Sword of Vengeance, page 24
Bile rose in Beornoth’s throat and stung as he swallowed it down. The men were traitors, fyrd men who should have fought for Lord Byrhtnoth at Maldon, but who had fled and saved themselves as their ealdorman perished. Beornoth’s heart told him to strike them down, to punish them for fleeing the battlefield. But his head told him he needed them. Beornoth needed every man he could get, and perhaps a chance at redemption would spur them on to brave deeds.
‘Is that a staff or a bow?’ Beornoth said, gesturing to the length of wood in the man’s fist, noting the curved taper at each end.
‘It’s a war bow, lord. My father taught me how to use it. It’s a stag killer.’
‘Welcome, Dudda, and to the rest of you. Godric led you away from the field at Maldon, and good men died. Now is your chance to redeem yourselves. So, fight with us here against Godric the coward and regain the respect of your wives and children. Running from battle is a stain that would have haunted you all for the rest of your days. After this fight, men will look upon you and know that you stood with me and fought for honour and vengeance, that you are brave men worthy of respect.’ Beornoth walked to them, and each man stared at him in awe. They were churls and farmers, and he was a thegn clad in mail and with a sword at his hip. He clapped their backs and took their wrists in the warrior’s grip. They were shamed for running and leaving their ealdorman to die on the battlefield and saw a chance to regain their honour.
Beornoth ordered the defenders to take their makeshift spears and pile some with the rocks behind the broken buildings beyond the new defences, and others inside the new timber wall. The nuns were eager to help, and Beornoth had them dig pits in between the old buildings outside of the new wall. They covered them with alder branches to hide the pits and stuck markers into the ground so the defenders would not fall into them during the retreat. Against men in mail or hardened leather armour, holding shields, rocks and wood spears would not slow an organised advance, nor kill any of the enemy. They could simply allow the crude weapons to bounce off their shields as they approached behind a wall of linden wood, with their bodies protected by armour. But, from what Beornoth had seen of Godric’s men in the forest and at Hareswood, most of the men in Godric’s war band were not armoured and nor did they carry shields. The men who did were Godric’s retainers, his hearth troop of warriors sworn to serve and protect him. Rocks and sticks would not slow those men, but Beornoth had enough warriors of his own to deal with them.
The work continued until the sun dimmed to cast the heavens in a red hue, and before dark, more men came to join the fight. They drifted in, in twos and threes, more shamefaced men of the Essex fyrd who had fled the field at Maldon. A man with an old shield with a rusty boss and his squint-eyed brother, a small man with a two-handed wood axe over his shoulder and a sack full of food; three brothers with an old seax, a mattock and a hoe for weapons; and a thegn from the border of Essex and East Anglia named Cyneric arrived on a dappled mare with three retainers. Cyneric had been shown kindness by Aelfwine of Foxfield years earlier and came to repay that debt with his sword. The men were all put to work, cutting old palisade logs or digging holes to sink them into. As darkness overcame the land, the defenders’ numbers had swelled to fifty fighters, and the abbess made sure everybody had a simple evening meal of bread, honey and cheese.
The defenders made a fire outside the new walls, and folk gathered around it to take that evening meal. The Saxons were wary of the Vikings with their pagan amulets, long hair and tattoos, but Vigdjarf, Reifnir and Dolgfinnr’s men all spoke Saxon with a Northumbrian accent and, once the Saxons realised that, there was no hostility between the defenders. Cyneric asked for the tale of Maldon, but Beornoth was reluctant to give it; he was a warrior not a skald or a skop and he had no desire to relive the pain of the battle, which took up so much of his thoughts already, without giving voice to it. Then, Dudda told what he knew, up to where he had run from the fight, and the fyrd men all listened to that tale and stared into the night, pondering the shame of their cowardice. So, Beornoth told them what had happened next. How he had fought beside the ealdorman against the dread Vikings and their vicious axes. He told them of the shield wall, and how the riverbank had run red with blood, and how the thegns of Essex had fought and died to the last man. Beornoth told them how the Jomsvikings had formed a wedge and killed Byrhtnoth. He spoke of when Sweyn Forkbeard, the war-king of the Danes, had come from the river dripping with water and savagery, and with wrath and fury had killed the Wessex men King Æthelred had sent to the fight.
