Nightfall till Daybreak (The Kingdom of the East Angles Book 2) (20 page)

I shouldn’t have brought him here. He’s too young
to watch this.

And yet, Hereric’s face was composed. His eyes looked as if
they belonged to someone much older. Freya knew little of Hereric’s life before
he became the king’s
theow
. Only that his mother had also been a slave,
who had been raped by one of the king’s
thegns
. She had died of a fever
when her son was tiny. Hereric had grown up in slavery and had been kicked like
a dog far too many times in his short life. He would handle this much better
than her, Freya realized.

Freya looked back at the two armies, in time to see a huge man
atop a shaggy bay warhorse ride up and down the Mercian lines. He stood up on
his stirrups and bellowed at his army, the great sword he wielded flashing in
the sunlight. He wore an iron helmet that obscured his face. This must be the
infamous Penda: the Mercian warmonger. Even from this distance he looked
terrifying and Freya crouched lower against the tree trunk in response, despite
that she knew he could not see her. In front of the East Anglian line, Ecgric
rode his black stallion along his lines, employing the same tactic; only his
lack of charisma and commanding presence were woefully evident. Penda’s
warriors roared as their leader galloped past. Ecgric’s men were painfully
silent.

After a while, both kings retreated behind the lines and the
armies advanced to close quarters. Each army appeared a living entity, rather
than a crowd of men, as they edged closer like two giant caterpillars. 

The start of the battle, when it came, was almost a relief
after the breathless waiting. It fell swiftly in a hammer blow. One moment the
two shield walls were facing each other, the next a battle cry echoed across
Barrow Fields. Penda’s shield-wall advanced. Arrows, javelins, axes and rocks
flew.

The two shield-walls collided with a terrific crunch.

Chapter
Twenty-one

Shield to shield, the Mercian and East Anglian armies pushed
against each other in an attempt to break the enemy line. Aidan kept his head
tucked in and down as arrows flew overhead and peppered the shields behind him.
A rock glanced off his shoulder and he narrowly missed being gored when a spear
found a gap between his shield and that belonging to the warrior beside him,
and jabbed viciously.

The roar of men’s voices was almost deafening; the air was
rank with the smell of blood, sweat and fear. Somewhere in the midst of it, the
fire of battle caught alight in his veins. He slammed his foot down on the
protruding spear and rammed his shield against his attacker. Then he thrust his
own spear through the gap. A strangled cry reached him. When he twisted his
spear and pulled it back, it was coated in blood.

The shield-wall buckled and strained; it was a vain attempt to
hold back the tide but the warriors who made up that first line made a valiant
and prolonged effort to keep the Mercians at bay. Sweat streamed down Aidan’s
face; the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders burned from the effort it was
taking to keep his shield up.

When the East Anglian shield-wall finally broke, all hell
broke loose. The warrior on Aidan’s right fell with a spear through the chest,
as did the man to his left.

The shield-wall shattered like leaves in the wind.

The Mercians fell upon them, howling. Aidan slammed his shield
against a warrior who was coming straight for him and gored him with his spear.
The warrior crumpled screaming, but Aidan barely had time to draw breath before
another man replaced him. As he fought, Aidan caught glimpses of his
surroundings. To his left, he saw Sigeberht. Incredibly, he was still alive,
although his staff was about half the length it had been before the battle.
Further on, again to his left, he saw Annan, howling the Wuffinga battle cry as
he swung his sword with deadly precision. To his right, Aidan caught a glimpse
of Lothar. The Frank fought like a berserker. He howled as he cut down Mercians
like barley stalks.

There was no sign of Ecgric; Aidan imagined he was cowering
somewhere at the back of the army – whereas Penda was right out front. He was a
fell, terrifying sight in his blood-splattered iron helmet and gleaming
breastplate. He had either left his horse behind, or had lost it in the battle.
On foot, he moved with surprising grace for such a big man. He roared like a
stag with each stroke of his sword.

