Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [135]
‘And this is my sword,’ I snarled back, ‘now get your men west.’
Finan had most of my men close to Huntandon, while I had ordered Osferth to take twenty horsemen and to escort Æthelflaed west of the river. She had obeyed me meekly, which surprised me. I remembered Ludda telling me that there was another road that ran from Huntandon to Eanulfsbirig outside of the great river bend, and so I had warned Edward of that route and then sent Merewalh and his Mercians to guard it. ‘The Danes could try to cut off our retreat,’ I told Edward. ‘They could send ships upriver or use the smaller road, but Merewalh’s scouts should see them if they try either of those things.’
He had nodded. I was not sure he entirely understood what I was saying, but he was now so grateful for my advice that he would probably have nodded if I had told him to send men to guard the dark half of the moon.
‘I can’t be certain they’ll try to cut our retreat,’ I told the king, ‘but as your army crosses the bridge just keep them there. No one marches on Bedanford till we’re all across the river! Draw them up for battle. Once we have every man safe across we can march on Bedanford together. What we don’t do is string the army out along the road.’
We should have had everyone across the river by midday, but chaos ruled. Some troops were lost, others were so laden with plunder that they could only move at a snail’s pace, and Sigelf’s men became entangled with those coming the other way. The Danes should have crossed the river and attacked, but instead they stayed at Huntandon, and Finan watched them from the south. Sigelf did not reach Finan till mid afternoon, and then he arrayed his men across the road about half a mile south of the river. It was a well-chosen position. A straggly stand of trees hid some of his men who were protected on either flank by stretches of marsh, and in front by a flooded ditch. If the Danes crossed the bridge they could draw up their shield wall, but to attack Sigelf they must cross the deep, flooded ditch behind which the Centish shields, swords, axes and spears were waiting.
‘They might try to go around the marshes to attack you from behind,’ I told Sigelf.
‘I’ve fought before,’ he snapped at me.
I did not care if I was offending him. ‘So don’t stay here if they do cross the bridge,’ I told him, ‘just back away. And if they don’t cross I’ll send word when you should rejoin us.’
‘Are you in command?’ he demanded. ‘Or Edward?’
‘I am,’ I said, and he looked startled.
His son, Sigebriht, had listened to the exchange and now accompanied me as I rode north to look at the Danes. ‘Will they attack, lord?’ he asked me.
‘I understand nothing about this war,’ I told him, ‘nothing. The bastards should have attacked us weeks ago.’
‘Perhaps they’re frightened of us,’ he said, then laughed, which I thought curious, but ascribed to youthful foolishness. He was indeed foolish, yet such a handsome fool. He still wore his hair long, tied at the nape of his neck with a leather strip, and around his neck was the pink silk ribbon that still had the faint bloodstain from that morning outside Sceaftesburi. His expensive mail was polished, his gold-panelled belt shone, and his crystal-pommelled sword was sheathed in a scabbard decorated with writhing dragons made from finely-twisted gold wire. His face was strong-boned, bright-eyed, and his skin reddened by the cold. ‘So they should have attacked us,’ he said, ‘but what should we have done?’
‘Attacked them at Cracgelad,