood whom legend claimed would fight on with claws and teeth when their weapons were broken, who could ride out cuts and blows of every sort, who would rage on and on until all sense and purpose to the struggle was lost.
The young lord looked toward their roaring mob through an oily haze, along a rural highway now hardened to ruts. The sun had risen properly at last. Though the local fields were stripped of corn, the orchards of York denuded of fruit, that summer without end went on. His head baked inside his helmet, dust motes swam in his eyes, and yet, when he glanced left at the emerald marshes, they lay twinkling and serene. There was great depth there, he suspected, and quagmires of mud underneath. Not the ideal place to finish up when wearing ring-coat and helmet.
‘Ready yourselves!’ came his father’s voice.
Rothgar, who had just returned, checked the buckle on his chinstrap and drew his broadsword. ‘Edwin sought to tempt them from the higher ground by waiting,’ he said. ‘But the Hardraada’s no fool. Now any delay will only advantage him further. Scouts report that additional Norse war-bands are heading this way from Riccall. The size of our force may have surprised him and he doesn’t want to take chances. So we go now.’
