shouted, “so come and kill me! And who will protect you from Jarl Haesten then?”
Aldhelm came to his senses then and muttered something to the man who had whispered to him, and that man, a big broad-shouldered warrior, spurred his horse forward. His sword was drawn. He knew what he was doing. He did not ride at me frantically, but deliberately. He came to kill me, and I could see his eyes judging me from deep in the shadow of his helmet. His sword was already drawn back, his arm tensed for the sweeping stroke that would crash into my shield with the weight of man and horse behind the blade to throw me off balance. Then the horse would turn into me and the sword would come again from behind me, and he knew that I knew all that, but he was reassured when I raised my shield, for that meant I would do what he expected me to do. I saw his mouth tighten and his heels nudge back and his stallion, a big gray beast, lunged ahead and the sword flashed in the dull air.
All the man’s great strength was in that stroke. It came from my right. My shield was in my left hand, the ax in my right. I did two things.
I dropped onto one knee and lifted the shield over my head so it was almost flat above my helmet, and at the same moment I lunged the ax into the horse’s legs and let go of the haft.
The sword slammed onto my shield, skidded across the wood, clanged against the boss, and just then the horse, the ax tangled in its rear legs, whinnied and stumbled. I saw blood bright on a fetlock, and I was already standing as the horseman slashed again, but he and his horse were off balance and the stroke screeched harmlessly off the iron rim of my shield. Aldhelm shouted at men to help his champion, but Finan, Sihtric, and Osferth were already out of the convent’s gate, mounted and armed, and Aldhelm’s men hesitated as I took a pace toward the horseman. He slashed again, still hampered by his horse’s skittishness, and this time I let my shield glance the blow downward and simply reached out and grasped the horseman’s wrist. He shouted in alarm, and I pulled hard. He fell from the saddle, crashed onto the damp street and, for a heartbeat, looked dazed. His stallion, whinnying, twisted away as the man stood. His shield, looped onto his left arm, was streaked with mud.
I had stepped back. I drew Serpent-Breath, the blade hissing in the scabbard’s tight throat. “What’s your name?” I asked. More of my men were coming from the nunnery, though Finan held them back.
The man rushed at me, hoping to throw me off balance with his shield, but I stepped aside and let him go past me. “What’s your name?” I asked again.
“Beornoth,” he told me.
“Were you at Fearnhamme?” I asked, and he gave a curt nod. “I didn’t come here to kill you, Beornoth,” I said.
“I’m sworn to my lord,” he said.
“An unworthy lord,” I told him.
“You should know,” he said, “you breaker of oaths,” and with that he attacked again, and I raised my shield to take the stroke and he dropped his arm fast, taking the sword beneath my shield and the blade slammed into my calf, but I have always worn strips of iron sewn into my boots because the stroke beneath the shield is such a danger. Some men wear leg armor, but that display will deter an enemy from the stroke beneath the shield, while hidden strips of iron make the legs look vulnerable and invite the stroke, which opens the enemy to destruction. My strips stopped Beornoth’s sword dead and he looked surprised as I rammed Serpent-Breath’s hilt to hit him in the face with my gloved fist that was closed about the sword’s handle. He staggered back. My left leg was aching from his blow, but he was bleeding from a broken nose and I slammed the shield into him, forcing him back again, then I bullied him again with the shield and this time he fell backward and I kicked his sword arm aside, put a foot on his belly, and placed Serpent-Breath’s tip at his mouth. He stared up at me with hatred. He was wondering if he had time to sweep the sword up at me, but he knew there was no time left. I had but to move my hand and he would be choking on his own blood.
“Stay still, Beornoth,” I said softly, then looked at Aldhelm’s men. “I didn’t come here to kill Mercians!” I shouted. “I came here to fight Jarl Haesten!” I stepped away and took my sword from Beornoth’s face. “Get up,” I told him. He stood uncertainly, not sure whether the fight was over or not. The hatred was gone from his eyes, now he was just staring at me with puzzlement. “Go,” I said.
“I am sworn to kill you,” he said.
