Enemies of the crown, p.4
Enemies of the Crown, page 4
‘Saxon whore!’ he roared. ‘Die, you stinking piece of goat turd!’
Beornoth stabbed his sword beneath the rim of his shield and opened the man’s groin. The Viking’s face sagged and Beornoth sawed the blade back and forth until the man fell clutching at the terrible wound, his lifeblood gushing out to soak the fighting platform with dark blood. Three of the enemy charged at Beornoth and the first of them died with Robert de Warenne’s sword in his belly. Beornoth beat them back, but more Danes pressed him. They drove their shoulders into his shield, shoving at him, hacking with their axes. A blade struck his helmet, and another sliced across his forearm. Pallig and his men pushed Beornoth and Robert de Warenne from behind so that the fight for that section of wall became like a small shield-wall battle.
A spear point stabbed at his face and Beornoth twisted away. A Dane raked his boot down Beornoth’s instep and a knife stabbed around the edge of his shield, poking its sharp tip at his ribs, but the rings of his byrnie held. Beornoth tried to lift his sword, but the press of men held it fast. He released his grip on the sword and instead reached around to the small of his back and whipped his antler-hilted seax from its sheath. It was a wicked weapon, broken-backed, single-edged and as long as a man’s forearm. He slashed the seax across the eyes of the closest Dane and drove the point upward into the soft flesh beneath the next man’s chin. The pressure upon Beornoth’s shield relented, and he set about the enemy like a demon from hell. He cut at them, smashed them with his shield. Beornoth kicked and bit and howled like a madman until the enemy fell back from his fury.
Beornoth sagged to one knee, exhaustion suddenly reminding his body how old he was. His limbs ached and his muscles burned. His breath came in ragged gasps and every joint, tendon and fibre in his body screamed at him to rest. Bodies littered the battlements, dead Danes and dead Saxons. One of Pallig’s men rocked back and forth, holding in the purple coils of his own entrails. A Lundenwic warrior clutched at his half-severed leg. The iron stink of blood mixed with the rank stench of men who had voided their bowels as they died. Such sights were as familiar to Beornoth as the sunrise, but he had never heard a bard sing of those horrors. Young men dreamed of bright swords, glory and brave deeds, but the blood-soaked carnage atop Lundenwic’s rampart was the true face of war.
‘They are falling back!’ came a shout from behind. Beornoth forced himself to rise. Forkbeard’s ladders withdrew from the walls and his ships backed oars. The tide was in flood. It was over for the day. Beornoth slid his seax back into its sheath and picked up his sword. He had a dented shield, stuck with arrows, and the iron rim warped and twisted. His hands shook from the effort of battle, and Beornoth could barely move his muscles were so tired.
‘Well done, king’s thegn,’ said Robert de Warenne. He clapped Beornoth on the shoulder and went to find his injured brother.
‘We live to fight another day, eh?’ said Pallig.
‘We do,’ Beornoth replied.
‘I had heard you spoke our tongue, and you speak Norse like a Viking.’
‘Heard from who?’
‘From King Sweyn himself. Forkbeard is my brother-in-law.’
‘You are married to Forkbeard’s sister, Gunhilde?’ Beornoth’s jaw fell open as he stared incredulously at the Viking mercenary.
Pallig shrugged. ‘That is what brother-in-law means. No?’
‘Yet you fight against him?’
‘I do. I fight wherever I can earn silver. Your king pays me. So I fight for him. Forkbeard cares not who I fight for. I am a jarl, and my wife is much younger than her brother. My mother, Frigg protect her soul, proposed the marriage and King Sweyn accepted. His father, old king Harald being dead by then. My father and uncles are powerful men at home. I think Forkbeard was glad to be rid of the girl, to be honest. She has a pretty face and broad hips, and I think myself a lucky man to be married to a princess, and daughter of the great Harald Bluetooth.’ Pallig shrugged as if it were the simplest thing in all the world. That simplicity was at the heart of Beornoth’s feelings for the Danes. He both hated and loved them. He hated their cruelty and the violence they had brought to his life, but he loved how they lived. In their world, a man succeeded or failed by the strength of his arm. Men would fight for a good leader, and desert a weak man. Only the strong ruled, for the warriors, the drengr, would slay a weak man. Even if that man was the son of a king. A fight to the death could settle any dispute, and their gods had no churches and no priests. Beornoth had found solace in God in his later years, after a long time of hating him for the deaths of his daughters, though he had little love for the Church and its power. The word of God had found its way to Sweyn Forkbeard’s court. Both he and his father Harald Bluetooth worshipped God and Jesus. ‘You see that big bastard down there?’ Pallig pointed his axe to a black-painted ship on which stood a man, head and shoulders larger than any other on his drakkar.
