I was angry, I was vengeful, and I was probably being rash. As my horse tipped over the crest I was reminded of the foolishness of men who played dice, who lost almost all their silver, but then put their faith and all that was left of their money on one last throw. If this worked I would give Æthelstan a new enemy, a new war, and that war would indeed be terrible. And if I lost then his vengefulness would have no limit.
The slope was steep. I leaned back against the saddle’s high cantle, my shield banging against my left thigh, and I was tempted to curb the stallion. But on either side of me warriors were racing ahead and I spurred instead. I had warned my men not to use their usual war cry, not to shout Bebbanburg’s name, though I heard someone call it aloud. ‘Scotland!’ I bellowed. ‘Scotland!’ We flew the flags Hanna had sewn, the flags showing Domnall’s red hand gripping a heavy cross.
The slope lessened. The sound of hooves was like thunder. The enemy was staring astonished, then the dismounted men ran for their horses. Egil was slanting off to my left, his spear-points aiming for the smaller group who were turning to face him. Sihtric was galloping to the valley’s lip to cut that line of escape. Our bright flags with their false badges were streaming. A horse fell behind Sihtric, the rider tumbling, spear turning end over end, the horse screaming, riders splitting around it, and then my stallion was threading the trunks where the pines had been felled.
I lowered the spear and let my stallion have his head.
And so we struck. It was ragged, that charge, but it hit like one of Thor’s thunderbolts. The enemy was in panic, disorganised, some lucky men spurring desperately eastwards to safety, others turning their horses and blocking those who were screaming to escape, many just staring wide-eyed at Ealdred as if waiting for orders, while a few drew swords and came to meet us. One horseman readied his sword to swat my spear aside, but I raised it to threaten his frightened eyes, his sword came up to parry and I dropped the spear-blade to drive it deep into his lower chest, bending him back in the saddle. I let go of the haft and started to pull Serpent-Breath free, felt a blow on my shield, glimpsed a man with his mouth open turning his horse away from me as Berg slammed a spear into his pelvis. A scream, my horse swerving, more men with black shields on my right shouting incoherently as they speared into the hapless enemy. I saw Ealdred’s grey horse ahead of me, he was flailing his sword to part men who obstructed him and I spurred my horse, left Serpent-Breath in her scabbard, came up behind him and, reaching out, seized the neck of his mail coat and dragged him backwards. He swung his sword wildly, I was turning my stallion, he came back over his horse’s rump, shouted something and then fell with his left foot trapped in its stirrup. He was dragged along the ground for a few paces, then his horse was blocked by others. I threw down my shield and slid from the saddle. Ealdred struck at me with his sword, but he was half dazed, on his back, and the blow was feeble. The mail and the heavy rings on my forearm blocked the sword, then I dropped onto him, a knee in his belly, and pulled Wasp-Sting, my seax, free.
A seax, with its broken-backed shape and curved fore-blade, is a wicked weapon. I held its edge at Ealdred’s throat. ‘Drop the sword,’ I ordered him, then pressed the short blade harder, saw the terror in his eyes, then the sword fell. My horsemen had swept past me, leaving enemy dead and dying. Many had escaped and I was content to let them go, knowing what tale they would tell in Eoferwic, the same story that would travel south to Æthelstan in Wessex. The Scots had broken their word.
Berg, always watchful of me in a fight, had dismounted too. I stood, kicked Ealdred’s sword out of his reach, and told Berg to guard him. ‘He’s to stay on his back.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘And where’s Guthfrith?’ I stared around the valley. Most of the enemy was fleeing up the eastern slope, a few were kneeling with outspread hands to show that they yielded. ‘Where’s Guthfrith?’ I bellowed.
‘I’ve got the bastard!’ Sihtric shouted. He was driving Guthfrith ahead of his horse, using his sword to prod Northumbria’s king towards me.
I did not need prisoners except for Guthfrith and Ealdred. I had Egil’s men strip those who had surrendered of their mail, of their boots and of their weapons, then Thorolf, Egil’s brother, ordered them to carry their wounded down the hill and across the Tesa’s ford into Guthfrith’s territory. ‘And if you come back across the river,’ he growled, ‘we’ll use your ribs to sharpen our swords.’ His Norse-accented English would sound foreign to the prisoners, most of whom would never have heard a Scottish voice. ‘Now be on your way,’ he finished, ‘before we decide to eat you.’
That left Ealdred and Guthfrith. Both men had been stripped of their helmets and weapons, but were otherwise unharmed. ‘Drag them here,’ I snarled. I still wore the helmet with its heavy cheek-pieces, but as Ealdred
