The sun was bright in a clear, blue sky. A light breeze rippled the surface of the River Blackwater. Beneath the water, running away from the English army, Maccus could see a muddy causeway. The tide steadily receded, revealing more of the silty pathway with every passing moment.
At the other end of the causeway stood the Danish leader, his feet planted wide in the sandy bank of the island that lay in the mouth of the river, his thumbs tucked into the leather belt around his waist. His thick, fair beard was split into two points, each tied at its tip by a leather thong. His arms were heavy with rings of silver and gold that glimmered in the summer sunshine. At his side, a younger man, slight of build with white-blonde hair, shouted across the river, speaking in heavily accented English.
Maccus turned to Byrhtnoth. The old ealdorman’s bright eyes, blue as the sky above them, were fixed on the Danish leader opposite. Byrhtnoth’s grey hair and beard blew about his face in the breeze. His gnarled hand rested on the horn handle of the seax on his belt. A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth as he listened to the Dane calling for tribute, demanding a cartload of treasure to leave the men of Essex in peace.
‘We should pay them,’ Godric said. Byrhtnoth did not respond, nor even turn to the thegn who had spoken, but his lips pursed briefly in distaste. Maccus saw the Adam’s apple bounce up and down in Godric’s throat as he swallowed. ‘Send them away. It is the quickest way to keep our coast safe,’ Godric persisted.
Now Byrhtnoth turned his head slowly towards Godric. For a moment his gaze rested on the thegn. Godric’s pale face flushed. Byrhtnoth looked past him and raised a finger to point at a boy at Godric’s side. ‘What say you, boy?’
Dunnere had seen only fourteen or fifteen summers. His father, Wulfstan, stood at his shoulder. Although Dunnere already matched his father for height, he had not yet added the weight of muscle that marked his father out. Dunnere brushed his long, blond hair from his face before he answered. ‘I am here to fight my first battle, Lord, not to give treasure to our enemy.’
Wulfstan’s face split into a proud grin at his son’s reply. Byrhtnoth gave an amused grunt.
‘Are we to be led by a child then?’ Godric whined.
‘When the child speaks sense, then he is as good a leader as any,’ Byrhtnoth replied gruffly. ‘It would be a humiliation to send these men away unfought. What’s more, they have already sacked Ipswich. If we don’t hold them here, if we don’t destroy them here, then Maldon will be next and every town along the coast after that.’
Byrhtnoth turned back to the Danes. ‘We will give you tribute,’ he shouted, his voice booming across the shimmering water. ‘You can have the tribute of our spears and the poisonous points of our ancient swords!’
A few men amongst the English ranks laughed at that. Maccus recognised the words of a scop who had performed in Byrhtnoth’s hall when they had feasted midsummer. He smiled at the memory. But most of the English stayed silent. Byrhtnoth’s answer meant that all hope of avoiding a battle was gone. They gripped tight to the shafts of their spears as they waited for the Danish reply.
The English watched as the herald turned to his fork-bearded leader and translated. The man was too far away for his expression to be read, but Maccus tried to read the body language as the two men spoke. For a few heartbeats the Danish leader remained motionless, then he turned away and walked back to the horde of men who were waiting behind him. One amongst them, a giant of a man, ran forward with a spear raised above his shoulder. When he reached the bank of the river, he launched it high into the summer sky. Byrhtnoth watched impassively as the weapon arced overhead. At his side, Godric flinched.
The spear flew over the ranks of the English and buried its head in the scrubby grass behind them.
‘They claim us for their old god, Odin,’ Byrhtnoth said quietly.
‘Heathens,’ Wulfstan muttered.
‘Prepare yourselves for battle,’ Byrhtnoth called to the men of Essex who were arrayed along the riverbank around him. A low murmur arose from the ranks; men speaking words of reassurance to one another or saying quiet prayers. They shuffled into position, standing with their round, wooden shields aligned. Most were peasants who had been called up by Byrhtnoth to face this threat. These were the fyrd, ordinary men who owed service to their lord. Their faces were burnished by a summer working in the fields. They were armed with spears and long knives, sweating in the summer heat beneath the padded jackets, or leather jerkins that were all the armour they could afford.
Maccus pulled his battle axe out from the sling on his back and ran a thumb along the keen edge of its blade. He rolled his shoulders beneath his short mail shirt and lifted his shield from where it rested against his leg. Around him, Byrhtnoth’s other hearth warriors were doing likewise. The men of the fyrd would fight bravely, but it was the trained warriors of Byrhtnoth’s household who would win or lose this battle.