Aidan saw the moment Penda spotted Sigeberht and came for him
in great strides – cutting down man after man who tried to block his path. In
the meantime, Aidan was forced to turn his attention fully to defending himself
from a crazed axeman. Only his nimbleness and skill with a spear saved his
life. He had just driven his spear through his opponent’s neck and was ripping
it free when he saw Penda drive his sword through Sigeberht’s chest.

The king fell to his knees before he crumpled to one side.
Penda withdrew his sword, kicked Sigeberht aside, and headed towards Annan.

Aidan felt pain lance through his side as a spear sliced
through his leather armor and nicked his ribs. In response, he smashed his
shield into his assailant’s face, reducing it to a bloody pulp before he
finished him off.

Then, to his right, he saw Lothar fall.

His friend had looked invincible, as formidable a warrior as
Penda himself. Then a hand-axe hurtled through the air and caught him in the
throat. Lothar dropped his axe and fell clutching his bleeding neck.

Raw grief ripped through Aidan. It was a lance of pure agony,
as if he had just been stabbed.

Not Lothar.

Aidan had never doubted that Lothar would survive this, even
if the rest of them fell.

Lothar had so much to live for.

Grief turned Aidan savage. He threw aside his spear, retrieved
a fallen sword from beside one of the dead East Anglian ealdormen, and
unleashed himself on the enemy in a killing rage.

The only thing that stopped him was the dull, meaty thud of an
arrow piercing his left shoulder. He staggered back and another arrow hit him,
just below the first. Then a sharp, blinding pain to the back of his head
obliterated everything else. Aidan fell forward and knew no more.

***

Shortly after the battle started, Freya could bear to look
upon it no more. She left Hereric to gape, wide-eyed and ashen, while she
turned from the carnage and sat with her back against the old elm. She stared
out at the woodland and covered her ears with her hands. Yet, it barely muffled
the din. The sound of iron, pain and death echoed inside her skull.

Somewhere, Aidan was in the midst of it, fighting to stay
alive. Before the battle, Freya had felt hope that he may survive but now, as
the chilling screams of dying men seeped past her fingers and stabbed at her
ears, she felt increasing waves of hopelessness wash over her.

How could Aidan survive this? How could anyone? Freya rested
her forehead on her knees and eventually let the tears come.

Eventually, the sounds of battle dimmed. It was gradual, but
when Hereric began to pluck at Freya’s skirt, the roar had been replaced with
the muffled sounds of the dying.

“It’s over,” Hereric told her, his cheeks streaked with tears.
“The Mercians have won.”

Freya turned numbly and braced herself to look out onto the
devastation.

It was worse than she had expected – a blanket of bodies
strewn, broken and impaled over the field. The light was starting to fade. It
was late afternoon; the battle had begun just after noon. The East Angles had
defended themselves well, but in the end the Mercians had been too many.

“Look!” Hereric hissed, pointing to where a handful of injured
men were being dragged west towards the Mercian encampment. “There are some
survivors. They’re taking them prisoner.”

Freya craned her neck and struggled to make out the features
of the survivors. There was one man, tall and blond, who stood out from the
rest but he was not close enough for her to recognize his face. It was
impossible to make out the faces of the others. Could Aidan be among them?
Despite their injuries, the men fought their captors as they were dragged from
the battlefield. One of the men received a spear through his belly for the
trouble and was left to die while the others were taken away.

“We need to go and search the field,” Hereric refused to take
his gaze off the dead. “Maybe Sigeberht or Aidan are alive?”

“We need to wait till the Mercians have gone,” Freya replied,
trying to prevent her voice from trembling. She was not sure she could go out
there and walk amongst that carnage; although if she wanted to know Aidan’s
fate she would have to. “‘Tis not long till nightfall and they are exhausted.
I’d wager that they’ll be back tomorrow morning to loot the dead. We should
have some time before it gets dark.”

Hereric nodded and was just about to suggest something when a
rustling in the undergrowth behind them, made both woman and boy start.

“Get behind me Hereric,” Freya hissed, drawing the knife she
had taken from the store. Silently, the boy obeyed.

