Chapter Eighteen
Mildrith
I stopped running after a few moments, realising it was futile to just go on dashing like a headless chicken around the battlefield. I needed to think. I had seen no sign of Owain’s main camp when we pursued the Welsh across the southern half of the battlefield and it certainly had not been down the slope that ran to the Rheged road.
“Think, Cerdic, think,” I urged myself.
Owain’s army had come across the mountains down that road, but the road slanted southeast, towards Catraeth, whilst Stanwick camp was due east of the pass. So, Owain would have swung off the road towards the fortress. Then, with night approaching soon, he would have set up an encampment somewhere along the way.
Aethelfrith’s charge coming from the north had forced the fleeing Welsh to take a more southerly route at first, so their rout and our pursuit had not taken us through their camp. Nor, at any time, had we seen Samlen, Mildrith or Hussa. I wondered if perhaps Samlen had spotted the disaster earlier than most on the battlefield and knew that all was lost. What would he do? Or come to think of it, what would Hussa do?
What, on this entire battlefield, was worth the entire value of almost everything else on it? That was an easy question with an easy answer: the amber treasure; the treasure Samlen had paraded on his captured girls. Certainly he would take no chances with that. He would send it back to camp, escorted with a man he could trust: Hussa, of course.
Now the battle was lost that was where they would be.
“Quick lads, this way and pray to the gods that we are the first there.”
Gasping for breath as we ran, we headed north towards where I estimated Owain’s men had been marching from when we had first seen them. As we ran we passed heaps of bodies from the previous day’s battle, many mauled horrendously, ghastly pale in appearance, covered in dried blood and pecked at by birds. Here and there we saw groups of two or three Welsh warriors, who had tried to hide but having then been caught were being made to suffer through their agonising final moments by vengeful Deirans or Bernicians. Many of our army had lost friends on this battlefield and they made the captives pay for it.
A scream broke out close by to us as a doomed youth was held down by a dozen Deiran warriors, whilst another of the victors approached with a burning log and moved it towards his skin. I looked away, suddenly sickened by the sight, but I could not avoid hearing the terrible screeching pleas for mercy nor the nauseating stench of burning flesh.
We ran on past a few larger groups of Welshmen who were fighting desperate last ditch stands: twenty here or thirty there, but surrounded now by many score of Angles. One group of proud looking veterans clustered together around the tattered remains of their once proud banner. A dozen of them locked shields and slowly retreated towards the mountains. Around them, the battlefield was full of English warriors baying and yelling for their blood. Fresh corpses littering the ground around the enemy showed that these men were making us pay for each of their lives. Yet, as I glanced back at them, I saw our men rush once more at them and, like Wallace’s standard last night, their banner finally fell.
Up ahead was a copse of oak trees, which we entered and passed through. Beyond it was an empty field with a slope running away to the north, but still no camp visible.
“There!” Eduard said, pointing; off to the west we saw a cloud of smoke that must have come from many fires. It was at least half a mile away and feeling exhausted, I groaned. Beside me, Eduard and Aedann looked set to collapse. Still, full of fear as I was about Mildrith’s fate, I found enough strength to push us on again until we came to a little hillock, beyond which we could see the smoke rising. Reaching the top, with our lungs burning and limbs stiff, we paused now to catch our breath and I could see that at last we had found what we were searching for. The Welsh camp lay in the small valley beneath us, on either side of a narrow steam which had come down from the mountains.
A dozen tents were surrounded by at least a hundred camp fires − most long since burnt out. Three of the tents were already on fire and − with dismay − I saw that we were not, in fact, the first to arrive. Indeed, we were far from the first. A hundred or so Angles − mostly Bernicians − were here before us and were moving around the fires, looking into any sacks or bundles they found for coins or any items of worth. Then they pressed on towards the tents, which promised yet more loot. Was Mildrith in one of them?
I launched myself down the slope followed by Eduard and Aedann, who came hurtling after me, our spears, shields and swords clattering against each other as we slid and stumbled towards the camp. Several Bernicians turned their heads at the sound and seeing us rushing towards them, hurried to pick up their weapons and moved in our direction, snarling at us. Before they reached me, I slid to a halt, lifted up my arms and shouted.
“Wait there: we are Deiran, not Welsh!”
Aedann wisely kept silent, at this point.
“Yeh, mate, well, so what? We rescued your hides, so we get first pickings here. Piss off!” An ugly looking brute speaking strangely accented English, growled at us. Several other Bernicians gathered round him and glared at us, daring us to start a fight.
“Relax friends; you can have anything you find except ...”
“Except what, you’re keeping the good stuff from us, then?”