‘I see him.’
‘That is Thorkell the Tall. He worships the old gods, like me. I saw him once before, at a feast in Jutland. A great champion, perhaps champion of all the northmen. He leads the Jomsvikings. I believe you know of the Jomsvikings?’
‘I know them. I killed their leader Palnatoki, the man who was as a father to Olaf Tryggvason.’ Beornoth remembered that grim fight, and how the old boar had died on the end of Beornoth’s blade. The Jomsvikings were a band of warriors for hire. Their home was a fortress at a place called Jomsburg. They lived for battle. They allowed no women inside their fortress, and people feared them worldwide for their skill and ferocity.
‘I heard the tale. Men in our lands call you Beornoth Reiði. The wrathful. You have killed many famous warriors. Skarde Wartooth, Palnatoki. I even heard that you and Forkbeard once played a game of riddles. You have reputation, but I must admit that you are much older than I expected.’ Pallig winked mischievously.
‘You hear a lot, Dane. Tell me more about Thorkell?’
Pallig laughed. ‘I keep my ears open. Thorkell comes to make his legend. Be careful of him, Saxon. Come. The fighting is over. We must find some ale and some food. You will need your strength again tomorrow, I think.’
Beornoth staggered from the walls and down into the town. The men of the fyrd gathered in the streets and lanes behind the walls, and they moved out of the way as Beornoth and Pallig trudged wearily by. Blood spattered their bodies, and they looked wounded and grim, like wraiths from a nightmare. Pallig ordered one of his captains to fetch someone to tend their wounds and bring ale, bread and meat. They found an empty house and sat on two benches on either side of a wooden table. Pallig’s man came back as Beornoth cleaned his sword on a scrap of cloth and the Dane poured ale and laid down a loaf of dark bread, a fistful of cheese and some dried fish.
‘It’s the best I could find,’ the man said. Pallig broke off a chunk of bread and a piece of cheese and handed them to the young warrior, who grinned from ear to ear. He left the room, striding with his head held high. A good leader of men understands that such gestures bind men to him. They steel men’s hearts and make them stand firm in the line of battle when their lord commands it. Men will fight fiercely for a commander they love, and will flee more readily from battle if led by a man they loathe. Beornoth had loved the dead Ealdorman Byrhtnoth, the greatest leader of men Beornoth had ever known.
‘So, Saxon,’ Pallig said, talking around a mouthful of bread. He paused and raised a thick finger, swilled a mouthful of ale, swallowed so hard he squirmed on his stool and then sighed with relief. ‘My men fight well, no?’
‘They fought well,’ Beornoth allowed. Many had died, and Pallig’s warriors had fought just as hard as the Saxons who defended their homes and families.
‘You are from the north? The Danelaw?’
‘I am. Cheshire. I have a Norseman who is like a brother to me. Brand Thorkilsson is his name. He is a thegn to Ealdorman Thered of Northumbria.’
‘You would make a good Viking, Beornoth Reiði.’
‘Pass me the fish, and close your cheese pipe for a while.’
Pallig threw his head back and laughed at Beornoth’s surliness. Beornoth was exhausted. He needed food, quiet and sleep before the fighting resumed when the tide changed. He cared little for what other men thought of him. They ate in silence for a while, drinking ale and examining their wounds. One of Pallig’s men brought a bucket of heated water and some clean cloth, and the two men bathed their cuts and wiped the grime of battle from their faces, armour and clothes. Beornoth unstrapped his scabbard and sword and laid them down on his shield.
