Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [141]
‘Horn!’ I called to Oswi. ‘Now!’
The horn sounded. My men knew what to do. They turned back towards the marsh, retreating into the dark beyond the fires, and as they went a second horn sounded and I saw Osferth leading a shield wall from the trees. My banner of the wolf’s head and Osferth’s charred cross showed above the advancing wall. ‘Men of Cent!’ Osferth shouted. ‘Men of Cent, your king is coming to save you! To me! To me! Form on me!’
Osferth was the son of a king, and all his ancient lineage was in his voice. In a night of cold and chaos and death, he sounded confident and certain. Men who had seen their ealdorman cut down, who had seen his blood splash colour into the firelit dark, went towards Osferth and joined his shield wall because he promised safety. My men were retreating into the shadows, then going southwards to join Osferth’s right flank. I pulled off my helmet and tossed it to Oswi, then strode along the face of the growing shield wall. ‘Edward sent us to save you!’ I shouted at the Centishmen. ‘The Danes betrayed you! The king is coming with all his army! Form the wall! Shields up!’
There was a grey edge to the eastern sky. The rain was still spitting, but dawn was close. I glanced north and saw horsemen. The Danes must have wondered why the sound of battle and the bray of horns had disturbed the night’s ending, and some were riding down the road to see for themselves and what they saw was a growing shield wall. They saw my banner of the wolf’s head, they saw Osferth’s blackened cross, and they saw men lying amidst the wreckage of the fires. Sigelf’s leaderless men were still in chaos, with no more idea than the Danes what was happening, but our shield wall offered safety and they were picking up their own shields, their helmets and weapons and running to join the ranks. Finan and Osferth were pushing men into position. A tall man, helmetless, but carrying a bare sword ran to me. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Wulferth,’ he said.
‘And who is Wulferth?’ I asked, sounding calm. He was a thegn, one of Sigelf’s richer followers, who had brought forty-three men to East Anglia. ‘Your lord is dead,’ I said, ‘and the Danes will attack us very soon.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘and Edward is coming. We have to hold the Danes till the king reaches us.’ I plucked Wulferth’s elbow and walked him towards the western marsh on the left of our defensive position. ‘Form your men here,’ I said, ‘and fight for your country, for Cent, for Wessex.’
‘For God!’ Osferth shouted from close by.
‘Even for God,’ I said.
‘But…’ Wulferth began, still confused by the night’s events.
I looked him in the eye. ‘Who do you want to fight for? Wessex or the Danes?’
He hesitated, not because he was unsure of the answer, but because everything was changing and he was still trying to understand what was happening. He had expected to march south towards Lundene, and instead he was being asked to fight.
‘Well?’ I prompted him.
‘Wessex, lord.’
‘Then fight well,’ I said, ‘and you’re in charge of this flank. Form your men, tell them the king is coming.’
I had seen no sign of Sigebriht, but as the weak grey daylight suffused the east I saw him approaching from the north. He had been with the Danes, doubtless sleeping in whatever warmth and comfort Huntandon had to offer, while now he was on horseback and behind him a man carried the standard of the bull’s head. ‘Oswi!’ I shouted. ‘Find me