‘Tomorrow we will face the man who led you away from the glorious field of battle,’ Beornoth told them, repeating what he had said to Dudda earlier. ‘When I rode to Maldon to retrieve Ealdorman Byrhtnoth’s body from the Vikings, they had cut off his head, and the heads of my friends, the thegns and warriors you left to die. They mounted those heads on the road to Maldon, with their eyes pecked out by crows and their naked bodies thrown in a midden heap, and not given a Christian burial. So, think on their fate this night, and let that anger give you strength when Godric and his ruffians arrive tomorrow. They have scoured your shire, and Godric has done his best to steal the dead ealdorman’s land and snatch Byrhtnoth’s daughter’s inheritance for himself. Byrhtnoth died for you, so that you would be protected from Viking blades, so that your wives and daughters would not be taken and turned into slaves. So, fight for him, and fight for me, and let us send Godric to hell where his stinking soul belongs.’
Beornoth slept well that night, even though he knew Godric would arrive the next day with his war band. He felt no fear, even though he was outnumbered. Beornoth was at Branoc’s Tree, which though it was not the place it had once been, still felt like home. He lay in the repaired hall, finally braving the ghosts of dead friends, and the smells of old feasts and roaring fires which still clung to the surviving rafters. Fresh rushes covered the floor, and Beornoth stood on the spot where Aethelberga, the one-time lady of Branoc’s Tree, had been killed by the Vikings. The ghosts left him alone that night, and visions of walking with Eawynn in her garden and of peace filled his dreams.
Morning came with a warm sun and a clear sky; a cock crowed the start of the day and Beornoth woke to the sound of birdsong. He walked the new walls and tested their strength. The timbers were well sunk into the earth, and the new makeshift palisade would serve well enough against Godric’s men, or so Beornoth hoped. The wall would not hold back an army of Vikings, but it would do. He stretched his stomach wound and kneaded away the stiffness in his leg and shoulder. His body owed him one more battle. The scars and knotted muscle would hold for one more day, he hoped. His hands were strong, and his heart was full, not just of vengeance and hate for Godric, but with pride. For people had come, and perhaps the world was not so bleak a place after all.
The defenders woke, and they continued their work, so that Branoc’s Tree rang with the sounds of axes and shovels, and the smell of freshly cut wood filled the air. Something strange happened that morning. People seemed to enjoy their work even though they knew enemies would come with blades and violence and that the day was to be filled with pain and death. They worked together, remembering what Essex had been like before the Vikings came and tore it apart with their sleek warships and brutal war skill. The people cheered when a fresh post was sunk into the earth and laughed when one fell, and three men sprawled in the mud. The orphans ran about the busy defenders, and Brand chased them around the walls barking like a dog, and everybody laughed loud and hearty. Beornoth smiled to see it, and the sense of being a people, of accomplishing something together, lifted the melancholy from his heart, but his eyes were on the distant tree-lined hills. He watched west for signs of the enemy and east for the signs of the warriors Thered had gone to fetch from Rettendon. If Godric came before Thered’s force, then there would be a great slaughter again at Branoc’s Tree, and as the joy of togetherness rang around the old burh, the sparks of fear glowed again like embers in Beornoth’s belly. He watched the abbess and her nuns and the barefooted children and wondered if his coming had condemned them all to death.
23
Riders appeared to the west mid-morning, three men on ponies who watched Branoc’s Tree until Brand and Sefna chased them off. They were Godric’s scouts, come to count the number of defenders and report back to their Lord Godric. Brand and Sefna returned on lathered horses flecked with white sweat and reported that Godric’s war band was on the march. Three hundred men crossed the shire, some on horseback and most on foot. They tramped through grazing pastures and furrowed fields, and a warm wind caressed the land from the west. Godric had the ten men of his hearth troop in mail and well-armed, along with a handful of thegns, and the rest were his masterless men, who came with their clubs, spears, axes and malice. Brand reckoned they would be at Branoc’s Tree by midday.
