Chapter 9
The moor they crossed on their way to Alnwick was wild and open, pulling Steinar’s gaze to the distant horizon where the sky met the land.
To his mind, this level monotonous part of Northumbria lacked the beauty of Talisand with its rolling hills and rivers.
Nor did it possess the majesty of Scotland’s lochs and mountains.
As he lifted his gaze to the white clouds drifting aimlessly above, he was thankful the day would at least be without rain.
He reached down to stroke Artair’s neck as he glanced at the backs of Duff and the king, thinking how it would be to once again face hundreds of Norman swords.
The well-trained knights were formidable, but he had learned much in the half dozen years since his first encounter with them at Senlac Hill and no longer feared their blades.
The landscape changed as they approached Alnwick. The moor gave way to grass and shrubs and finally he glimpsed green meadows fringed by dense stands of trees.
It was the middle of the morning when they entered a forested area and the king raised his fist, halting the column of men.
In the distance, Steinar saw a timbered castle set upon a grass-covered hill the Normans called a motte.
He shuddered, for it reminded of the castle the Norman knight called the Red Wolf had built at Talisand.
At the base of the motte a palisade fence of wooden posts surrounded the castle and the buildings that supported the knights—at a minimum, a stable, a blacksmith and an armory.
Outside the palisade was a cluster of thatched cottages. An unprotected village.
Malcolm turned to Duff. “We will make camp here.”
The two rode deeper into the forest where the trees grew in stands, too close in some places even for a horse to pass.
Steinar and the men followed, picking their way carefully.
As he rode, Steinar assessed their cover, thinking the king had chosen wisely.
Their presence was hidden in a forest of trees, thick enough to allow them to remain undetected until they launched their assault.
Between the forest and the village, he could see a river about twenty feet across running in front of the castle looming in the distance. He supposed it was the River Aln the men had spoken of on the journey south. The banks of this river would become their field of battle.
The king dismounted and called for his captains. He then retreated to a small clearing among the trees. Malcolm tossed back over his shoulder, “You, too, Scribe.”
Colbán was the first of the captains to ride into the clearing where the king and Duff waited. When the others began flowing into the grassy circle, Rhodri came to stand by Steinar and folded his arms over his chest. “ ’Twill not be long now.”
Once the dozen men who made up Malcolm’s senior captains were assembled, the king addressed them in a solemn voice. “We have come to show the Northumbrians the Normans do not protect them. To remind the Normans they are not welcome here. This is our land and we claim it for Scotland.”
The men nodded and “Ayes” were raised in a loud chorus.
Shifting his gaze to Rhodri, the king said, “You and your archers will go before us. Rain fire on the structures. Draw out William de Tesson and his knights.” Then Malcolm’s eyes scanned the men, considering each face.
“If there is plunder to be had, by all means let the men take it from the Norman scum.”
The men nodded their appreciation, their faces displaying their eagerness to meet the enemy. With Edgar standing among them, none could forget their queen had lost her country to the Conqueror to whom these Normans swore allegiance.
The group broke apart, each captain returning to his men. Rhodri said to Steinar, “If all goes well, this eve we will dine on fish from the River Aln.”
“Aye, and mayhap we will have many Norman swords to add to the king’s coffers.”
Rhodri nodded and waved goodbye as he went to join his waiting archers.
Soon they would face Norman swords. Some would die, others would be wounded.
Steeling himself for the battle ahead, Steinar pulled Catrìona’s riband from under his mail and pressed it to his lips, breathing in her woodland scent and seeing before his face her fiery hair.
“Soon. I will see you soon,” he muttered under his breath. Almost it was a prayer.
An hour later, Rhodri and his archers left the forest, walking on foot ahead of the king and his men.
The bowmen forded the river with little difficulty, holding their bows and arrows high.
All of the arrows bore the same linen wrapped around the tips and now they appeared to have been dipped in oil.
Once they were on the other side, Rhodri ordered them into a single line, standing close together.
Behind the archers, the warriors waited, some on horseback, some on foot, all well armed. Steinar calmed Artair who snorted, restless for what was coming. He was behind Malcolm and Duff and close enough to watch the archers. Colbán and the rest of the king’s guard hovered close by.