“No − I’m looking for a girl.”
They all burst out laughing. “Look, friend, we all want one of those, you know what I mean?”
“This one is his sister, arsehole, and if any of you have touched her, you will have me to answer to!” Eduard shouted. The Bernicians took one look at my huge friend and his axe, still glistening with blood and then it was they who now held out their hands.
“Hey now, we are all friends: no need to get angry. But honestly lads, there are no girls here. You might try the tents,” their leader said and pointed that way keen now, it seemed, to be rid of us.
We ran that way, splitting up to search each tent, but found that by now most had been ransacked. As we searched, we could see no one, other than Bernicians drinking the ale they had captured. One of them belched loudly and grinned at me.
“You seen any Welsh running away from here, mate?” I asked the man, not expecting an answer.
He surprised me by nodding amiably. “What? You mean about half a dozen of them along with some women?”
I stared at him. “Yes! Are you serious?” I asked, waving Aedann and Eduard over towards me.
“Yes, of course,” the man sounded hurt. “I was just about the first into the camp and saw several jars of beer so I ... ah, acquired them, along with this,” he patted a bulging sack which clinked and promised riches within. He was welcome to them − I just wanted to know where Mildrith was.
“Which way?” I asked, urgently.
“Eh?”
“Which way did they run?”
“Oh right, erm ... let me see.”
“Hurry man, please,” I said, stamping my foot.
“All right, don’t rush me,” he replied, as he scratched his head and took another swig of his ale and then at last pointed, “That way to the west, towards that forest.”
“Thanks!” I shouted, already on the way, followed by Eduard and Aedann.
“Eh?” the man repeated and then belched again, but by then we had left him and the camp behind and headed towards the woods, our feet slipping and stumbling on the scrubby, rock-strewn ground, hope reviving our energy.
The trees were a good couple of miles away, but I thought I could see a few pines or spruce mixed in with what would be the usual oaks and willows. The land had started to rise towards the mountains and we came across the stream that ran through the Welsh camp and followed it back up its course towards the woodland. Totally alone now, we walked across the fields and meadows, so tired that we did not speak. Soon the only sound was the tramping of our feet, the gentle rattling of the equipment swaying on our shoulders and the gurgling of the water in the brook, fed by melted snow in the
uplands and now rushing past us over its rocky path.
After half an hour, we passed a small stand of birch trees. When we emerged from the far side, Aedann suddenly hissed at me and nodded with his head to our left. There, about twenty men were coming in our direction, from the south. I turned wearily towards them, drawing my sword then peering that way, my other hand shielding my eyes from the late afternoon sunlight which silhouetted them. Like dark shadows they walked on, not afraid of us, nor stopping to draw their own weapons. Still unable to see who it was, I was about to challenge them, when Eduard suddenly laughed and waved at the men. A moment later, I too saw who they were and felt a huge weight had been lifted from me. First, I saw Cuthbert, walking along with his bow in his hand. Next to him, was the bard Lilla. Finally, I saw the man who I most wanted to see, the man who − these last few days − I had been almost afraid to hope would come: I saw my father.
Eduard cheered when he recognised his friend and ran straight over to give him a huge hug. Cuthbert’s face reddened at this, but he was smiling as Eduard stepped back.
“About bloody time you got here. How long did it take you to find the damn Bernician army, then?” Eduard demanded.
Cuthbert looked hurt. “To be fair, most of the fires had gone out by the time I reached them and it was a sod of a long way ...” he defended himself and then halted when he saw that Eduard was winking at me and miming stirring a pot.
“Bastard!” Cuthbert said to Eduard; they both laughed and I clapped a hand down on Cuthbert’s shoulder and nodded at him.
“I knew that you would make it, Cuth. Damn well done, all the same.”
“Thanks, Cerdic.”
I then walked up to my father. He looked tired and drawn: a man not as young as once he was, but Lilla, fresh as ever, was bouncing along beside him.
“Father,” I said, “thanks to the gods that you came. It was ... bloody close, I can tell you!”
He studied me, a caring father checking his son, inspecting him for damage, maybe, or perhaps assessing if the last few days had changed him much. I saw him eyeing my various wounds, relief softening his gaze as he registered that none was life-threatening. After a moment he pulled me to him and gave me a hug before letting me go, then stood with one hand on my left shoulder, looking into my eyes.
“I told you I would come, but it took a little longer than I had hoped,” he said.
“In fact, it’s a fascinating story worth a song; would you like to hear it?” Lilla began, but I interrupted him.
“Another day maybe, but Father: Samlen and Hussa still have Mildrith and they went into those woods,” I pointed. “They might be trying to sneak over the mountains by some footpath or ...”
