Dragon in the Mist

By Tom Caine

This story is set in the year 880, two years after King Alfred’s famous victory over the great heathen army at Edington, which had been led by Jarl Guthrum.

Until the formal peace treaty is ratified, there remains an uneasy peace between what remains of Mercia and the Saxon Christian Kingdom of Wessex and the north-eastern part of Mercia and East Anglia, now known as the Danelaw. It is ruled by Guthrum, who, on becoming a Christian, is now known as King Æthelstan.

Constant raiding and fighting along the unratified borders has left England in turmoil, even with the uneasy peace between Alfred’s Wessex and Guthrum’s Danelaw. Raiding by Norse Vikings is still continuing all along the coast of Wessex. King Alfred has started to protect his kingdom by building fortified burhs across his lands and to build his own navy.

Into this tumultuous upheaval, almost by chance, is Wulfric, the seventeen-year-old son of Earldoman Hrothwulf. Along with his friends Acca, Raulf, and Brother Cahir (a Benedictine monk), the young Saxon lord embarks on a series of adventures, which take him from a youthful life of carefree privilege into the world of violence, treachery, betrayal, and love.

For the young Wulfric, the transition from youth into manhood is swift and terrifyingly brutal. Wulfric helps to save a young Norse lord named Alrik and his friend Arnkell from the wrath of his father, Hrothwulf, as he hunts down Alrik and his men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543404500

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Tom Caine.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017915700

ISBN:                Hardcover              978-1-5434-0452-4

                          Softcover               978-1-5434-0451-7

                          eBook                     978-1-5434-0450-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/10/2017

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Place Names

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1     THE RAID

Chapter 2     THE ESCAPE

Chapter 3     THE PURSUIT

Chapter 4     LUNDEN

Chapter 5     WINTANCEASTER

Chapter 6     FULL CIRCLE

Chapter 7     THE RETURN

Chapter 8     BETRAYAL

Chapter 9     VALDRHÆÐ

Chapter 10   ARI BJARG

Chapter 11   INVASION

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PLACE NAMES

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PROLOGUE

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I T WAS STILL very early morning when I awoke, and there was a chill in the air. My father’s hall had just begun to stir for the start of another day. I could just faintly hear the sound of activity coming from the hall and kitchen, as my father’s servants went about their early morning chores.

The kitchen has been a favourite haunt of mine, ever since I was a little boy, and I have always enjoyed the warmth and aromas of the kitchen and the special treats that Beornwyn always kept prepared for me.

Today was no exception as I quickly dressed. My young wolfhound Headho was sitting by the door, watching me. It had become a morning ritual, his tail wagging back and forth with anticipation, as he sensed that something was different today.

At seventeen, my life was privileged but simple, and as I strode through the great hall, I could hear Beornwyn and the kitchen servants, preparing breakfast and food for the early morning patrol. Cæna had decided to accompany Sigeweard on his patrol; it was a routine patrol along the clifftop trail to Oxtun, which on that fateful day also included me.

The smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meat drew me on towards the kitchen, and with Headho hard on my heels; he was also just as eager for something to eat. As I entered the kitchen, I was greeted by my father’s old friend Cæna, a warrior of great repute and commander of my father’s warriors, whose deeds in battle were legendary. Cæna was a large powerfully built man with steel-grey hair, and he bore the scars of many of those battles. His arms were adorned with rings of gold and silver, proof of his fighting skill and reputation. He was truly an impressive and fearsome-looking man, and in spite of the conversions to the Christian faith throughout the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, he still believed in the old gods.

Cæna was standing beside a large heavy oak table loaded with fresh bread, meat, cheese, and ale. His arm was around the waist of his plump wife Beornwyn, a fine-looking woman with a tender heart and a fierce pride in her position as head of the household servants, and the kitchen. ‘How is the young lord this morning?’ barked Cæna. He would never call me by name; it was always ‘young lord’.

‘You must be hungry, for you to be up and about this early in the morning. Your father isn’t leaving for the abbey until later, and you do know that he wishes you to accompany him.’ Cæna had a big grin on his face; he knew that I didn’t want to go to the abbey. I was going to ride on the patrol with him instead, along the cliff top trail and on to the small port town of Oxtun.

