The Last Kingdom Series Books 1-3: The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, The Lords of the North. Bernard Cornwell

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       Eight

      We spent the spring, summer and autumn of the year 875 rowing up and down Wessex’s south coast. We were divided into four flotillas, and Leofric commanded Heahengel, Ceruphin and Cristenlic which meant Archangel, Cherubim and Christian. Alfred had chosen the names. Hacca, who led the whole fleet, sailed in the Evangelista which soon acquired the reputation of being an unlucky ship, though her real ill fortune was to have Hacca on board. He was a nice enough man, generous with his silver, but he hated ships, hated the sea, and wanted nothing more than to be a warrior on dry land, which meant that Evangelista was always on Hamtun’s hard undergoing repairs.

      But not the Heahengel. I tugged that oar till my body ached and my hands were hard as oak, but the rowing put muscle on me, so much muscle. I was big now, big, tall and strong, and cocky and belligerent as well. I wanted nothing more than to try Heahengel against some Danish ship, yet our first encounter was a disaster. We were off the coast of Suth Seaxa, a marvellous coast of rearing white cliffs, and Ceruphin and Cristenlic had gone far out to sea while we slid inshore hoping to attract a Viking ship that would pursue us into an ambush sprung by the other two craft. The trap worked, only the Viking was better than us. He was smaller, much smaller, and we pursued him against the falling tide, gaining on him with every dip of our oars, but then he saw Ceruphin and Cristenlic slamming in from the south, their oar blades flashing back the sunlight and their bow waves seething white, and the Danish shipmaster turned his craft as if she had been mounted on a spindle and, with the strong tide now helping him, dashed back at us.

      ‘Turn into him!’ Leofric roared at Werferth who was at the steering oar, but instead Werferth turned away, not wanting to bring on a collision, and I saw the oars of the Danish ship slide into their holes as she neared us and then she ran down our steorbord flank, snapping our oars one by one, the impact throwing the oar shafts back into our rowers with enough force to break some men’s ribs, and then the Danish archers, they had four or five aboard, began loosing their arrows. One went into Werferth’s neck and there was blood pouring down the steering deck and Leofric was bellowing in impotent rage as the Danes, oars slid out again, sped safely away down the fast ebbing tide. They jeered as we wallowed in the waves.

      ‘Have you steered a boat, Earsling?’ Leofric asked me, pulling the dying Werferth aside.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then steer this one.’ We limped home with only half our proper oars, and we learned two lessons. One was to carry spare oars and the second was to carry archers, except that Ealdorman Freola, who commanded the fyrd of Hamptonscir, said he could spare no bowmen, that he had too few as it was, and that the ships had already consumed too many of his other warriors, and besides, he said, we should not need archers. Hacca, his brother, told us not to make a fuss. ‘Just throw spears,’ he advised Leofric.

      ‘I want archers,’ Leofric insisted.

      ‘There are none!’ Hacca said, spreading his hands.

      Father Willibald wanted to write a letter to Alfred. ‘He will listen to me,’ he said.

      ‘So you write to him,’ Leofric said sourly, ‘and what happens then?’

      ‘He will send archers, of course!’ Father Willibald said brightly.

      ‘The letter,’ Leofric said, ‘goes to his damn clerks, who are all priests, and they put it in a pile, and the pile gets read slowly, and when Alfred finally sees it he asks for advice, and two damned bishops have their say, and Alfred writes back wanting to know more, and by then it’s Candlemas and we’re all dead with Danish arrows in our backs.’ He glared at Willibald and I began to like Leofric even more. He saw me grinning. ‘What’s so funny, Endwerc?’ he demanded.

      ‘I can get you archers,’ I said.

      ‘How?’

      With one piece of Ragnar’s gold, which we displayed in Hamtun’s marketplace and said that the gold coin, with its weird writing, would go to the best archer to win a competition that would be held one week hence. That coin was worth more than most men could earn in a year and Leofric was curious how I had come by it, but I refused to tell him. Instead I set up targets and word spread through the countryside that rich gold was to be had with cheap arrows, and over forty men arrived to test their skill and we simply marched the best twelve on board Heahengel and another ten each to Ceruphin and Cristenlic, then took them to sea. Our twelve protested, of course, but Leofric snarled at them and they all suddenly decided they wanted nothing better than to sail the Wessex coast with him. ‘For something that dribbled out of a goat’s backside,’ Leofric told me, ‘you’re not completely useless.’

      ‘There’ll be trouble when we get back,’ I warned him.

      ‘Of course there’ll be trouble,’ he agreed, ‘trouble from the shire reeve, from the Ealdorman, from the bishop and from the whole damned lot of them.’ He laughed suddenly, a very rare occurrence. ‘So let’s kill some Danes first.’

      We did. And by chance it was the same ship that had shamed us, and she tried the same trick again, but this time I turned Heahengel into her and our bows smashed into her quarter and our twelve archers were loosing shafts into her crew. Heahengel had ridden up over the other ship, half sinking her and pinning her down, and Leofric led a charge over the prow, and there was blood thickening the water in the Viking bilge. Two of our men managed to tie the ships together which meant I could leave the steering oar and, without bothering to put on either helmet or mail coat, I jumped aboard with Serpent-Breath and joined the fight. There were shields clashing in the wide midships, spears jabbing, swords and axes swinging, arrows flighting overhead, men screaming, men dying, the rage of battle, the joy of blade song and it was all over before Ceruphin