Father’s eyes narrowed and I could see that the same thought had come to us both. Samlen could injure us still more this day if he did what he had threatened to do to Mildrith.
Turning to the men who were following him − all that were left from the village and still more from Wicstun – my father snapped out an order. “Right then, men, follow us. Ten of you come with me and Lilla; the other ten go with Cerdic and his friends. We will divide the wood between us.”
It was now getting far on through the afternoon and the sun was westering as we again moved across the fields towards the woodland. I was walking in the centre, with my patrol strewn out on either side of me scouring the scrub and bushes for signs of Samlen and his men. After a few minutes, we came across a faint track running through the field towards the woods and we followed it. About half a mile further south, Father and his warriors were matching our speed. We had been gone from the Welsh camp for a good hour already now and as yet had seen nothing except a startled hare, which Cuthbert had immediately shot with an arrow.
“Well, I’ve got my supper arranged, what about you?” he smirked at us. Tying the hare to his belt he scampered out of range of Eduard’s fist. A few minutes later I saw him up ahead, waving at us to catch up. As he was to do often in the years to come, he was scouting in front of us, using his superior stealth and speed to our advantage.
“I think there may be some of those Goddodin in the woods over there. I saw some of that strange blue armour glinting in the trees.”
The track continued west climbing towards the mountains. We moved along it until we finally reached the woods. There was quite a bit of undergrowth, but I could see no signs of the fugitives. I turned to look at my friend who, in response to my expression, pointed to the scrub beneath a tall elm tree. Suddenly, there was a yellow-brown flash as the late afternoon sun reflected off something metallic.
The woods were the last bit of cover before the bare hillsides beyond. Perhaps the Welsh were afraid to leave them and to go where we would surely see them. Or maybe they were injured, or even dead. Whatever the reason, we should be able to corner them here, I thought to myself.
“Eduard, take five men and wait here. I will take the other six and move round to the other side of the copse to prevent escape. Wait for my whistle and then move in, fast.”
“Fine, Cerdic,” my friend said.
Reliable Eduard, not very imaginative, but he could take orders. I led my men around the northern edge of the wood, all the time keeping the glinting armour in sight. It did seem odd that whoever was wearing it was not moving. They must see us, I thought. Beyond the trees, was a ditch, along the wood’s edge and I now led my small group along it, with Aedann just behind me and Cuthbert bringing up the rear.
After fifty paces, I halted and we now stood in a line, looking across the woods. I could just see Eduard’s bulk through the trees. I whistled a long drawn out note. With a roar − I had never known him do much without a bellow or a roar − he surged forward, leading his half of the patrol through the woods. They were upon the Welsh position in a moment and I expected to hear screams and cries and the noise of battle. Yet, I saw Eduard halt and glance over at me and then bend down. When he came up, he was holding pieces of the burnished armour. They had just been abandoned, I imagined. Unless, it was a …
Trap! Suddenly, from the undergrowth, only twenty paces in front of us, there erupted a half dozen Welshmen. They had smeared mud on their faces and some had stuck leaves and grass in their hair. That and the fact we were looking beyond them, had been sufficient to deceive us. They had few weapons, save surprise, some swords and the odd sturdy branch. That, though, was enough. They rushed at us, knocking us over or lashing at us with branches. Most, I had not seen before, but one I did recognise for it was Hussa who rushed directly at me. His shoulder hit me in the chest and I went down into the ditch, the air knocked out of me. A heartbeat later and he was leaping the ditch and running off towards the mountains.
It took me a few moments to catch my breath and to clamber, mud-covered and winded, out of the ditch. By then, the Welsh were fifty yards away and going fast. Cuthbert, I saw, had blood coming from a cut on his head, but he was still standing, at least. None of the boys were dead, although some groaned and Horsa − a youth from Wicstun − was holding his wrist and wincing as if it was broken. Cuthbert assayed a shot at the fleeing Welshmen, but it sailed far wide of the target.
I saw Hussa turn to check the others were with him and to wave them on past. Then he gazed back at us and on, over the tree tops towards the camp and, finally, the battlefield at Catraeth. For a moment he looked straight at me then, with a wave, he turned and was off. Behind me, I heard Eduard arrive.
“Well, we buggered that up, didn’t we!” he grunted. I turned and gave him what I hoped was a withering glare and with a sigh, led the boys off in pursuit.
The ground started to climb much more acutely now and there was little undergrowth and no trees. The fleeing Welsh were still ahead of us and now they were joined from further south by another group of warriors, one of whom glared back at us with his one eye. There then, at last, was the scarred face of Samlen. Aedann hissed and doubled his pace and I did nothing to stop him, for I had seen that Samlen was dragging along the struggling form of my sist
er.
