Amber Treasure, The (20 page)

I then spotted more Welsh, this
time immediately in front of us and only a few hundred paces distant. There
were about five hundred of them and they were lined up, facing away from us,
towards the southern walls of the camp. Even though they faced away from us,
there was no mistaking their nationality from their dress and the banners that
flapped about above their heads: these were Elmetae. Right there, a long bow
shot away, was Samlen’s army: the army I had come to find.

I searched back and forth amongst
the enemy for a sight of One Eye, Hussa or Mildrith, but could see none of
them. Were they here? If so: where?

The Welsh had arrived at Catraeth
and were about to launch their attack. In Stanwick Camp, there were perhaps
five hundred English warriors at most. In a few minutes the enemy assault would
hit the embankment and with numbers in their favour, the Welsh would win.

Our army was back down the slope,
to keep it out of view of the enemy. Then, Aethelric sent for the captains and
Wallace took me along. Immediately our captains began to argue. One of them,
who commanded a company from the moors, was all for marching east to come at
the camp from the eastern side and reinforce it. Wallace and Harald were in
favour of attacking now, straight into the back of the Elmetae and taking them
by surprise.

“That’s lunacy and suicide. In
fact, this whole battle is. I say we pull back and hold the bridge at Catraeth,”
Sabert said.

“No, we must attack,” I responded
vehemently. Sabert spun round and glared at me.

“Silence boy!” he hissed.

“I will not be quiet,” I replied
and Wallace smiled behind Sabert’s back, encouraging me to carry on. “We have
to buy time for my father and Aethelfrith to come.”

“Aethelfrith is not coming. He’s
no fool. He knows the stories of this army’s size. There is no help on the way
− we must pull back and defend the bridge.”

While the arguments and advice
flowed, I glanced west towards the mountains and then north beyond the Welsh
companies. I was surprised to see a glint of sunlight glancing off metal some miles
away. I looked again, thinking I may have imagined the sight. But again I saw
it. Beyond the open ground there were some woods. I was now certain that troops
were hiding there. I was just about to try and get someone’s attention, when
Harald barked out some orders and Aethelric nodded helplessly.

Harald and Wallace had got their
way. Sabert threw a dark look at me and stomped back to his men. Wallace gave
me a pat on the shoulder and then he and I went jogging back towards the company.

“Ready lads!” he shouted. “Here
we go!”

Chapter Fifteen

The Battle of Catraeth

Wallace organised
our company into a battle formation of three lines. Veteran warriors, like
Grettir, stood in a line at the rear to bolster the men in front and to give
advice and encouragement during the fight. In front of them was a line of young
warriors, for whom this was their first battle. Eduard, Cuthbert and I were
here with the other youths we had trained with over the last few years.
Although we had fought a few skirmishes, including the desperate, confused
fight at Calcaria, I would soon learn that a full battle is a different story.
In the front rank were the twenty- and thirty-year-old men. These were more
experienced than us, as well as being fitter and stronger than the veterans,
who were interspersed in the middle ranks with us youths, to keep us steady.

Dotted along the front line, a
small group of these warriors was formed up into a triangular formation
pointing away from the main shield wall. These wedges were made up of the strongest
and fiercest fighters. Their job was to try to cut like teeth into the enemy
shield wall and break it asunder. Nearest the enemy, fifty yards in front of us
towards the crest of the hill, Cuthbert and other skirmish troops were
positioned. I noticed that my friend was hopping about nervously, but at least
he already had his bow in his hand. Cuth was always calmer when he held a bow.
Behind our battle line stood our captains, their house warriors gathered around
their battle standards. I was just in front and to the right of Wallace’s
standard. It was a white wolf on a background of green. When the wind caught it
and it unfurled, it seemed as if the wolf was charging across the plains
towards its prey.

Harald now walked along the whole
army and inspected us. Aethelric himself did not seem to be sure what to do and
did not object when the Earl organised the six companies so they now formed a
continuous line, three or four men deep and perhaps one hundred men wide. Our
company was second from the left.

Wallace had told us that we were
going to attack the rear of the Elmetae force. On hearing this news there were
many smiles amongst the Wicstun Company, as men saw a chance for revenge on
those who had attacked our homes or a chance to even a few scores. However,
some of the older men grumbled and looked surprised. We might indeed, they
said, be able to gain an advantage over Samlen’s men, but what if we did not
surprise them? Overall, the Welsh had more men than us and things could turn
against us very quickly.

Nevertheless, we prepared
ourselves for what was to come. Most men had a mouthful or more of beer that
they had carried from Eoforwic. Several uttered prayers to Woden or the Valkyries
I did neither, for I realised that I was finally going to fight in a battle.
Here, my childhood dreams had come true and as this fact dawned upon me, my
mouth suddenly felt very dry and my throat tightened. I had fought before, of
course, during the raids on the Villa and the escape from Calcaria, but in both
cases it came on so quickly, that I scarcely had time to think.

