Chapter 39, Environs of the City of Leicester, 22 July 957 AD
‘The king has fallen!’ A great cry, like a shudder went through the ranks and was taken up all up and down the line. ‘The king is down! The king is down!’
Prince Eorcenberht, Duke and Earl of Cornwall, pressed hard in the foremost ranks of his own battle’s shieldwall, was still trying manfully to get his bearings. All his martial training and education under Hereweard, erstwhile Commander of the Realm, had not prepared him for this. The cut and thrust, parry and jab he made his peace with – his expensive mail armour protecting him as it was designed to. What he had not expected….was the smell. Battle was blood, yes, screams, blood-curdling sounds of fury and agony, but no one had warned him that a dying man no longer exercised control over their bowels and the sheer smell of ordure was turning his stomach.
The Battle of Leicester 22nd July 957 AD
But the Prince had only seen seventeen summers and though showing early martial ability and promise he was still very green. He had answered the summons of his father, the king, nonetheless, as any vassal might and had joined the royal army that spring of 957 AD with a sizeable contingent of reinforcements that he was proud to take command of. The finest metalsmiths of Tintagel had fashioned the strapping young man an impressive new broadsword, whilst his chain byrnie was imported from Francia. He had made an impressive sight when he had taken his leave of his demesne, bidding farewell to his young Irish wife, Affraic of Dubhlinn – his only regret that his dear departed mother was not there to see her son truly come of age.
You might be green around the gills boy but, by God, you will do!
‘See you look after your lord!’ She had desperately entreated Hereweard as they rode away.
‘On my life my lady’ the experienced warrior, veteran of the Saxon wars on the continent, had responded lightly, whilst hoping, in his heart, that he might, for in battle, fortune is most fickle indeed.
The young man had not expected the politics that were raging within the high echelons of his father’s army when he had arrived and to his credit had done much, in his unalloyed fashion, to effect something of a softening of the malus between King and Earl Advisor. His position of mediation had been made all the more crucial when the Lord Marshal unexpectedly died in the fallow winter season, visiting his beloved Republic of Lancaster. Foul whispers ran abroad at the circumstances of his passing but it could not be denied that the old Grand-Mayor was a greybeard whose time was up. King Osweald wasted no time promoting his son to command the left flank or van, he would command the centre and Ælfnoth the right or rear. It was a singular honour.
I send you home and you get yourself killed...pffft! 
Seemingly with bonds released the king let slip the leash and, bolstered by more levies, pursued the rebels across the Midlands in a desperate race, for news had fresh arrived that the Polish adventurer Msciwoj had landed in the south with an army of fifteen hundred rapacious adherents and was force marching north to join their enemy. If they were to meet then their own power would once more be over-matched. So, the pursuit went until, at last, the king trapped the opposing army between the River Soar and the old Roman road running to London. To get across and escape would require a sturdy bridge and there was none that they could attain before the royalists were upon them. The elusive and cautious Earl of Derby at last had turned to fight…
…‘Shield up!’ Eorcenberht’s reminisces were suddenly interrupted by Hereweard to his left, Jostling aside a hapless ceorl he locked his over the duke’s, wielding and thrusting a long spear to repel a concerted shove from the opposing wall. There followed a protracted period of grunting, kicking, heaving and all the while swords snaked over or thrust between eliciting grunts of pain as they hit their mark. The brawnier of their number would occasionally hack down with a great battle-axe, the king’s favoured weapon, opening great rents which would or should quickly be filled. Here was where Eorcenberht realised that a specially fashioned broadsword of tempered iron held great advantage over the rudimentary weapons that most of the fyrdsmen carried. He had shattered many a spear haft and his thrusts seemed to find their mark more often than most. Just that smell.
His battle was the biggest by at least a thousand men-the design of the king was that his left flank would anchor the centre and right. Because he had the numbers Eorcenberht was to advance and pin the enemy where they were. Because they were over-matched the plan was that Derby see the danger presented by the prince’s outsized power, would strip down his centre and left to reinforce the opposing right, thus enabling Osweald and the mettlesome Warwick to swing like a hinge and crush their opponents flanks in a great hinging manoeuvre.
‘It is a good plan,’ the gruff Ælfnoth had growled at their eve of battle meeting the night before, affording a measure of respect to the king that had hitherto been mostly absent. Osweald had acknowledged this faint praise with a determined nod, his son, meanwhile inwardly smiled to himself.
‘I would hope so,’ Osweald replied a hint of mischief tugging at his mouth, ‘my lawyers have found pretext to claim Perfeddwlad finally, but I have not the coin to pay them…’
‘Well if you cannot pay your officials sire we must
perforce see an end to this revolt must we not?’ The Earl stated forcefully, but on his face a kinder look than heretofore.
‘We must indeed. You have good leave to leave us my lord. We will look to you, as victors on the morrow.’
Ælfnoth gave a deep bow to his king, nodded to Eorcenberht, saying sternly ‘Keep your sword arm straight and your shield up boy!’ before departing into the warm summer night.
