They came slowly. The poets tell us that men charge into battle, welcoming the slaughter as eagerly as any lover, but a shield wall is a fearsome thing. The men of Wessex knew they would not break us with a wild charge, but would only reach the gate behind us by keeping their ranks tight and their shields overlapped and firm, and so they walked to us, their faces watchful and grim above the iron rims of their stag-painted shields. Every third man carried a shortened spear, the others came with either a seax or an axe. I had left Wasp-Sting in Waormund’s belly, and I needed her. A long-sword is no weapon for a shield wall, but Serpent-Breath was in my hand and she would have to serve.
‘Our king is coming!’ I shouted. ‘Hold them!’
‘Kill them!’ Ælfweard’s high-pitched voice screamed. ‘Slaughter them!’
The West Saxon spears were lowered. I had thought their rear ranks might throw spears, but none came, though Wihtgar’s men hurled spears over our heads. The blades thumped into West Saxon shields. ‘Break them!’ Æthelhelm shouted, and they came forward, still cautiously, men stepping around Waormund’s massive corpse. Their shields made a constant clatter, edge touching edge. They were close now, so close. They stared into our eyes, we stared into theirs. Men took a breath, steeling themselves for the clash of shields. Harsh voices were ordering them onwards. ‘Kill them!’ Ælfweard shouted excitedly. He had drawn a sword, but was staying well back from the fight.
‘For God and for the king!’ a West Saxon shouted, and then they came. They screamed, they shouted, they charged the last two paces, and our shields met with a thunder of clashing wood. My shield was pressed back, I heaved. An axe hacked at the rim, narrowly missing my face, a warrior with gritted teeth and a badly mended helmet was grimacing at me, just inches from my face. He was trying to thread a seax past my shield’s edge as the axeman attempted to pull my shield down, but the axe’s blade slipped from the rent it had made and I heaved again, pushing the grimacing man back, and Finan must have lunged his seax into him because he sank down, giving me space enough to lunge Serpent-Breath at the axeman.
Men were shouting. Blades were clashing. Priests were calling on their god to kill us. A Mercian spearman behind me thrust past my shield. I heard Æthelhelm’s voice, touched with panic, yelling at his men that they must close the gate. I looked up when he shouted and caught his eye an instant. ‘Close the gate!’ His voice was shrill. I looked away from him as an axe thumped on my shield. I shook the blade off as a Mercian spearman thrust a spear past me. I rammed Serpent-Breath forward, felt her strike wood and lunged again, but my elbow was jarred by Rumwald who had staggered against me. He was whimpering, then his shield fell and he sank down, the spearman behind me tried to take his place, but Rumwald was thrashing wildly, suddenly screaming in agony, and so stopped him. A West Saxon spear pierced Rumwald’s mail, then a merciful axe split his helmet, shattered his skull. The spearman lunged at Rumwald’s killer, but a West Saxon seized the ash shaft and tugged until Serpent-Breath skewered his armpit.
‘Kill them!’ Ælfweard screeched. ‘kill them! Kill them! Kill them all!’
‘You must close the gate!’ Æthelhelm bellowed
‘God is with us!’ Father Oda’s voice was hoarse. The men in our rear rank were shouting, encouraging us to kill. Wounded men moaned, the dying screamed, the battle stench of blood and shit filled my nostrils.
‘Hold them!’ I bellowed. A spear or a seax scored across my left thigh, Finan lunged. The spearman from the second rank had stepped across Rumwald’s body and his shield touched mine. He lasted maybe long enough to lunge his spear once, then the axe drove into his shoulder, opening him deep and he fell beside his lord, and the axeman, a fair-haired man with a blood-spattered beard, swung his blade at me and I raised the shield to block the blow, saw the wood split where the blade struck, swung the shield down and drove Serpent-Breath at his eyes. He jerked away, another man had taken the dying Mercian’s place and he stabbed with a shortened spear, driving the blade into the axeman’s groin. The axe dropped, the man shrieked in agony and, like Waormund, fell to his knees. There were dead and dying men between us and the enemy, who had to step on the bodies to reach us and try to stab and lunge and hack their way to the gate. The drums still pounded, shields were splintering, the West Saxons were driving us back by weight of numbers.
Then there was a bellow behind me, a cheer, a clatter of hooves, and something slammed into my back, throwing me to my knees and I looked up to see a horseman thrusting a long spear over my head. More horsemen came. The Mercian cheers grew. I managed to stand. Finan had thrown down his seax and drawn Soul-Stealer because the horsemen were driving the West Saxons back, giving us space for longer blades. ‘Break them!’ another voice shouted, and I had a glimpse of Æthelstan, his helmet a glory of polished steel circled with gold, thrusting his stallion into the West Saxon ranks. The warrior king had come, glorious in gold, ruthless in steel, and he hacked with a long-sword, beating down his enemies. His men spurred to join him, spears stabbing, and suddenly the enemy broke.
They just broke. The longer spears of the Mercian horsemen had reached deep into the West Saxon ranks and on another day, on another battlefield, that would not have mattered. Horses are