The Lost Tales of Mercia (15 page)

From the smoke, the first black shapes of
the Viking army crawled towards them.

Hastings stood on the front line of the
Anglo-Saxon shield wall between the Vikings and their ships, along
with all of Ulfcytel’s bravest and strongest men. To be in such a
situation seemed to foretell certain death. He wondered how he had
ever come to be in such a ridiculous position, and even though the
truth was evident, it seemed as if suddenly he could not comprehend
it.

As soon as Ulfcytel had learned that Sweyn
had turned his fleet towards Thetford, despite having accepted the
East Anglians’ terms to sue for peace, he flew into a horrendous
rage. He yanked his short hair and nearly ripped off his tunic as
he imagined tearing his Danish enemies apart. He was quick to
renounce any notion of a Danegald, and declare that he would employ
almost any tactic necessary to keep the Vikings from encroaching
deeper into his lands.

Ulfcytel’s anger, however, seemed to cloud
his judgment. He did not immediately gather the fyrd as he should
have, assuming he would not have time. Instead he flung reason to
the wind and sent a small band of warriors to try and destroy the
Vikings’ ships while their inhabitants were on land. It was a nice
tactic in theory, of course, but Sweyn knew better to leave his
precious ships unattended, and the mission was an utter failure.
Rather than dealing the Viking king a severe blow, Ulfcytel only
managed to announce that he was on Sweyn’s trail.

Thus he had gathered what small army he
could in the time available and hurried further south. At last he
had decided to employ the Golden Cross’s advice, and used it to
arrange their current position, with all the best men forming the
front shield wall while the lesser soldiers protected the back. In
the worst case scenario some of Sweyn’s men guarding his ships
might leave their posts to strike Ulfcytel’s army from behind,
anyway. What tactics Ulfcytel utilized mattered little to Hastings,
as long as they worked. What mattered most, and what would also
please Aydith, was that Ulfcytel fought at all.

Now, Hastings wished he had never brought
the Golden Cross’s battle tactics in the first place, for they were
what now forced him to stand at the very front of the shield wall.
There would be nothing between him and the Viking army but a simple
piece of wood.

Sweyn’s men continued to pour through the
muddy field, some on horseback, most on foot, slow and leisurely
from their recent spoils. They were weighed down by stolen food,
gold, and slaves. But they did not seem to care. They did not even
hesitate as they came upon Ulfcytel’s army, but kept walking, as if
towards a shrub they could easily chop from their path.

Hastings hoped that the men around him could
not hear his teeth chattering. He did not consider himself to be a
coward. But how could he not be afraid when he knew for certain
that he would die today? He did not even consider himself to be
particularly afraid of death. But this was far from how he had ever
expected to die.

He had fought in skirmishes before, but he
had never fought a battle like this, and certainly not on the front
lines. He was not a typical fyrd-man: he was a retainer. A troop of
the noble house. A gesitha. A hearth companion. He fought to
protect those he cared about, those he swore fealty to, and for
them—for her—he would lay down his life. To die in a quick and
frantic clash such as this, his life snuffed out in a flare of
deaths, did not seem as meaningful to him. He wanted to look his
enemy in the eye. He wanted to see the gratefulness and love of
those he saved as he bled his life away. This was not how he wanted
to go.

At least he knew that Aydith would be proud
of him. It was not enough, but it was all he had. He tried to
imagine her face, certain he would never see it again.

It was hard to imagine someone so beautiful
and noble, however, as he watched the pagans advance. Some of the
warriors on foot were falling back, no doubt the ones weighed down
by their plundered goods, while those carrying nothing but axes and
spears moved forward. They began to form their own shield wall, the
well-known Viking formation, in which the shields were locked
tightly together, and the paint on them was so bright it was nearly
blinding. That was the purpose, of course: to distract the eye, and
to conceal the lines of the wood, so they would be harder to crack
apart.

“Second line, down!” yelled Ulfcytel.

The high reeve’s voice, so close and
thunderous, set Hastings’s heart pounding. Even Ulfcytel stood near
the front lines, only a few men away. When he had decided to heed
the Golden Cross’s scroll, he had not done so half-heartedly.

