There were no more than half-a-dozen of them, and all were on foot, the two whose gold-hilted swords proclaimed their nobility of birth sharing the lot of their lesser comrades according to the old Saxon war-custom; but it needed not the daring of the attack to mark them as the very flower of English chivalry. The young noble, who hovered around his chief much as Rothgar circled about Canute, would have been lordly in a serf’s tunic; and the leader’s royal bearing distinguished him even more than his mighty frame.
At the sight of him, Rothgar uttered a great cry of “Edmund!” and moved forward, swinging his uplifted axe. But the Ironside caught it on his shield and delivered a sword-thrust in return that dropped the Dane’s arm by his side. As it fell, Rothgar’s left hand plucked forth his blade, but the English king had pressed past him toward his master.
Canute’s weapon had need to dart like a northern light. The noble and one of the soldiers had forced their way to the side from which Thorkel had been riven, and a third threatened him from the rear. Three blades stabbed at him as with one motion.
It was a strange thing that saved him,—Randalin could explain it least of all. But in a lightning flash it was burnt into her mind that, while her King’s sword was a match for the two in front of him, the one behind was going to deal him his death. And even as she thought it, she found that she had thrown herself across her horse’s neck and thrust out her sword-arm,—out with the force of frenzy and down into the shoulder of the Englishman. In a kind of dazed wonder, she saw his blade fall from his grasp and his eyes roll up at her, as he staggered backwards.
Canute laughed out, “Well done, Berserker!” and redoubled his play against those before him.
A turn of his wrist disarmed the soldier, and his point touched the young noble’s breast; but before he could lunge, the mighty figure of Edmund rose close at hand, his blade heaved high above his head.
For such a stroke there was no parry. A kingdom seemed to be passing. Canute threw his shield before him, while his spur caused his horse to swerve violently; but the blade cleft wood and iron and golden plating like parchment, and falling on the horse’s neck, bit it to the bone. Rearing and plunging with pain, the animal crashed into those behind him, missed his footing and fell, entangling his rider in the trappings. Bending over him, the Ironside struck again.
But the son of Lodbrok had still his left arm. Bearing his shield, it shot out over the body of his King. The falling brand bit this screen also, and lopped off the hand that held it, but the respite was sufficient. In a flash Canute was on his feet, both hands grasping the hilt of his high-flung sword.
It was a mighty blow, but it fell harmless. A sudden surge in the tide of struggling bodies swept the Ironside out of reach and engulfed him in a whirlpool of Danish swords. He laid about him like mad, and was like to have cleared a passage back, when a second wave carried him completely from view.
Canute cursed at the anxious faces that surrounded him. “What means it, this swaying? What is herding them? Who are flying? Fools! Can you not tell a retreat? Bid the horns blow—”