Sithric's sons, Anlaf and Godfrid, took refuge in Ireland and Scotland; and a confederation of the princes of Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and Cumberland, seconded by a Danish fleet, threatened the crown of Athelstan. After four years of preparation and recruiting the storm burst. In 937 Anlaf entered the Humber at the head of a huge armada of 615 sail, and occupied Bernicia. Athelstan, with a powerful army, marched to the North and encamped at Brunanburgh. It is said that Anlaf entered the King's camp disguised as a minstrel, and was liberally rewarded by Athelstan, but, in his pride, buried the gold, and was perceived by one of the royal soldiers, who then recognised him, but permitted him to retire from the camp before he apprised Athelstan of the identity of the minstrel. His excuse that had permitted Anlaf to escape because he had at one period sworn fealty to him, was accepted as a sufficient reason; but Athelstan removed his camp, and shortly after the Bishop of Sherborne came up with his troops and occupied the ground that Athelstan had vacated. That night Anlaf made a sudden attack upon the Saxons, and slew the Bishop of Sherborne and many of his followers, before he was driven off. The day of battle dawned. Each army was formed into two corps. Athelstan commanded the West Saxons; Turketul, his heroic chancellor, led the warriors of Mercia and London. Anlaf and his wild Northmen opposed the King; Constantine, King of Scotland, confronted Turketul with his Scots and Cumbrians. At sunrise the war-smiths fell to, with sleet of arrows and deadly play of bills and spears, as the banners were pushed forward. Bravely the golden-haired Athelstan acquitted himself in the van, amid the communion of swords and the clashing of bills, the conflict of banners and the meeting of spears, when the keen javelins strewed the soil with the slain, and the unerring arrows carried death above the guarding shield. Athelstan's sword dropped in the press, but as Otho, Archbishop of Canterbury, entreated the heavenly aid, a sword of celestial potency filled the empty sheath, and with it Athelstan fought until night closed upon the scene. As the day was drawing towards eventide, with the wild war-wrestle at its maddest, and the song of the fiery Northman rolling like thunder over the field, now heaped with slain and wounded men, for the front ranks had been mown down, and renewed again and again, Turketul headed a veteran corps of spearmen, and made an irresistible charge upon the Scots. Vainly Constantine strove to hold his ground; his fierce Scots were over-weighted, broken, and borne down. Anlaf's Northmen were dismayed, and gave ground. Turketul charged them; a brief, fierce struggle ensued; then he penetrated their ranks; flight commenced; the field was covered with fugitives; the Northmen anxiously striving to regain their nailed barks, and crowd all sail for Ireland.