At that moment a cry went up from the far bank. All English heads turned to the sight of a dozen Danish warriors charging onto the causeway. The river had not yet fully receded from the submerged path and water splashed up from their boots, the drops scattering rainbows of sunlight around them as they came with axes raised and teeth bared.
Wulfstan was first to react. He raced to meet them, roaring his battle cry as his son watched on with mouth agape.
Maccus chased after his old friend. The wet mud of the causeway sucked at his feet as he lifted his knees high and sprinted forwards.
The frontmost of the Danes lunged at Wulfstan with his spear. With a speed that belied his bulk, Wulfstan sidestepped the thrust and slipped within the reach of the other man’s weapon. The head of his axe whipped through the air and cleaved the Dane at his shoulder.
Maccus now reached Wulfstan’s side, and the two men locked their shields together, the wooden boards rising and falling with their chests as they took great heaving breaths of the sun-warmed air. Standing together, they blocked the whole width of the causeway. The knot of Danes before them hesitated.
One of the Danes charged at them, mouth snarling below the facepiece of his helmet. He swung his axe double-handed at Wulfstan who raised his shield to meet it. The Dane’s axe thudded into the linden wood of the shield and, as the Dane wrenched on the shaft to free it, Wulfstan swept his own axe at his attacker’s knee. The man fell to the sodden ground, clutching at the stump of his leg. Maccus stepped forward and slammed the iron rim of his shield into the man’s face.
The two Englishmen realigned. They stepped over the body, their feet splashing through blood-stained puddles in the mud. Maccus watched their enemy over the rim of his shield. The Danes were backing away as Maccus and Wulfstan pushed forward. He saw doubt in their faces as they glanced to one another, crouching low, axe or spear held protectively in front of them as they jostled for space on the narrow causeway.
Someone shouted from the Danish bank, their fork-bearded leader perhaps; Maccus did not take his eyes from his opponents to check. The shout seemed to restore their courage and, as one, the little group of Danes charged again.
Wulfstan and Maccus met the charge by punching their shields forward. The metal boss of Maccus’ shield smashed into the face of one of the Danes, throwing him backwards into the crush of his comrades. In that confusion, Maccus and Wulfstan began their butcher’s work
The Danes did not stand it for long. Those that lived, fled. In moments Maccus and Wulfstan stood alone on the causeway, their shields and axes hanging limply by their sides as they gasped for breath. Behind them, the English army started to cheer. Wulfstan turned, grinning widely, and raised his axe in the air to acknowledge the acclaim.
The two men walked slowly back towards the English line. ‘You mad bastard,’ Maccus said to Wulfstan. ‘Are you showing off for your son?’
Wulfstan laughed. At that moment, Dunnere broke from the English lines and ran towards them, his face aglow at the glory of his father. Carrying axe and shield in his left hand, Wulfstan threw his free arm around his son’s shoulders as they walked back to Byrhtnoth.
The ealdorman opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, his eyes rising to movement on the far bank. The fork-bearded Dane was at the water’s edge again. His arms were still heavy with the rings of a famous warrior, but now he also wore a long, mail coat and a magnificent helmet crested with a dragon. He held his sword, unsheathed, in his hand.
Their leader spoke to his herald and in a moment the fair-haired man shouted across to the English. ‘Let us cross and we will give you a fair battle. Let honour be done today.’
The English were silent, all eyes on Byrhtnoth. The old man’s face was grim. ‘Come then,’ he called to them at last.
‘This is madness,’ Godric cried. ‘Madness,’ he said again. The thegn turned and started to push his way through the ranks of the fyrd.
Men jeered him as he went. Byrhtnoth watched silently as Godric climbed onto a horse that had been hobbled behind the army. He rode away into the woods at their back, followed by his retainers.
Byrhtnoth ran his gaze over the lines of his expectant warriors. ‘If there is anyone else who lacks the courage to stand with me today, then go now.’
No-one moved. The breeze stiffened and ran through the army, sending long hair swirling around the men’s heads and faces. But they did not move.
‘Lord, they are coming,’ Maccus said. Across the river, the Danes were arrayed in a battle line. Slowly, they stepped from the bank into the water that was shallow now, and waded towards the English.
‘Shield wall!’ Byrhtnoth shouted. The clattering of shields being locked together ran up and down the English line. The ealdorman turned to the lad, Dunnere. ‘Stand at my side, boy. Let’s show these Danes some English courage.’
***
The Danes made slow progress across the water, struggling against the drag of the receding tide. As they drew closer, they began to launch spears and throwing axes. Maccus ducked behind his shield and heard the missiles ring against the bosses of the front rank of shields.