Osweald appraised his good looking but yet youthful heir. ‘You will see to yourself my son,’ he had said offering a warm hug to the boy. ‘Battle is where you might earn your spurs to coin a Frankish saying.’
‘The Franks were ever fond of their horses sire,’ Eorcenberht had responded laughing, though inwardly his stomach was seething and roiling in anticipation of his first major affray.
…Now here was Hereweard entreating him to the same and all seemed set fair until that dread cry ripped through the ranks:
‘The king is fallen!’
Cold dread clawed at the young man’s heart at this and then he could actually feel the line start to waver. He had been taught that fear is the nemesis of any commander, of any army, such that when it takes hold a power will turn and flee whatever numbers they may have on field of battle.
‘You will hold men!’ A great shout went up and it was a moment before Eorcenberht realised that the shout had come from his own mouth. ‘Men of England you will hold. If the king is fallen then I, your prince, will lead you to victory!’
Hereweard was staring at him open-mouthed beneath his helm-guard and then he took up the cry ‘hear your Prince! He will lead you!’
And the cry was taken up all up and down the line and the line held. Then slowly, inexorably, the line started to push the enemy back and slowly advance. The cut and thrust was more intense but Eorcenberht seemed to be infused with a new energy, his sword arm, previously aching now full of renewed vigour, his shield up and locked with trusty Hereweard to his left and one of his household Huscarls to the right.
The steady advance went on for an interminable amount of time until suddenly the push back from their opponents melted away as like a freezing river warmed by the spring sun. Beyond him the prince could see the enemy battle falter and then slowly start to become ragged and break up until the whole flank disintegrated and turned to flee.
‘Charge! Release our horse!’ That cry as if from someone else again…the cry was taken up and concomitant orders passed down the line and to the large body of Saxon horsemen to their rear. They would now take up the baton and ride down the fleeing enemy foot.
The enemy left flank had indeed collapsed and the cause of such soon became apparent to Eorcenberht and his pursuing soldiery: to their front and left appeared friendly faces, many wearing the insignia of the Earl of Warwick.
Grabbing one such youthful fellow, the Prince entreated of what had happened,
Panting the young man gasped in broadest Anglo-Saxon ‘we hear tell the king is dead sir and were sore afraid but the line was rallied by his son. I guess he be king now!’ And he was off the bloodlust upon him and in no wise cognisant of whom he had been speaking to.
Hereweard approached, appraised the prince to see that he was whole. Eorcenberht, now that the battle seemed over, was trembling all over and his body hurt everywhere. He now realised that his mail might have protected him from worse wounds but his body and arms would be black and blue on the morrow from the many glancing brows and deflected thrusts that his armour had turned away. He was suddenly and violently sick.
His companion looked on impassively and when the duke was done just said simply ‘I too emptied my guts after my first battle my lord prince. If it is any consolation it gets better’. He passed the boy a gourd of watered down ale.
After taking a pull, Eorcenberht gathered his wits and said we must away to see what has happened to my father…’
A nod of assent from Hereweard before adding ‘you did well there lad. Very well indeed. Come.’
That'll learn ya ye bunch of rebel blackguards
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It was some time before they tracked down the Earl of Warwick who was arranging the reorganisation of the army, getting their own horse back from their pursuit and sending them back out to track the direction of the fleeing rump of the enemy. He also required an estimation of their numbers, needed reports on their own casualties, victualling requirements and all that entailed. The Earl looked harried but, upon seeing him, turned kindly eyes on the young prince and took him in hand, placing a fatherly arm around his shoulders. ‘You excelled yourself on the field of battle if reports are to be believed my boy! We owe our victory to your quick thinking and fortitude it would seem.’
‘My thanks my lord Earl but what of my father…’
It was the topic of discussion that all he had encountered had seemingly shied away from – all directing him to the Earl.
Warwick let drop his arm, ‘The king’s valour in this battle was a sight to see-he was everywhere, rallying people to his banner and beating back determined enemy attacks. He has, on this day, emerged, at last, from his great mother’s shadow – he is a
Dryhten for the ages – and one we can all be justly proud of…’
‘But what of his condition my lord Earl?’ The prince once more asked, this time an edge of impatience frosting his words.
Ælfnoth looked the Eorcenberht directly in the eye, ‘I will not confound you with lie lad. It is bad…’
Prince Eorcenberht was unusually close to his father, indeed had been personally tutored by him in his early years. He found his eyes filling.
‘How bad sir?’
The Earl was a lowborn soldier, used to martial ways and the veteran of many battles but had never quite got used to delivering these sort of tidings. ‘He took a direct spear thrust that got between the links of his mail, lad. The physicians have said chances of surviving such a wound...’
But the Earl was not allowed to finish, the prince cutting him off and saying instead ‘you may have scorned him of late, sir, but I can tell you my father is braver than any of you might know. It was
his battle plan that won us this day and he will win again when it comes to his own personal fight.’ This last said with voice cracking, ‘now you will take me to him my lord earl.’
So the Earl and the prince made their heavy way to a hastily erected royal pavilion, there to attend upon the king to see if Osweald, king of England and Third of his name was to live or to die…
I told you it would have been safer in my cozy palace!