“Don’t be a fool, Beornoth,” I said wearily, “I just gave you your life. That makes you mine.” I turned my back on him. “The Lord Aldhelm,” I shouted, “sends a brave man to do what he dares not do! Would you be led by a coward?”
There were men here who remembered me, not just from Fearnhamme, but from the attack on Lundene. These were warriors, and all warriors want to be led by a man who brings them success. Aldhelm was no warrior. They knew that, but they were still confused and uncertain. All of these Mercians were sworn to Aldhelm and some had become wealthy from his gifts. Those men kicked their horses close to their lord and I saw their hands reaching for sword hilts.
“At Fearnhamme,” a voice called from behind me, “the Lord Aldhelm wished to run away. Is he the man to protect us?” It was ?thelfl?d, mounted on my horse and still wearing her drab convent clothes, though with her bright hair uncovered. “Who was it that led you to the slaughter?” she demanded, “who protected your homes? Who protected your wives and your children? Who would you rather serve?”
Someone from among the Mercian warriors shouted my name, and a cheer followed. Aldhelm had lost and he knew it. He shouted at Beornoth to kill me, but Beornoth stayed still and so Aldhelm, his voice desperate, ordered his supporters to cut me down.
“You don’t want to fight each other!” I shouted, “you’ll have real enemies enough soon!”
“God damn you,” one of Aldhelm’s men snarled. He drew his sword and spurred his horse, and his action broke the uncertainty. More swords were drawn and it was suddenly chaos.
Men made their decisions, either for or against Aldhelm, and the vast majority were against him. They turned on his guards just as the man attacking me slashed with his sword. I deflected the blow with my shield as the horsemen swirled around me in a clash of blades. Finan took care of my attacker. Osferth, I noted, had put his horse in front of ?thelfl?d so he could protect his half-sister, but she was in no danger. It was Aldhelm’s men who were being hacked down, though Aldhelm himself, in pure panic, managed to kick his horse free of the sudden and savage fight. His sword was drawn, but all he wanted was to escape, but there were men all around him and then, seeing me, he realized his advantage, that he was on horseback and I was not, and he drove his spurs back and came to kill me.
He attacked with the despair of a man who did not believe he could win. He did not gauge me, as Beornoth had, but just came as fast as he could and hacked with his sword as strongly as he was able, and I met the massive blow by holding Serpent-Breath upright. I knew that sword, I knew her strength, I had watched as Ealdwulf the Smith had forged the four rods of iron and three of steel into one long blade. I had fought with her, I had killed with her, and I had matched her against the blades of Saxons, Danes, Norsemen, and Frisians. I knew her and I trusted her, and when Aldhelm’s sword met her with a clang that must have been heard far across the river, I knew what would happen.
His sword broke. It shattered. The broken end, two thirds of the blade, struck my helmet and fell to the mud, then I was pursuing Aldhelm who, holding a stump of sword, tried to flee, but there was no escape. The fight was over. The men who had supported him were either dead or disarmed, and the warriors who had sided with me formed a circle that ringed the two of us. Aldhelm curbed his stallion and stared at me. He opened his mouth, but could find no words. “Down,” I told him, and when he hesitated, I shouted it again, “down!” I looked at Beornoth who had recovered his horse. “Give him your sword,” I ordered.
Aldhelm was unsteady on his feet. He had a shield and now he had Beornoth’s sword, but there was no fight in him. He was whimpering. There was no pleasure in killing such a man and so I made it quick. One thrust above his crossed-ax shield, which made him lift it and I dropped Serpent-Breath before the blade struck and cut instead into his left ankle with enough force to topple him. He fell to one knee and Serpent-Breath took him on the side of his neck. He wore a mail hood beneath his helmet, and the links did not split, but the blow drove him into a puddle and I struck again, this time breaking the neck-mail so that his blood misted and splashed across the nearest horsemen. He was shaking and crying, and I sawed the blade toward me until the blade’s point was in the ragged wound of blood and mangled mail, then I thrust her down hard into his gullet where I twisted her. He was quivering, bleeding like a pig, and then he was dead.
I threw his banner into the Temes, then cupped my hands and shouted at the men across the river. “Tell Alfred that Uhtred of Bebbanburg has returned!”