“Ready your bows!” Rhodri shouted. With their sides facing the village and the castle, the archers held their longbows in their left hand, an arrow in their right. “Nock!” Rhodri cried. In one practiced move, the archers nocked their arrows.
At Rhodri’s signal, two men carrying torches, who had been standing at the ends of the line of archers, walked briskly from the ends to the center, lighting the linen on the arrow tips as they went.
Too late, a cry of alarm went up from the palisade gatehouse.
Rhodri shouted “Mark!” and one hundred bows lifted as one. “Draw!” With powerful strokes reflecting a lifetime of training, the men drew back the strings to their ears.
Steinar could taste the tension in the air as shouts rose from the village. The archers waited with their flaming arrows for the next command.
“Loose!” Rhodri roared. Flaming shafts shot into the sky like so many stars before arching and falling, some on the village roofs, some onto the palisade fence posts. Still others speared the roofs of the outbuildings peeking above the fence.
Immediately, the flames caught. Wood and thatch flared. Smoke boiled up.
Rhodri shouted again and another volley of flaming arrows reached into the sky with a loud rushing sound like a hundred birds taking flight.
Rhodri commanded, “Fall back!” and his archers retreated through the ranks of Malcolm’s men. Garbed like Rhodri in the colors of the forest, they vanished into the trees.
The king turned to look behind him at his men, a pleased expression on his face. “That should draw them out.”
Behind Steinar and the king’s guard, hundreds of warriors had fanned out awaiting orders.
They did not wait long. Shouts from the castle filled the air. Villagers scattered in panic, trying to escape the battle to come.
The palisade gate flew open. A stream of mounted knights spewed forth, their silvered helms gleaming in the midday sun and their swords raised in challenge as they flowed onto the wide grassy slope leading to the river.
Malcolm ripped his sword from its sheath and gripped his red and white shield. His voice lifted in a ringing shout. “Albani! Albani!”
With a slither of steel, hundreds of swords were pulled from their sheaths and warriors’ shouts echoed the king’s war cry, the Gaelic word for Scotland.
Malcolm kicked his horse into a charge.
Duff raised his fist into the air and the army of Scots charged forward to follow their king and the Mormaer of Fife as they stormed toward the Normans.
Steinar rode hard behind Malcolm. The familiar excitement surged through his veins just as it had in his prior battles, only this time he had a king to protect.
Malcolm was a strong fighter, moving swiftly through the Normans, slashing left and right, cutting down knights with his powerful sword and using his shield as a blunt weapon to knock heads and block blows.
But the Norman knights and men-at-arms were well prepared. Swords clashed as they fought with skill and vengeance, the clash of metal and men’s grunts ringing in Steinar’s ears as he fought to guard the king.
From the trees, an occasional arrow hissed by Steinar’s head as one of Rhodri’s arrows struck home in the body of a foe.
Only the Welshman could have launched the precise shots that were too difficult for other archers to make without hitting one of their own.
Only he would take such a risk and succeed.
Steinar kept one eye on the king and one on his own flanks. Mounted mail-clad knights came at them from every side only to be beaten back in the clash of steel.
The fighting surged around Steinar with the force of a raging sea. Knights cut down men on foot. Horses fell, screaming and thrashing, taking their riders down with them.
Pikemen grunted with the effort of spearing the fallen into the mud like fish in a shallow stream. The sound of men dying filled the air.
A shout rang out in the midst of the tumult as a group of Norman knights turned their horses toward Malcolm, pointing to the crown on his helm. “ ’Tis the Scot king!”
Steinar spurred his horse, blocking their charge, putting himself between the Norman swords and the king.
Colbán rushed to Steinar, adding his strength to the fight.
Sounds of clashing steel rang in Steinar’s ears.
The Norman horses reared and plunged as they drove into the midst of Malcolm’s protectors. Steinar’s horse stood his ground as firm as an oak tree and Steinar sent up a prayer of thanks for Artair’s steadiness.
Two of the knights engaged Colbán, drawing him away, but Duff remained steadfast by the king as the two battled on together side by side. Steinar reined Artair around to guard the king’s back, cutting a deep gash in the neck of a knight who tried to come at Malcolm from the rear.