‘Here you are!’ boomed a voice in Norse as the door burst open. Beornoth’s shoulders sagged when he realised it was Robert de Warenne and his brother Odo. ‘I have found some wine in this shithole. Wonderful wine from Frankia.’
‘My Norman friends,’ said Pallig warmly. ‘Come, share your wine and we shall share our meal.’
Beornoth ignored the Normans and ate a mouthful of cheese. Pallig and the brothers talked and relived the day’s fighting. Odo’s arm was bound to his chest within a woollen shawl and he told Pallig how a priest had cut the arrow from his shoulder and sealed the wound closed with a red-hot iron. Beornoth listened to the men boasting for a while, finished his ale, and stood.
‘It’s still early,’ said Pallig. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To sleep,’ Beornoth said. He picked up his sword and shield. ‘We have set watches for the night and men know to wake me if the Danes attack during the night. But we are safe until the tide changes. You should all get some sleep.’
‘A fine blade,’ said Odo de Warenne. ‘A gift from the king, no less.’
Beornoth ignored him and stepped around the table.
‘Are you trying to insult us?’ said Robert de Warenne as he took a sip of wine from a clay jug. ‘Is it because we are not Saxons that you dislike us so?’
‘You fought well today. That is enough. We don’t need to be friends,’ said Beornoth. He kept walking towards the door, hoping to find a quiet room somewhere to lie down and rest.
‘My Lady Ælfthryth warned me about you, Beornoth.’
Beornoth stopped. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t ask you to put in a knife in my back whilst I sleep.’
‘We are proud to serve Lady Ælfthryth. You should speak better of her in our presence.’
Beornoth turned slowly to face the Norman brothers. ‘Your lady once tried to have me killed. I speak as I find.’
‘The lady has nothing but the interests of king and realm in her heart. She is a godly woman, and my brother and I shall be forever in her debt for bringing us home.’
‘Home?’
‘After King Edward’s death, they exiled our father and took our lands for the crown. Lady Ælfthryth will return our lands to us, although our father is dead and cannot see justice done.’
‘Your father was a king slayer, and your mother a Norman.’
Robert de Warenne rose slowly and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Careful.’
‘By some craft of the devil, Ælfthryth has returned to the king’s favour and brought you two sons of an assassin home to do her bidding. I know you, and I know her. If you touch your hilt to me again, I’ll kill you both.’ Beornoth didn’t wait for an answer. He stalked out into the night to find somewhere to lay his weary bones.
4
The tide changed before the sun came up. Beornoth woke stiffly to the sound of blaring war horns and the beat of Forkbeard’s drums. He had slept on a bed of old straw in an abandoned house close to the walls. He stretched his back and kneaded the knots and cramps from his thighs, arms and shoulders. Beornoth winced at the soreness in his muscles as he pulled his byrnie over his head. The cut on his forearm had stopped bleeding, and he left the cloth bandage in place. He collected his sword, seax, shield and helmet and ducked beneath the low door lintel and strode out into a morning hazed by drizzling rain. It dripped from grey thatch to make puddles between the cobblestones, and Beornoth drew his cloak closer about him.
Pallid yellow sunlight tried to light the cauldron-grey sky and men came from their beds coughing and yawning. Captains barked orders, the nightwatchmen retired to rest and men hurried to their posts clutching spears, bows, axes, whilst the less fortunate men of the fyrd carried clubs, scythes, hammers and shovels. Beornoth found Aldhelm on the wall, staring down at Forkbeard’s ships. The drakkars turned slowly in the flooding river, their oars splashing in the brown water as shipmasters tried to avoid hulls clashing or oars fouling.
‘Bastards know their business,’ said Beornoth, admiring the seamanship and skill to bring ninety-four warships to order within the bend of the River Thames.
‘Can we stand against another attack?’ Aldhelm’s face was swollen, with a purple and blue welt discolouring the left side.
‘We must. Ready the men. How many arrows have we left?’
‘Precious few, lord.’
‘Then bring up as many spears as you can find. If we have used up all the tar, piss and water we can get our hands on, then demolish some inner walls and have the fyrd men carry the rubble up here. Forkbeard cannot afford another day like yesterday. He lost too many men. His jarls will be restless. They sailed from their northern homes for plunder and women, not to die with boiled piss poured on their heads. Give them enough of a beating today, and Forkbeard might just sail away in search of easier prey.’