The defenders took a meal of salted pork and cheese, and Beornoth watched the western fields and hills waiting for Godric’s ragged war band to approach. Spear points wavered and their weapons clunked and clanked, attracting curious glances from the sheep and cows, but the first fighters to arrive came instead from the east and the folk inside Branoc’s Tree whooped for joy as a column of riders picked their way through the high pastures. Beornoth allowed his own heart to soar as a hunting horn blared from the column, loud and confident. At the head of those riders came Lady Ælfflæd, her hair whipped by the breeze and her chin held high and proud. Wuffa rode beside her with his spear held straight. Though he was surprised to see the lady riding with the warriors who had flocked to Rettendon, Beornoth was glad to see she had brought forty riders with good spears. Thered rode with the lady at the head of the column and raised his fist in salute. Forty spears to add to the numbers inside Branoc’s Tree. They were still vastly outnumbered, but Beornoth let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. He clutched the leather bindings and let hope build, for with these new men they could make a stand, and with luck it would be enough to wreak vengeance for the glorious dead of Maldon.
Lady Ælfflæd led the horses into a canter, and their hooves thundered the ground so that it felt as if an army of horsemen approached Branoc’s Tree. She took the fluttering red banner of Essex from one of her spearmen and held it high and proud, leading the riders in a wide arc towards Branoc’s Tree and the people inside the burh cheered and cried out with joy as though it were the greatest host in all England.
‘I told you I would raise warriors, Lord Beornoth,’ called Lady Ælfflæd as she brought her mare to a snorting, stomping halt. ‘And warriors I have brought.’
‘So, you have, my lady. And we are most thankful, but it is not safe here for you. There will be a fight today.’
‘I have been fighting my whole life. At least today I will see my enemy before me, rather than fearing the sharp tongue of a courtier at Winchester.’
Beornoth smiled at that truth, and he held her bridle as Lady Ælfflæd dismounted. But some of Beornoth’s hope died as her riders drew closer. Of the forty, ten at least were greybeards with veined hands clasped around their spears, another twenty were fyrd men on farm ponies or shaggy-hocked labour nags. But there were also the ten men of the lady’s personal guard, men who had served Byrhtnoth, and those men were warriors, well-armed with shields, spears and seaxes, and would be a strong addition to the defences. Beornoth smiled to see Thered returned, for he had been sure that the young ealdorman would have left for Northumbria in search of peace.
‘Thank you, Lady Ælfflæd,’ said Beornoth, and he bowed his head in respect. ‘Your husband would be proud.’
She smiled and walked to greet Abbess Agatha. The two women embraced warmly and Beornoth shook forearms with Thered as he climbed down from his horse.
‘They aren’t the sturdy band of warriors we had hoped for,’ said Thered. He shrugged as one of the old riders coughed and wheezed. ‘But many of the old ones were warriors once, and the fyrd men are eager to strike a blow for their dead ealdorman.’
‘They will do fine,’ lied Beornoth. ‘I thought you were returning to Northumbria?’
‘It’s not good riding weather,’ Thered said, and peered up at the clear blue sky with a wry grin. ‘So, I think I’ll go tomorrow.’
Beornoth laughed and pulled the young ealdorman into a bear hug. They slapped each other’s backs. He was glad that Thered would stay and fight. He might have had the spirit shaken out of him by the horrors at Maldon, but Thered was a stout fighter, and they would need his sword if the people at Branoc’s Tree were to survive the day.
‘What shall we do with the horses? There are too many here now to keep inside the new walls.’
‘We can use them, fetch your men and five of Lady Ælfflæd’s warriors,’ said Beornoth, and he called to Brand, Vigdjarf, Reifnir and Dolgfinnr. ‘Leave most of the men here, but get twenty on horses and armed with spears.’
‘It’s not the right time to go on a hunting trip, Beo?’ said Vigdjarf, and the others laughed.
‘It is if our prey is the enemy. We will ride out and attack their scouts. Harry as many as we can before they form a column.’
‘These are not warhorses, they won’t charge an enemy,’ said Thered. Which was true; it was an expensive business to breed and train a horse for war. Beornoth had owned such animals in his time, and they were magnificently brave beasts, huge and terrifying. But most horses would not charge a line of spears or a compact group of men. Beornoth’s horse Virtus would, but she was not a savage warhorse like his old horse Ealdorbana had been.