I was going to visit a friend whom I had known for most of my life. Growing up together, we had spent many a happy day playing in my father’s hall. We were now both in our seventeenth year, and her name was Ceolwyn, and along with Acca, Cæna’s eldest son, she was my closest friend.

She had raven hair and the bluest eyes that I had ever seen. Oswald, her father, was the local blacksmith, and Ceolwyn was his only child. Oswald was well known throughout Oxtun and Kelton as being very protective of his daughter. However, he had always made me welcome and made me feel at home whenever I had visited. He would often bring Ceolwyn with him when he was required to work at my father’s hall, and over the years, Ceolwyn, Acca, and I had become inseparable.

‘Don’t fret, Cæna! I will meet my father at the abbey, and if I get into trouble for riding to Oxtun with you, I shall tell him that you knew nothing of my plans.’

Beornwyn stood smiling and shaking her head. She pointed her finger at me, which was still dripping with flour, from the bread dough she had been kneading. ‘Between this big lump of a husband of mine and you, Wulfric, is it any wonder that your poor father loses his temper so?’ As she spoke, she couldn’t hide the love that she had for me, as she was the only mother that I had really known, my own mother having passed away just before my second birthday.

Beornwyn had raised and cared for me along with Acca, her eldest son, who was two years older than me. Then there were the twins, who had been born just a few months after I had first seen the light of day. Acca was aptly named, as he had grown into a big and powerful young man, larger even than his own father and had been blessed with his mother’s easy-going nature.

He was now in his nineteenth year and was already a powerful young warrior, and Cæna, although not given to praise, was extremely proud of his son.

The twins were Burghild, a pretty fair-haired girl just a few months younger than me and older by just a few moments than her younger brother Raynar. He was a lively though more thoughtful and studious boy by nature. Raynar was never happier than when he was in the company of Brother Cahir, and with his nose buried in a book, preferably written in Latin.

Brother Cahir was a Benedictine monk of great learning, and he had travelled throughout many lands as a young man, as a warrior and then as a monk.

He came to my father’s hall many years ago, more by accident than design. A small trading cog on which he had been a passenger had been wrecked during a terrible storm whilst running for the safety of Oxtun’s harbour. Brother Cahir had been the sole survivor.

It was a year or so after the death of my mother and, at the time my father’s grief, had been almost too much for him, he just couldn’t seem to get over the loss of his beautiful young wife.

Brother Cahir’s arrival, although unexpected, helped my father regain some peace of mind, and they became very close. My father would often seek his counsel, and when he had finally decided to settle among us, my father had asked his friend if he would become my tutor.

He spent his time between the abbey and my father’s hall, with everyone agreeing that his life had been spared as a result of divine intervention. His skills as a healer and herbalist were much sought after throughout the whole community, as was his sound counsel.

When the abbot of Kelton Abbey gave control of the abbey’s infirmary to Brother Cahir, it just seemed to confirm that his arrival had been God’s will.

Once I was old enough, I was given into the care of Brother Cahir, who was to become my teacher, but by then of course, we had already become very close and the good Brother was now included among my small circle of friends. I was fortunate that he was a man gifted with infinite patience, and by my seventeenth year, I could read and write proficiently and speak the Norse tongue. Although Latin was never going to become a real prospect for me even though I could both read and write the language, I couldn’t develop a real interest, which seemed a great disappointment to the good Brother. I was a passable student if I put my mind to it, but I was not of a scholarly disposition as young Raynar was.

That morning there was no sign of the twins, as it was still very early, and Cæna had planned to be away by sunrise. Sigeweard the young warrior, whom Cæna was accompanying on the patrol to Oxtun, was preparing our horses for the journey. I was riding Thunor, a large black stallion getting on in years and bearing the scars of many battles.

He was still a fearsome old warhorse, and besides my father, I was the only other person allowed to ride him. Cæna strode past me and tousled my hair, throwing me a leather satchel which contained ale and food for the day, calling back to me as he went. ‘Come along, young lord! You have breakfasted, and we should be on our way.’

With that, he went striding out into the yard, roaring for Sigeweard and the horses. As I followed I stopped briefly, giving Beorwyn a flashing smile and a hug, and continued on into the yard.

Sigeweard had just finished preparing the horses for the patrol, and so mounting we made our way down through the inner gates and passed on through the lower part of the fortress.

