Storm of war, p.1
Storm of War, page 1
STORM OF WAR
PETER GIBBONS
Byrhtnōð mid beornum; hē mid bordum hēt
wyrċan þone wīhagan and þæt werod healdan
fæste wið fēondum. Þā wæs feohte nēh
tīr æt ġetohte. Wæs sēo tīd cumen
þæt þǣr fǣġe men feallan sceoldon.
Þǣr wearð hrēam āhafen. Hremmas wundon,
earn ǣses ġeorn. Wæs on eorþan ċyrm.
Byrhtnoth and his men, ready and waiting: he ordered them
To make the battle fence formation with their shields and
hold it
Firmly against their enemies. Then it was near to fighting,
glory in battle. The time had come
when fated men must fall.
A clamour was raised, ravens circled,
eagle ready for carrion; on earth there was noise.
AN EXCERPT FROM ‘THE BATTLE OF MALDON’, AN ANGLO-SAXON POEM WRITTEN TO CELEBRATE THE BATTLE FOUGHT AT MALDON IN 991AD
CONTENTS
Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
Historical Note
More from Peter Gibbons
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
GLOSSARY
Burh A fortification designed by Alfred the Great to protect against Viking incursions
Byrnie Saxon word for a coat of chainmail
Danelaw The part of England ruled by the Vikings from 865AD
Drakkar A type of Viking Warship
Ealdorman The leader of a shire of the English Kingdom, second in rank only to the King
Einherjar Vikings who have died in battle and have ascended to Valhalla
Heriot The weapons, land and trappings of a Thegn or other noble person, granted to him by his Lord and which becomes his will or inheritance
Hide An area of land large enough to support one family. A measure used for assessing areas of land
Holmgang A ritualised duel common amongst Viking peoples
Njorth The Viking Sea God
Odin The father of the Viking Gods
Ragnarök The end of days battle where the Viking Gods will battle Loki and his monster brood
Reeve Administer of justice ranking below a Thegn
Seax A short, single-edged sword with the blade angled towards the point
Snekke A type of Viking Warship, smaller than a drakkar
Thegn Owner of five hides of land, a church and kitchen, a bell house and a castle gate, who is obligated to fight for his Lord when called upon
Thor The Viking Thunder God
Týr The Viking War God
Valhalla Odin’s great hall where he gathers dead warriors to fight for him at Ragnarök
Vik Part of Viking Age Norway
Weregild Compensation to be paid, for example to the family of a person who has been killed
Witanagemot Meeting of the Kings Council
1
990AD
Beornoth was hunting Vikings. It was a still day in early summer. There had been a chill to the morning, but now the sun broke through patches of milky cloud to warm Beornoth’s neck. He listened to a sparrow’s call in the trees and nudged his warhorse forward to the edge of the rise. His leather saddle and belt creaked as the horse plodded forward, nodding its head and snorting into the leaf mulch beneath its hooves. Beornoth patted the horse’s muscled neck and leant forward to scratch his ear.
‘It’s quiet, Lord, no smoke or screams,’ said Alfgar. The young warrior stood next to Beornoth holding a spear and shield and peering over the lip of the forest’s edge where it fell away into a steep slope thick with brown and green bracken.
‘It’s because we are too late. The damage here is done,’ said Beornoth, sighing heavily.
Beornoth waited at the edge of a copse, looking down into a shallow valley. The Vikings had landed a half-day march away on the coast, having sailed their fleet of fifty warships from their base in the broad estuary of the River Severn, which separated the shire of Somerset in Wessex from the headlands of Glywysing in Gwent, home of the Welsh. At the bottom of the valley and nestled between fields of ripening green crops was a village of five wattle buildings topped with damp grey thatch.
‘I can see movement down there.’ Alfgar pointed his bright spear towards the village, where armed men milled around the buildings with the ease that comes from the confidence of safety. But the men down there were not safe. They were as unsafe as the West Saxon villagers of that place had been before the Northmen had come to their homes with axes, hunger, vicious greed. The Northmen were not safe because Beornoth had come for them. They were Vikings and felt secure in the cloak of their army, which had landed in the River Parrett north of Athelney a week earlier. With so many ships the Viking fleet would be two thousand warriors strong, but this village contained only a handful of raiders. The Northmen swaggered through the captured village, villagers either fled or taken as slaves, gathering whatever valuables they could find. Beornoth’s tongue poked around the gap in his teeth where an arrow had punched through his face years earlier. He watched the Northmen and their confidence angered him. He imagined them laughing at the West Saxons and their weakness, at how simple it had been to land their fleet and strike into the lush countryside to take whatever they wished. And it had been easy, until now. The Ealdorman of Somerset had sent urgent word to King Æthelred that the Viking army plagued his lands, and King Æthelred, alarmed at the size of the enemy force, had sent word to Ealdorman Byrhtnoth of Essex to bring his men, his Viking killers, to Somerset and expel the cursed heathen force. King Æthelred II ruled over the English from his seat at Winchester, and had done so since he was twelve years old. He was a descendant of Alfred the Great, a King of the House of Wessex, and the Ealdormen from Northumbria to Cornwall were sworn to his service. Beornoth had been summoned from his home at Branoc’s Tree, and had brought his warriors to join with Byrhtnoth’s hearth troop to march west. Beornoth was a Thegn of the East Saxons, and Byrhtnoth was his Ealdorman. That had been three days ago.
