The Sixth Lost Tale of Mercia: Hastings the Hearth Companion Read Free

could
not hear his teeth chattering. He did not consider himself to be a
coward. But how could he not be afraid when he knew for certain
that he would die today? He did not even consider himself to be
particularly afraid of death. But this was far from how he had ever
expected to die.
    He had fought in skirmishes before, but he
had never fought a battle like this, and certainly not on the front
lines. He was not a typical fyrd-man: he was a retainer. A troop of
the noble house. A gesitha. A hearth companion. He fought to
protect those he cared about, those he swore fealty to, and for
them—for her—he would lay down his life. To die in a quick and
frantic clash such as this, his life snuffed out in a flare of
deaths, did not seem as meaningful to him. He wanted to look his
enemy in the eye. He wanted to see the gratefulness and love of
those he saved as he bled his life away. This was not how he wanted
to go.
    At least he knew that Aydith would be proud
of him. It was not enough, but it was all he had. He tried to
imagine her face, certain he would never see it again.
    It was hard to imagine someone so beautiful
and noble, however, as he watched the pagans advance. Some of the
warriors on foot were falling back, no doubt the ones weighed down
by their plundered goods, while those carrying nothing but axes and
spears moved forward. They began to form their own shield wall, the
well-known Viking formation, in which the shields were locked
tightly together, and the paint on them was so bright it was nearly
blinding. That was the purpose, of course: to distract the eye, and
to conceal the lines of the wood, so they would be harder to crack
apart.
    “ Second line, down!” yelled
Ulfcytel.
    The high reeve’s voice, so close and
thunderous, set Hastings’s heart pounding. Even Ulfcytel stood near
the front lines, only a few men away. When he had decided to heed
the Golden Cross’s scroll, he had not done so half-heartedly.
    Per Ulfcytel’s instructions, the second row
of men crouched down. They did this for several reasons. Some would
poke at the Vikings’ feet with spears. Some would crawl through the
shields once a clearing was made and plunge directly into the
fighting. Better still, some would serve as a platform from which
the third row of men could step and jump over the shield wall. To
Hastings the idea seemed ridiculous, but some soldiers had
volunteered nonetheless, and Ulfcytel claimed that it would catch
the Danes by such surprise.
    For a moment, the clattering of weapons and
scraping of locked shields filled Hastings ears as if no other
sound existed. But then something incredible happened, and the
shield wall became so silent that all Hastings heard instead was
the calm, steady breaths of his neighbors. The men were settled
now, forming what seemed an impenetrable barrier, as if not even an
earthquake would shake them.
    “ Hold,” said Ulfcytel,
quietly now, for he no longer needed to raise his voice.
    Meanwhile the Vikings came closer and closer,
their faces either leering or emotionless. All of their movements
were so practiced they seemed without effort. And though their
arrangement did not appear orderly, inconsistent in movement and
formation, they nonetheless advanced as if a single beast, knowing
each other’s minds, connected by a single goal, unbarred by
fear.
    “ Advance,” said
Ulfcytel.
    The Vikings did not expect them to advance.
Even Hastings, who felt so secured by their solid formation, had
temporarily forgotten that this was part of the plan. When Hastings
began moving his legs, finding an unexpected harmony in the steps
of the entire shield wall, his heart surged with joy to see the
surprise on the Vikings’ faces. Most of them stopped, reconsidering
what to do. Their front lines wavered, some of warriors bumping
into each other. A shield wall was meant to be a barrier. It was
not meant to move.
    Then Hastings thought he saw Sweyn Forkbeard,
mounted on a horse and lurking within the haze