His nose filled with the musk of sweat and the body odour of the tightly packed men around him. Wulfstan was at his side, their big shoulders pressed tight together as they had been so many times before. From behind, he could feel the pressure of the ranks of fyrdsmen.
He looked to his left where Byrhtnoth stood, one row back with young Dunnere by his side. The boy’s fresh face was set firm, his eyes riveted on the line of mail clad warriors marching inexorably towards them.
The intensity of the missiles grew. The Danes were close. Now the men of both armies started to hurl insults at one another, cursing the enemy for cock-less sons of bitches and calling their mothers whores.
Maccus shifted his feet, the damp earth of the riverbank squelched as he moved. He squeezed tight on the handle of his shield, breathed slow and deep, waiting for the moment of impact. He had slung his axe across his back, favouring the short blade of his seax for the bloody work that was to come. His whole body felt taut. He felt a deep aching restlessness in the powerful muscles of his legs as they craved the fight.
The front rank of Danes reached the bank and, as they clambered from the river, Byrhtnoth called, ‘Forward!’
As one, the front rank stepped forward, taking the fight to the Danes, closing the gap between the battle lines in an instant. Nothing happened for the space of a single heartbeat. And then the fury of the shield wall erupted.
The Danes threw themselves against the English shields. The air filled immediately with the screams of wounded men as warriors hacked and slashed at one another. A Dane heaved his weight against Maccus’ shield and jabbed over the top of the rim with his spear, stabbing at his face. Maccus ducked and stabbed low into the man’s groin. The Dane howled with pain and fell back into the mass of warriors who were now surging up the riverbank.
There were hundreds of them. Battle-hardened warriors driving relentlessly at the English.
‘Hold the line!’ Byrhtnoth called.
Wulfstan grunted as he punched his shield up under chin of a Dane. A spear shot over Maccus’ shoulder and the man behind him shrieked as he died.
Maccus could see the fork-bearded Dane prowling behind the line of his warriors, commanding them, urging them onwards. Arrows and throwing axes made the air thick around him, but the warlord ignored them, his face calm as he directed the assault.
Under their feet the mud was churning, made wetter by the Danes as they came ashore, made wetter still by the blood of the dying. Men slipped and slid in the mire. The giant Dane who had thrown the spear over the English lines roared out of the river and swung a mighty battle axe down onto the shield of the Englishman who stood against him. The man fell backwards and other Danes grabbed his feet and pulled him screaming into the river where they held him under the water.
The giant leaped into the gap he had created and started to lay all around him with his axe. Men fell under it. Men fell away from him in fear. The whole English line shuddered at the impact that the giant made.
More Danes forced their way into the gap and soon the shield wall was falling apart.
Maccus called for the men around him to stand firm. He could feel the shift in the battle. The men of the fyrd were breaking, fleeing from the Danish blades. And the Danes were among them now, making the Englishmen fight for their lives.
Maccus looked for Byrhtnoth and saw him standing tall amidst the chaos. He was calling men to him, calling for his hearth warriors to make a stand. The boy Dunnere was still at his side, wincing and ducking as spears and arrows flew by.
The giant was heading for Byrhtnoth, carving a path through the press of men with his two-handed axe. ‘We have to get to Byrhtnoth!’ Maccus yelled into Wulfstan’s ear. Wulfstan pulled his seax from the guts of a Danish warrior and looked up. There he saw his son, the giant Dane closing in on him. Without a word he started making his way towards his lord and towards his son.
Maccus went to follow but a Dane flew at him. He batted a spear thrust away with his shield and stabbed at the throat of the Dane with his seax. The Dane leant away from the cut, rebalanced himself and then feinted low with his spear at Maccus’ legs. Maccus saw the move for what it was, and dropped to a knee beneath the real lunge that came at his head. As the spear passed above him, he exploded upwards, driving his seax blade up under the Dane’s ribs.
He looked again for Byrhtnoth. The Danish giant had reached him and was raining huge blows down on the ealdorman with his axe. Young Dunnere stood behind the English lord, his face masked with fear. Wulfstan was near, but then he was swallowed by a knot of fighting men and Maccus lost sight of him.
Maccus started to push through the crowd again. He was sure Byrhtnoth could not withstand the onslaught much longer. But then the old warrior skipped backwards as the axe blow fell. The giant’s momentum pulled him forward and, as he stumbled, Byrhtnoth stepped sideways and raised his sword high before plunging it deep into the giant’s loin.
The giant roared with pain as Byrhtnoth screamed his victory. For a moment, Maccus felt his heart lift at the sight of the old warrior revelling in his glory. But the move had left the old man’s flank open, his shield turned away from the Danes. Even as the killing-light shone in his eyes, another Dane sprang forward and drove his spear point deep into the ealdorman’s gut.
