Raven: Blood Eye (39 page)

'We'll stand, Penda!' Oswyn shouted. 'Won't we, lads?' There was a chorus of yells and more than one man banged his spear against the back of his shield.

'You are oaks!' Penda yelled. 'You are no longer the bastard scum of Wessex, but great Wessex oaks that no pissing Welshman is going to move!'

The men knew the task facing them, knew what they must do to survive. Even the craftsmen and traders had been trained in the discipline of the shieldwall. But they listened to Penda, let his words sting them like wasps, the spit flying from his mouth. For the words gave them heart. For his part Penda knew he needed every one of them to fight with the strength of two. He knew that only if the wall remained solid could it become the foundation from which to stab and cut, to claw and bite. Then the shields might advance as one man, step by step, crushing the enemy underfoot and driving him from the field. 'No gaps! No openings! No weakness!' he screamed, for such will cleave the wall just as a man splits an oak along the grain. 'If we break we die!'

'We'll hold,' short Saba growled.

'No need to whisper now, lads!' Penda called. 'Look, the bastards are awake, so let them hear you!'

'Wessex!' Oswyn roared, hefting his spear above his head. 'Wessex!' Then every man took up the shout. 'Wessex! Wessex! Wessex!'

Penda caught my eye and nodded grimly. 'Welsh bastards will be wishing they'd stayed in their beds!' he shouted.

'Bollocks!' Oswyn roared. 'Have you seen the women round here?' He spat down the hill. 'They'd make any man jump from the straw to face a shieldwall.' The men laughed and Penda ordered Oswyn to tie Ealdorman Ealdred's banner to a long spear and plant it in the earth. There was no wind to speak of, but enough of a breeze to stir the dark green banner so that its leaping stag embroidered in golden thread could be glimpsed every now and again.

'Let them know where we are, lads! Wouldn't want them to miss us,' Penda called, his voice thick with pride. The men cheered and banged their swords and spears against the backs of their shields so that the Welsh might have believed there were sixty men on that hilltop, not thirty-one. 'Forward,' he yelled, and as one man the Wessex shieldwall advanced to where I stood at the top of the slope, and the noise grew when they saw their enemy at the foot of the hill. The clamour filled my head, making the hairs on my neck stand up and the skin of my arms prickle. My spit tasted bitter.

Then a thin horn sounded in the valley and Penda raised a hand to silence the Englishmen. The Welsh numbered perhaps one hundred and fifty warriors. Beyond their battle line I saw women and children and white-haired old men come from the fortress to watch the fight. They had even brought their dogs. The horn sounded again.

'They want to talk before the blood-letting,' Oswyn said.

'Ah, they just want to tell us how they're going to stamp on our guts and throw our eyeballs to the crows,' Penda said. 'But I don't need their bedtime stories. I sleep well enough.' He stepped forward with his spear raised.

'Wait, Penda. We might learn something of Weohstan,' I said. He curled his top lip and nodded.

So Oswyn, Penda and I walked slowly down the slope until we were halfway between our two war bands, and our enemy's leaders came up the slope to meet us. There were two of them, both powerfully built men with long black beards and unkempt hair. One wore Norse mail and I recognized it as the brynja that had belonged to Glum's kinsman Thorleik. This man stepped forward and spat at my feet. Then the other warrior spoke with the same lilting voice as the man we had killed by the river days before.

'He says he looks forward to boiling your brains and feeding them to his children,' Oswyn said, allowing a smile to touch his thick lips.

'What did I tell you, Raven?' Penda said, gesturing to the Welshman. 'Bedtime bloody stories and it's still shy of midday.'

'Ask him if Weohstan of Wessex still lives,' I said to Oswyn who frowned, trying to find the words, though when he did the Welshman in leather armour smiled to reveal black teeth. Then he spat his reply as a serpent spits venom.

'He lives,' Oswyn said, wide-eyed. 'They had planned to ransom him, but now they have no need to.'

'Why not?' I asked, my heart pounding at the news that Weohstan lived. 'Why won't they ransom him?' I pointed my spear at the Welsh down the hill. 'This need not come to blood. There is still time.' Oswyn nodded and asked the question, but when the reply came the Wessexman tensed, the colour draining from his face.

'Well, you big bastard? Spit it out, man,' Penda said, frustrated at having to wait for every translation. He would rather the talking stopped and the killing began.

Oswyn cleared his throat. 'He says they no longer need to ransom Weohstan, because we have walked like a lame deer into a slaughter pit. Others are coming, kinsmen from across the hills, young men eager to prove themselves. He says that his people will soon be stripping our corpses as the eagle strips the hare's bones of flesh. Our arms, our swords and shields are the only riches they need.' Oswyn looked back to the Welshman. 'He says that their old folk, their grey-beards and their children and their women have not emptied their bowels yet today because they wait to shit on our eyes when we lie dead.'

'Enough jawing,' Penda said, stepping forward so that his face was a finger's length from the man with the black teeth. 'Piss off back to your women before I put those stinking teeth through the back of your head.' The Welshman spoke no English, yet he understood well enough, for he grimaced, turned his back on Penda and with his companion set off down the slope.

'He stank like a pig's innards,' Penda said, turning his back on the Welshmen and testing the balance of the spear he was holding. 'This thing's not worth a spit,' he mumbled. 'Damn thing couldn't kill a dead dog.' Suddenly, he twisted back and sprang forward, hurling the spear high into the blue sky. It dived like a hawk and pierced the black-toothed Welshman between his shoulders, dropping him to his knees. The other warrior jumped aside in shock, then screamed a curse at us before dragging his twitching friend down the hill, leaving the spear lodged where it was. Wessexmen cheered the first blood-letting of the day.