Today was quite different. We
took some minutes preparing ourselves and a man has a chance to think in that
time. Visions of home come to you. I thought of my mother and Sunniva, my
sister, staring after me as I left. Images of happier times flashed in my mind:
feasting in the great barn, laughter and games in the firelight, obscure
riddles by the bard Lilla; a glimpse of Aidith looking beautiful and alluring
in the half light ... and the memory of a kiss.

On the brink of battle, a man is
afraid. You fear injury for the pain it might bring. You fear death for the
uncertainty of it. You fear failure for the shame it would carry with it. Out
in the open, Cuthbert looked like a hunted hare. His eyes were wild and his
head was jerking left and right, as if searching for a way out. Perhaps, like
me, he could not quite take it all in. But then he blinked, shook his head and
started stringing his bow.

Eduard, standing next to me,
appeared keen and excited. There was never much space for thought in my
friend’s mind. Right now, I was certain that only the songs of poets were in
it. Looking at him, I experienced a moment of perfect clarity and two thoughts
came to me. Firstly, this place is where Eduard belonged. If he survived, it
would be in battle that his life would have meaning. Just as clearly, I
realised that this was not true of me. Ironic, given that I would spend much of
my life on one battlefield or another, but all I wanted at that moment was to
find Mildrith and go home.

In front of us, Aethelric,
Harald, Sabert and the other lords were apparently satisfied that we were ready
and waved us forward, but signalled for us to move as quietly as we could in
order to increase our chances of catching the enemy by surprise.

When we were just below the crest
line, Aethelric did not hesitate, but marched briskly off in front of us
towards the enemy. He may be indecisive and vague, but he did not lack for
courage, I will give him that. He would surely get cut to pieces by the enemy
before we could reach then. Harald saw this too, for he intercepted the Prince
and escorted him to a safer place behind Wallace. Then, Harald waved his arm
and pointed his sword over the crest of the rise in front of us. The captains ordered
us forward and we were off to attack the foe. Overhead, the sun was descending
in the western sky, but the day was still warm, the skies clear and blue. Birds
swooped and soared, enjoying this perfect summer’s evening. Meanwhile below,
the killing was about to start: the battle of Catraeth had begun.

Form up, form up!” hissed
Wallace. The call was taken up by some of the older men, who passed it on in
hushed voices. We moved closer together and then turned, angling our bodies so
our left side was facing the Welsh, bringing our shields to bear. We overlapped
our shields with the men on either side, trying to maximise the protection
these boards of wood offered. Only a few of the men, along with lords like
Aethelric, Sabert, Harald and Wallace, wore armour made of interlinked chains
of metal, strong enough to deflect sword blows. The rest of us trusted in our
shields, the whims of fate and the courage of our fellows. I was lucky in at
least having a helmet, which was made of bone and wood. It felt loose and I
pushed it down onto my head.

“Spears, overhead!” ordered our
captain. We took our spears and held them halfway along the length in our right
hands as we had been taught. Our elbows were bent so the spears were held at
the level of our shoulders where, for the moment, we rested them.

Across the small space of a few
hundred yards, our enemy had still not noticed us, intent as they were upon the
assault on the camp, although a few heads twisted this way and that, perhaps
seeking the source of some new noise they had heard. The Welsh though were
clashing their spears against shields, trying to frighten our men in the fort.
Unlike us, they made no attempt to minimise the racket and this noise pretty
much drowned out our own.

Once we had passed over the crest
line, I could now see an exchange of arrows between the Welsh attackers and our
fellow Deirans in the fortress. Here and there they were hitting home and the
first deaths of the day were occurring, but most of the arrows bounced
harmlessly off shields and were wasted.

We advanced another twenty paces,
with Harald leading our companies so as to hit the rear of the enemy line. For
a few heartbeats it seemed as if we would achieve total surprise. Then one of
the Welshmen turned, moved away from his army and started fiddling with his
britches, looking for a place to relieve himself. He glanced up and his mouth
opened as he saw four hundred warriors heading straight for him. For an
instant, he just stared at us in shock, but then he let out a cry of alarm. More
faces turned and suddenly the Elmetae were all bellowing and pointing, the game
was up: we had been seen!

A moment later, there was a shout
from a small hillock not far from the Elmetae and upon which the Welsh lords
stood, and I could see one of them gesturing our way. I felt an icy chill shoot
down my spine as I recognised the scarred, ugly face. There he was: there was
Samlen and he was standing next to three or four other princes and kings
directing the battle. One of the kings wore a shining gold-coloured breast
plate of solid metal and his arms and legs were also sheathed in mail, but not
the sort that our lords wore, made of rings of iron. This appeared to be more
like the scales of a fish, each scale overlapping the one below it. Such a rare
and precious suit could not be worn by anyone else: this had to be Owain.

