“The philosopher savage.” Ebro laughed.
“So there is no cause needed,” Corfe said.
“No. A man advances himself by making subject other men, either by killing them or so dominating them that they will not dare to challenge his word. Thus are kings made-among my people, at least.”
“And what were you before the galleys claimed you, Marsch?” Corfe asked quietly.
The huge savage smiled. “I was what I still am, a prince of my people.”
Ebro guffawed, but Marsch ignored him as if he did not exist.
“You could kill your Torunnan officers here and now, and leave for home. No one could stop you,” Corfe said.
Marsch shook his head. “We have sworn an oath which we will not break. There is honour involved. And besides”-here he actually grinned at Corfe, showing square yellow teeth whose canines had been filed to sharp points-“we are interested to see how this colonel of ours will fare in open battle, with his Torunnan ways and his plain speaking.”
Then it was Corfe’s turn to laugh.
There was no chance of the column’s approach remaining a secret. Their appearance was so outlandish and unique that entire villages turned out at the side of the mud-deep roads to stare at them as they trudged past. The last few days were spent on short commons, as the Quartermaster-issued rations had run out and the men had to subsist on what they could glean from the surrounding countryside. Several cattle were quietly appropriated from awe-struck owners, but in general Corfe prevented any large-scale foraging because this was Torunna they were marching through, his own country, and also he wanted to make the greatest speed he could.
The men were marvellously fast marchers. Though their time in the galleys had blunted the fine edge of their fitness, building brute strength up in place of stamina, they were able to crack along at a fearsome pace, unhindered by an artillery train or baggage of any kind. It was all the three Torunnan officers in the column could do to keep up with their subordinates as they strode along with their helms slung at their hips and their lances resting on their powerful shoulders. Corfe was privately amazed. He had been brought up to believe that the tribes of the Cimbrics were degenerate savages, hardly worthy of attention from civilized men except when they became a nuisance with their raiding and brigandage. But now he was learning the truth of the affair, which was that they were natural-born soldiers. All they needed was a little discipline and leadership and he was sure they would acquit themselves well against any foe in the world.
Andruw was similarly impressed. “Good men,” he said, as they sucked along through the rutted mud of the winter roads towards Hedeby. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pack of fellows so keen for a fight. I’d give my left ball for a good battery of culverins, though.”
Corfe chuckled. Humour was coming with a strange ease to him lately. Perhaps it was being free, in the field, his own man. Perhaps it was the prospect of slaughter. At any rate, he did not care to examine the reasons too closely.
“They’d not get far in this mud, your culverins. Nor would cavalry. I’m starting to think it’s as well this force of ours is all infantry. We may find it more mobile than we supposed.”
“They march fast enough, no doubt of that,” Andruw agreed ruefully. “I’ll be a short man by the time we get to Hedeby. I’ve walked at least an inch off each heel.”
They were half a day’s march from Hedeby when they sighted a small group of armoured cavalry outlined against the horizon ahead, watching them. Their banners flapped in the cold wind that winnowed the hills on either side of the road.
“Ordinac, I’ll bet,” Corfe said on sighting the horsemen, “come to have a look at what he’s up against. Unfurl the banner, Andruw.”
Andruw had their standard-bearer, a massive-thewed tribesman named Kyrn, pull loose the cathedral banner and let it snap out atop its twelve-foot staff, a point of vivid colour in the monochrome winter afternoon. The rest of the men gave out a cry at the sight, a five-hundred-voiced inarticulate roar which made the skylined horses flinch and toss their heads.
“Line of battle,” Corfe said calmly. “He’s having a look, so we might as well give him something to see. Andruw, take the fifth tercio forward and chase those riders away as soon as the others have shaken out.”
Andruw’s boyish face lit up. “With pleasure, sir.”
The five tercios of Corfe’s command got into line. Five men deep, the line extended for a hundred yards. As soon as it was in place, the standard flapping with the colour party in the centre, Andruw led one tercio up the hill towards the watching riders.
There were less than a score of horsemen there, though they wore the heavy three-quarter armour of the old nobility. When the tercio was within fifty paces they turned their horses and trotted away, not liking the odds. Andruw placed his men on the hilltop and soon a gasping runner was jogging down from his position. He handed Corfe a note.
Enemy camp half a league ahead, some three leagues out of town, it read. Looks like they are beginning to deploy.
“Your orders, sir?” Ensign Ebro asked. Like everyone else’s, his scarlet armour was so liberally plastered with muck that it had become a rust-brown colour.
“We’ll join Andruw’s tercio,” Corfe said. “After that, we’ll see.”
“Yes, sir.” Ebro’s voice was throbbing like the wing-beat of a trapped bird and his face was pale under its spattering of mud. “Is there anything wrong, Ensign?” Corfe asked him.
“No, sir. I-it’s just that-I’ve never been in a battle before, sir.”
Corfe stared at him for a moment, somehow liking him better for this admission. “You’ll do all right, Ensign.”
The rest of the formation joined Andruw’s men on the hilltop and stared down to where the leather tents of the enemy camp dotted the land. Off to the left, perhaps a mile away, was the sea, as grey and solid as stone. Ordinac’s castle at Hedeby could be made out as a dark pinnacle in the distance. Corfe examined the duke’s men with a practised eye.
“A thousand maybe, as we were told. Perhaps a hundred cavalry, the duke’s personal bodyguard and mostly pikemen apart from that. I can’t see too many arquebusiers. These are second-rate troops, no match for the regular army. His guns-he has two, see? Light falcons-are not even unlimbered yet. Holy Saints, I do believe he’s going to offer us battle at once.”
“You mean today, sir?” Ebro asked.
“I mean right now, Ensign.”
Andruw came over. “Time to fight, I believe. He’ll come to us if we wait for him, though look at the mobs down there: he’ll be half the day getting them into formation.”
Crowds of men were collecting their stacked arms and milling about whilst gesticulating officers tried to sort them into some kind of order. The only organized group seemed to be that of the duke’s bodyguard, who were drawn up in a two-deep line on their heavy horses ahead of the other troops, acting as a screen until their deployment was complete.
Corfe took in the situation in a moment. He was outnumbered: he was expected to fight a defensive battle. He occupied the high ground and thus had a good position. But his men had no firearms. The enemy could close to within firing range and blast away at him half the day whilst the cavalry threatened to cave in his flanks if he tried to close.
“We will attack,” he said crisply. “Andruw, Ebro, go to your tercios. Marsch, inform the men that we are to charge the enemy at once and throw them into disorder before they have time to deploy.”
“But the cavalry-” Ebro said.
“Obey your orders, Ensign. Marsch, peel off the rear rank and keep it back as a tactical reserve. I’ll call for it when it’s needed. Understood?”