Sword of Kings. Bernard Cornwell

They knew what I meant by a wolf trap and not one had questioned me or asked what we were doing. They knew because we had trained for this. Wars are not only won on the battlefield, but in the practice yard of fortresses.

      Wolves are the enemies of shepherds. Dogs are their friends, but shepherds’ dogs rarely kill a wolf, though they might frighten them away We hunt wolves in Northumbria’s hills and our wolfhounds will kill, yet the wolves are never defeated. They come back, they prey on flocks, they leave bloody carcasses strewn on the grass. I offer a bounty to folk who bring in a fresh, stinking wolf pelt, and I pay the bounty often, yet still the wolves ravage livestock. They can be deterred, they can be hunted, yet wolves are a cunning and subtle enemy. I have known flocks to be regularly attacked, and we have beaten the surrounding woods and hills, ridden with our sharpened wolf spears, sent the hounds searching, and found no trace of a wolf, and next day another dozen sheep or lambs are ripped apart. When that happens we might set a wolf trap, which means that instead of searching for the wolves, we invite them to search for us.

      My father liked to use an old ram for the trap. We would tether the beast close to where the wolf pack had made its last kill, then wait in ambush upwind of the bait. I preferred to use a pig, which was more expensive than an aging ram, but more effective too. The pig would squeal in protest at being tethered, a sound that seemed to attract wolves, and squeal even louder when a wolf appeared. Then we would release the hounds, lower spears, and spur to the kill. We lost the pig as often as not, but we killed the wolf.

      I had few doubts that my men were better fighters than Wighelm’s troops, but to ask men to attack a shield wall without shields of their own, and without axes to haul down an enemy’s shield or spears to pierce the gaps between the enemy’s shields, is to invite death. We would win, but at a cost I was not willing to pay. I needed to break Wighelm’s shield wall and do it without leaving a couple of my men gutted by his spears. So we waited.

      I had made a mistake. I had assumed Wighelm’s men would be sheltering from the storm, and that we could approach the tavern unseen. I should have crept behind the cottages until we were closer, but now I would invite Wighelm to make a mistake. Curiosity would be his undoing, or so I hoped. He had seen us approaching, he had made his shield wall, and then we had vanished into an alley. And we had not reappeared. He would be gazing into the storm, looking past the sheeting rain, wondering if we had retreated southwards. He could not ignore us. Just because we had vanished from his sight did not mean we had fled. He needed to know where we were. He needed to know whether we still barred his road to Fæfresham. He waited a long time, nervously hoping we had gone altogether, or hoping he would catch a glimpse that would tell him where we were, but we did not move, we made no noise, we waited.

      I beckoned Oswi to my side. He was young, lithe, cunning, and savage. He had once been my servant before growing old enough and skilled enough to join the shield wall. ‘Sneak up the back of the cottages,’ I told him, pointing southwards, ‘go as far as you can, show yourself, stare at them, show them your naked arse, and then pretend to run away.’

      He grinned, turned, and disappeared behind the southern hovel. Finan was lying flat at the street corner, peering towards the tavern through a patch of nettles. Still we waited. The rain was pelting, bouncing in the street, cascading from the roofs, and swirling in the gusting wind. Thunder crackled and faded. I pulled my hammer amulet free, clutched it, closed my eyes briefly and prayed that Thor would preserve me.

      ‘They’re coming!’ Finan called.

      ‘How?’ I needed to know whether Wighelm had stayed in the shield wall or was hurrying to catch us.

      ‘They’re running!’ Finan called. He wriggled back out of sight, stood and wiped mud from Soul-Stealer’s blade. ‘Or trying to run!’

      It seemed that Oswi’s insult had worked. Wighelm, if he had possessed an ounce of sense, should have sent two or three men to explore the village, but he had kept his shield wall together and now hurried his men in pursuit of Oswi who, he must have assumed, was running with the rest of us. So Wighelm had broken his own shield wall and now chivvied his men up the street in what he fondly imagined was a pursuit.