Penda made a surprised sound in the back of his throat as he stared after the dying Welshman whose head had slumped to his chest. Then he turned and we followed him back up the hill. 'I was wrong about that spear,' he said.

THE WELSH CAME AT US ON A WIDE FRONT, THEIR LEATHER-COVERED
shields presenting a grim, black wall. Other than their shields it seemed they lacked for decent armour. Their helmets were of toughened leather, not iron and steel, and as far as I could tell only a handful of them had mail; not full brynjas, but rather strips of mail fastened over chests and throats.

'We'll tear these bastards apart, Oswyn,' I said, taking my place in the centre of the shieldwall.

'I'm slobbering like a dog, lad,' he replied, banging his spear against his shield. 'I look forward to seeing what you've got, Norseman,' he gave me a grim smile, 'so don't disappoint me.' Even though I was amongst Christians, I whispered a prayer to brave Týr who loves battle, and mighty Thór, and Óðin Spear-Shaker, that I would prove worthy and that my place in the wall would mean death to the Welsh. They were still two hundred paces away. I could see them clearly now, the hate in their snarling faces, the violence in their rhythmic, trudging step. I was afraid.

'Now's the time to send your arrows, Eafa!' I called.

'Don't need a bloody heathen to tell me when to shoot!' Eafa snarled. And I smiled.
That's it, Eafa,
I thought.
Hate is good.
Hate will help you kill and go on killing when the lifeblood of
the man beside you slaps your face and blinds your eyes.
Eafa's first arrow took to the sky in a low arc before embedding in a Welsh shield. It was a fine shot. But soon a man with half Eafa's skill would not miss, there were so many Welshmen coming up the hill. More Wessex arrows streaked like swifts over my head and the first Welshmen fell. When they were one hundred paces away we bent to the piles of stones and hurled them with curses. Most bounced off the black shields, doing nothing to slow their advance, but some broke noses or cut heads.

'Not long now, lads!' Penda called. 'Hold your line! Keep those shields up!' The Welsh were shooting their own arrows now, but they either dug into the slope below us or sailed harmlessly overhead. Men on both sides shouted and cursed as though they believed the noise might drown their own fear. Those who had been millers and farmers until now snarled and spat like wild beasts to sow terror in their foes' hearts, willing their own rage to consume them and turn them into killing creatures impervious to pain. Saba threw a stone which smashed into a Welshman's temple and the Wessexmen gave a great cheer as their enemies stepped round the fallen man.

'That's it, Saba!' Oswyn roared. 'Give them another like that!' But the next stone Saba hurled fell short and it was the Welsh's turn to jeer. In moments our shieldwalls would close and the killing would begin. Many times since that day I have taken my place in the shieldwall and felt my bowels turn to liquid and my belly turn sour. I have known fear and tasted bitter terror on my tongue. But that day the death calm fell upon me and I could not have been more thankful, because I believed that it was a sign from the Norns of fate that they were still weaving my life's pattern and if that was true then I could not die. I laugh now to think of the arrogance of youth. Young men believe they are immortal. They wear pride's son, conceit, like a mail brynja they believe will preserve them. Now, if I met myself as I was then, I would send me sprawling with the back of my hand to teach me humility. Yet in another way I am glad I was arrogant, that I knew the thrill of standing with other men on the edge of life, in the midst of death, together. For when I met the Welsh in battle that day, I believe Óðin All-Father was amused. He laughed at the red-eyed boy who shook his spear at the enemy and spilt their blood slickly across Welsh grass. It is good to amuse the gods.

With a great crash like breakers on flat rocks, our shields struck and men hacked and heaved and rammed their spears overarm into others' faces. The rancid stink of the enemy filled my nose. Deep roars liquefied to squeals as blades found unprotected flesh. Through my shield I felt the weight of the entire enemy shieldwall and I planted my right foot squarely behind me to anchor myself to the spot. The man I faced died easily enough. I jabbed my spear repeatedly but blindly over the top of my shield until it struck home, bringing a yell from the Welshman, who dropped his shield slightly so that I could see the gash where his eye had been, now a bloody black hole of torn flesh. I sank my spear's point home again, this time into his open mouth, twisting it to smash his teeth, then ramming it into his throat. His legs buckled and he fell, but the weight on our line was such that we were already being driven back up the rise. We formed a crescent, our bowmen moving to the flanks to pour their shafts into the Welsh who sought to come round the edges and get behind us. So far Eafa and the others were holding them back.

Penda worked with his long sword, battering shields and heads in a grim, remorseless rhythm, and Oswyn leant into the enemy wall, bracing himself against it as others around him did the killing. Oswyn knew we must not be pushed back too far or we would find ourselves retreating down the hill's far side with the Welsh taking the high ground. It would not last long then.

'Kill them!' Eni yelled. 'Send them back to Satan!' The little man fought like a demon, finding a talent for killing that he never knew he possessed. His sword arm worked deftly, the shorter blade finding its way under his shield to stab into his enemies before they even saw it.

'For Wessex!' shouted another man.

'For Ealdred!' called someone else as the fight settled into a terrible cadence. Blood flew in sheets, sliming the grass. Men grunted and screamed and pushed and died, and despite the fallen Welsh littering the ground we were still being forced backwards. Wessexmen whose names I had never known were down, broken and lost behind the advancing tide, their souls hastening to the afterlife.

'To the left! The left!' Egric shouted. 'They're getting round the back!' Ducking behind my shield I risked a glance to the side where Eafa was now fighting desperately with sword and shield, having slung his bow. I saw two Wessexmen cut down as the Welsh forced the left wing to fold back on itself. In moments they would be behind us and we would die.