Clash of Kings (The Brunanburh Series) by MJ Porter

Author:MJ Porter [Porter, MJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books
Published: 2024-01-13T00:00:00+00:00

28

FEBRUARY 940, BETWEEN TAMWORTH AND REPTON, IN THE KINGDOM OF THE ENGLISH

Olaf Gothfrithson, king of the Dublin Norse

Bloody hell, it’s cold, I think, allowing my horse to pick its way carefully through the snow-shrouded landscape in the deepening gloom. The joy of knowing that I’ve just outwitted the English ealdorman almost keeps me warm.

He’s got half my most loyal warriors and Tamworth, but he’ll not get his glorious battle today, and neither will he keep my warriors. If Archbishop Wulfstan is correct in his assertions that he’ll gain more for me with his honeyed words than through fighting, my warriors will be returned to me, and perhaps even Tamworth as well.

I was comfortable in my stolen hall at Tamworth. But it’s evident people were working for the English. When the fire spread, it was safer to escape while I could. My men grumbled about the necessity of it, but even they could see the advantages to my plan. Far better to have a lord free to make peace than one captured through cunning.

I hope to make it to Repton tonight and then back into the more firmly held lands along the River Trent and towards Lincoln. Archbishop Wulfstan can expend his time on the peace accord then. Progress has been too slow, but I’ll hasten him along now that I’ve encountered two quick reversals outside Northampton, and at Tamworth.

At my side, Ildulb has lapsed into silence. He’s the only one who argued for meeting Ealdorman Athelstan in battle, just as he argued for continuing the fight outside Northampton. His bloodlust is a testament to his deep rage and hatred of the English. I was almost tempted to allow it and send him to fight with those of my men who sacrificed themselves. But if he’d been killed – or worse, taken captive by the English – Constantin wouldn’t have been forgiving. Neither would my wife.

‘It’s better this way,’ I call to him through the frozen air, but he’s sullen and unresponsive. Sod him, I think. He’s not directing this force.

I wonder what he’d have done had the command been his? If he ever stops sulking, I might ask him.

The cries of the aborted battle at Tamworth follow us through the snowy landscape, and it’s not long before I wish I’d been less keen to leave Tamworth. It’ll be an icy night’s ride to Repton.

A shout from in front drags me from my musings. I squint into the dying colours of the day.

What did the warrior roar, voice cracking with worry?

‘Warriors, my lord,’ I finally decipher in shock. Encircling my group of only two hundred and fifty men, a vast swathe of English warriors menaces us.

‘English?’ I manage to choke, astounded to realise my plan has been foiled. Ildulb’s snarl of anger echoes menacingly.

The enemy warriors are prepared to engage, bedecked in their warriors’ garb, and yet they hold only shields in hands, not weapons.

‘My lord Olaf,’ an English voice shouts, a little thick with the accent of the Northumbrians, but who am I to say anything?

‘Yes,’ I shout back, trying to find the source of the voice.

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