‘Take the spearmen and follow the treeline north,’ said Beornoth. ‘Come down into the valley along that line of hedge. I will wait until the sun is above me and will meet you in the village.’
‘You will ride alone?’ asked Alfgar.
‘Just me and Wulfhere.’
‘Should we not wait for Ealdorman Byrhtnoth?’
‘He rides west to join Somerset’s fyrd, so we bring two shires’ worth of warriors to the fight. We will punish the bastards here first, and then we will join him.’
‘But Lord…’ Alfgar started, but then noticed Beornoth’s frown and nodded his understanding of the order. Alfgar barked a command and twenty spearmen followed him at a quick marching pace, their boots rustling in the undergrowth.
Beornoth waited until the sun had shifted in the sky, and until Alfgar and his spearmen filed down the thick strip of briar hedging which ran from the valley peak opposite him and down into the village itself to separate a pasture from a field filled with bright yellow rapeseed. He clicked his tongue and his warhorse, Ealdorbana, picked its way down the hillside. Ealdorbana meant ‘life destroyer’, and the name was fitting because he was the largest warhorse Beornoth had ever seen. He was every bit as brutal as his rider, and trained for war. Blood and weapons would not frighten the animal, and nor would the noise and terror of battle.
‘They’ve seen us, Lord,’ said Wulfhere, his hulking frame riding a piebald mare. A handful of men gathered on the fringe of the village, close to a pigsty, and pointed at the approaching riders. ‘How many of them did you say there were?’
‘I didn’t.’ Beornoth didn’t care how many Vikings were in the village. They had hurt peaceful Saxon people who worked the land with bent backs to scratch a living for their families and King. Now Beornoth was here to hurt them in return, and he would kill or injure as many as he could.
‘Let’s hope we aren’t outnumbered then.’ Wulfhere shook his bald head and drew his axe from its saddle sheath. More Vikings emerged from between the houses. They wore hard baked-leather breastplates and carried axes or spears. ‘I don’t see any mail or swords amongst them.’
‘Looters and pillagers then. Not warriors.’
There were twenty Vikings gathering outside the village, and a big man barged his way through them. He had two war axes, one leaning on each shoulder, and he smiled at Beornoth. His head was shaved along the sides, and a long blonde plait ran from the top of his head down his back. Beornoth dragged his sword free of its scabbard. He allowed the blade to scrape on the wood throat beyond the fleece lining and held the blade at his side. With his s word, byrnie and warhorse, the Vikings saw a Lord of War. Only the wealthiest and most successful warriors could afford such weapons. They were the signal of power and skill at war. The sword was also a warning. Beornoth kept Ealdorbana at a slow trot to allow the Vikings to watch him approach, for them to see and judge his war gear. The sword was his tool, his dealer of death, and he wanted the Vikings to see who was before them. Beornoth was a killer and a protector of his people. He was a Saxon Thegn, and he wanted the Vikings to understand that he came for justice, that he came to wreak vengeance upon them for the Saxons they had wronged.
‘The mail and sword are mine,’ barked the axeman in Norse. ‘I’ll take the leader, you others take the baldy one.’
‘You have killed peaceful people who could not defend themselves. You must think yourselves brave men, killing farmers and taking their women and children as slaves. I have come to kill you all, so say your prayers to Odin, for there can be no surrender here,’ said Beornoth, also speaking Norse. The Vikings murmured and looked at each other with open mouths, surprised to see a Saxon who spoke their language. Saxon and Norse words were cousins, and Beornoth had grown up in the north of the old Danelaw, where Norse was spoken as frequently as Saxon.
‘What did you say?’ asked Wulfhere.
‘That we are going to kill them all.’
‘I’ll say a prayer to God and Jesus to give us the strength to fight the pagans then.’
‘Keep tight hold of your axe and kill the bastards. That will serve you better,’ growled Beornoth. And his heart quickened, his chest heaving. Beornoth ground his teeth and welcomed the fury and anger. He allowed it to wash over him and course through his body. The big axeman swaggered forward and opened his mouth to speak. Beornoth suspected the man wanted to challenge him to single combat, as was ever popular with the Vikings, so he dug his heels into Ealdorbana’s flanks, and the warhorse sprang forwards, the immense power in the animal’s bunched leg muscles propelling him forward at monstrous speed.
