Fire & Steel (24 page)

Eofer searched the second rank and found a familiar face peering from beneath a dome of hardened leather. Stabbing out a finger he called a question to his ceorl. “Dægwulf, did I ever make you a promise?” The man smiled cheerfully, honoured to be chosen from among the sea of faces by his lord. “Yes, lord. I came to you for help when an old wolf was taking my lambs. You promised that the wolf would die and I had its pelt within the week.”

His finger moved on and he called out another. “Beada, how about you?” The man stood taller as faces turned his way and he answered proudly. “You promised to come to my daughter's wedding, lord. You showed me honour by bringing your wife and son along with fine gifts.” Eofer snorted at the memory. “It was a good day,” he chuckled. “It was the day that Osbeorn fell in the piss trench and we had to form a chain and haul him out as I recall.” The men of the war-band laughed and Osbeorn took a bow as faces turned his way.

“How is Æda?” Eofer asked.

“With bairn, lord,” Beada beamed as those around him slapped his back and wished them well.

“Then your grandson and my son will fight together when we are grey beards and warming our old bones beside the hearth, carving out a land for the Engle in Britain and keeping us old folk safe from Welsh spears!”

Eofer called out as he swept the gathering with his spear. “Ask any man here who knows me and they will tell you that I am a man of my word, and my word today says that we will still hold this place of slaughter when Shining Mane gallops down in the West. These men,” he called as he pointed to the front rank, “are not known as doughty men for nothing. They are the wall upon which the enemy tide will dash itself to pieces. Men of the fyrd, keep your shield straight and your head up. Mark your foe as he comes within range and strike firmly with your spear. Remember how we practised at the muster, feet anchored to the earth and shoulder to shoulder. Remain steadfast and we will take the day.”

A chorus of war horns split the air and Eofer looked back to see that the Jutish horsemen had finally clustered into some semblance of order. Beyond, the gaudy banners and draco battle-standards of the enemy hung limp in the shelter of the trees which surrounded them as the warriors there clashed spears against shields and their chants filled the air.

As the flags were dipped to herald the attack and the horses moved forward, Eofer exchanged a nod with Penda and took his place beneath the white dragon.

TWENTY-FIVE

“How many do you have left?”

Spearhafoc tipped the rim of her quiver forward and pulled a face. “Five, lord.”

Eofer plucked at her sleeve and led her to the highest point of the rise. “One will be enough, hawk eye.”

The youth allowed herself a small smile at the compliment, as the eorle placed his hand on her shoulder and turned her bodily towards the horsemen. As the only female in the raiding force she was always on her guard against what she knew were unjust taunts or ridicule, but she also knew that her lord valued her abilities and fighting spirit and a word of praise from the king slayer was always enough to scrub the scowl from her face.

“You see the big man on the dun coloured gelding? The one with the axe head painted on his shield?”

Spearhafoc ran her eyes across the circling horses until she had him. “Yes, lord.”

Eofer lowered his head to her level and raised his voice above the din of battle. “Watch as he comes around again.”

The attack had begun as soon as he had regained his position on the high ground. Sweeping down on the beleaguered English force, the riders had drawn up just beyond spear throw and cried their challenges. As the main army echoed their cries at the head of the clearing the horsemen had turned to canter along the front of the English shield wall, releasing their own daroth before looping back in a great circle. As the riders came back around they prepared the next throwing spear, the impetus of their ride and the raised position of the riders adding greatly to the distance and power of the throw. Although the darts had only found a home in English wood, the constant need to throw the big boards in the way of each missile was wearing on the man and damaging to the shield, the barbed heads often puncturing the boards and proving difficult to dislodge. With the main attackers already moving down the field, they may not have enough time to chop the shafts from the board face before the final charge crashed into them. Eofer knew that the inability to strike back at their tormentors would sap the spirit of the men of the fyrd, he had to find a way to take a small victory from the situation. The pair watched as the Jute reached the end of the line and tugged at his reins to bring the horse back around for another attack. Eofer stabbed out a finger. “There!”

The youth gave a grim smile as she understood immediately what her lord wanted from her. Lulled into a sense of complacency by the lack of opposition, this rider had become slapdash with his own defence. It would cost him his life.

Fitting an arrow to her bow the Briton watched as the warrior lowered his shield once again, thundering along the front line as he marked his target and released. She flicked a look up and gave a slight nod as Eofer moved away to give her room to take the shot. Curling her fingers around the bowstring she held the yew stave low as her eyes remained fixed on the target. The warrior released and his shield snapped back up as he cantered along the English line and arced back to the West. Spearhafoc calmed her breathing and raised the bow as the Jute reached the turning point. Bringing the sinew up to crease her lips, the youth tracked the man's head as he swept back around. At the same spot as before the shield slipped down once again as he searched for a target for his next missile. Spearhavoc released the string with a soft grunt and the arrow sped away. Eofer stepped back in and together the pair watched as the dart dipped below the level of the rider's helm to punch into the gap beside the nasal, the point bursting from the back of the Jute's head a heartbeat later in a mist of crimson.

