Enemies of the crown, p.10
Enemies of the Crown, page 10
‘He has undermined us at every turn, brother,’ said Odo de Warenne. He limped close to his braver brother. Odo’s lip curled at Beornoth, and he looked him up and down like he was covered in pig shit. ‘He challenges you. He despises us. What shall we do with him, brother? Cut him out like a poxed growth.’
Robert de Warenne’s eyes blazed in response to his brother’s malevolence. His fingers edged towards the hilt of his sword. Beornoth readied himself. If the fingers curled the hilt, he would kill them both. The rest of the Normans would rush him, and he could not fight against one hundred and forty angry Normans. But the de Warenne brothers were close to Beornoth. They would die, and that would be enough. Robert stared into Beornoth’s eyes, and then down at the scars on Beornoth’s face.
‘There are enough enemies for us to fight without fighting each other,’ Robert said with an easy smile. He clapped Beornoth on the shoulder. ‘We’ll see about the ships after Kvitsr is dead. How does that sound?’
Beornoth nodded, not believing for a second that Robert de Warenne had any intention of riding to Watchet after they had dispatched Kvitsr. Robert put a heavy arm around his brother’s shoulders and the two walked away. Odo hissed into his brother’s ear, gesticulating angrily in Beornoth’s direction, and if he didn’t know it before, Beornoth knew it now. The brothers were his enemies. They fought for the same cause, and Beornoth was useful to them, but that would change once their quest to kill the men on King Æthelred’s list was over.
Norman faces glowered at Beornoth as he marched through their campfires to join the Saxons.
‘It’s almost like you want to rub them up the wrong way, lord,’ said Wigs, handing Beornoth a cup of ale.
‘We’ll go to Watchet. Whether the de Warennes like it or not,’ Beornoth replied.
‘Us four against Kvitsr’s fleet, lord?’ asked Gis incredulously.
‘Would the other Saxons not follow us if we did?’
‘Some would,’ said Wigs. ‘Maybe they all would. But you’d have to talk to them first. They admire you, lord, but they’re afraid of the Normans. Once you’ve opened your mouth about it, there’s no going back. It only takes one weak heart, one of our lads who’s afraid to follow you to Watchet or sees a chance to get himself in de Warenne’s good graces. One slip of the tongue and we are dead men.’
‘First, we must deal with Kvitsr. He has three crews at Cantuctone. That’s almost as many men as we have. It won’t be as easy as our last attacks. Everybody in this company seems to think Kvitsr will roll over and let us kill him. He is a Dane, ferocious and cunning enough to capture the shire of Defnascir and make himself a warrior of reputation and wealth. Once we have fought him, and if we can kill him, then we’ll see about Watchet.’
Beornoth stayed awake for much of that night. He lay down with his seax in his hand, covered by his cloak, wary of a Norman attempt to slit his throat whilst he slept. But no attack came, and in the morning the company rose and left their camp in good spirits. Robert de Warenne rode up and down the riding column, talking to the men of their chance to kill a Viking war leader and earn fair fame to last a lifetime. Beornoth rode with the Saxons and kept his own counsel. There was much to admire about Robert. He fought well, led his men from the front, inspired them with rousing speeches and encouragement. But he was also a piece of stinking weasel shit who had once served Lady Ælfthryth and was more likely to leave Beornoth dead in a ditch than allow him to earn praise before the king.
Cantuctone lay on Defnascir’s northern coastal border with Somersaete, and as the company rode north, the terrain rolled gently, dotted with a patchwork of grazing meadows and woodland. They rode past hawthorn bushes heavy with late summer blossoms and stopped to rest the horses beneath the twisted branches of a sprawling oak tree whose boughs stretched over the rough track to give shelter from the late summer heat. Riders watched them from distant hilltops, their spears catching the afternoon sun. Robert de Warenne sent Odo and fifty men to chase them off, but the riders were too far away and easily outran them.
‘Who are they?’ asked Ecga, pointing at the distant watchers.
‘Danes,’ replied Beornoth.
‘So they know we’re coming?’
‘Unless he is a fool, Kvitsr knows we are coming. Word will have spread. He knows we’ve hunted his jarls. That’s why he’s at Cantuctone. There’s a ring fort of the old folk there. He’ll use that to defend himself against us.’
