My men stood and shuffled together. Shields clattered as they touched. The front rank was all men with either a sword or an axe as their chosen weapon. The spears were in the second rank. The third rank was ready to hurl spears before drawing a sword or hefting an axe. The fourth rank was spaced out because there were not enough men to fill it.
I loosened Serpent-Breath in her fleece-lined scabbard, though if I dismounted and joined the shield wall I would use Wasp-Sting, my seax. I drew her, saw the light reflect from her blade that was not much longer than my forearm. Her tip was honed to a savage point, her foreblade was sharp enough to serve as a razor, while her broken-shaped back blade was thick and stout. I thought of Serpent-Breath as a noble weapon, a sword fit for a warlord, while Wasp-Sting was the cunning killer. I remembered the exultation I had felt at Lundene’s Crepelgate as I had pierced Wasp-Sting into Waormund’s belly, how he had gasped, then staggered as the life blood oozed past her blade. That victory had given Æthelstan his throne. I looked to my left and saw the king was standing his horse close behind his Mercian troops, a target for archers and spearmen. Bishop Oda was close by Æthelstan, next to his standard-bearer.
Aldwyn was holding my standard with its wolf-head badge. He was waving it from side to side to let the approaching Scots know that they faced the wolf-warriors of Bebbanburg. Egil had his eagle flag flying. Thorolf, his brother, was in the centre of the front rank, tall and black-bearded, a war axe in his right hand. The enemy was three hundred paces away now and I could see Constantine’s blue cross on a flag and Domnall’s red hand holding another cross, while just to their left was the black banner of Owain. ‘Six ranks,’ Finan said, ‘and bloody archers too.’
‘We’ll send our horses back,’ I said, ‘and close up.’
I turned and beckoned Ræt, Aldwyn’s younger brother. ‘Bring my shield!’
Beyond Ræt, on the far side of the bridge, I could see people who had come from Ceaster to watch the battle. They were fools, I thought, and Æthelstan had forbidden them to come, but such orders were pointless. The guards on the city gates were supposed to stop them, but those guards were old or wounded men, too easily overwhelmed by an anxious crowd. Some of the women had even brought their children, and if our army was broken, if we began to flee in panicked chaos, those women and children would have no chance of reaching the safety of the city. There were priests there too, their hands raised in supplication to the nailed god.
Ræt stumbled under the weight of the heavy shield. I dismounted, took the shield from him and gave him Snawgebland’s reins. ‘Take him back to the bridge,’ I told him, ‘but watch for my signal! I’m going to need him again.’
‘Yes, lord. Can I ride him, lord?’
‘Go!’ I said. He scrambled into the saddle, grinned at me, and kicked his heels. His legs were too short to reach the stirrups. I slapped the stallion’s rump and then joined the fourth rank.
And waited again. I could hear the enemy’s shouts, see the faces above the shield rims, and see the glitter of the blades meant to kill us. They had not formed a swine-wedge yet, they wanted to surprise us, but I could see how the man commanding the company nearest the stream had placed his largest men in the middle of the front rank. Three huge brutes carrying axes were at the very centre and they would form the point of the wedge. All three were shouting, their mouths open, their eyes glaring from beneath their helmet rims. They would clash with Egil’s men. Two hundred paces.
I looked to my left and saw that Anlaf’s Norsemen were trailing the rest of the advancing line. Was that to convince us that their strongest effort would be here on their left? Already, as the enemy advanced into the ground between the converging streams, their line was shortening, their ranks thickening. I could see Anlaf on horseback behind his men. His helmet gleamed silver. His banner was black with a great white falcon soaring. Ingilmundr was in the centre, displaying a banner of a flying raven. The blades hammered on shields, the shouts were louder, the great war drum beat its death rhythm, but still they did not hurry. They wanted to frighten us, they wanted us to see death coming, they wanted our land, our women, our silver.
One hundred paces and the first arrows flickered from behind the enemy line. ‘Shields!’ I called, though it was unnecessary because the front rank had already crouched behind their shields, the second rank put their shields just above the first and the third completed the wall. The arrows struck with distinct thumps. A few slid through the gaps. I heard a curse from someone who had been struck, but no man fell. Two arrows struck my shield and a third glanced off the iron rim. I was tilting the shield above my helmet and could see under its lower rim that the enemy was quickening pace. The svinfylkjas was forming to my right, the men in the front rank hurrying to get ahead and then I saw another was forming in front of me, aiming straight at my son. A fourth arrow struck my shield’s lower rim, glanced off and missed my helmet by an inch.
I had never stood in the rear rank of a shield wall since I had become an ealdorman, but my men expected me to stay behind on this day. I was old and they wanted to protect me, and that was a problem, because already men were glancing behind to make certain I had not been struck by the arrows that were falling all along Æthelstan’s line. In the centre