There was another sound, the cracking of someone stepping on a
dry twig, before a tussled blond head appeared from the bushes.

“Edwin!” Freya’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs with
relief. “You nearly frightened us both to death!”

The boy slowly got to his feet, wincing as a bramble snagged
his arm. He moved forward, his gaze widening when he caught a glimpse of the
battlefield behind Freya and Hereric.

“Why are you here?” Freya asked, although she regretted the
words as soon as she had said them. What a foolish question – it was obvious
why he was here.

“I couldn’t stay behind,” he said quietly, his eyes brimming
with tears. “I had to see if my father and brothers have lived. I must know
what happened to them.”

Dusk settled across Barrow Fields in a grey haze and tendrils
of white mist snaked across the ground, forming a welcome veil for the three
figures that crept out of the woods and hurried across to where the dead lay.

Freya glanced nervously over her left shoulder to where the
fires from the Mercian encampment glowed in the distance – pale orange through
the fog. They would not be able to linger here or they would be spotted.

The three companions fanned out and began to comb the center
of the field, with the intention of moving gradually east. Nausea rose in
Freya. The ground was slippery with gore; the earth stained dark with blood.
The smell of death was metallic and ripe. It was the smell of a slaughterhouse.

It was Hereric who found Sigeberht. He lay on his side, his
eyes sightless, his chest covered in blood. The boy began to sniff as Freya and
Edwin approached him; Sigeberht had always treated the young slave kindly and
Hereric had worshipped him.

Forcing themselves on, stumbling as they reeled at the horror
of it all, Freya, Hereric and Edwin continued combing the battlefield. During
the course of their search they found Aldwulf, Lothar and many others – all
dead.

Edwin found his father, Bercthun, and his four brothers – all
slain. Edwin crouched over his father, weeping, while Hereric sat by his side
in silent solace. Meanwhile, Freya continued to search the dead, moving
gradually east. Aidan was nowhere to be found. Eventually, she found Ecgric. He
was far from the front lines, next to the corpse of his regal black stallion
and his ever-faithful Oeric. Ecgric lay on his front with an axe embedded
between his shoulder blades – almost as if he had been fleeing when the end
came.

Freya reached the end of the field, but there was still no
sign of Aidan. Maybe he had been among the survivors after all. Or perhaps she
had missed him. Visibility was poor and getting worse by the moment. The mist
wreathed like probing fingers. She returned to the boys and helped Edwin to his
feet.

“Come,” she whispered. “We must go now.”

They were crossing the center of the field, making their way
back towards the woods, when Freya spied a man pinned under the corpse of a
huge warrior. Intuition needled at her. She left the boys and sidled round to
get a closer look. There, she saw a shock of shaggy jet black hair.

Freya’s stomach clenched.

She had only ever seen one man with hair that shade.

“Help me,” she motioned to the boys. “I think Aidan is under
here.”

Hereric and Edwin hurried back and, together, the three of
them heaved the corpse of the Mercian axeman off the man beneath.

It was Aidan. Freya’s first thought was that he was dead.

He lay on his front. The back of his head was a matt of hair
and blood and she could see the points of two arrows sticking out of his left
shoulder. They gently rolled him over and Freya knelt at his side, fearing the
worst.

“He’s alive!” Hereric hissed. “Look, his chest is moving!”

All three of them stared at Aidan’s ribs. There, they saw the
shallow rise and fall. Hardly daring to believe her eyes, Freya reached down
and felt for his pulse. His skin was warm and his pulse was easy to find,
although not strong as he had obviously lost a lot of blood.

Freya glanced over her shoulder at the Mercian encampment and
saw the lights of torches slowly approaching. The enemy was not going to wait
till daybreak to search for spoils after all.

“Help me carry him,” Freya urged. “We must get off this field
now.”

Unspeaking, the boys nodded and, together, they lifted Aidan’s
prostrate form off the ground. Stumbling over the dead in their haste, they
carried him into the woods.