Eofer and the duguth cried out as the Jute's hand flew to his face and the horse, no longer under control, bolted across the front of the English position. Despite his terrible wound it was clear that the man was still alive as he tumbled from the horse's back and jounced along the grass at the feet of the delighted English.

As the men of both sides looked on a salient appeared in the English shield wall, reaching forward like a great steel hand to envelop the agonised victim, and the
here
roared their defiance as spear butts rose and fell and the man was sent to the gods.

Whether it was in response to witnessing their hearth companion stuck like a boar or not, the death of the rider seemed to be the signal for the horsemen to disengage and wheel away. The army of the Jutes, led by their king, were approaching the dark scab which only hours before had been the magnificent hall of one of his leading jarls, the blackened timbers littering the ground like the bones of a long-dead giant. The meadow shelved gently at that point and Eofer and his men watched as the Jutes dressed their ranks and prepared for their charge. Free from the confines of the trees which pressed about the head of the clearing the enemy battle banners unfurled in the breeze, and the sunlight slanted in to pick out the cold glint of shield bosses and the freshly honed blades of spears and axes. Flags and draco of red, gold and green streamed away to the West as the great white horse hildbeacn
of Juteland flew proudly at the centre.

The pause had allowed the men of the English front line to hack at shafts and tease out the spearheads from their shields, and Eofer watched as they reformed and brought their boards together with a clatter. Englishmen began to answer their tormentors, singly at first, but soon the air around them resounded to their own war cries, curses and insults as they checked their stance, their weapons; wiping the war-sweat from their palms for the hundredth time that morning.

A quick look towards the North told him that, although the men there were still not in contact with the enemy from the town, large numbers of them had crowded onto the causeway headed by a knot of seasoned warriors. It was obvious that they were awaiting the main attack to launch their own and Eofer ordered the nearest men of the fyrd onto the causeway to support Penda's men there. If nothing else they would be able to lend solidity to the position if, as he suspected, it did turn into a savage pushing match. Should the men break or be overwhelmed, the Jutes would fall on their unprotected rear, pouring into the position in an unstoppable tide.

From the high point of the roadway, Eofer ran an experienced eye over his dispositions as the clamour opposite rose to a crescendo and the Jutes, confident in their numbers, prepared to reap a grim harvest of English bodies.

The entire
here
was set and waiting to receive the charge. Penda stood tall beneath the plumes of his boar helm at the centre, flanked by his chosen men, an armoured fist itching to strike. Other men of his father's hearth troop shone like newly driven nails among the russet colours of the fyrdmen as they sought to stiffen the more useful looking or experienced ceorls who made up the remainder of the front rank. Each man there, grim faced and resolute beneath helm of steel or leather cap, gripping his spear and taking comfort from the press of his neighbour. More fyrdmen backed these up, the line thickening at the points which could be expected to come under the most sustained and ferocious attack, the centre and flanks.

With a further force filling the first fifty yards of the causeway to their rear, a gap had opened up between both fronts which would enable the eorle to lead the men of his own troop quickly across, hopefully snuffing out any signs of an enemy breakthrough before things became critical.

Satisfied he had done all that he could, Eofer glanced back to the front just as a great roar rent the air and the Jutes came on.

The charge quickly developed into all that Eofer hoped it would be. Made overconfident by their weight of numbers and a night spent at their ale, the Jutes had worked themselves into a frenzy of retribution when they had paused alongside the charred remains of Jarl Wictgils' hall. The bodies of the scouts and their horses still remained where they lay from the fighting the previous evening and Eofer had watched as Jarl Heorogar led his men across to witness the lacerated remains of his kinsman. Wictgils had been finished off by those within the English ranks who had most reason to hate the man, those coerls who had lost property and kin themselves in the Danish raids of the previous autumn, and Eofer was sure that the man could only have been recognised by the quality of those clothes which remained after the mail and weapons had been stripped from him by eager hands.

All sense of order quickly dissipated as the Jutes came on at their best pace and within a few steps the order of the shield wall, so carefully aligned and ordered only moments before, had degenerated into a ragged mass of individuals as the fastest and keenest pulled ahead. At the front of the English position a hundred shafts of ash, their silvered tips flaming as they caught the morning light, pushed proud of the wall as Penda as his men prepared to meet the onslaught. As the first of the enemy reached the foot of the slope and began to scale the camber towards them, Eofer watched as Penda raised his spear and let it drop back into position. It was the sign to those in the rear ranks to let go their daroth, and the eorle watched with satisfaction as the fyrdmen launched the slender javelins over the heads of their companions. The darts arced over and fell among the charging men just as the bottoming out of the slope robbed them of some of their momentum, and a score of them fell to litter the path of those who followed close behind.