‘A Roman fortress?’
‘No, older than that. Built by the folk who lived in these lands before the Romans came. Before our Saxon forefathers came across the sea. The Britons. They made forts from the earth, of steep banks and deep ditches. Kvitsr will make his stand there with whatever crews he can gather before we arrive. He’s a Dane, a Viking warlord. He’ll fancy his three crews can beat our two hundred men.’
‘Why doesn’t he just sail away? Bastard’s rich already,’ asked Wigs, who, just like Ecga, could not take his eyes off the watching riders. There was fear in the Saxon’s eyes, fear learned from a century of Viking raids. Mothers told stories of Ivar the Boneless and Ragnar Lothbrok to children to frighten them. Do that again, and Ragnar will steal you away in the night. They were heathens who worshipped fierce gods. They fought with skill and tactics beyond anything the Saxons could match until Alfred and his sons built their burhs and organised their warriors. Then the raids stopped. For a time. Æthelred’s father, Edgar, ruled for many years without suffering Viking depredations. Æthelred had not been so lucky. It was as though the Danes sensed the weakness, the open wound caused by Lady Ælfthryth’s murder of the king’s chosen successor in favour of her own son. England was a kingdom riven by feuds over land, torn loyalties, the power of the Church and the ever-present shadow of the Danelaw.
‘Kvitsr wants to hold on to the lands he’s won. He probably believes the king will pay him to stop his raids, maybe even make him an ealdorman. His people can settle here. Kvitsr will be a great hero. His men are out enjoying their new land. They have spent a year living like lords with crops, woodland, cattle, slaves and wealth. Kvitsr can’t just sail away and leave his jarls here to die. The families of the men he abandoned would hunt Kvitsr forever. He’s made his bed, now he must lie in it.’
‘Can he beat us?’
‘We’ll find out when we get there. They are Vikings raised to the blade, bred to fight. That’s true enough. But they are just men and we are warriors. You three can heft a spear as well as the next man. You’ve nothing to fear from them. They are desperate, in a foreign land, fighting with their backs against the sea. But we are men defending our people, fighting for those who cannot do it for themselves. We fight for this.’ Beornoth showed them the ring of Wessex upon his finger, and pointed to the dragon sigil on his scabbard. ‘Our king, our kingdom, and our kinfolk. So yes, Kvitsr could beat us, but we can beat him too. Victory lies in the strength of your shield and the speed of your spear.’
They sat a little straighter in the saddle, and Beornoth set his jaw. They rode to kill a raider, a Viking warlord, but Watchet and the thought of women and children weeping and shivering in the bilges of Viking warships distracted Beornoth’s mind.
They reached the low hills around Cantuctone’s hill fort mid-afternoon. The ancient earthworks loomed over a deep valley where a series of steep ditches and high banks encircled the summit of a wide hill. Age had weathered the defensive embankments, grass covered, eroded and broken in places, but the ramparts remained foreboding. Campfire smoke rose from within the ancient structure, and Beornoth’s eyes narrowed against the glare from a low sun. Viking banners fluttered in the wind, snarling dragons, wolves and ravens, where three crews of Vikings waited behind the earthen fortifications.
‘Three ships there, see?’ Gis pointed west, and Beornoth shielded his eyes and gazed across the summit of the hill where the Severn estuary was at ebb and three drakkars lay beached on the muddy silt banks. The river shone in the distance like a carpet of silver, a grey-blue line that cut across the landscape towards the distant sea. Men shouted from within the fortress as Robert de Warenne sent men to ride around the hill and scout for any weaknesses in the fortifications. A few Danes clad in iron helmets and brightly coloured cloaks climbed up the bank to stare at the riders, hands resting on the hafts of their axes. The Viking camp sprang into activity. Through a gap in the bank, Beornoth watched the Danes pluck their shields and spears from where they rested in neat stacks. The ships were within marching distance, and if Kvitsr thought his men would die in Robert de Warenne’s onslaught, he would retreat behind a wall of shields to his ships, heave them into the water and sail away to fight another day. Which made Beornoth frown, because Kvitsr believed he could win.