In two leaps he was upon them. Beornoth let Ealdorbana barge the axeman out of the way, and he hurled the Viking backwards before he brought either of his axes to bear. Beornoth tensed his right arm and flicked the tip of his sword upwards and let the warhorse’s power drive the point of his blade through another Viking’s chest, lifting the man from his feet as his breastplate and chest bones cracked under the weight of the blow. He dragged his weapon free, and blood splashed across Ealdorbana’s flanks. The warhorse snapped his teeth at a warrior’s face and kicked out with his forelegs, driving the enemy away with his ferocious size and strength. Beornoth swung the sword over his saddle and cracked the edge into a Viking’s skull, splitting the bone with an audible crack and soiling the field with his brains. Two more slashes and Beornoth was through them. The suddenness of the attack, and the sheer size and ferocity of the charging warhorse, had stunned the Vikings, and now they were dying. He wrenched on Ealdorbana’s reins, and the horse turned in a flurry of hooves and snorting. Screams and cries filled the valley, and the iron tang of blood was thick in the air. Wulfhere smashed his axe into a Viking’s face and took a blow from a Viking spear on his shield. Beornoth glanced over his shoulder where Alfgar ran through the town with the troop of spearmen at his back.
‘Make the shield wall,’ Beornoth called, and he climbed from Ealdorbana’s back to join his spearmen in the fight on foot. Wulfhere kicked his mount clear of the Northmen and joined Beornoth as they attacked the Viking line. Beornoth’s charge had broken them and he relished the look of horror on their faces as they saw their deaths marching towards them. They thought themselves Viking warriors, peerless fighters from the harsh north who could raid and sack without fear, and yet an organised and fearsome Saxon force had torn them apart in moments. ‘Kill them,’ Beornoth growled, and joined Wulfhere and Alfgar in the front rank.
The fight was over before it had even begun, and Alfgar’s spearmen marched with organised efficiency. A handful of brave Vikings charged the Saxon shield wall, bellowing war cries and hacking at the linden wood with their axes, but Alfgar’s spear ripped one man’s throat out and his men soon dispatched the others from behind their overlapped shields. The Vikings broke, fleeing across the fields, and Beornoth allowed his men to run them down.
‘Bastard,’ a guttural voice shouted in Norse from beyond the melee. Beornoth turned to see it was the axeman. He had recovered from Ealdorbana’s blow and stood with his two axes pointed at Beornoth. ‘I wanted to fight you, warrior against warrior. You are a coward and a turd.’
‘I know you did. That’s why you are still alive,’ said Beornoth. He strode towards the warrior with his sword in hand.
‘There’s no need to fight him, Lord,’ Wulfhere said. ‘We’ve beaten them.’
Beornoth wanted to fight him. Killing Vikings soothed his tortured soul, and he hated them for all the pain they had caused him. He closed his eyes and remembered his daughters and called upon the furious anger of his vengeance. The Viking cried to Odin and charged. Beornoth snapped his eyes open and gripped his sword in two hands. The Viking came fast; he swung one axe in a high arc whilst the other came low for Beornoth’s knees. Beornoth sprang backwards and the axe blades sang through the air. The axes came around together in a backswing and Beornoth parried them with his sword, and he kicked the Viking in the hip, driving him off balance. He tried to recover, but could not raise his axe with enough strength to block Beornoth’s sword as he drove it down, overhand, and with his entire weight behind the blow. Beornoth’s blade cut through the Viking’s arm, connecting with the axe first but driving it downwards and away with the force of the blow. The axeman looked up at Beornoth, fear quivering in his blue eyes. His right arm was all but severed, lifeblood pumping out of the terrible wound to dung the grass, and the limb hung from his shoulder by grotesque threads. The warrior knelt, and nodded to Beornoth, grimacing and sweating from the pain but brave enough not to cry out.
‘Who is your Lord?’ Beornoth asked, holding the bloody sword so close to the injured Viking’s face that a flick of his wrist would take the man’s eye out.
‘I serve Jarl Hakon of Vanylven.’
‘Who is the leader of your army?’
‘Olaf Tryggvason, of the Jomsvikings.’
‘Keep hold of your axe,’ said Beornoth. He slammed the tip of his sword into the warrior’s chest and grunted as he smashed the iron blade through leather armour, bone, and into the soft flesh of the axeman’s heart. The Viking had fought bravely, and allowing him to die holding his axe gave him the chance to go to Valhalla, his Gods’ great hall for warriors killed in battle.
‘Free the prisoners,’ said Beornoth, turning to Wulfhere. ‘We march to join Ealdorman Byrhtnoth. There are more Vikings to kill.’
2
‘Fifty ships of the heathen bastards, laying waste to good Saxon land,’ said Ealdorman Byrhtnoth. He stood with one boot on a marbled rock, one hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist, and the other stroking the iron-grey spade of his beard.