My father’s men closed in on us and reunited now, we pursued the Welsh. We now passed the start of steep, bare-faced cliffs jutting out from the mountain. Our prey had moved into a valley between the cliffs but then, at last, they turned and faced us as it was a dead end and for them, there was now no escape.
Hurriedly, Samlen’s men formed up into a shield wall, using the few shields they still had. Behind this, stood Hussa, Samlen and Mildrith. Hussa had planted the Wolf’s head banner next to him, maybe trying to goad and taunt us. It was a mistake. It made us angry and gave us just one more reason to kill them all.
Samlen still held Mildrith and now he drew his dagger and placed it against her throat.
“Stop there: or I kill the girl!” Samlen shouted.
“Leave her alone One Eye and fight me like a man. If you win, all of you can leave as free men,” I said.
Samlen worked his mourh and spat towards me. “I told you once before, I don’t fight slaves!”
Aedann shouted something in Welsh, then stepped forward, his sword and shield ready.
One Eye stared at him for a moment and then replied in the same language.
“Aedann, what’s going on?” I murmured.
“I askedhim if he would fight a free man of his own race, or die a coward,” Aedann answered, sneering at his fellow Welshman.
Samlen growled and letting Mildrith go, he pushed through his men, dropped his knife and drew his sword. Then, I looked again and saw that I was wrong. It was not his blade he carried: this was my uncle’s sword − the sword I had come here to retrieve.
“Very well, Eboracii; let us see how well you fight.”
Much is said of the value of experience, of how veterans of many battles learn such tricks and see an enemy’s moves so often that eventually they develop a second sight and can almost predict and anticipate what he will do next. All this is true, of course, but it is not the entire story: it presupposes that whilst your foe is aiming to kill you, he will choose tactics designed to maximise his own chance of surviving the battle. What Samlen failed to realise was that although Aedann was certainly trying to kill him, he was not bothered about his own survival. This made him dangerously unpredictable.
Samlen advanced on Aedann, swinging his sword in an arc, bracing his shield and taking the time to study his opponent, to learn his weakness. But Aedann did not give him that time: he just charged full on. Samlen took a few moments to react and when he did, he now had to bring his sword back from being held out to his side. He managed it alright, but, with the blade moving so quickly, he could not direct it with any accuracy. Aedann groaned in pain as the sword sliced into his left shoulder, opening a blood vessel which let out a gush of blood. His arm just went limp and he dropped the shield.
The next instant, his momentum had carried him onwards into Samlen and the collision sent him into his enemy’s arms. In a bizarre parody of lovers embracing they stood like that for a long moment and then, suddenly, Samlen vomited up blood and fell backwards with a loud crash on to the ground, quite dead, impaled by Aedann’s sword. He held it high in the sky, the blade slick with One Eye’s blood, and gave out a mighty cry of vengeance satisfied.
“Charge!” my father yelled and started towards the Welsh, followed a moment later by the rest of our men. The Welsh, still stunned by Samlen’s death, stood in shocked silence and we cut them down. There was to be no mercy or pity, because we now recognised each one of them. These were Elmetae who had raided the Villa alongside One Eye and watched him kill Cuthwine and the others, whose relatives were in the company and who today avenged their death. These warriors, at least, died quickly on our swords and spears. Only Hussa was left alive. Looking back, I will never be sure quite why I did not kill him there and then, except that for all his betrayal he was still of my blood and that knowledge must have stayed my sword arm.
Then, it was done and Hussa alone stood beside Mildrith. My sister was crying as she ran over to me and I held her close as she sobbed away her fear, realising she was free again. Father joined us and now I could see that his own eyes were moist. He reached out and pulled Mildrith and me towards him and the three of us stood together, holding each other for several minutes. All this time, the brooding figure of Hussa looked on impassively at this family he was not part of, but perhaps should have been.
Mildrith was laughing and crying at the same time now. “If I ever try and sneak a look at a warrior again, just hit me, alright, Cerdic?” she said at last, reminding me that it was curiosity that had got her into all of this.
I nodded and then tilted my head at Cuthbert and Aedann, who stood nearby.
“I think there are two here, who you won’t mind seeing.”
Both Cuthbert and Aedann came across. Cuthbert gave a shy smile and Mildrith put one hand gently on his cheek. Aedann suddenly groaned in apparent pain.
“Oh my poor dear, let me see to that,” Mildrith said, moving his hand away to examine the wound and then tearing a strip from her own dress to bind it.