Per Ulfcytel’s instructions, the second row
of men crouched down. They did this for several reasons. Some would
poke at the Vikings’ feet with spears. Some would crawl through the
shields once a clearing was made and plunge directly into the
fighting. Better still, some would serve as a platform from which
the third row of men could step and jump over the shield wall. To
Hastings the idea seemed ridiculous, but some soldiers had
volunteered nonetheless, and Ulfcytel claimed that it would catch
the Danes by such surprise.

For a moment, the clattering of weapons and
scraping of locked shields filled Hastings’s ears as if no other
sound existed. But then something incredible happened, and the
shield wall became so silent that all Hastings heard instead was
the calm, steady breaths of his neighbors. The men were settled
now, forming what seemed an impenetrable barrier, as if not even an
earthquake would shake them.

“Hold,” said Ulfcytel, quietly now, for he
no longer needed to raise his voice.

Meanwhile the Vikings came closer and
closer, their faces either leering or emotionless. All of their
movements were so practiced they seemed without effort. And though
their arrangement did not appear orderly, inconsistent in movement
and formation, they nonetheless advanced as if a single beast,
knowing each other’s minds, connected by a single goal, unbarred by
fear.

“Advance,” said Ulfcytel.

The Vikings did not expect them to advance.
Even Hastings, who felt so secured by their solid formation, had
temporarily forgotten that this was part of the plan. When Hastings
began moving his legs, finding an unexpected harmony in the steps
of the entire shield wall, his heart surged with joy to see the
surprise on the Vikings’ faces. Most of them stopped, reconsidering
what to do. Their front lines wavered, some of the warriors bumping
into each other. A shield wall was meant to be a barrier. It was
not meant to move.

Then Hastings thought he saw Sweyn
Forkbeard, mounted on a horse and lurking within the haze of smoke.
The king of the Vikings wore glittering mail and so many weapons
that he seemed to have sharp steel points protruding from every
corner of his body. Hastings squinted, hoping to see the man’s
thick tufts of hair on either side of his mouth for which he was so
famous; and even if he could not see it, he imagined it, the forked
beard twisting as he scowled with rage.

Sweyn shouted in Danish, and whatever the
word was, it made all of his warriors rush forward at incredible
speed.

Hastings nearly froze with terror. But his
feet kept moving, for he had no choice.

In a jolt that smacked the bones of his arms
and overwhelmed his eardrums, the two armies clashed.

He moved instinctively, shifting his shield
up and down, shuffling his feet as the first Viking sword tried to
chop off his toes. Whether it was a wise battle tactic or not,
Hastings did not know, but he found that he survived his first
opponent by not looking him in the face at all, nor even staring
directly at his weapon. Instead his eyes remained forward, focused
on nothing and everything at the same time, and his body reacted
accordingly. He moved, blocked, thrust his shield forward, and
stabbed. Meanwhile he stayed aware of the man behind him, crouched
low and thrusting a spear around his legs. It would be all too easy
to slice himself against a friendly blade.

The dance of the shield wall was a complex
one. Just as he could not stare into his enemy’s face, he could not
ponder all the things he ought to be doing at once, or all of it
seemed too complicated. Instinct took over, so that he was little
more aware of what he did than a beast would be; and yet his
survival was at stake, so his body reacted dependably.

He held his shield in one arm and his sword
in the other, though often both arms were braced against the wood,
absorbing the blows of the enemy. He had to watch the men who
rushed forward with swords and axes, but he also had to watch for
the spears flying through the sky. As he blocked himself from an
axe at his fore, he glanced a spear descending on him from above.
In one fleeting moment he had to decide which part of himself to
protect. At last he decided to swipe his sword over his head,
knocking away the spear just in time.

