Egil, like me, was behind his troops, leaving his brother to stand as the shield wall’s leader. They had broken one of the swine-wedges, leaving a heap of bloodied corpses in their front, and now the Scots who opposed them were content to shout insults, but were reluctant to add their bodies to the corpse pile. Their shield wall had shrunk, not just from the men who had died in their first screaming assault, but because all shield walls have a tendency to move to their right. Men close with the enemy and, as the axes, swords and spears try to find gaps between the shields, men instinctively shuffle to their right to gain the protection of their neighbour’s shield. The Scots had done that, opening a small gap at the very end of their line, a gap between the shields and the stream’s deep gully. It was only two or three paces wide, but Thorolf was tempted by it. He had defeated the best that Constantine could hurl against him, now he saw a chance to turn the enemy’s flank. If he could lead men through the gap, turn on Constantine’s flank and so widen the gap, we could get behind the Scottish shield wall, panic it, and start a collapse that would spread up the enemy’s line.
Thorolf did not ask Egil, nor me, he just moved some of his best men to the right of the line, then stalked in front of the shield wall, taunting the Scots, daring any of them to come and fight him. None did. He was a daunting man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a heavy-browed face beneath his shining helmet that was crowned with an eagle’s wing. He carried a shield with his family’s eagle emblem, and in his right hand was his favourite weapon, a heavy, long-hafted war axe that he called Blood-Drinker. He wore gold at his neck, his thick forearms were bright with arm rings, he looked what he was, a Norse warrior of renown.
And suddenly, as he paced the line, he turned and ran for the gap, bellowing at his men to follow. They did. Thorolf put down the first man by slashing Blood-Drinker in a blow so powerful that it beat down the shield and buried itself in the man’s neck, cleaving down to his heart. Thorolf was bellowing, driving on, but his axe was lodged in the mangled ribs of his first victim, and a spear took him in the side. He shouted in anger, his voice rising to a scream as he stumbled and more Scotsmen came. They were part of Constantine’s reserve and the king sent them fast and the spears stabbed, the swords lunged and Thorolf Skallagrimmrson died at the stream’s edge, his mail slashed and pierced, his blood draining to reeds beside the swirling water. The Scotsman who had first speared Thorolf wrenched Blood-Drinker free and swung it at the next Norseman, clouting his shield so hard that he was hurled down into the stream’s gully. The Scots hurled spears at him and he rolled into the water, reddening it as his mail-weighted body sank.
The men who had followed Thorolf retreated fast and it was the turn of the Scots to jeer and taunt. The spearman who had killed Thorolf flaunted Blood-Drinker, calling on us to come and be killed. ‘That man is mine,’ Egil said. I had gone to join him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘He was a good man.’ Egil had tears in his eyes, then drew his sword, Adder, and pointed it at the Scotsman who was flourishing Thorolf’s axe, ‘and that man is mine.’
Then the great drum, hidden somewhere behind Anlaf’s men, thumped the air in a new and faster rhythm, a huge cheer sounded, and Anlaf’s Norsemen started down the slope.
Those Norsemen bellowed their challenge and came in an undisciplined rush. Many were úlfhéðnar and thought themselves invincible, believing that sheer rage and violence would shatter the large West Saxon contingent on Æthelstan’s left. I did not know it, but Æthelstan himself had moved to that flank to take command of his West Saxons, and the moment he saw the Norse begin their charge he ordered a retreat.
That was one of the most difficult things any commander has to achieve. To keep the shield wall tight while walking backwards needed rigid discipline, the men had to keep their shields touching as they stepped back, and all the time seeing a shrieking horde racing towards them, but the West Saxons were amongst the best of our warriors and I heard a voice calling out the steps as they steadily backed away. The men beside the smaller stream were being constricted by the gully and I saw files breaking off to form another rank behind the three who steadily moved back, bending Æthelstan’s battle line into the shape of a bow. Then, after about twenty backward paces, they stopped, the shields clattered as they were aligned, and the Norsemen struck. Their charge was ragged, the bravest men reaching the West Saxons first and leaping at the shields as if they could hurtle through Æthelstan’s ranks by sheer speed, but the spears met them, the shields crashed together, and the West Saxons held firm. The charge of the Norsemen roused the rest of Anlaf’s line that surged forward and the battle seemed to wake up, the din of swords beating on blades and shields rose, and the screaming began again. The blackshields of Strath Clota were clawing at my men, the Scots were trying to clear the dead out of their path to reach us, with the man holding Thorolf’s axe leading them. ‘The bastard,’ Egil said.
‘No—’ I began, but Egil was gone, screaming at his men to get out of his way. The Scotsman saw him coming, and I saw a fleeting look of alarm on his face, but then he roared his own challenge, hefted his blue-painted shield and swung the axe as Egil burst through his own front