Aedann grinned and out of sight of my sister, he rolled his eyes at Cuthbert, who glared back at him. So, not all our battles were over, I realised and idly pondered what the outcome of that little skirmish would be. Chuckling, to myself, I turned away to look at Hussa.
Hussa had dropped his sword and held out his arms.
“Go on, Father ... kill me, too.”
Father just walked up to him and slapped him hard across the face.
“Bastard traitor!” he snarled.
Hussa wiped blood away from his lip and glowered back at Father.
“Yes, and as I once said to Cerdic, we all know whose bastard, don’t we?” Again he held his arms away from his chest. “Just finish it now. My mother is dead and soon I will be and you can return home as the hero who saved Deira,” he said bitterly.
My father looked down at the seax he was carrying, back up at Hussa and then he dropped the long knife and shook his head.
“No, I will not. Enough have died today, besides which, your life is in the King’s hands now. You are coming with us ... son,” he said and Hussa was led away.
Father bent down and picked up Hussa’s sword: the sword I had coveted throughout my childhood and youth. Then, he wandered over to Samlen’s body and retrieved his brother’s sword from the ground and wiped Aedann’s blood off it onto the grass. He then turned and offered them both to me.
“Take one of these, son, you have earned it.”
I stared at the blades.
“But, Father ... that sword is yours.”
“No ... it was my brother's. He died a warrior and a hero. Today I would give it to you. For this day, it is you who are the hero.”
My hand shook slightly, as I reached out and grasped the hilt. My fingers tightened and I took my uncle’s blade, the blade of a warrior lord. I held it up, so that it reflected the lingering sunlight.
Then, I glanced across at the other sword − Hussa’s sword, which I had watched forged and always wanted to own. Each was a magnificent, glorious weapon in its own way. I studied them both for a moment, then I shook my head and passed my uncle’s blade back to my father. He raised an eyebrow and looked at me, puzzled.
"Keep that sword, Father. It has always been Uncle's and then yours. Give the other to Aedann, if you would take my advice, for I already have a sword.
I once heard it said that ‘every good story is about a sword’. Well, that may be true, but I now realised that every good sword has its own story. I reached down and drew my own blade. The broad, sharp stabbing weapon that, Lilla later told me, was in fact Roman. It was a gladius and once would have been wielded by a legionary posted to the fortress of Calcaria and later was carried by the armies of Samlen as they attacked my home. It was there I had taken it from the first man I killed. I carried it to Calcaria and used it to free our people. Finally, here at this battle, it was the weapon that killed Owain: the golden King of Rheged. I now held it up high so every man could see it.
&nbs
p; “I will call it: Catraeth, in memory of this place, so if I ever have to draw it in battle again I will not forget those who died here.”
One of the men had retrieved the Wolf’s head banner and proudly carried it back to us. The Wicstun Company had its standard again, so it was time to return to the camp with it. That left just one thing: the amber treasure.
Bending over, I examined Samlen’s bloody corpse. His one eye stared at me, but it no longer burnt with his hatred and evil and I did not fear it. Inside his tunic I found what I was looking for: all of my mother’s jewellery, save the link from the one earring, which I knew Hussa had sold.
“It is over,” I said, handing them to my father. He examined them briefly and then thrust them inside his own tunic.
“No,” he said, “not quite over. There is still one more duty.”
Then he turned away, before I could ask what he meant.
The sun was setting as we walked back towards Stanwick camp. We were alive and quietly I gave thanks to the gods. I carried the wounds of a warrior, some of them deep and painful, but today I had not been fated to die. Around me lay fifteen hundred men who had not been so lucky. We believe that when we die − if we die as warriors − we go to feast in Woden’s hall with the men we have killed now our friends. I looked at Eduard, Cuthbert and lastly, Aedann − walking along one hand clamped to his wounded shoulder − and smiled. Woden’s Hall could wait. For now I was glad to share a few more days with my friends, right here, right now.
Soon after we reached the army, the celebrations began. Aethelric welcomed Aethelfrith into Stanwick camp and in the fortress, a victory feast was held. I sensed that we had been present at one of the great battles: a turning point perhaps in the history of our troubled land and indeed we had. There would be no further attempt by the Welsh to cross the Pennines for a generation. Their hopes of driving us into the sea were finally defeated and it had been this battle that planted the dream of a common race north of the Humber. The dark times of division between us, which would plague much of my life, were part of an unknown future. Naïve of what fate was destined to shower upon us we drank ourselves senseless in joy. Bernicians and Deirans celebrated the truth: we were not just Saxons or Angles any longer.
We were Northumbrians.