“Remember, lads,” Hereward shouted now, projecting his voice over the hiss of the rain and the rumble and crash of the waves. “Hold the line and listen for my commands. Many of us have stood in battle before and we will not be easily overcome by these Northern pirates.” Around Hereward, the six Northumbrians who had come from Bebbanburg began clattering their weapons against their shield rims. Beyond them stood several pale-faced carpenters and fishermen, their resolve bolstered by the towering presence of Runolf with his huge axe on the flank, where we would be at risk of having the shieldwall turned. To my right, past Wistan, Gersine and a handful of other men, I spotted the burly smith. Beside him was Gwawrddur, his face impassive. His eyes watched the approaching Norsemen the way a hawk observes river rats. At the end of the line, the tattooed face of Drosten grinned back at me. The Pict seemed gleeful at the prospect of battle. Shaking my head, I turned back to Hereward.

“Hold the line and let them come to us,” he yelled over the storm and the beating of spears and swords on shields. “Your families will be safe, so long as we do not falter. We have sent word to Mancas, and he will be riding here with his hearth-warriors with all haste. When they arrive, if we have left any of the Norse alive for them, you will see true slaughter. Now, hold firm, and with God’s grace and stout hearts, we will send these Northern curs back into the sea.”

All of the men were hammering their blades and spear-hafts against their shields now, sending out a thundering threnody of doom to the raiders who threatened us.

As if God Himself answered Hereward’s words, a great gust of wind ripped leaves from the alders. One tree, its branches heavy with foliage, cracked and splintered, toppling over into the river. Such was the rage of the storm, we did not hear the splash the tree made as it collapsed into the Uuir. The ferocity of the tempest was unlike anything I had encountered before, and I wondered at Hereward’s question about it being sent from heaven. The wind must surely have been directed by the Almighty, for as we watched, the foremost ship, barely a spear’s throw from the riverbank, was caught in the gust that had broken the alder. The ship leaned precariously over for a heartbeat. Its wale skimmed the surface of the river. Men slid and fell on the deck, tumbling between the thwarts. An instant later, the men all along the shieldwall erupted with a great cheer. The ship had capsized, tumbling its men into the fast-flowing, muddy waters of the churning river mouth.