The morning was still, with a heavy mist, and although still very early there were people starting to stir, and go about their morning chores.

As we made our way past them, the servants wished us a safe journey, and warriors coming off their nightly guard duties waved to us as they hurried by on their way to get their breakfasts and some much-needed sleep. We rode down through the huge main defensive gates and Cæna called up to the guards in the towers. ‘Stay alert, the ealdorman will be departing later in the morning, and I want you at your best! Let me down, and your arses will feel my boot.’

*       *       *

My father owned vast estates located on the northwest coast of Wessex. I loved our lands and loved to roam across the open meadows, exploring the forests and hunting with my best friend Acca. Life was a constant source of adventure, with rivers and streams to explore as well as the coastline, with its rugged cliffs, its beaches, wild seas and the little market and fishing town of Oxtun, where Ceolwyn lived. As a young boy, my life growing up in this wonderful place had been a happy one.

My home had been built long ago by my great-grandfather, who had conquered this land, and he had taken it from people that, I later learned, were often referred to as wealhas.

My ancestors had built their great hall and fortress on top of an older ancient hill fort which went back even further in time, to a time, I had been told, of legendary warriors and mythical creatures, of superstition and even human sacrifice! My teacher, Brother Cahir, had told me that the good Christians of Kelton were quite shocked and horrified by these stories and that some priests would often include them in their sermons.

They liked to preach about evil practices which they said were still a part of daily life among the pagan Norsemen and Danes; however, Brother Cahir assured me that it was not so, having lived among the Norsemen himself for some time, many years ago.

Over the years, the hill fort was strengthened, with deeper ditches and high timber palisades, along with fighting platforms and towers, running along the entire perimeter.

On the uppermost level of the hill fort was built another palisade, which enclosed and protected the great hall. Inside this palisade were housed the barracks for my father’s carls, who made up his personal guard. The stables, granaries, and homes of the remaining warriors, their families and the servants, tradesfolk, and of course the blacksmith were all located within the lower level of the fortress.

Our fortress home along with the burh, another fortified place of refuge which my father had built close to the abbey, gave the common folk of my father’s lands good strong places to go in order to seek refuge and safety, should any Norse raiders or Danish invaders threaten.

Besides my father’s warriors, the ordinary folk also made up the fyrd. The fyrd could be called upon to fight alongside my father’s carls and warriors when needed. My father also expected the fyrd to train to a basic standard with whatever weapons they had. Those who couldn’t afford such weapons were taught how to kill with the tools from which they made their living, such as scythes, pitchforks, and axes.

They all understood that they were not just fighting for their homes and their freedom; such is the reputation of the Norsemen and Danes they knew that they would also be fighting for their very lives and the lives of their wives and children.

That morning as we rode out over the drawbridge and turned our horses on to the clifftop trail, I had no idea just how much my life was about to change.

We had been riding at a steady walking pace for some time, and the sun was well on the rise. And looking out over the cliffs, I could see that it was already starting to burn off the sea mist, thinning it out and leaving small open patches of sea visible.

Unable to resist the temptation to tease me, Cæna turned in his saddle and called out. ’Are you sure she is worth your father’s displeasure?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I am sure you’re not here just to give me and Sigeweard the pleasure of your company, on our patrol to Oxtun. You wouldn’t be visiting young Ceolwyn again, would you? You know how fiercely protective of his daughter Oswald is. Although I may have risked it myself once when I was a few years younger, now of course, with Beornwyn being such a fiercely jealous woman, I wouldn’t dare.’ I could feel the heat on my face as I flushed with embarrassment and turned so that I wouldn’t give either Cæna, or Sigeweard, the pleasure of my discomfort.

It was as I turned and looked out over the cliffs that I spotted the dragon prow of a Norse longship, as it emerged out of a small break in the mist; it was only a brief glimpse and then the longship was once more shrouded in the ghostly mist, disappearing like a phantom.

The sighting had been so brief that I almost doubted what I had seen, but thankfully, I was not the only one to have seen the long sleek dragon ship. Sigeweard had also seen it.

It was obvious even from the brief sighting that the longship would reach Oxtun well before us if we stayed on the cliff trail, and so Cæna ordered Sigeweard back to warn my father and raise the alarm. Cæna and I decided to leave the cliff trail, which, although easier on the horses, would take too long to reach Oxtun.