‘Yes, lord. Me and my men are fresher than those who fought up here beside you yesterday. I’ll send those men to hold the gate, and I shall fight on the walls with you.’
‘Good.’ Beornoth stuck out his hand and took Aldhelm’s wrist in the warrior’s grip. ‘Then let’s kill some Danes.’
Aldhelm hurried away, bellowing orders at his men. The walls turned into a kicked beehive. Warriors ran to their posts with armfuls of spears, bleary eyes and nervous faces. Some bore wounds from the previous day’s fighting. Boys scrubbed the fighting platform free of blood, and one handed Beornoth a skin of ale which he took with a nod of thanks.
‘I’ve never been fond of early mornings,’ said Pallig, appearing at the top of a set of stone steps. He yawned so loudly that every man on that section of wall turned to look. He farted just as loud, and the boys on the wall sniggered. ‘Better get these lads off the battlements. Looks like Forkbeard means to attack again.’
‘Where are your men?’
‘Coming, they gather in a courtyard, yonder. They’ll be up here before the ladders come. Don’t worry. Our Norman friends have taken a bit of a disliking to you.’
‘They don’t need to like me. They just need to fight.’
‘That’s what I love about you, Beornoth Reiði.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Pallig laughed at his own jest and then leaned on the palisade to peer down at Forkbeard’s ships. ‘Wait a moment…’
‘Lord Beornoth!’ came a shout from along the wall. ‘Lord Beornoth!’ A young warrior with a red face and a spear in his hand came running along the fighting platform, gesturing wildly towards the river.
‘What is it, lad?’ asked Beornoth.
‘Lord Aldhelm says you must come to the bridge. The Danes do not attack the walls. They are massing upon the bridge.’
Beornoth cursed under his breath. ‘Pallig, get your men and follow me to the bridge. The rest of your Lundenwic warriors stay here in case the bridge attack is a feint.’
He marched to the bridge gate and found Aldhelm there amongst a press of warriors. Beornoth shouldered his way through the throng. Men huddled together in a narrow street with two-storey stone buildings on either side. They tried to shift out of Beornoth’s way, edging backwards into their fellows, staring up into his scarred face as he towered over them. The shield on his back banged into the warriors on either side of him, but Beornoth pressed forward through the stink of their leather armour, the rank foulness of their breath and sweat.
‘Forkbeard himself is on the bridge,’ said Aldhelm, peering through a shutter. The gate was constructed from stout planks of oak reinforced with iron nails and strips. They called it Bridge Gate, and it controlled the flow of people and goods entering Lundenwic. A gatehouse rose higher than the surrounding walls and Beornoth glanced up to see half a dozen spearmen in the tower and more lining the walls. Aldhelm moved aside and Beornoth peered through the shutter. Forkbeard stood with his arms folded, hair and beard dripping wet with rain. Thorkell the Tall stood beside him with a double-bladed war axe turned upside down so that he could rest his forearms upon the haft. Hundreds of Danes clambered from the ships up the bridge’s sides to form up behind their king like swarming rats.
‘He wants to talk,’ said Beornoth wearily.
‘Talk about what?’
‘They always want to talk before a fight. Make threats. Exchange insults.’
‘What fun is a battle if you don’t get to call the enemy leader a whoreson to his face?’ said Pallig, who had arrived with his men.
‘What do we do?’ asked Aldhelm.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ Beornoth replied. ‘Open the gate.’
‘But what if he kills you?’
Beornoth frowned at the thegn and Aldhelm nodded his understanding. Men pulled the heavy door open, creaking on its iron hinges. Beornoth stepped out onto the bridge where a brisk wind from the wide river whipped the drizzling rain about his face. He marched towards the king of the Danes and tossed his cloak over his shoulders to stop the wind blowing it about his legs. A smile played at the corner of Forkbeard’s cruel slash of a mouth, and when Beornoth drew close, his round face stretched into a wolfish grin.
‘Beornoth Reiði,’ he said, raising a hand in greeting. Silver arm rings clinked as they shifted upon his wrists and the crucifix upon his chest glittered.
