I had placed my son, my only son I realised with a pang, at the centre of my men. ‘He has to be there,’ I said. He had to be there because he would be the next Lord of Bebbanburg and he must be seen to take the same risks as the men he would lead. There was a time when I would have been there, at the head and centre of my men’s shield wall, but age and sense had kept me behind the line. ‘He has to be there,’ I said again, then added, ‘but I’ve put good men beside him.’ Then I forgot my son’s peril because the enemy appeared across the skyline.
Horsemen came first, a long scattered line of perhaps a hundred men, some carrying the triangular standards of the Norse, and behind them came the shield wall. A vast wall, stretching across the valley with shields of every colour, the blackshields of Strath Clota next to Constantine’s Scots, and above the wall the weak sun reflected from a forest of spearheads. The enemy stopped at the top of the crest, beating their shields, roaring defiance, and I knew every one of my men was trying to count their numbers. It was impossible, of course, they were packed too tight, but I reckoned there had to be at least five thousand men facing us.
Five thousand! Perhaps it was fear that made the enemy look more numerous, and I did feel fear as I watched that horde of men beat their shields and shout their insults. I reminded myself that Guthrum had brought almost as many men to Ethandun and we had beaten them. And his men, like Owain of Strath Clota’s troops, had carried black shields. Was that an omen? I remembered after the battle how the blood had not shown on the fallen black shields. ‘Looks like six ranks,’ Finan said, ‘maybe seven?’
We had three, with just a few men making the scanty fourth. And the enemy’s ranks would grow as the line advanced and was forced to shrink by the converging streams. It was never enough to kill the front rank of a shield wall, to break it we had to pierce all six ranks, or all seven, or however many faced us. My throat felt dry, my stomach sour, and a muscle in my right leg was twitching. I touched the silver hammer, searched the sky for an omen, saw none, and gripped the hilt of Serpent-Breath.
The enemy was resting the lower rims of their round shields on the ground. Shields are heavy and a shield arm tires long before the sword arm. They were still beating swords and spear-hafts on the shields. ‘They’re not moving,’ Finan said, and I realised he was talking because he was nervous. We were all nervous. ‘They think we’ll attack them?’ he asked.
‘They hope we will,’ I grunted. Of course they hoped we would attack, trudging up the shallow slope of wet heathland, but though Anlaf doubtless thought Æthelstan was a fool to have accepted this battlefield he must have known we would stay on the lower ground. I could see their leaders riding up and down in front of the grounded shields, pausing to harangue the men. I knew what they would be saying. Look at your enemy, look how few they are! See how weak they are! See how easily we will shatter them! And think of the plunder that waits for you! The women, the slaves, the silver, the cattle, the land! I heard the bursts of cheering.
‘Lot of spears in the Scottish line,’ Finan said. I ignored him. I was thinking of Skuld, the Norn who waited at the foot of Yggdrasil, the giant ash tree that supports our world, and I knew Skuld’s shears would be sharp. She cuts the threads of our lives. Some men believed Skuld left Yggdrasil during a battle to fly above the fighting, deciding who will live and who will die, and again I looked up as if expecting to see an ash-grey woman, massively winged, with shears bright as the sun, but all I saw were grey clouds spreading. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Finan muttered and I looked back to see horsemen cantering down the gentle slope towards us.
‘Ignore them!’ I called to my men. The approaching horsemen were the fools who craved single combat. They came to taunt us and to seek fame. ‘Leave your shields resting,’ I shouted, ‘and ignore them!’
Ingilmundr was among the men who came to challenge us. In his right hand he carried Bone-Carver, his sword, its blade shining. He saw me and swerved towards my men. ‘You’ve come to die, Lord Uhtred?’ he called. His horse, a black stallion, came close to the hidden holes we had dug, but he turned away at the last moment to ride along the line of my troops. He looked magnificent, his mail polished, his cloak white, his bridle glinting with gold, his helmet crowned with the wing of a raven. He was smiling. He pointed Bone-Carver towards me. ‘Come and fight, Lord Uhtred!’ I turned to look across the stream, pointedly ignoring him. ‘You lack courage? So you should! Today is the day of your death. All of you! You are sheep, ripe for slaughter.’ He saw Egil’s triangular banner with its eagle. ‘And you Norsemen,’ he was speaking in Norse now, ‘you think the gods will love you today? They will reward you with pain, with agony, with death!’
Someone in Egil’s ranks let out a resounding fart, which provoked raucous laughter. Then the men began beating their shields, and Ingilmundr, failing to goad anyone to face him, turned his horse and cantered towards the Mercian troops to our left. None of those men would be goaded either. They stood silent, shields resting, watching the enemy who taunted them. A horseman carrying the black shield of Owain’s men came to