      And we burst from our alley, screaming a war cry that was as much a protest against the cold and wet as a challenge to the red-cloaked men. They were straggling in the muddy street, miserable because of the weather, and, best of all, scattered. We struck them with the force of the storm itself and Thor must have heard my prayer because he released a sky-splintering hammer of thunder directly over our heads, and I saw a young man turn towards me, terror on his face, and he raised his shield that I hit with my full weight, driving him down into the mud. Someone, I assumed it was Wighelm, was bellowing for the West Saxons to make their shield wall, but it was much too late. Berg passed me as I kicked the youngster’s sword arm away and the day’s gloom was lit by a bright spray of blood as Berg’s savage blade sliced the fallen man’s throat. Berg kept running, hamstringing a burly man who was shouting incoherently. The man screamed as Berg’s sword sliced through the back of his knees and then shrieked as Gerbruht lunged a sword into his belly.

      I was running towards Wighelm who turned his spear towards me. He looked as terrified as his men. I knocked the spear aside with my sword, body-charged his shield, and threw him down into the mud. I kicked his head, stood over him and held Serpent-Breath at his throat. ‘Don’t move!’ I snarled. Finan snatched Wighelm’s spear and lunged it left-handed at the shield of a tall man half crouching to meet Folcbald’s charge. The spear struck the bottom edge of the shield, tipping it downwards, and Finan’s fast sword slashed viciously across the man’s eyes. Folcbald finished the blinded man with a savage two-handed thrust that pierced mail and ripped up from belly to breastbone. The flooded rut in the street turned red, the rain hammered and splashed pink, and the wind howled over the marshes to drown the agonised sobs.

      Berg, usually so lethal in a fight, had slipped in the mud. He fell, sprawling, desperately trying to kick himself away from a red-cloaked spearman who, seeing his chance, raised his spear for the fatal lunge. I hurled Serpent-Breath at the man and the blade, whirling through the rain, struck him on the shoulder. It did no damage, but made him look towards me, and Vidarr Leifson leaped to grab his spear arm then pulled him and turned him, dragging him into Beornoth’s sword. Wighelm, seeing I had no weapon, tried to slam his shield against my thigh, but I put a boot on his face and pressed his head into the mud. He began to choke. I kept my boot there, leaned down, and plucked his sword from its scabbard.

      I had no need of Wighelm’s sword because the fight ended swiftly. Our attack had been so sudden and so savage that Wighelm’s miserable, wet men stood no chance. We had killed six of them, wounded four, and the others had thrown down their shields and weapons and were begging for mercy. Three fled into an alley, but Oswi and Berg hunted them down and brought them back to the tavern where we stripped the prisoners of their mail and sat them in a wet, miserable huddle at one end of the biggest room. We fed the hearth with more fuel. I sent Berg and Gerbruht to discover a small boat, then to cross the creek and bring Spearhafoc back with the men who had been left to guard her, and Vidarr Leifson and Beornoth were set to watch the road from Fæfresham. Oswi was cleaning Serpent-Breath while Finan was making certain our prisoners were securely tied with sealhide ropes.

      I had spared Wighelm’s life. I drew him away from the other prisoners and sat him on a bench close to the hearth that was spitting sparks from the driftwood fuel. ‘Free his hands,’ I told Finan, then held out my own hand. ‘Eighteen shillings,’ I said, ‘for grandpa.’ He grudgingly took the coins from his pouch and put them in my palm. ‘And now the rest,’ I demanded.

      He spat mud from his mouth. ‘The rest?’ he asked.

      ‘The rest of your coins, you fool. Give me all you’ve got.’

      He untied the pouch and gave it to me. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

      ‘I told you, Liudulf of Frisia. Believe that and you’re a bigger fool than I already think you are.’ Thunder sounded loud and the seethe of rain on the roof became stronger. I tipped the coins from Wighelm’s pouch onto my hand and gave the money to Finan. ‘I doubt these bastards have paid the tavern keeper,’ I said, ‘so find him and give him this. Then tell him we need food.