Robert de Warenne ordered his men to dismount. They readied shields, checked straps, tested the heft of their spears, fastened helmets and prepared for battle. Beornoth led Virtus to the six men ordered to keep the horses away from the battle. The war band would attack on foot and Beornoth sought Robert de Warenne amongst the Norman warriors. They spoke in Norse, praying together, helping each other tighten straps on their byrnies or taking practice blows against their shields.
‘Beornoth, lord,’ said a squat Norman as Beornoth approached.
Robert de Warenne turned and eyed Beornoth warily as he fastened his helmet’s strap beneath his chin. ‘Do not mention Watchet. By all that’s holy, do not.’
Beornoth opened his palms to show he did not intend to resume that argument. ‘Did you see how the Danes reacted when our scouts rode about their flank?’
‘We are going to attack head on,’ Robert began, ignoring Beornoth’s question. ‘I’ll march in the front rank with you. Odo will wait until we have engaged them on the ramparts and take fifty men around to their left flank, where the bank has collapsed and filled in much of the old ditch.’
‘Kvitsr will expect you to do that. He’s had time to prepare for arrival. He wants you to attack that part of the wall. They would have repaired it otherwise, or at least made some sort of makeshift barricade where the bank had collapsed.’
‘I did not ask for your advice, Lord Beornoth.’
‘No, but here I am.’
‘Here you are.’ Robert de Warenne picked up his shield where it rested against his brother’s. He tested the weight and nodded approvingly.
‘Send fifty riders around the defences and make for their ships. They won’t be able to help themselves. Even if Kvitsr does not order it, his men will follow. Their ships are their lifeblood, their only means of returning home across the sea. They’ll come charging after those riders and we’ll split their force.’
‘You and I will attack in the front rank, as I said.’
‘Lord Robert, we have had our disagreements. But listen to me, attack the ships and we shall make a great slaughter here today. Like we did at Lundenwic.’
Robert’s right hand touched the axe sigil beneath his byrnie without thinking. ‘That was a glorious victory.’
‘It was. And we shall have another today, if you let me attack their ships.’ Beornoth did not mention Thorkell’s axe, and how he had taken it from the giant Viking’s grasp, and how Robert de Warenne had stolen his valour.
Robert looked deep into Beornoth’s eyes, turned and gazed at the fortress and the glinting curve of the estuary beyond its ramparts. He licked his teeth and turned back to Beornoth. ‘Very well. Take your sixty Saxons and ride for the ships. When Kvitsr’s men follow, if they follow, kill them and attack Kvitsr from the rear. I’ll still send Odo around their flank so that Kvitsr believes we shall attack the damaged bank and ditch.’
Beornoth nodded slowly and then set off, shouting for Wigs to get the Saxons organised to ride. De Warenne was many things, but he was no fool. Despite loathing Beornoth, the Norman had seen the sense in his plan. Men were never as simple to read as the flight of an arrow. Wicked men could show kindness, and kind men could be wicked. De Warenne and his brother took pleasure in torturing helpless men, and they were clearly only on English soil for the riches and opportunity presented to them by Lady Ælfthryth. But they still risked their lives to fight for King Æthelred, and Beornoth had certainly not seen Robert flinch from a fight.
Beornoth hefted his bulk into Virtus’ saddle. ‘Be brave today, old girl. Carry me with sure footing.’ He stroked her ears, and the warhorse whickered. Sixty mounts milled about on the hilltop as the Saxons tried to group their mounts together.
‘Where are we going, lord?’ asked a Saxon warrior, a red-faced man with a thick beard and clever eyes.
‘We are going to burn their ships,’ Beornoth said. ‘Then we’re going to kill some Danes. Bring whatever kindling you can find and follow me.’
