We went to the ground behind the wall where our wounded lay. Hauk, Vidarr’s son, was there, being bandaged by a priest I did not know. It had been his first battle and the mangled mail and blood at his right shoulder suggested it would be his last. Roric was piling plunder that included Cellach’s rich helmet that was inlaid with gold tracery and crowned with eagle feathers. If we survived there would be many such rich pickings from this battle. ‘Get back in the line,’ I told Roric.
The deaths of Cellach and Domnall had prompted another pause. The Scots had attacked, they had so nearly broken us, but we had held and there were now more bodies between us, some crying, most dead. The stench of blood and shit was too familiar. I looked left and saw the Mercians were also holding, but our line, even though it had shrunk its width, was perilously thin. The Mercians appeared to have no reserve at all, and too many wounded men were on the ground behind their wall. Anlaf had gone back to his right wing that had pushed Æthelstan’s West Saxons to the road, meaning the northern end of the bridge was now in Norse hands. The road to Ceaster was open, guarded only by a small group of West Saxons who had made a shield wall at the bridge’s southern end, but Anlaf did not care. Ceaster could wait; all he wanted now was to slaughter us beside the stream and he was shrieking at his Norsemen to kill Æthelstan’s West Saxons. A horseman came from that fight, galloping along the rear of our shield wall, and I saw it was Bishop Oda. ‘For God’s sake, lord,’ he shouted, ‘the king needs help!’
We all needed help. The enemy was scenting victory and pressing hard on our left and centre. The West Saxons had tried and failed to regain the northern end of the bridge and, like the Mercians, were now being pushed hard. Anlaf was summoning reinforcements to face the West Saxons. He had reserves, we had almost none, though Steapa and his horsemen were still hidden. ‘Lord!’ Oda shouted at me. ‘Even a few men!’
I took a dozen, reckoning I could not spare more. The Mercians were closer to Æthelstan, but their shield wall dared not be thinned. Our whole shield wall was now half the length it had been when we started and it was dangerously thin, but the battle was fiercest where Æthelstan’s bright banner flew. Oda trotted his horse beside me. ‘The king insists on fighting! He shouldn’t be in the front rank!’
‘He’s a king,’ I said, ‘he has to lead!’
‘Where’s Steapa?’ Oda asked, and there was pure panic in his voice.
‘He’s coming!’ I shouted, hoping I was right.
Then we reached the wounded men pulled from Æthelstan’s West Saxons and I led my few men into the ranks, pushing men aside, bellowing at them to make way. Folcbald, the huge Frisian, and his cousin Wibrund were both with me, and they forced a passage to where Æthelstan was fighting. He was magnificent! His fine mail was covered in Norse blood, his shield was broken open in at least three places, and his sword was red to the hilt, yet still he fought, inviting the enemy to come to his blade. That enemy had to step over bodies, and even the úlfhéðnar among them were reluctant. They wanted Æthelstan dead, knew that his slaughter would be the beginning of his army’s utter defeat, but to kill him they had to face his quick sword. To the left and to the right of the king there were scarlet-cloaked men pushing forward, shields crashing against Norse shields, spears slicing forward and axes splitting willow-boards, but there was a space around Æthelstan. He was the king of battle, he dominated them, he taunted them, and then a tall, black-bearded Norseman with bright blue eyes beneath a scarred helmet, and with a long-hafted battleaxe stepped into the space. It was Thorfinn Hausakljúfr, Jarl of Orkneyjar, who looked half-crazed, and I suspected he had smeared his skin with the henbane ointment. He was no longer just a Norse chieftain, he had become an úlfheðinn, a wolf-warrior, and he howled at Æthelstan and hefted his vast battleaxe. ‘Time to die, pretty boy!’ he shouted, though I doubted Æthelstan understood the Norse, but he understood Thorfinn’s intent, and he let the big man come. Thorfinn was fighting without a shield, just carrying Hausakljúfr, his famous axe. Like Æthelstan he was blood-soaked, but I could see no wound. The blood was Saxon blood and Skull-Splitter wanted more.
He swung the axe one-handed, Æthelstan met it with his shield and I saw the blade split the willow-boards. Æthelstan swung the shield to his left, hoping to take the axe with it and so open Thorfinn’s body to a lunge from his sword, but Thorfinn was fast. He stepped back, wrenched his axe free and slammed it down, aiming for Æthelstan’s sword arm. The blow should have severed the king’s arm, but Æthelstan was just as fast, pulling the sword back, and the great axe crashed onto the blade close to the hilt. There was an ominous-sounding crack and I saw that the king’s sword had broken and Æthelstan now held a blade no longer than a man’s hand. Thorfinn shouted in triumph and swept the axe back. Æthelstan met it with his battered shield, stepped back, the axe swept again and again beat into the shield that was now ragged with holes, and Thorfinn raised his axe to bring it hard down onto Æthelstan’s gold-ringed helmet.
And Bishop Oda was beside me, off his horse, screaming in his native Danish for the king to hold fast, and Oda pulled Serpent-Breath from my scabbard. Æthelstan raised his shield, caught the downward blow that split the shield almost in two,
