Chapter 4

Chapter 4

They were outnumbered. Brecc eyed the men lining the ridge above them grimly. Too many to count, and there was no telling how many bloodthirsty Vikings lay waiting in the ranks beyond his vision. Tightening his grip on the handle mounted beneath his shield boss, he pressed his shoulder against Arthw's at his right. The gentleman grunted his approval. The closer the warriors stood to each other, the better. Their overlapping shields formed a formidable barrier, but all it would take was one weak link—one man to fall or to abandon his comrades—and the blockade's effectiveness would be compromised.

"Looks to be a large gathering of chieftains," Arthw muttered. "I'd wager this battle is one they aim to win."

Brecc nodded. The chieftains' metal helmets glistened in the early-morning light, and though they were not yet close enough for him to identify the extravagantly molded face guards, he knew the intimidating headgear's purpose. The chieftains' warlike appearance was meant to engender fear in their foes—as were their howling battle cries. The Vikings' similarity to a pack of ravenous wolves was all too real.

From somewhere on the hilltop, a blood-curdling cry rent the air, and suddenly, the Vikings were racing toward them, swords and spears raised as they poured down the hill in a torrent of fearsome shouts.

"Hold your positions!" At King Alfred's shout, the men at the front of the shield wall tensed. "With trust in God's strength and mercy, victory shall be ours!"

"We fight for Wessex!" The shout came from somewhere in the midst of the nearly four thousand men who were standing in tightly packed rows behind Brecc.

The call was immediately picked up by others. "For Wessex!"

Keeping his eyes on the hillside, Arthw shifted slightly. "And so it begins."

The Vikings were close enough now that Brecc could identify which were armed with swords and which were wielding axes. A horn sounded, and an instant later, the sky filled with spears arching over the grassland toward them. The response was instant. A single shout, and more spears took to the sky, this time directed toward the Vikings.

Brecc raised his sword. The Saxon counteroffensive had begun.

Cries of agony mingled with shouts of fury. All around, the clash of metal hitting metal and the thud of spears penetrating wooden shields reverberated down the Saxons' line of defense.

Brecc lunged at the nearest Viking, the tip of his blade catching the man's thick leather garment on his arm. The heathen swung his raised ax toward Brecc, but Brecc countered the attack with a blow that knocked the man to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Brecc spotted another volley of incoming spears. "Forward," he yelled.

As one, the front line surged up the hill. Two, three, four steps. It was all that was necessary. The spear that should have hit his shoulder sailed past Brecc's ear, missing him by a fraction. Arthw cursed as a spear penetrated the soil at his feet. They both knew that if one of them fell and a fresh warrior did not step forward to fill the gap immediately, the floodgates would open, and there would be no holding back the Vikings then.

"The shield wall is holding." Arthw grunted, lowering his head as yet another spear sliced through the air between them.

Behind Brecc, a man shrieked. The sound sent chills down Brecc's spine. Such a gut-wrenching sound did not accompany a superficial flesh wound. The man at Brecc's right stumbled, his shield shifting against Brecc's. With a roar, three Vikings attacked, wielding their spears with deadly precision. Brecc's neighbor cried out, his knees buckling. The moment the man's shield dropped, another Saxon warrior pushed forward, stepping over his comrade to press his shield against Brecc's.

"Stay the course! We have them." It was Ormod's voice.

Already, the field was littered with fallen men. The clatter of metal attested to the ongoing battles along the Saxon shield wall, but many of the Vikings had dropped back. For the first time since their initial war cry had rent the air, the Saxons' adversaries were unsure. Brecc turned his head. Determination shone in every Saxon's eyes. Despite the unlikely odds, victory was within reach.

Another shout. This one closer. Brecc ducked as an airborne spear whistled past him. Beside him, Arthw gasped. A hiss of pain followed. Brecc swiveled. The spear had partially entered his comrade's arm. The wooden shaft wavered before toppling to the ground, drawing the spear's tip out of Arthw's forearm as it fell.

Brecc kicked the spear aside. Someone else could use it against their enemy. "How bad is it?"

"'Tis nothing." Arthw was speaking through clenched teeth. "It caught the edge of my byrnie."

"Call another man up," Brecc urged.

Arthw kept his eyes forward, his jaw tight. "There's no need. The heathens are retreating."

It was true. The spear that had pierced Arthw's arm must have been one of the last to fly. The Vikings were running toward the ridge, leaving their dead and wounded behind. A cheer erupted. From the Saxon army's rear, farmers and laborers began running onto the battlefield, carrying their pitchforks and scythes aloft.

"It is too early for jubilation," Arthw said grimly. "The Vikings may have withdrawn, but they are not gone."

Bodies, bleeding and broken, lay scattered across the slope. Brecc swallowed the bile in his throat. Did the Viking chieftains ever consider the price their greed exacted? Many of the casualties were Saxons, most certainly, but there were numerous Vikings among the dead, and those who were injured might yet die of their wounds. Brecc glanced at Arthw. His companion's face was pale, but he remained upright, holding his shield in place.

"Your wound. How bad is it?" Brecc repeated.

"Not so bad that you'll be claiming my purse," he said.

Brecc scowled. The practice of searching those who'd died in battle for valuables had never sat well with him. To walk away with an associate's possessions after he'd died in the service of his king and country was abhorrent. "I have no interest in your coins," he said. "Unless you intend to spend them on my next meal."

Arthw eyed his blood-soaked sleeve. "I fear my need for a healer may surpass my desire for food at present."

Brecc's thoughts instantly turned to Ealdorman Kendryek's young daughter. Would that she and her mother were close enough to be of assistance.

His eyes scanned those lowering their weapons along the shield line. Had the ealdorman survived the battle despite his weakened state?