Owain turned to a warrior
standing behind him and the man ran towards the back of the Welsh army where
they had a few reserve companies following up the leading troops. He soon had
them angling out towards us and in their urgency they moved so quickly that it
now became obvious we would not reach the Elmetae before these other companies
reached us. With a roar, Harald halted us and prepared to defend against the
attack. The Welsh were closer now and I could make out their faces and pick out
individuals: some of them strong, experienced veterans, some like Aedann,
Eduard, Cuthbert and me, in their first battle. For how many of us would it be
our last, I wondered fleetingly.

More Welsh companies came towards
us. They had, for the moment, abandoned their attack upon the fortress. Leaving
only two companies to watch the walls, the rest were coming our way.

Without anyone noticing him go,
Aethelric had moved to a small rise in the ground so that he could easily be
seen by all present. He was frankly hopeless as a commander. He had no grasp of
tactics, could not make a decision and tried too hard to please everyone. But
there was one thing he could do: he could make a bloody good speech.

“Warriors of Deira, today I call
on you to fight bravely. This is not a fight we wished for. We have lived in
peace, happy to farm and to trade and to remain secure within our borders these
last fifteen and more years. Now, a threat has come to our pastures. The Welsh
would drive us from the lands our fathers fought for and won.”

He did not mention that it had
been our race who had originally taken the lands from the Welsh, but that was
not a thought for today. Today, Aethelric stirred up our hatred with his simple
message.

“Their raiders have burnt our
land, slain our warriors and raped our women. If they are not stopped they will
come back and try again.” He paused, while some among us shouted, “Never!” and,
“Let them try!”

He then continued, “Some of you
might wonder why you came here, so far away from your homes. Is this your war?
Some of you may wish to be elsewhere. But I say this to you: unless we join
together and be rid of this menace, none of us will ever be safe. The Welsh are
united in an alliance to drive us away. This place is where they intend to
start and it is at this place that they will be stopped.”

We crashed our spears against our
shields and shouted out oaths that we would destroy the Welsh enemy or die
trying. The enemy were close now and the Prince moved back to stand near
Harald. Then, we waited for the attack to come.

The Welsh halted some fifty paces
away and to our surprise, they began singing in their strange tongue.

“They are calling to their God to
defeat us,” Grettir said, “I have heard them sing like this before.” Not far
away, Aethelric heard his words and turned to us all.

“Call to Woden, men of Deira!”
bellowed the Prince.

Grettir and the other veterans
began pounding their own shields with their spears. Soon, our entire company
took up the beat, followed by the companies from Eoforwic. Then, we began
chanting, “Woden! Woden!”

Woden was worshiped at the temple
at Godnundingham, as well as at shrines in many villages and most of our people
trusted in him.

The chanting went on, becoming
louder and louder. It did battle now with Christian hymns sung by the Welsh to
our fore. Whether Pagan or Christian, the purpose was the same: to put courage
into our souls. To set the hearts pounding and to make us believe we could not lose
− that we could not die. Indeed to fire us up to fever pitch.

Then, the slaughter would begin.

Suddenly, there was a great shout
from the enemy and as one they moved towards us. A handful of archers and
slingers ran ahead of them, trying to weaken our line by killing or wounding as
many as they could, so that when the shield wall arrived the wedges could bite
into the weak spots and cut us apart. Cuthbert and a couple of dozen of our
skirmishers exchanged shots with the enemy archers and also fired at the mass
of men bearing down upon us. In the scale of this battle it would make little
difference, I thought, until a moment later when a sling stone missing the
front row, glanced off my shield and ricocheted away from my helmet. I was
stunned by the blow and staggered backwards into Grettir who caught me and held
me up, until my head stopped spinning. When my vision did clear, the first
thing I saw was an arrow taking the warrior in front of me, in the neck. He
collapsed back onto my shield and slid gurgling and choking onto the ground
where, after what seemed like an eternity of thrashing and twitching, he
finally died. The warrior to his left looked down at him, shrugged and then
picked him up by his tunic, heaving him forward to form an obstacle to the
attack.

“Close up, close up,” came the
cry from the rear and the warrior was forgotten as the front rank moved
together.

The Welsh were closer now, so
that I could make out their features as they advanced. A rugged, scar-faced old
veteran scowled at us in rage, whilst next to him a gangly-limbed youth of no
more than fourteen years quivered and shook in fear as he tried to hold a
shield that was too heavy for him. All men are just human in the end and their
army had its fair share of anger, rage and fear − just the same as ours.
Yet the simple truth was that they had more men than we did and they were all
coming right at us.