The earth at his feet soon became squishy
with blood, and now as Ulfcytel’s army tried to push forward, they
nearly stumbled over the freshly injured. Some of the dying men
were their own, but sometimes it was hard to tell; Hastings, less
familiar with the faces of the East Anglian men, dared not kill
anyone still alive, lest it be an ally. Many of Ulfcytel’s men
compromised by taking the weapons and shields of the injured. This
served two purposes, for it robbed the enemies while reinforcing
their own supplies.

“Foist!” Ulfcytel’s voice rang over the
melee.

Hastings froze in a moment of panic, trying
to remember what he ought to do. He heard the sound of heavy boots
thundering behind him, and knew that these were the warriors who
would break into the front lines of the enemy. No doubt their
swords were already bared, and they would run him through if he did
not get out of their way. But if he moved too soon, he would expose
them to danger. So he watched the lines in front of him and he
listened to the shuffling behind him; and when the moment was
right, he swept himself to the side, arching his shield around
him.

“Now!” he screamed, and one of Ulfcytel’s
warriors rushed by, roaring with rage, chainmail and belt jangling
like a thousand bells. The tip of his sword seemed to graze by
Hastings’s ear, then plunge into a Viking’s chest. Above the sunken
sword, the enemy’s face became locked in a permanent expression of
surprise as death seeped into his body.

From one end of the shrinking shield wall to
the next, great warriors slipped through the openings, their swords
clanging in a cacophony against the Vikings’ axes, their spears
twirling about their bodies like barbed tornadoes. He wanted to
watch the strange phenomenon, the brave Anglo-Saxon warriors
throwing themselves fearlessly into the heat of the battle, the
Vikings scurrying in confusion. It was like nothing he had seen
before.

He knew better than to keep watching, but he
could not help himself; and of a sudden, he felt a jolt go through
his arms as if his bones were shattering.

It was not his bones that shattered,
however. It was his shield. In a spray of splinters, the wood
cracked and ripped apart. Hastings watched in horror as the edge of
a Viking’s axe worked its way from the wooden wreckage, then rose
up again, ready to split Hastings’s unprotected body just as
easily.

Hastings dodged aside, twirling his sword
like a madman. He made another mistake, and looked his opponent in
the face. The man had a blood-speckled beard, and smoke lurked in
his eyes like storm-clouds; but worst of all, he wore a sneer, and
it filled Hastings’s heart with dread. He realized that the Dane
had achieved two victories at once, for by breaking Hastings’s
shield, he had created a vulnerability in the shield wall, and that
vulnerability was Hastings.

He considered for a moment what to do. He
realized that his opponent had no reason to kill him immediately;
the longer he stood there, shield-less and petrified, the more time
he gave the Vikings’ friends a chance to gather around him, then
force their way through him and into the heart of the Anglo-Saxon
army. They were already collecting in a chainmailed bundle,
prepared to run him over.

There was only one thing to do. Hastings had
become a weakness in the shield wall. He had to remove himself.

He tried to picture Aydith again. He hoped
she would be proud of him. He imagined her gratefulness and love,
as he would no longer be alive to see it.

He screamed and leapt forward, into the
writhing mass of Viking warriors.

“Aaaydiiith!” he cried.

And behind him, the shield wall closed
itself, never to let him in again.

*

Pain became a nightmare from which he could
not wake.

When he slept, he remembered the events of
the battle as if they were still happening. He tasted someone
else’s blood as it splashed into his mouth. He saw steel flashing
everywhere: in the smoke covered sun, in the sparks of remaining
fires, in the eyes of his enemies. He felt his chainmail digging
into his skin, bruising and smothering him. He heard the crack of
his own ribs as the blunt of a Viking axe struck him in the chest,
knocking out his breath so that he could not even yell.

He groaned, trying to awake, but the reality
was even worse. He winced with every breath, which only made him
struggle to inhale more deeply, and that hurt all the more. He
tried to open his eyes, but one of them was swollen, warping his
vision. He saw through a purple, throbbing haze, and it seemed as
if he was still in a nightmare. Despite all that, the room around
him was painfully bright. A fire blazed nearby, so hot that his
skin itched, and the flames seemed to lick all the sweat from his
body. He could not remember the last time he’d had something to
drink.