I knew of a shorter way through the forest, along a narrower broken trail that would take less time; we hoped that it would get us there ahead of the Northmen, but alas, it was not to be.

The gods and the Fates had already decided that the fearsome dragon ship was always going to emerge from the sea mist and attack Oxtun, well before we could get there.

We entered Kelton Forest and started down the narrow trail. The forest was a place that I had loved to play in as a boy, and it was a place that I knew as well as my father’s great hall and fortress.

The forest was made up of beech, alder, yew, and oak trees, and they were a riot of just about every shade of green that one could imagine, in their late spring foliage. There was a faint murmur and rustling through the leaves, as a gentle breeze blew through the canopy, which had by now with the help of the early morning sun, dispersed the mist which had rolled in from the sea.

We followed the course of the stream which, on leaving the forest, meandered down through the water meadows and on through to Oxtun, and it was here, just on the edge of the forest, that we left the horses and proceeded on foot.

When I was a boy, the forest and the stream which meandered its way through it had seemed like a magical place; even now with the dread of what I had seen approaching, it was still a place of quiet tranquillity and enchantment.

The silence was broken only by the sound of the trickling water of the stream and the chattering of finches, blackbirds, and the little wrens that were flitting from branch to branch, and of course the constant soothing calls of wood doves.

The stream was lined in places with bulrushes, and brightly coloured dragonflies were humming from one to another. The air was suffused with the heady scent of primroses and wild spring flowers, and if Brother Cahir’s description of the Garden of Eden was to be believed, then it must surely have looked like this.

And yet here were Cæna and I, making our way through this enchanted place on our way to Oxtun, armed with sword, axe, and shield, about to fight our enemies and turn this wonderful day into a day of blood and death. The priest had often told me that violence and death were God’s will, a test or punishment which would help make us all worthy of his grace.

But as young as I was, I truly believed that it was just man doing what he seemed naturally gifted to do, what so many men, the true warriors among us, loved to do.

In this respect, I did believed more in the old gods of Asgard and the final destination of all true warriors, Valhalla! It just seemed to me at the time to be a more honest religion given man’s true nature and his existence within the earthly realm in which we live.

The Christian upbringing of my childhood and the influence of Brother Cahir, who was not just my teacher, but a man I had grown to love and respect, was measured against that of the pagan influence of some of my father’s thegns and carls, which included Cæna. They still held true to the ways of the old religion, and it was these opposing beliefs which helped to create a source of much soul searching and personal conflict within me, a conflict that I could never fully resolve.

As Cæna and I crept along the stream towards Oxtun, we could see smoke rising up into the clear blue sky from burning buildings, within the town. There didn’t seem to be as much fire and burning as we had feared. Cæna put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Wait here, young lord, and watch for any survivors, help any who escape into the forest, and tell them to make their way to Kelton Hall. I think those raiders down in the town are just a handful, left to guard the longship. The rest are pursuing the fleeing townsfolk and are heading for the real plunder.’

I looked at him, puzzled for a moment.

‘They are going for the abbey, young lord. The town may be prosperous, but like most churches and especially an abbey, the riches resided there, and any reiver worthy of the name would be aware of that fact. I am going to cut through the forest and try to get to the burh ahead of them. They will be slowed by the fleeing townsfolk, as they will try to catch and kill them, and search for anything of value that they may have been carrying.’

I couldn’t help feeling responsible for the poor unfortunate townsfolk; they were people that I had known all my life, and I felt that somehow we had let them down.

‘Don’t think about it, young lord! There is nothing that you can do here. We must try and save those we can and protect the abbey.’ Cæna turned, heading back upstream and into the forest. If he could get to the burh ahead of the raiders, he could prepare a defence and form a shield wall and wait for the Norse reivers to come to him.

As a seasoned warrior, he had also realised that my father was probably already on his way along with his household guard and as many warriors as were available to ride at short notice. That would mean more than a hundred warriors were already on their way to Oxtun and the abbey. Caught between himself at the burh and my father with his men coming from behind, the raiders were advancing on to the abbey and into a trap.

The Nornir have often been known to spin webs of death and misfortune for the unwary, and at Oxtun and Kelton Abbey on that bright sunny day, they had decided to do just that.

