they were still jeering at us, daring us to attack. A young man stumbled from the back of Osric's fyrd and vomited. Two dogs ran to eat the vomit. A spear-thrower was on his knees, shaking and praying.
Father Beocca stood beside Alfred's standards with his hands raised in prayer. I was in front of the standards with Steapa to my right and Pyrlig to my left. 'Bring fire on them, oh most holy Lord!' Beocca wailed, 'bring fire on them and strike them down! Punish them for their iniquities.' His eyes were tight closed and his face raised to the rain so that he did not see Alfred gallop hack to us and push through our ranks. The king would stay mounted so he could see what happened, and Leofric and a dozen other men were also on horseback so that their shields could protect Alfred from thrown spears and axes.
'Forward!' Alfred shouted.
'Forward!' Leofric repeated the order because the king's voice was so hoarse.
No one moved. It was up to Osric and his men to begin the advance, but men are ever reluctant to go against an enemy shield wall. It helps to be drunk. I have been in battles where both sides struggled in a reeking daze of birch wine and ale, but we had little of either and our courage had to be summoned out of sober hearts and there was not much to be found on that cold wet morning.
'Forward!' Leofric shouted again, and this time Osric and his commanders took up the shout and the men of Wiltunscir shuffled a few paces forward and the Danish shields clattered into the wall and locked together and the sight of that skjaldborg checked the advance. That is what the Danes call their shield wall, the skjaldborg or shield fort. The Danes roared mockery, and two of their younger warriors strutted out of their line to taunt us and invite a duel.
'Stay in the wall!' Leofric roared.
'Ignore them!' Osric shouted.
Horsemen rode from the fort, perhaps a hundred of them, and they trotted behind the skjaldborg that was formed of Svein's warriors and Wulfhere's Saxons. Svein joined the horsemen. I could see his white horse, the white cloak and the white horsetail plume. The presence of the horsemen told me that Svein expected our line to break and he wanted to ride our fugitives down just as his riders had slaughtered Peredur's broken Britons at Dreyndynas. The Danes were full of confidence, and so they should have been for they outnumbered us and they were all warriors, while our ranks were filled with men more used to the plough than the sword.
'Forward!' Osric shouted. His line quivered, but did not advance more than a yard.
Rain dripped from the rim of my helmet. It ran down inside the face-plate, worked itself inside my mail coat and ran in shivers down my chest and belly.
'Strike them hard, lord!' Beocca shouted, 'slaughter them without mercy! Break them in pieces!'
Pyrlig was praying, at least I think he was praying for he was speaking in his own tongue, but I heard the word duw repeated over and over and I knew, from Iseult, that duw was the Britons' word for god. ?thelwold was behind Pyrlig. He was supposed to be behind me, but Eadric had insisted on being at my back, so ?thelwold would protect Pyrlig instead. He was chattering incessantly, trying to cover his nervousness, and I turned on him.
'Keep your shield up,' I told him.
'I know, I know.'
'You protect Pyrlig's head, understand?'
'I know!' He was irritated that I had given him the advice. 'I know,' he repeated petulantly.
'Forward! Forward!' Osric called. Like Alfred he was on horseback and he went up and down behind his line, sword drawn, and I thought he would jab the blade at his men to goad them onwards. They went a few paces and the Danish shields came up again and the limewood made a knocking sound as the skjaldborg was made and once again our line faltered. Svein and his horsemen were now at the very far flank, but Osric had placed a group of picked warriors there, ready to guard the open end of his line.
'For God! For Wiltunscir!' Osric shouted, 'forward!'
Alfred's men were on the left of Osric's fyrd where we were bent slightly back, ready to receive the expected flank attack from the fort. We went forward readily enough, but then, we were mostly warriors and knew we could not advance in front of Osric's more nervous troops. I almost stepped into a scrap of the ground where, astonishingly, three leverets lay low and quivering. I stared at them and hoped that the men behind me would avoid the little beasts and knew they would not. I do not know why hares leave their young in the open, but they do and there they lay, small, sleek leverets in a hollow of the downs, doubtless the first things to die in that day of wind and rain.
'Shout at them!' Osric called. 'Tell them they're bastards! Call them sons of whores! Say they're shit from the north! Shout at them!' He knew that was one way to get men moving. The Danes were screaming at us, calling us women, saying we had no courage, and no one in our ranks was shouting back, but Osric's men started now and the wet sky was filled with the noise of weapons banging on shields and men calling insults.
I had hung Serpent-Breath on my back. In the crush of battle a sword is easier to draw over the shoulder than from the hip, and the first stroke can then be a vicious downward hack. I carried Wasp-Sting in my right hand. Wasp-Sting was a sax, a short-sword, a stout blade for stabbing, and in the press of men heaving against an enemy shield wall a short-sword can do more damage than a long blade. My shield, iron-rimmed, was held on my left forearm by two leather loops. The shield had a metal boss the size of a man's head, a weapon in itself. Steapa, to my right, had a long sword, not as long as the one with which he had fought me at. Cippanhamm, but still a hefty blade, though in his big hand it looked almost puny. Pyrlig carried a boar spear, short and stout and with a wide blade. He was saying the same phrase over and over. 'Ein tad, yr hwn wytyn y nefoedd, sancteiddier dy enw.' I learned later it was the prayer Jesus had taught his disciples. Steapa was muttering that the Danes were bastards. 'Bastards,' he said, then, 'God help me, bastards.' He kept saying it. Over and over.
'Bastards, God help me, bastards.' My mouth was suddenly too dry to speak, and my stomach felt sour and my bowels loose.
'Forward! Forward!' Osric called and we shuffled on, shields touching, and we could see the enemies' faces now. We could see men's unkempt beards and yellow-toothed snarls, see their scarred cheeks, pocked skin and broken noses. My face-plate meant I could only see directly ahead. Sometimes it is better to fight without a face- plate, to see the attacks coming from the side, but in the clash of shield walls a face-plate is useful. The helmet was lined with leather. I was sweating. Arrows flicked from the Danish line. They did not have many bowmen and the arrows were scattered, but we raised shields to protect our faces. None came near me, but we were bent back from the line to watch the fort's green walls that were rimmed with men, thick with sword-Danes, and I could see Ragnar's eagle-wing banner there and I wondered what would happen if I found myself face to face with him. I could see the axes and spears and swords, the blades that sought our souls. Rain drummed on helmets and