"Remain here," Brecc said. "If there is help available for your wound, I shall find it."

Arthw's grudging acceptance of Brecc's offer was a far greater indication of his level of discomfort than any words could have been. Lowering himself to the ground with a wince, Arthw nodded. "If all you can find is sufficient water to rinse off the blood, it would be welcome."

The king was standing not far away in deep conversation with Ormod. Three or four other thegns hovered nearby, their attention flitting between the mounting disorder on the battlefield and the king and his adviser's serious discussion. Brecc started toward them. If anyone knew where help could be had for the wounded, it would surely be these men.

"What is being done for the injured?" Brecc called, caring little that Ormod would consider his question a blatant and ill-mannered interruption.

"My question exactly." The king offered Brecc an approving look, even as his adviser frowned. "We must seek them out from amongst the dead."

"I agree wholeheartedly, Sire," Ormod said. "But we must not act too hastily."

"If we do not act hastily, more men will die," Brecc said. "I left Arthw back there. He will not admit to it, but the cut in his arm, caused by a Viking spear, is significant."

"Arthw, you say?" King Alfred said. "Ormod, enough is enough. Look at the destruction around us. We must assist our injured immediately."

Ormod glanced at the ridge. It was clear of all invaders. "Very well, Sire." He inclined his head. "I shall have men locate and gather the injured."

"Water," Brecc said. "Where might we find some?"

"We have men filling barrels at the river," Ormod said. "They will be here shortly." For the second time, he eyed the ridge anxiously. "I would remind you, Sire, that the Vikings are wont to return to a battlefield if they have not yet tasted victory. It might be wise to assign watchmen whilst our attention is so diverted by those in need of aid."

"A point well taken," King Alfred said. "See it done, Brecc."

Brecc bowed. "Right away, Sire."

The nearby thegns watched his approach. Dunlap, a broad-shouldered warrior from Dorset, spoke for them all. "What word, Brecc?"

The chaos was magnifying around them. Men's shouts cut through stunned silence. Running feet raced to assist crippled, dragging limbs. And blood. So much blood.

Brecc attempted to focus on the thegns. "The king wishes watchmen set up around the battlefield until we are sure the Vikings have fully retreated."

Dunlap nodded his approval. "I shall take the north side and will gather some men to join me." He jerked his head at the other two landowners. "You two take east and south. Brecc here can watch our backs to the west."

Grateful that Dunlap had made his assignment easier, Brecc turned to the west and toward the river. Already, men were returning, staggering under the weight of barrels full of sloshing water.

Brecc picked up his pace. "Take it to the last position of the shield wall," he ordered. "That is where you will find the men who battled the Vikings face-to-face."

"Very good, sire." The dark-haired man grasping the barrel with both hands puffed out his response but did not stop.

Satisfied that the water carrier was on course to find Arthw, Brecc scoured the area for more thegns. Few laborers would wish the responsibility of rounding up those of higher status to stand watch. Particularly if those ceorls were intent upon lining their pockets with the wealth of others.

Not more than thirty paces distant, a man rose from a crouched position on the ground. Another remained sitting at his feet. The many warriors milling between them made identifying the gentlemen difficult, but the byrnies they wore spoke of wealth, and Brecc started toward them. He was almost close enough to hear their voices when the standing gentleman turned, and Brecc recognized him.

"Wulfhere," Brecc called. "How do you and your father fare?"

"Uninjured, praise the heavens." Wulfhere ran the portion of his sleeve protruding from beneath his byrnie across his forehead. The chain mail rattled. "Although, I am not sure my father could have lasted on his feet much longer."

"I lasted long enough. That is what matters." The ealdorman spoke from his position on the ground. "A rousing win for the king, do you not agree, Ealdorman Brecc?"

"Indeed." Brecc could not think on the injured and dead littering the ground beyond them. Or of Ormod's worry that the fighting was not over yet. "I pray the violence is truly behind us."

Wulfhere cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowed. "You witnessed us routing the Vikings yourself."

"I did."

"And yet you harbor doubts?"

"If the Vikings have proven one thing over a year filled with deadly battles, it is that they cannot be trusted."

Wulfhere snorted. "What is to distrust here? They will not wish to return only to be beaten again."

Perhaps. Brecc turned to face the ridge. Half a dozen men wearing Saxon tunics and byrnies were making their way up the rise. The watchmen led by Dunlap, no doubt.

"It is good to be wary." Kendryek attempted to stand, but he lacked the strength.

"If I may be of assistance." Brecc offered the older gentleman his hand, and Kendryek accepted it with a reluctant sigh.

"You have my thanks, sire."

Wulfhere frowned. "There is no reason for you to be upon your feet now, Father."

Kendryek's gaze followed Brecc's, his wan complexion and pained expression hiding his thoughts. "It is good to be wary. Especially when it comes to the Vikings."

"The battle is over," Wulfhere said, offering his father his arm and allowing Brecc to step away. "Our men are leaving, and it is time we do the same."

Wulfhere was undoubtedly correct. Those who had scavenged the battlefield were making their way toward the road. Those who had opted to forego the easy pickings were already gone.

"Then I shall wish you Godspeed," Brecc said with a slight bow.

A horn sounded from the hillside. Brecc pivoted, his breath catching. Dunlap's men were racing toward them, their shouts reverberating through the dreadful silence that had suddenly descended upon the battlefield below.

"Rebuild the shield wall! The Vikings have regrouped. They will be upon us in minutes!"

Half a furlong away, the king and Ormod stood as though frozen. Arthw, the bucket of water beside him forgotten, was attempting to rise from his place on the ground. He stumbled, and Brecc took off, racing across the grass toward him. Wulfhere's curse was the last thing he heard before the Vikings' chilling shrieks reached them.