As Cæna disappeared into the forest, I called Headho to me; now was not the time for him to be charging about the countryside, and truth be told, it made me feel a little more protected having him at my side.

It was late morning, and the sun was high overhead; it had turned into a beautiful sunny late spring day, with clear visibility well out to sea.

I had already managed to gather three or four smaller groups of fleeing townsfolk; they were mostly elderly, with women and young children among them.

I escorted them into the safety of the forest, and of course they all knew how to get to Kelton Hall, as they had been there many times before, to attend fairs and celebrations, or to seek my father’s judgement over some grievance or dispute.

Although we were supposed to be Christian, there was still a strong belief in blood feuds, which could be very damaging to any community such as ours. A firm but fair judgement helped prevent such feuds and helped to keep the peace, throughout my father’s lands.

I was growing more concerned and worried about Ceolwyn; the refugees that I had spoken with so far could tell me nothing of her fate. The attack had come so quickly out of the early morning sea mist that the raiders were already well into the town before any alarm could be raised.

There were some older people among the townsfolk who had fled for their lives, and it was they who told me that there had been some sort of disagreement among the Norsemen, who had almost come to blows, and it was this which had given the townsfolk time to flee.

From what they told me, one of the reivers must have been a lord, because his mail, helm, and sword were so magnificent. He had stopped the burning and killing, and this was what had caused the dispute. An older, more aggressive warrior among them, a man whose mail and arms also marked him as being a man of high rank and position, had refused to obey the young warrior lord.

He had called on the Norse warriors to follow him to the abbey, to kill the priests and monks there, and to plunder the treasures within.

Such was the bloodlust and the lure of easy wealth that most of them followed the older warrior. A short time later, the young warlord, along with those warriors who had remained loyal to him, followed the others, leaving Oxtun remarkably unscathed.

I would have liked to have gone down into the town to search for Ceolwyn, but there were still at least eight warriors that I could see, guarding the longship.

As things were so quiet in the town now, I decided to head closer to Kelton Abbey. I knew there was going to be a battle, without a doubt, and I wanted to make sure that I didn’t miss it.

In all my seventeen years, I had never seen a real clash between two shield walls before. I had witnessed many practice fights, but never a real battle, I knew from what my father, Cæna, and the older warriors had told me that it was a place of death! That stank of fear, sweat, blood, and gore, and of those who were not killed, there would be many who would be wounded and maimed and some who would never fully recover.

Such were the tales that I had been told of the shield wall. I thought it to be both exhilarating and frightening, and so I approached Kelton Abbey and the burh with caution.

I was well armed and properly trained, as any young warlord should be, but I had no experience of combat, or war, and for once, my brain controlled my ego and my pride.

Sigeweard spurred his horse into a full gallop, as he raced back along the clifftop trail, and he was soon clattering through the main gates of Kelton Hall. It had taken him a lot less time to return from where we had seen the dragon ship appear through the mist. As he galloped into the fortress, he raised the alarm, calling out to the warriors who had come running to see what the commotion was all about. ‘Arm yourselves and ready your horses!’ He then rode up to the great hall to where my father and his carls were just preparing to leave.

‘My lord, we have sighted a Norse raider approaching Oxtun, Cæna and your son, have gone ahead through the forest to warn the town, and to raise the alarm at the abbey burh.’

‘What!’ roared my father. ‘That is impossible. Wulfric is riding with me to the abbey today.’ My father roared out for me. ‘I am sorry, my lord, but he rode out with us this morning.’

‘Very well!’ my father snarled, just barely controlling his anger. ‘Well, Sigeweard, you had best tell me exactly what you saw and what you know for certain. How many longships did you see?’

Sigeweard paused for a moment as he tried to compose himself before speaking. ‘We were just short of halfway to Oxtun, my lord, and the sea mist was starting to break up. Your son spotted the raider through one of the breaks in the mist. I saw it as well, just before it disappeared again. It wasn’t under sail but was being rowed.’

‘I should think so, in these conditions. How many ships did you see, was it just the one?’

Sigeweard was calmer now. ‘We saw only the one, my lord.’

Hrothwulf mounted his horse, hefted his shield into position, and replied. ‘Yes, But there could be more than one, and with this sea mist there could be a damned fleet.’ Calling for his warriors to follow, he rode out of Kelton Hall’s fortress and on to the clifftop trail.