Beornoth dug his heels into Virtus’ flanks and clicked his tongue. He led his riders down from the hill. They came in a disorderly line, some horses turning and failing to respond to their rider’s command. The horses thundered down the hill, hooves throwing up clods of earth as they went. Beornoth carried his shield on his back and his spear in his hand. He wore his chain-mail byrnie, his helmet, and his cloak billowed as he cantered Virtus close to the enemy fortifications. The black and white horsehair plume flowed like a serpent from the crown of his helmet and Beornoth lifted his spear towards the enemy. The Danes peered at him as he went. Some thrust their groins at him, others made lewd gestures with their hands. One man pissed from atop the rampart and Beornoth smiled at him, because battle loomed. Those Danes who had come to England in search of glory and silver were about to meet Beornoth’s fury. Beornoth laughed. It was a strange moment. But he laughed because in battle the rest of his worries, his longing for Eawynn, suspicion of the Normans, grief for his lost family, all became dulled. The thrill of battle was intoxicating. The moment where a man balanced on the blade’s edge between life and death elevated him above the humdrum of life. A warrior soared like an eagle as the blades clashed about him, and God forgive him for it, but Beornoth enjoyed it. There was glory in killing one’s enemies, in slaying a man who tried to kill you. Those feelings, that heightened joy, was upon him, and so Beornoth laughed, because it was time to kill Vikings.
10
Twelve men guarded Kvitsr War Raven’s warships. Beornoth rode towards them at the head of fifty mounted Saxon warriors. Behind him, Vikings and Normans bellowed their war cries. A horn sounded from within the old earthworks and Robert de Warenne’s men beat their spears against their shields to create a rhythmic war music, one that would fill hearts with bravery. They had all drunk their fill of ale since arriving at Cantuctone, and no war leader would begrudge his men that small mercy. The Normans were about to scale steep, grass-covered banks and attack a force of Viking warriors. Those men waited atop the ramparts to hack at the Normans from above as they tried to run up the grassy mounds and defend themselves at the same time. It was grim work. Men would die and suffer terrible injuries. To march into a forest of sharp blades, a man needed all the courage he could get, including a belly full of ale to dull his wits and embolden his spirit.
Hoofbeats pounded the earth around him and Beornoth drove Virtus hard towards the three Viking warships moored in the estuary of a wide-mouthed river. Afternoon sun cast a warm golden light across the water, glinting off the iron-studded shields carried by the dozen Kvitsr had left to guard his most prized possessions. The Danes had left their warships in the shallows, so that now the tide was at ebb, their hulls sat awkwardly on grey banks of silt. Beast-headed prows turned towards the distant sea. The drakkars, sleek and fearsome with their weathered wooden planks stained by salt and brine, would float on the flood, but for now they presented Beornoth with an opportunity to anger and frighten the Danes, to rob them of reason and ready their ranks for slaughter.
The estuary was vast, its mudflats stretched far into the distance, beyond rolling banks of glistening mud. Thin streams of water wound through the exposed flats, and twelve men stood on a heather-covered bank, glancing nervously at each other as sixty spearmen charged towards them on galloping horses. Virtus snorted and Beornoth growled, readying his spear for contact. He wanted to look over his shoulder, to see if Kvitsr’s men had broken their ranks inside the ramparts to chase him down to their ships. But to look was to falter, and the twelve men he charged towards grew closer with every pound of Virtus’ muscled legs. Hooves drummed in time with Beornoth’s heartbeat, ringing inside the metal of his helmet to fill his head with war music.
Wigs, Ecga and Gis were with him. Beornoth trusted them and the rest of the Saxons to maintain the charge. He could not see or hear them through the confines of his helmet, but he charged on, believing in their steadfastness. The air was thick with the stink of the sea and the rich, pungent smell of the estuary at low tide. Debris and foam moved slowly through the muddy seawater rivulets, snaking their way towards the open sea. Marsh grasses sped by as Virtus galloped alongside reed beds. Wind whistled through his helmet’s face to make Beornoth’s eyes water, and he couched his spear for the charge.
A fire burned behind the dozen Danes, a small blaze of driftwood and willow branches between a circle of salt-stained rocks. Beornoth caught a whiff of cooking fish and he knew luck was on his side. A fire waited for him, and all he had to do was kill twelve boat guards to win the battle. Virtus slowed as the terrain became soft beneath her hooves, riverbank merged with mudflats in a sticky and uneven mess and every time the warhorse lifted her legs it made a slurping, sucking sound. Beornoth urged her on, digging his heels in and rising in the saddle. The twelve Danes backed slowly away from him, their spears wavering and their shields held low. One of them shouted something and pointed at the ships, and the others exchanged nervous glances.