‘We don’t need to charge them. Just thin them out and get them angry before they get here. We go to pick a fight and kill as many of the bastards as we can before they reach Branoc’s Tree. I want Godric’s pride hurt. He fancies himself an ealdorman, picking at the bones of Maldon like a carrion bird. So, let’s make the bastard fight for it.’
‘Let’s go kill some Saxons, then,’ said Reifnir, and then shrugged apologetically at Beornoth and Thered.
Beornoth rode with his helmet on, not because he intended to be fighting at close quarters, but because with the cheekpieces it made him look more fearsome. He carried an ash-shafted aesc spear with a lead shaped blade, and Virtus cantered him across the green East Saxon fields. Each rider carried a spear and Beornoth led them towards where Brand and Sefna had last seen Godric’s scouts. Ornir’s great dog bounded along with them, and after the defeat at Hareswood, it felt good to take the fight to the enemy again. Beornoth rode with Brand and Thered whilst the rest of the riders peeled off in two companies, one skirting around to the north, and one to the south. Beornoth knew this land like the contours of Eawynn’s face. The land to the west of Branoc’s Tree formed a shallow valley, where two hills rose on either side of a meandering river. Those hills were topped with elm, oak, birch, ash, pine and hazel. The forests were thick enough to offer cover on the high ground, and so Beornoth sent riders there to wait, hidden from the enemy.
Six riders on hardy ponies rode alongside the river, and they kicked their mounts up the valley when they saw Beornoth’s three riders approaching. Their horses were the small, thick-haired animals common throughout Britain, less than fourteen hands, durable and useful for both riding and farm work. The riders spread out into a line; legs splayed over their mounts’ tubby bellies so that their heels stuck out like rudders on a ship. One man carried a bow, which to use whilst riding was a trick which took a lifetime to master and was the reason Sefna and Hrist had remained at Branoc’s Tree. Vigdjarf had worked through the night cutting and fletching arrows to fill their quivers, but neither could draw and loose effectively whilst riding so their arrows would be better loosed from the walls rather than wasted on horseback.
The riders came on, and Beornoth dug his heels into Virtus’ flanks and hauled on the reins so that the horse turned and bucked as though something spooked her.
‘What are you doing? You ride like you have never ridden a horse before,’ asked Brand. He crossed his arms and leaned over his horse’s neck, shaking his head at Beornoth.
‘Let them think we’re panicked. Do it,’ Beornoth said, and Brand laughed. He and Thered followed Beornoth’s example and brought their horses about in a circle whilst the six riders approached slowly. Beornoth, Thered and Brand shouted at one another as though in argument about what to do, whether to fight or flee, and the scouts spread out wider, grim-faced men with grizzled beards and hard eyes. The scouts let their horses amble across the field, and the animals’ rolling gate gave the scouts a menacing swagger. They wore woollen hoods and travel-stained jerkins with fur around collar and chest. They licked their lips like wolves, taking in the three warriors in their byrnies, with swords and Brand’s Viking axe. Beornoth, Brand and Thered looked like warriors in their fine war gear, and the scouts knew who Godric fought, so they would be wary. But they also knew the warrior caste, just as all common folk did. They knew that most lords and thegns were born to that position and inherited their fine byrnies and beautiful swords. On such men, expensive war gear was a decoration, a symbol of their status. On a Viking they were a signal of war glory and battle prowess, worn proudly by a man who had the strength to win his mail and weapons, and to keep them from those who would tear them away. The scouts scratched their chins and cocked their heads, wondering if the three men were gentle lords with soft hands and pudgy midriffs. A few thegns, and some lords, however, were lovers of battle and men to fear. The type of man who pushed his way to the front of the shield wall to trade blows with the dangerous men, someone who gloried in his reputation as a fighter and sought the biggest, most fierce warriors to fight and kill.
One scout said something which Beornoth couldn’t hear, and then spat contemptuously. The rest of the scouts laughed, and the bowman dragged a dirty feathered arrow from a quiver in his saddle and nocked it to his bow. The scouts had decided that the three inept riders were easy prey for expert horsemen such as themselves, and if they could kill Beornoth, Thered and Brand, they would become rich men with byrnies, a fine helmet and weapons fit for a lord. The scouts made a wide half-circle around Beornoth, and he shouted curses at Thered and Brand for them to run, and they shouted at their mounts in turn so that they looked like fools in panic on the hillside.
