‘Where is she?’
Giuki looked around. ‘Aelis, lady, show yourself.’
‘Aelis?’
‘Yes, of the line of that bastard Robert the Strong.’
‘We’ve been looking for her the length of this coast. Hand her over and you are our brothers. Our seeress will bless you. We travel with Munin, that wide-seeing lady.’
‘I have heard of her. It’s painful to part with this girl because Helgi of the Rus wants her for his bride. But ours is the offence and you must have her.’
Aelis was amazed at the sudden courtesy with which the Vikings addressed each other, though she noticed they still kept a wary distance of thirty or so paces between the bands.
All this time Ofaeti, Aelis and the other berserkers kept moving. They were fifty paces away from the two sides when Giuki called after them: ‘Do I know you, brothers? You are no Danes and yet you’re not with us, either. Where are you going with the lady?’
All faces turned to Ofaeti. He drew his sword.
‘I am Thiorek, called Ofaeti, son of Thetmar, war chief of the Horda. I have lived well and in many battles, but now, I think, my time is over. Come on, lads, step forward. Let’s take each other to the All Father’s hall.’
‘Thiorek? What are you doing here?’
Aelis could almost touch the dismay in Giuki’s voice. She guessed the fat man had a reputation as a great warrior.
‘Ship-stealing, same as you,’ said Ofaeti.
‘And making off with our hostage,’ said another voice.
‘That girl is promised as weregild,’ said Giuki. ‘She is not yours to take.’
‘And yet I’m taking her,’ said Ofaeti, ‘unless you are so jealous of your dead friends here on the beach that you would follow them to the halls of the slain. Step forward. The All Father has a place at his mead bench for you.’
Ofaeti had three men with him. Those still standing on the beach numbered nearer sixty. They were exhausted from the fighting, a rabble with bent swords, broken spears and shattered shields, but were too many for so few to stand against.
‘We will come on,’ said Giuki. ‘What did I tell you, Danes? We are brothers. No sooner do we discuss it than the gods give us a reason to fight together.’
The Vikings did not charge. The battle had seen them spread across the wide beach and some had sat to listen to their leaders talking. But all now stood, all picked up their weapons, or the remains of their weapons, and came towards Ofaeti and Aelis with purpose in their movement.
‘You belong to the vala, girl, to the seeress. There’s nowhere to run,’ said a voice.
For a second Aelis considered running, but it would have been futile. The beach was too long. The Vikings might be tired but they would catch her sooner or later. The nearest cover was the monastery five hundred paces away or a treeline four times that distance on the headland. The route to the monastery was blocked and she didn’t even know if there was a way off the flats if she ran for the trees. Behind Giuki were some dunes maybe two hundred paces away, but she couldn’t run through the Vikings.
There was a noise from along the beach, faint, almost like a breath of wind, though there was none. It was like the tug of the wind at an ill-set sail or distant thunder. The Vikings didn’t notice it but Aelis recognised the sound instantly. It was the cry of a horse, but not just any horse. She knew its voice, even from so far away.
‘Kill the thieves!’ said a Dane.
‘Those are the bastards who’ve been skulking about killing our men in the monastery,’ said another.
‘Not me,’ said Ofaeti, ‘but come forward. I’ll kill you without the skulking. You might want to get another sword, though; yours looks like it’s taken a clout too many, son.’ Ofaeti and the three berserkers at his side brandished their weapons. ‘Come on, boys. You can serve me my first drink in the afterlife, because we’re all going there tonight.’
Aelis’ eyes were drawn to the dark dunes two hundred paces away. At first she thought it was just an effect of the moonlight. The dunes seemed to ripple. Then the horse cried again and there was a sound like thunder, like the beating of many drums. She said a word under her breath — ‘Moselle’ — and the Franks came on at the charge across the hard slick sand.
52
Men panicked, didn’t think straight. The obvious thing to do was to dive for the water or the boats, that was the best shelter from the charge. But they were spread out along the beach, exhausted from fighting, their minds not quite accepting they had another battle on their hands.
Some did run for the boats; some ran for the dunes, up towards the monastery; some turned and faced the enemy.
‘Together. Shields together! Hold, hold!’ screamed Giuki, but it was no good. The knights were too quick, streaming across the hard sand at a flat gallop, their lances before them. The cavalry crashed into the Vikings like a pulverising wave. Some tried to fight and were taken by the lances, some ran and were smashed down by the flying horses.
Aelis had the impression of men broken, shattered and pulped.
The noise of the first impact was awful, like the smack of a hammer tenderising a steak but magnified many times. This was a work of demolition, not war. The knights worked together. Even after the mass charge, they rode in twos and threes. Any warrior who faced them had two lances to deal with, the hooves of two horses even if he was lucky enough to avoid the spears. Few chose to stand. Most ran hard for anything that might afford them protection and they were scattered like field mice before a scythe.
And then the horses were on Aelis. She was paralysed by fear. She felt the vibration of the hooves through the sand, a deep drumming that seemed capable of casting her to the ground on its own. She saw the crazed faces of the horses, lips pulled back, teeth bared and eyes wide, heard the insane whoops of the riders, and then she was down, rolling in the water.
‘Get to the boat! Run!’ screamed Ofaeti.
He had torn her away at the last second and pulled her sprawling into a deep pool in the sand. She stood.
The Franks wheeled and charged again. Ofaeti had her by the back of her tunic, driving her towards the shelter of the longship. He lost his grip and she fell headlong into the water. She looked up and saw Moselle lose his lance in the chest of a Viking, its crosspiece breaking with the impact and failing to prevent the weapon going clean through its target. Moselle dropped it, drew his sword and beheaded a fleeing man. Then he turned his horse and, cackling with delight, he spurred it into another confrontation.
No more than ten paces from her, a horseman had come to a halt, three Vikings around him. One was on his left-hand side, away from the horseman’s sword arm, and leaped on him with his knife, but suddenly he wasn’t there. A horseman had come past at the gallop taking the Viking’s head with the point of his lance as easily as he’d spear a target in the practice yard. In a blink the other two were dead, similarly dispatched by racing horsemen.
Some Vikings did get away: ten made a longboat and got it out to sea; five climbed the dunes towards the monastery.
‘These are your people?’ said Ofaeti. They were crouching in the beached longboat.
‘Yes.’
She read his face. He was going to threaten her, force an oath from her, tell her that if she didn’t promise to save them he would cut her throat there and then. But she saw him dismiss the idea. It was useless, he could see. ‘Can you save us?’ he said.
‘No.’