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THE RAID

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T HE ARGUMENT WHICH had taken place between the Norse war leaders earlier was between the son of Jarl Guðbrandr, Lord Alrik, who commanded the expedition, and Bjorn Bloodaxe, the commander of his warriors. ‘You are a fool, Bjorn! We have come here in search of Brother Cahir, my father’s orders were clear: no killing! No plundering, we are here seeking allies, not enemies.’

‘It is you who’s the fool, Alrik! I will tell your father that we couldn’t find his pet monk, but we did find a treasure, of gold and silver. I am your father’s war leader. My name is feared throughout our lands and beyond. Your father will heed what I say, and he will believe me, not you.’

Bjorn stepped closer to Alrik, but at least fifteen warriors closed around their young lord. They were led by Arnkell, another feared warrior, who also had many arm-rings to prove it.

Bjorn knew he had no time to waste arguing the point, which ultimately would have led to bloodshed. He knew that his rank, and the number of warriors who followed him, gave him some freedom of action. But to harm or kill the jarl’s son would mean his own death, and so he turned and strode away in pursuit of the townspeople, who were now fleeing towards the abbey. ‘All those who wish to send spineless Saxons to meet their precious god and take their women, gold, and silver, follow me.’

And so it was that I found myself with just fifteen warriors and the mission that my father had entrusted to me now a complete failure. I was angry and ashamed and I should have seen this coming, but I was young and still lacking the experience and reputation needed to handle a man such as Bjorn Bloodaxe.

Bjorn was no great thinker, but he was battle hardened and experienced; unfortunately, he knew and understood only one way, the way of the sword, and for a Norseman, the lure of easy plunder was just too strong. What he failed to understand, or maybe my father had failed to make him understand, was that no amount of gold or treasure would appease my father. This mission was about land, good arable land, which could be settled and farmed in peace. It had been my father’s lifelong dream to give his people a safer and better future. We all realised that our days in Ireland were numbered.

I ordered the longboat guard to stay put, while I led my remaining fifteen warriors after Bjorn, in a vain attempt to salvage what I could of my mission.

If Brother Cahir was at the abbey, I had to be there to protect him and to stop Bjorn from killing him or any more people if I could, and so we set off in pursuit.

We came across the first bodies not far from the town; they were an old man and woman with three children, and they had been brutally cut down. As we continued on, we came across more dead, and like the first group, they consisted of the old, the very young, and the infirm.

The rest of the townsfolk had disappeared, and I realised they must have taken refuge in the nearby forest. I knew that Bjorn would be far more interested in what lay within the abbey and that he wouldn’t want to waste any time searching for survivors and their meagre possessions.

We continued on up the road, proceeding cautiously, as I had no idea of what lay ahead. I could no longer trust Bjorn, and by now, the men of the town might have started to form themselves into armed bands, and with only fifteen warriors left, I didn’t want to risk losing any more of them if I could help it.

After a time, the forest started to thin out and we found ourselves in more lightly wooded and open terrain, with pastures and signs of farming to either side of us.

We knew that we were getting close to the abbey, and it was confirmed when we heard a huge roar and then the clash of steel; it was the sound of shields and weapons coming together in mortal combat. Judging by the sound of the clash, it seemed that Bjorn had found a lot more than just fleeing townsfolk and monks. I ordered my men off the road and into the trees, which were just to the right of us; this wooded area seemed to extend up to the abbey enclosure, and so we continued on under the cover of the trees. By the time we had sighted the abbey, the roar and sound of hard fighting had increased.

We broke cover and what we saw shocked us, for there not far from the walled enclosure of the abbey and close to the main gates were two shield walls. They were locked together in a terrible embrace of death, the fighting was savage, and it looked as if Bjorn had met his match.

I was just about to order my men to form up on me, when Arnkell called out. ‘Quickly, my lord, get back into the trees!’ We dashed back into cover, just as a large band of heavily armed mounted warriors came charging up the road.

They were led by a big warrior who was riding a large and fearsome-looking warhorse; he was dressed in full mail, which glittered and gleamed in the sun. He also wore a magnificent war helm and held his long war sword out in front of him; the shield on his left arm had the image of a snarling wolf’s head painted on it. He looked like a war god from the old sagas, and the men who followed him were all wearing mail and were well armed, with swords, axes, and spears.

