Brunanburh, 27th October 937, late morning
Osthryth did not have to see the Gaels to know that they were on the field: she could hear them. A Cymric horn of war ripped over the land, it's low sound like a huge beast in its death throes, drowing out the battle screams that had begun in the West Saxon quarter to the left.
It was clear those who had been trained by Steapa, or those trained by those trained by Steapa, no ceremony came with their technique, they just went at it - jab, thrust. By contrast, Ceinid's legacy was the column attack, a narrow, five man front through a narrow channel, to focus the enemy and preserve their number, and expose the fewest to the enemy at any one time.
Egil broke from their ranks first, and it was also clear to Osthryth that it had not been ale or spirit that the Norseman had drunk for, while those around him were fixing their eyes on an opponent - their first kill, Egil was busy taking off all of his clothes until he stood naked beside Uhtred. He had been the first to charge ahead of the line and straight into that of the Northern Alliance, and it was true what Berg had said, Osthryth noticed, that the cuts and thrusts of the Gaels were drawing no blood, leaving no mark.
A thrust of people were standing before Osthryth, their weapons ones she knew - Pictish; could have been taken that very morning from Dunnottar's armoury, had she been there; Eireann mercenaries were beside them, the feature distinguishing them from other factions were the woollens they wore beneath their armour - poor garments that had been made from the left-over pieces of spinning put to use.
Osthryth could never fully recall the battle, as she sat her youngest grandson on her lap, not long before the end of her life. Too much happened on a battlefield and, as one person, a warrior could only do their little bit, relying on every other warriors to do theirs.
The fighting was close and she could feel her heart beating, her muscles closing around Taghd's seax as he thrust and stabbed her way forward, the rain getting in her eyes.
Good. She did not want to imagine which of her former allies, her former family, might be at the end of her blade.
...time passed...
...there was a reason no-one told the truth of battle, how men wet and soiled themselves because of the fear - they could not help it. It was no wonder the Britons at Catraech had got drunk beforehand...there was no glory there, no thrill...it was a job that had to be done...
...the line had turned and another front opened. To the left, a thunder of hooves stormed across the ground. Osthryth could feel the vibrations in her legs as the front line of the Northern Alliance's defences surged forward. By contrast, Aethelstan's front line - apart from Egil and other Danes who had taken hallucinogenic draughts - held firm, held tight, and had, after only an hour, forced Constantine's army back towards the slight rise over which they had come.
The Northern Alliance's line was now curved, like the bay at Dorset Osthryth had once seen; it was predictable that, with only a little concentrated fighting, that their shield wall had broken into two. From where she fought, Osthryth could only see West Saxons; the Mercians must have been there...
...somewhere...
...Osthryth hesitated in her rhythm, the hypnosis of battle where one, and then the next and the next came before her, and she stabbed, cut, thrust,and ducked...
Then, she could see on the curve the Mercians were there, carrying the banner that Aethelflaed took into battle, the white goose on the green banner, St. Werburgh's sign, the beloved Mercian saint, daughter to the Aethelstan to whom the Northumbrian princess Osthryth had married, who had miraculously brought one back to life and whose remains, her nephew had told her, had been brought to Ceastre in order to sanctify the old Roman city.
Could she get there? Could she leave the line and double back to help her company? But there were too many people before her, too many enemy. Norse were surging to the left as well, and the left line of Saxons of indeterminate origin were rushing to meet part of the Northern line which had surged forward.
The attackers threw spears and shot arrows at the enemy's shield-wall which had reformed in a small section, hoping to break the defence before coming into close contact again, but the line was good, and held, the northerners being repelled, the first two, three, four lines on the faction being crushed into the earth rather than being able to break through.
The sky was darker now, and the rain spat heavier. As she tore on, to Osthryth's right, Inglmundr, Aethelstan's favourite, led the lines of West Saxons and Mercians slowly towards a hill, their commanders taking advantage of a slight hill.
"Look!" Osthryth jumped from her hypnosis in battle at the exclamation. But Finan was not talking to her, but to Uhtred, and he was pointing in the direction of the charge, and she saw Egil fight on, driving forward alone, fearless. Not alcohol, then, Osthryth's mind thought as she tore through the chest of an enemy with Taghd's seax, a draught then, that had caused his mind to feel nothing, but perceive the battle and only the battle.
She had heard of such things; the Beserkr had been at the battle at Doire, fighting as they had against the royal settlement. Nothing stopped them, nothing apart from a concentrated effort by more than one enemy who had managed to co-ordinate a counterattack.
But Uhtred was charging up the line following Inglmundr. Not because he had called, but because the next attack was being assembled: triangular arrangements of different row sizes, piercing the enemy's lines, causing more and more fronts to open up.
