The Norman and English men-at-arms, all with some form of armour and a shield, either round or of elongated kite-shape, formed up and began to hammer their shields with their swords or spears. Groups of Norman archers approached within 100 paces of the Danes and began to draw and loose their deadly barrage. The Danes fell where they stood, unable to reply as they fought only as infantry and with most today lacking shields they were unable to protect themselves from the arrows. After several minutes the Danes, seeing that they would be cut down if they stood, surged forward with a mighty roar, scattering the archers who slipped back through the Norman line and then took position behind. As the mass of Danes was about to hit their line, the Anglo-Norman men-at- arms braced themselves and stepped forward to close with the Danes to prevent them standing back to use their two-handed war-axes, pushing hard with their shields as they stabbed and cut with their swords.
Realising that mounted cavalry would be useless in such a confined battlefield, with no room to charge or manoeuvre, Alan ordered the Wolves to dismount and for Leof and a groom to lead the horses to the rear. Odin made clear his displeasure at missing the fight by tossing his head and sidling as he was led away. No order was given by Robert of Mortain, but about half of the 200 horsemen followed Alan’s lead, discarding lances and drawing swords, forming a reserve force behind the main shield-wall.
“Just like old times, killing Danes!” Edric shouted to Alan above the din of battle. From the shield-wall was heard the clash of weapons on shields, battle-cries and the screams of the wounded as they fell and were trampled underfoot. Edric was standing with his green-painted kite-shaped shield hanging by a leather strap from his left shoulder and resting his single-handed battle-axe on the other shoulder.
English and Norman foot-soldiers continued to stream up the muddy track and join the rear of the army, while a steady stream of the more prudent Danes continued to slip away along the narrow track on the other side of the village.
On foot it was difficult to see how the battle was progressing, which was no doubt the reason that the bulky shape of Count Robert continued to sit ahorse to be able to see over the heads of his own shield-wall. Weighed down by his chain-mail and leather knee-length hauberk and the padded gambeson worn underneath, Alan was sweating despite the cool overcast weather and gentle breeze. Not satisfied with the way that his helmet with its typical Norman nasal guard was sitting on the mail coif that covered his head, he raised his right hand to adjust it so that it sat more firmly in place, although the weight and pressure on his head were giving him a headache.
Alan and his ten men were standing in a group about twenty paces behind the Norman shield-wall, which was five ranks deep and was being forced slightly backwards by the press of men ahead of it and the desire of the swordsmen to have firm footing and not be tripping over the bodies of the fallen.
Suddenly a group of about thirty Danes, led by two huge figures each powerfully wielding double-handed war-axes, broke through the shield-wall. The axe-men were striking massive blows with their weapons, smashing shields and sundering men in twain. The axe-men ripped the shield-wall asunder and allowed a small flood of swordsmen and spearmen to follow and attack the rear of the shield-wall on each side of the breach.
“Forward! Move!” shouted Alan, drawing his sword. The beautifully balanced and superbly forged and polished one-and-a-half-hand weapon, thirty-one inches in blade length, was a memento of that day three years previously at Caldbec Hill. “Advance in line! Keep your dressing and give mutual support! We fight as a team, not like this rabble!”
One of the Danish axe-men fell, pierced by three arrows from the Norman archers behind the line. Alan strode towards the other axe-man, his mind clear and focused. Suddenly the sword felt feather-light and he rose onto the balls of his feet like a dancer, ready for quick foot movement. Alan was tall at over six feet in height. The Dane was huge, over seven feet tall with a strongly-built body from his bull-like neck to his muscular thighs. He was unarmoured, wearing a hastily fastened tunic which indicated that minutes before he had been asleep, and his long matted and filthy brown hair hung lankly. There was an unholy gleam in his eyes as he saw Alan approach, noting the thigh-length sleeved hauberk and the nasal guard on the helmet that marked him as a Norman knight. Alan had chosen his opponent, knowing that he himself was the best swordsman in his band and this was the most dangerous foe.
Alan paused, two paces from the giant, who roared something unintelligible, spittle flying from his mouth as he stepped forward. Unable to get inside the blow, Alan stepped lightly back, looking for an opportunity to attack. As he did so, his back foot slipped in the mud and he dropped to one knee. With another roar the Dane unleashed a smashing back-hand blow, which Alan parried by thrusting out his left arm and the shield that was strapped to the forearm.