Had Bjorn moved on to the abbey at a faster pace, he might have had some chance, not of victory but of saving his men. But the Fates had already spun their web.

And as a result, many of the warriors who had followed him were now destined to follow the glorious path to Valhalla! And not the path he had hoped for, which was back to his lord’s hall, loaded with the treasures of Kelton Abbey and Oxtun.

*       *       *

Cæna had made good time by way of the shortcut through the forest. And as he moved out of the forest and into the more open wooded farmland, he started to come across farmers who were out working their fields and a small group of monks on their way to Oxtun.

Cæna waved and shouted as loud as he could. ‘Run to the burh, run now! Norse raiders are on the road to the abbey, and they are right behind me. Warn all those you can.’

The farmers were not surprised at seeing Cæna, for they all knew him and his family. What shocked them into action was the sight of the great warrior, his fearsome sword Life Taker in one hand and his huge war shield on his left arm and running frantically towards them, out of breath and warning them of the Norse reivers that were on the road and making for the abbey.

Hearing the warning and seeing the giant of a warrior running towards them was enough; they dropped what they had been doing and turned on their heels, fleeing towards the abbey and the burh, calling out warnings as they went.

Cæna ran on, shouting out a warning to the guards standing at the gate of the burh; by now, some of the warriors on sentry at the walls and on the towers had spotted the unusual activity on the road and had raised the alarm. As Cæna approached the burh, his son Acca, followed by a dozen warriors, ran out of the main gate. ‘Father, what has happened?’

‘There’s no time to explain, son, to arms! Make sure that the men are wearing their mail and are fully armed, quickly now. We must form our shield wall if we are to save the abbey! There is no time to lose. The raiders are almost upon us.’ Cæna then strode back to where the road forked, away to the right and on to the abbey, and to the left towards the burh, and there he stood facing back down the road.

‘Warriors of Kelton, form the shield wall here where I stand and do it now or die!’ Just as Cæna had finished giving the order, Bjorn and his band of about forty-five warriors running in a loose formation came charging out of the lightly wooded ground and into full view.

They were just over a good bowshot away, and on seeing the Saxon warriors pouring out of the burh and already forming their shield wall, they slowed their headlong rush.

Bjorn raised his right hand in which he carried his fearsome-looking war axe. He called his men to a halt and thought about ordering them to charge before the Saxons’ shield wall had fully formed. But he realised almost at once that it was too late; the Saxon shield wall had almost formed, their war shields slamming and locking together.

Seeing the size of the shield wall which had now formed up in front of him, he realised that he was outnumbered, and the full extent of his mistake was now starting to dawn on him.

He had disobeyed his young lord and had killed innocent people; now with the abbey just in front of him, he could advance no further. He hadn’t expected the abbey to be protected by a burh and so hadn’t bothered to send scouts on ahead.

He knew that they were now going to pay for his greed and his mistake, and he also knew that the outcome of this clash was by no means certain, that it was going to be bloody and hard fought. He had expected to justify his actions by looting the treasures that lay within the abbey and once having taken his share, presenting the rest to Jarl Guðbrandr.

Now standing there looking at the Saxon shield wall, he realised that even if he could destroy it, he was going to lose at least a third of his men, probably more.

For a moment, he stood uncertain, his warriors looking on. ‘What now?’ one of them called. ‘What do you mean what now? We kill them all!’ Bjorn threw back his head, roaring his battle cry, and then shouted, ‘Form the shield wall on me, let us feed and wet our weapons on the blood and the flesh of these knee-bending Christian Skraelings. Tear their hearts out and then on to the abbey. That’s where the gold and silver is hidden.’ Bjorn then led the Norse shield wall forward, towards the Saxons.

Cæna’s shield wall had now already formed, and it was made up of experienced warriors. With their war shields overlapping and locked into position and their war axes and swords firmly held in their hands, they hammered them on to the rims of their shields and the shield boss.

It was the job of the second rank of warriors in their shield wall to try and kill or maim the enemy, by using their spears to thrust past the front rank whenever they saw an opening.

They were also to push and lend their weight to the front rank and to help protect the heads and upper bodies of the men in front from axes and swords. They also had to be prepared to step forward and to fill any gaps created by those warriors who fell wounded or dead.