A slash and a thrust cleared another enemy and Osthryth strode next to Uhtred, parrying blow after blow, striking cut and jab after slash and scrape, all so she could be with her brother's men as they surged to the summons. The fight was pitiless. Rain was now coming down around them in large, wet globules, sitting in the ground for less than a second before being beaten by feet into the soil, making the ground heavy with moisture that it was very easy to lose footing.
But there was no chance of recognising anyone when they did slip and Osthryth could not discern whether her victims were unknown to her, or someone she might know, particularly, as had been in her head since she left Owain's rock fortress, young Finan.
And discipline broke the line to the right, as well. Uhtred's men held firm in the face of the line collapse - even Egil, who had lunged and over-reached himself. Uhtred had to haul him back.
Aethelstan, Osthryth could see, was with the Mercians to the right, fighting the Gaels, who were still declaring by their yelling where it was they were, and she felt the call in her own throat - how many times had she led men with the same cry, even with the mirth of Aelfkin's company beside her? What Anlaf's men were not doing, as far as she could tell, were striking back in order to make ground.
"Why do they wait?" Oshtryth heard Sihtric cry.
"They want the Ulfhethnar to fight first!" Thorolf had voiced the reply and pointed his shield-tip towards where the Mercians had blocked the gap and charged at the stagnant shields of Anlaf! Beside them, another lull, and Thorolf picked up his sword and mirrored the charge on the right. Eight or nine slashes as Osthryth kept up with the line and she heard a cry just ahead of her.
"That man is mine!" Egil, his draught having weakened and sight of battle around him, declared the man who was besting a run of seven or eight West Saxons had ploughed on, and it was then that Osthryth realised her son was nearing them.
The end for young Finan was a stroke away when another man ran forward, swinging an axe, hair wild, face woaded. Egil struck him down in one move. Osthryth turned her heart to the impending catastrophe. The man fell. It was not young Finan.
"I'll have him!" growled Finan beside her. But, by now, their son was killing more to their left followed by other leaders. He was not dead, she considered, as Cellach's faction screamed the whooping Gaelish war cry. At least, not yet. Young Finan thrust his own reply; Finan thrust back.
But the fighting was getting close now, as the Wessex and Mercians concentrated the men of Alba, the Strathclyde Welsh, the displaced Norse. Young Finan was about to attack his father once more, and once more Osthryth heard the words of the Hildesbrandslied came to her...
"...no-one knows my grief but God alone..."
Another unwitting attack on his father came, as anger came to her. Hadubrand would not take his son's life today, and Osthryth lunged forwad, striking away Finan's blade.
Angry, Finan thrust back, his blade heading to her throat. Did he see her, then, and not Uhtred's younger son? Or did he believe young Uhtred meant to stop his brother being slaughtered. Either way, Finan stopped, and turned his blade from her. And from their son.
But she was mistaken. Finan had not given up. He raised his sword and swung it high over his head. Osthryth swerved, dragged him to one side. Finan's blade struck. But it was not Finan beag who fell at their feet, but Prince Cellach, Constantine's second son, and direct in line to the Alba throne, who had been fighting tooth and claw with Uhtred.
Osthryth had no time to look, however. While Finan parried a surge of enemy, the gap in the line held. The Northern Alliance was holding; Alba men were repositoning. And where they were repositioning, Aethelstan was, waiting for their next move.
"Steapa!" Uhtred cried, as a huge man strode beside Aethelstan. Osthryth glanced, and stared for a second. Truly? After all that time and he was there, beside Alfred's grown-up grandson on a battlefield, gaining territory, maintaining land, for the Anglish and Saxon dream of a united country.
The rain was falling heavily now, thick rivulets of water pouring over helm and spear shaft. A cry lifted across the field, something which clearly meant something to the commanders of the Anglish, Saxon, Mercian, West Saxon factions.
And the Norse were scattering, thinning the field. A cry came from the allies now, as they swarmed on, invigorated by the visual evidence that their pain and effort had been worth it.
Beyond the hill, the Norse really were in trouble. As the rain spat down, cold, with ice in it, the settlement at the far end of the Wirulam was their target, Dingesmere, where their kin resided, where they had landed, where their ships were tied. Scores of Mercians were in pursuit, refusing to give up, despite the conditions, laying flat Norseman after Norseman who were either too slow or too injured to have already made the turn, Edmund and Aethelstan leading the charge.
All around, weak, pitiful screams of the agonised dying men filled the air, the ground had become bloodied mud as the marsh was gleaming wine-red. Already the carrion birds had arrived and were waiting, with craven patience, on the outskirts of the battle.
And it was Osthryth's turn to scream now, her pursuit flanking Uhtred and Finan arrested by an arrow hitting her shoulder. She pulled distractedly at it, for she had seen a body, on its side, leg prone, arm and torso entangled in his own banner.