The Jutes pushed on and the dark mass of men surged up to the English wall, sweeping out to either flank in a silver flecked tide as the defenders braced and stabbed.

Hemming began to throw his lord anxious glances as he itched to get among the fighting, but, despite the chaotic scrum of the Jute attack, Eofer hesitated. Chewing his lip as he thought, he gave his weorthman a slight shake of his head as his eyes scanned the battlefield.

King Osea had planted his banner opposite the English dragon and surrounded himself with the men of his bodyguard. The gesithas had formed a wall of lime and steel around their lord and Eofer watched as the war banners of the jarls moved out to the flanks, but it was becoming clearer by the moment that the best of the Jutish warriors were being held back from the fighting. Suddenly the flag of Jarl Heorogar peeled away and hurried off towards the river, and Eofer drew Gleaming as the main thrust of the attack revealed itself.

“Oswin,” he snapped out as the men followed his example. “Stand at my shoulder but don't get in our way.” He flashed the youth a wink of encouragement. “We may be busy.” The attack developed at lightning speed and Eofer addressed the men, his voice a snarl, as he prepared to counter-attack. “Isolate the jarl. I want him!”

As they rushed down from the roadway, Eofer could see that the Jutes had already slammed into the flank of the English shield wall, pushing it back as the warriors there desperately threw themselves bodily into their shields and their feet scrabbled at the turf. There was no time to call the English battle-cry,
out…out…out
, and the men of Eofer's troop tumbled down the slope bellowing the first cries which came into their heads.

Eofer threw his shoulder into his shield as Hemming and Imma Gold moved to his flanks, and within a heartbeat they had come up to the rear of the English line. A young lad turned and ran past them, his face little more than a gaping maw where his lower jaw had been only moments before, the horror of his plight screaming in his eyes.

The leading enemy warrior was only moments away from breaking the wall, and the thegn fixed his gaze upon him as he threw his shoulder into the boards of his shield and crashed into the rear ranks of the defenders. The men there, unaware of his approach and already desperately trying to push back the attack which threatened to overwhelm their position were shoved aside as Eofer, sword raised, shield braced, pushed towards the blood-crazed Jute. A big man, made even larger by the pelt of a brown bear which hung at his shoulders, the enemy warrior was scything his blade in a deadly arc, cutting his way through the English flank as the Jutes hugged the riverbank and sought to end the battle quickly by rolling up the position from the West.

Within the wedge the Jutes fought with all the fury of Woden himself, slashing and hacking as Penda's hearth men and farmers were pushed back in confusion. The line buckled inwards and Eofer saw to his horror that it was a heartbeat away from bursting open like an overripe fruit, spilling death and defeat into the heart of the position. As he reached the fighting and threw himself bodily into the breach, fyrdmen scattered before him as the eorle powered Gleaming down with all of his might, driving his helm into the face of the bear-warrior with a sickening crunch. As his ancestral blade bit deeply into unseen flesh, the eorle dug in his heels and drove the stunned ord back. He stole a look as a gap appeared between them and was gratified to see the man's face had been transformed into a mash of blood and broken teeth by his strike. Before the big Jute could recover his balance the English thegn was upon him. Lifting the point of the sword, he drove the blade upwards towards the face of the reeling Jute. To his astonishment the man saw the strike coming and twisted his head away as the blade skimmed his face and up, but Hemming was there to thrust his own sword into the warrior's groin before shoulder-barging him aside and moving past them with a yell. The bear-man clutched at Eofer's mail as he fell, but he kneed him aside and moved on in the knowledge that Octa, a heartbeat behind him, would finish him off.

Eofer saw a face bob into his vision and he hacked down with his blade, but the press of bodies was growing and the power was squeezed from the blow. Gleaming bit down into the Jute's shoulder but the mail held, and the next moment the enemy warrior had whipped up his shield in defence. Eofer winced in pain as the steel bound rim of the board struck his wrist with a sickening crack, knocking Gleaming from his grip. Unable to draw his seax in the mad scrum, the eorle reached out and clutched desperately at his opponent as his sword hand fished desperately for the hilt. As the fingers of his left hand clawed at the snotty wetness of the Jute's face and stabbed at his eyes, his right inched down the lanyard which led from his wrist to the hilt, and his heart leapt as his fingers closed around it. His nails had done their work, and a gap opened up as the Jute took a pace back. Eofer moved forward, driving the hilt of his sword up into the man's jaw again and again as the bone splintered and teeth showered the air.