With their spears, they would thrust at the heads, feet, and lower exposed legs of the enemy. There was nowhere to hide in a shield wall; you fought or you died. As the Norse shield wall advanced to within a spear’s length of the Saxons, Bjorn stepped back into the front rank, taking his place beside Hrókr on his left and Ránulfr to his right. They had fought in many shield walls together and were a deadly trio, anticipating the moves and actions of each other; there was no need to think, just to kill.

Although outnumbered, Bjorn still felt confident of victory, and on another day against a different foe, he might well have won, but not on that beautiful late spring day, just outside Kelton Abbey.

As they got to within one last pace just before the shield walls collided, Bjorn roared out his battle cry again and the Norse shield wall surged forward, thrusting their shields into the Saxons, the second rank pushing, to give the extra weight to their shield wall just before it crashed into the Saxons.

That was what Cæna had been waiting for; he gave the order for the Saxon shield wall to take one pace backward, and with no opposing shield wall to check the forward momentum or the weight of its charge, the Norse shield wall overbalanced.

The weight of the warriors pushing from behind caused the front rank to lose control, and the Saxons struck back, savagely. Bjorn knew that they were in for a terrible fight, a fight in which no quarter would be given. The Norse shield wall was now off balance, and some of the interlocking shields had parted along the wall’s length. Cæna gave the order to step forward, and the entire length of the Saxon shield wall slammed into the Norsemen.

The crash was deafening as shield bosses smashed into spears, shields, and off-balance warriors in the Norse wall. Axes swept down from overhead, aimed to kill or maim with blows to the upper body and head. If they were blocked, the axes were dragged back, and by using the curved back of the axe head, they attempted to drag the opposing shields forward and down, exposing the warriors holding them to attack and, in most cases, death.

Cæna by now was well into his death-dealing stride, no thought, just movement. Acca, his giant of a son, was to his right, and Wigheard, one of the finest axemen Cæna had ever known, was to his left. By now the mail coats and the shields of all three warriors were running with blood, as the very air seemed to turn into a red mist that mixed with their sweat and which they could taste as they drew in huge lungfuls of air.

They were now all locked into a world of courage, fear, pain, and death; the stench of human waste from eviscerated warriors was palpable, along with the smell of blood. Fallen warriors were being trampled underfoot; those who were too grievously wounded to stand, along with those who had already lost their lives and others who had simply lost their minds, staggered about the shield wall until someone, friend or foe, finally put them out of their misery.

Some warriors gloried in it all! They were not just warriors, but natural-born killers, who in battle became their ultimate selves. Bjorn was one such, Cæna another, and on this day, they sent many a good warrior to feast, wench, and fight in Odin’s great hall. Their last voyage taking them to Valhalla, where they would spend all eternity among the Einherjar.

After a while, Bjorn knew that they must break away; he was losing too many men. At his command, the Norse shield wall broke away and moved swiftly, thirty paces or so to the rear. It was now clear of the main battle area, which had now become an abattoir—blood, bodies, and severed limbs. Some men were still alive, crawling on hands and knees, some were reaching out pleading for help, while others pleaded for death; the lucky ones were those who were already dead.

The Norse shield wall quickly reformed; the breakaway had been so swift and its execution so well carried out that it had left the Saxons standing somewhat bemused.

Although they were exhausted, they stood in awe of the skill in which the breakaway had been executed; these Norsemen were truly magnificent warriors.

Bjorn ordered those wounded among them to the rear of the reformed shield wall. He then ordered the rear rank to assist them and the front rank to cover the retreat, back into the forest.

Wulfric was in the cover of a small stand of trees, close to the tavern. The battle he had just witnessed had been something beyond his wildest imaginings; he was shaking, and sweat was running into his eyes as he kept a strong hold on Headho’s collar.

The smell of blood and gore was strong on the breeze, making Headho tremble, and had Wulfric loosened his grip even for a moment, Headho would have torn into the carnage and he would have been killed.

Wulfric could not gather his thoughts, so shaken was he by what he had just witnessed; he was confused by his feelings of exhilaration and sadness, his pride in Cæna, Acca, and those brave Saxon warriors who had fought with such courage and skill. All now tempered by a grudging respect for the bravery and skill of the Norsemen. That last manoeuvre, the breakaway and then the reforming of their shield wall, had been