I ran forward, Serpent-Breath drawn, then Finan slammed into me from my right, stopping me. “To me! To me!” he shouted. The gods only know how fast he must have moved because only a moment before he had been yards away from me. “To me! Shields!” He knocked his shield against mine. “Raise it!” he snarled at me. I confess I was in a daze, appalled by the sudden onslaught. Someone, it turned out to be Beornoth, stood to my left. Sköll’s Norsemen were twenty paces away. Berg had vanished. Kettil, another of my Norsemen, had been following Wulfmaer, probably teasing him, now he whirled, sword drawn, and bellowed defiance. A Norseman charged him, spear leveled, Kettil danced clear, slashed once and the enemy reeled away, blood streaming from his face. “Come back!” Finan shouted, and Kettil tried, but two men trapped him, drove him a pace backward, Kettil lunged forward, his sword pierced a man’s belly and was trapped there and I shouted in futile anger as another warrior’s sword ripped across Kettil’s throat. Kettil had been a fine swordsman, a man who loved embroidered clothes, a vain man, but one whose jests could fill a hall with laughter. More men were joining our shield wall, I could hear the clatter of willow boards touching as we made the wall, but ahead of us men were still dying. Godric, who had been my servant, was pinned to the earth by a spear through the belly. He screamed like a child. Eadwold, surly and slow, tried to run, and was tripped by a spear. He screamed too. Thurstan, a devout Christian, who would earnestly tell me my soul was in danger, killed a Norseman with a massive spear thrust and was still thrusting and shouting as two swords sent his soul to heaven. He had a wife in Bebbanburg and a son in Eoferwic who was studying to become a priest. Then Cenwulf, a reliable man, honest and patient, had his belly opened by an ax. He moaned as he fell, trying desperately to cling to his sword as his guts spilled and he collapsed onto the blood-soaked turf. He was a Christian too, but like so many others he wanted to die with his weapon in his hand.

The poet-priest was right; wæl feol on eorþan, the dead fell on the earth.

All that happened in a moment. The dead men had been going to join Berg and were caught by the Norsemen who came streaming across the corner of the ditches. So my warriors died, but their deaths slowed the attackers for an instant, just long enough for the rest of my men to make the crude shield wall, but what really saved us was Svart charging in from the right at the head of Sigtryggr’s men.

Then was the clashing of shields.