to their posts, buckling on swords as they went. They stopped a man-at-arms who was hurrying to the palisade with a large sheaf of arrows.
‘What is it? What’s happening?’
‘The sentries have reported sighting a large enemy force, my lady,’ he replied. ‘It is advancing on Ravenswood.’
Osgifu paled, looking in alarm at the armed men running towards the ramparts. ‘An enemy force?’
‘Aye, the Vikings approach.’ He inclined his head to Elgiva. ‘Your pardon, lady, but I dare not stay longer. I must to my post.’ With that he was gone.
The two women ran to the hall where Aylwin was barking orders to his men. As they hastened to obey, he turned to Elgiva.
‘Go bar yourself in the upper chamber, my lady. It will be far safer. Take Osgifu and the children too.’
Before she had a chance to reply one of Aylwin’s men spoke out, throwing a dark glance at Osgifu.
‘I’ve been told that this woman is of Danish blood, my lord. How do we know she can be trusted?’
Elgiva surveyed him with anger. ‘Osgifu has served my family faithfully and well for many years. Her loyalty is not in question nor ever has been.’
The man reddened. ‘I beg pardon, my lady.’
Aylwin glared at him, then nodded towards the door. The other took the hint and beat a hasty retreat.
‘I’m sorry, Elgiva.’ Aylwin laid a soothing hand on her arm. ‘Such times make men cautious.’
‘So it seems.’
With an effort Elgiva forced down her indignation. It would not aid their cause to quarrel among themselves. She turned to Osgifu.
‘Fetch Hilda and the children and the women servants. Then go with them to the upper floor.’
If Osgifu had been in any way discomforted by the conversation, it was not evident. Returning Elgiva’s gaze, she asked, ‘What about you, child?’
‘I will come presently, but there is something I must fetch first.’
‘Make haste then, my lady,’ said Aylwin. With one last warm smile he hurried off to join his men outside.
Elgiva raced back to the bower and, throwing open the chest in the corner, retrieved the sword from the bottom. The familiar weight of the weapon was comforting. At least they should not be completely defenceless if the worst came to the worst. Closing her hand round the scabbard, she slammed the chest shut and went to join the others, barring the stout door behind her as Aylwin had instructed. Then she took up a station by the far window. The shutters were pulled to, but through a broken slat she could see much of the hustle and activity below as men ran to their posts. Aylwin had his plan ready days earlier and each one of his retainers knew where he was supposed to be. Within a short time they were ready, armed to the teeth, and grimly determined to defend their homes and their lives.
The clanging bell had brought the peasants from the fields and the wood to seek the relative safety of the pale. No sooner were they gathered within than the men on the wall called out a warning as the forward ranks of the Viking host appeared. Like an army of sinister wraiths, silent and intent, they emerged from among the trees into the pasture beyond. One of their archers loosed an arrow, killing a Saxon guard where he stood. Then, as though at a signal, a great shout went up from the invaders, splitting the stillness, and they surged forwards as one.
‘Merciful heavens,’ murmured Aylwin. ‘Surely this can be no ordinary raiding party. There are hundreds of them.’ By his private reckoning his men would be outnumbered five to one.
Beside him, his armed companion had made a similar calculation. ‘This is revenge indeed for their dead chieftain.’
What Aylwin might have said next was lost in a hissing rain of arrows. It covered the advance of the Viking vanguard that carried ladders to raise against the walls. Swiftly the defenders loosed their own arrows in reply, but each time one of the attackers fell he was immediately replaced and the assault renewed. The Saxons maintained a deadly fire from above, but to right and left the invaders swarmed up the ladders and over the walls. The first were cut down without mercy, but their comrades followed hard on their heels and soon fierce battle was enjoined, filling the air with shouts and the clash of arms.
Peering through the gap in the shutters, Elgiva stared in horror at the scene of carnage below and murmured a prayer. Everywhere she looked the Viking marauders were pouring in over the walls.
‘God in heaven, can there be so many?’
Giants they seemed, these fierce warriors, cruel with battle thirst, each face alight with lust for blood and conquest. With sword and axe they cut down all who stood in their way, crying out the name of their war god.
‘Odin!’
The cry was repeated from four hundred throats as the Norsemen drove forwards, fearless into the ranks of their foes. The defenders fought bravely but the sheer weight of numbers pushed them back, step by step, the enemy advancing over the bodies of the slain, remorseless, hacking their way on. As the defenders fell back, Elgiva could see another group of the enemy without the palisade, dragging a huge battering ram into position. It was the trunk of a tree, fresh hewn and drawn on a wheeled timber cradle. Under cover of ox-hide shields the marauders rolled the supporting cradle back and forth, building momentum until the end of the trunk crashed against the gate. The stout timbers creaked, but held. Elgiva stared in horrified fascination as with each swing the gate shook. Alive to the danger the nearest Saxon defenders rallied to the gate and swarmed to the rampart inside the palisade, raining arrows and rocks on to the men beneath.
For a little while it seemed that they had met with success; several of the Vikings fell and the momentum of the great ram was lost. It was a brief respite—in moments reinforcements arrived and other warriors stepped up to take the places of their fallen comrades. The assault on the gate began anew. The timbers shuddered and splintered. Amid the clash of arms and shouts of men a thunderous crack announced the breach, followed by a roar of triumph from the invading horde who poured through the gap like a tide beneath their black-raven banner.
Helpless, Elgiva could only watch as the Saxon defence crumbled and her retainers were beaten back towards the great hall. Beside them Aylwin and his men fought on, shoulder to shoulder, returning the enemy blow for blow. Half a dozen more men fell under Aylwin’s sword while all around him the group of defenders grew smaller and more desperate, redoubling their efforts, hacking and thrusting and parrying, each man determined to sell his life dear. Tireless they seemed, yet one by one they fell. Aylwin fought on, laying about him with a will, his sword smoking and bloody as it rose and fell, slashing and cutting until the bodies were piled before him. And then its edge struck the blade of a huge war axe. The sword shivered and Aylwin was left undefended. He hurled the sundered hilt at the foe in a last act of defiance before the enemy blade cut him down.
Elgiva’s hand flew to her lips, stifling her cry, and she closed her eyes a moment, forcing back tears. Weakness would not help Aylwin now, or any of the survivors who would depend on her. Striving to regain some measure of self-control she turned from the window, sombrely regarding the other occupants of the room. Seeing that stony expression, Hilda let out a terrified sob as she cowered, clutching the baby, Pybba, to her breast. The nursemaid was but six and ten years old and plainly terrified. Osgifu stood beside her, pale but silent, her arm about the three-year-old Ulric, who clutched