Alan’s judgment had been good and the axe crashed into the metal boss in the upper centre of the shield, preventing the huge blow from sundering both the shield and his chest. He felt a wave of pain as his left arm was broken like a stick, and instantly knowing that he would be unable to wield his shield further, he opened his left hand to let go the handgrip and turned the arm to allow the shield to drop free from the two leather straps on his left forearm, suffering another wave of pain as he did so. He then bunched his legs under himself, ready to thrust upwards towards the belly of the Dane, but as he did so Edric’s axe appeared from the left and thumped into the Dane’s chest with the dull sound like wood being chopped. Blood flew from the mouth of the Dane and he collapsed sideways. Unfortunately, Edric’s axe had stuck fast in the Dane’s chest, pulling Edric to one side as his opponent collapsed and left Edric open to a thrust of a spear to the throat by another Dane. Edric fell with a gurgling cry.
Alan rose and in two quick steps closed with the spearman and with a back-handed swing from just below shoulder height avenged his friend, the sword striking the Dane in his left armpit and biting deeply into his unarmoured body. Alan felt a blow on his left side, now unprotected by shield, the sword failing the penetrate his chain-mail armour and the force of the blow dissipated by the padded gambeson, but a sharp pain in his chest as he drew breath indicated he probably had several broken ribs. Other Norman men-at-arms were hurrying to the breach, and as they arrived Alan staggered backwards as he felt a sharp burning pain in his right thigh as a spear-thrust came up under the tail of the chain-mail hauberk and slashed upwards, tearing flesh as it went. Alan collapsed and a wave of darkness washed over him.
He awoke to see the face of Guy of Lyons, Robert of Mortain’s French churgeon, bending over him. “Still in the land of the living, with God’s good Grace and with the luck of the Devil, I see,” commented Guy. “Well, I’m afraid that your luck has run out and I’m going to have to take off that leg.”
“Be damned to that!” retorted Alan. “Lift me up so I can see and get a mirror.” He nearly passed out as he was levered into a sitting position, the person on the left grasping his arm. “Sweet Jesus! My left arm is broken, so leave it alone! So are my left ribs. Get me my satchel. Right, mix one spoonful of this powder into a cup of wine and give it to me to drink to dull the pain. It’s dried juice of poppy. Guy, nobody’s going to cut my leg off until it’s green and mouldy. Follow my instructions.”
Following Alan’s instructions Guy treated the thigh injury, tied off cut veins, cleaned the wound and dressed it with Alan’s antiseptic and anti-bacterial medicines before suturing the bone-deep eight-inch long gash closed with cat-gut. “Interesting,” commented Guy. “We’ll see if that works or if you are the architect of your own death. I still believe the leg can’t be saved. Now as for the arm and ribs, those are easy…”
When he recovered consciousness several hours later Alan instructed Leof and one of his men to ride to the caves at Flamborough and instruct one of the ships to proceed up the river. They were 30 miles from Lincoln and 180miles from Thorrington. It would be a journey of ten days by jolting ox-cart which the three wounded men from his party were unlikely to survive- but they were only a mile from the river.
Sven arrived near noon the following day, the ship having rowed past the main force of the Danes and their ships at Axholme without being challenged due to their disguise as Danes. Alan, the two other wounded men Cuthbert and Leofwine, and the corpses of Edric and Wulfnoth, were carried carefully on stretchers to the ship, the wounded placed on straw-filled palliasses on a grate that had been positioned to keep them dry from the several inches of bilge-water which slopped about in the bottom of the ship. Alan explained to Leof how to change the dressings on the wounds, apply the antiseptic and healing salves and to make an infusion of chamomile, comfrey, ivy, marigold and yarrow mixed with sea salt and boiled water- the latter to act as a mild pain killer and aid in repair of fractures and wounds.
The ship was rowed downstream and with a favourable northerly wind arrived a day and a half later at Alresford Creek, just a few hundred paces from home. Despite the relatively gentle motion of the ship on the short voyage compared to the long jolting journey they would have had by wagon along the rutted and unpaved roads, Alan was in a deep fever and unconscious when he was carried on his palliasse from the ship to his bed in the bedchamber at the New Hall.