Byrhtnoth staggered back. He dropped his sword and shield and clutched at the spear shaft that stuck out of his body. As he fell to the ground, Dunnere leapt forward. The boy pulled the spear from Byrhtnoth’s belly. His young face red with fury, he screamed and pumped his legs as he plunged the spear into the Dane who had attacked his lord. Byrhtnoth cried out at the joy of it although he lay bleeding on the ground. Maccus was close enough now to hear the old man’s words as he called out to the boy, ‘A warrior! A born warrior!’
Dunnere was standing over the man he had killed, his hands still around the shaft of the spear. His eyes were wide, his face still flushed, his breathing ragged, astonished at what he had done. He turned to look at Byrhtnoth and did not see the axe head that crashed into his side.
At that moment, a half dozen of Byrhtnoth’s warriors rallied around their lord. They fell upon the man who had struck Dunnere, and drove the Danes away from Byrhtnoth.
Wulfstan saw his son fall and the cry he let out rent the noise of the battle. Wild now, Wulfstan threw aside his seax and shield, and pulled his axe from the leather sling on his back. He struck left and right. He shattered shields with the force of his blows. Danes cowered as he split their steal helmets and sent them to their heathen gods.
The battle was opening around them as the English peasants fled. The Danes fell away from Wulfstan, opening up a path to Dunnere. Wulfstan charged towards his son. Maccus raced behind him.
Wulfstan’s rage made him dangerous. Wulfstan’s rage made him vulnerable. Around Byrhtnoth the fighting was still fierce as the Danish warriors battled to get to the ealdorman. Wulfstan swept his axe into the neck of a Dane and turned to strike another. But a third was too quick for him and, as Wulfstan raised his axe once more, the Dane stuck his short sword into his stomach. Wulfstan roared with pain. He dropped his hand to the hilt of the blade where the Dane still gripped it and held it there. The Dane bucked and struggled against him, but the English warrior held him fast. Holding the Danish blade in his body with his left hand, Wulfstan smashed his axe into the Dane’s face with his right.
Wulfstan stumbled sideways. He stood still for a moment to steel himself. With one hard pull, he drew the blade back out from his body. Maccus saw the blood pouring off the weapon.
Wulfstan tossed the sword aside and lurched on towards his son. Maccus reached the prone forms of Byrhtnoth and Dunnere just after Wulfstan. His friend had dropped to his knees beside his son and lifted the boy’s head gently in his hand. Dunnere groaned with pain, his face pale, his lips trembling. His hands clutched at a great gash in his side from which blood was oozing onto the ground around him.
Wulfstan put his other arm under Dunnere’s back and tried to lift his boy, but his legs gave way and he fell back onto the mud, gasping. Maccus and Wulfstan’s eyes met. Maccus looked down at the wound in his friend’s gut. It was bleeding as freely as the wound his son had suffered. Wulfstan would not survive such an injury.
Wulfstan looked at his son, then back up at Maccus. ‘Take him to Ailred, Maccus. I beg you.’
Maccus blinked, then shook his head sharply. ‘I cannot. I cannot leave the battlefield where my lord lies dying.’
‘I beg you,’ Wulfstan pleaded, tears welling in his eyes. ‘Don’t let him die here, Maccus.’
There was movement to Maccus’ left and he turned to it. Byrhtnoth was not dead yet. The ealdorman hauled himself onto a knee. His hand scrabbled in the dirt for the hilt of his sword that lay on the ground nearby. Once he had it, he stood with a groan and panted for a moment against the pain. ‘Take the boy, Maccus. He does not deserve to die here.’
Maccus stared at his lord. ‘I cannot,’ he whispered back, his throat closing on the words.
‘I command you,’ Byrhtnoth replied. The ealdorman reached down to Wulfstan, who was sitting in the mud, and hauled him upwards. For a moment the two warriors leant against one another for support. The life was quickly fading from both of them. ‘Take the boy,’ Byrhtnoth said again. ‘His father and I will see that honour is done.’
Maccus watched as Wulfstan and Byrhtnoth turned back to the fray, to where the other of Byrhtnoth’s hearth warriors were still fighting the Danes. Arm in arm, the two men limped back towards the fight. Maccus reached down and lifted Dunnere. With tears stinging his eyes, he carried the boy back to the horses behind the battle lines.
He laid Dunnere across the horse’s neck and climbed into the saddle behind him. As he looked back at the battle, he saw Wulfstan and Byrhtnoth disappear beneath the Danish blades.