|
Whitsuntide
878AD
Hothga
stood firm, his back ramrod straight. His gaze
never left the front. He focused on nothing but
the narrow path across the soft, marshy
grassland. The path he was looking at was his
path, the ground he would advance across, the
straight line he would take. Nothing would stop
him, only death. He didn’t think of the
thousand other men who stood in line with him.
Every one of them had their own path, their own
goal, and their own line. At the end of the
line, the enemy, the devils from across the sea
waited. Did they know that this Saxon thegn was
here? Were they waiting to spring an ambush and
slaughter them all, or were they asleep. Hothga
prayed to whatever gods were watching that it
was the latter.
The hint of a cold morning breeze was directly
behind them, making the hair stand up on the
back of Hothga’s neck and a shiver course
through his hurting body. His arms and legs
ached in the dampness. The long night’s march
with shield and spear, mail and helm made his
thighs and his shoulders groan and burn. His
mail shirt dug into his collarbones where his
thick leather jerkin didn’t reach. He was
tired and cold yet fear dried his mouth and
sweated his body.
From the Danish camp ahead there was silence.
Would the camp dogs catch their scent? Had the
men they had already killed been the only
lookouts? Could these Norsemen be that careless?
His heart hoped so but his head said no. War was
in these people’s blood. Their commanders were
bred from birth. This was no conscripted army.
These were no soldiers commandeered in the local
levy, dragged from their farms or wrenched from
the service of the local lords and barons. These
were as near to a professional army as existed
in Anglo Saxon England. They didn’t make many
mistakes. Their tactics and strategies had been
honed over generations of invasion and plunder.
These Vikings hit hard, moved fast and
disappeared like Ghosts. Well maybe this time
they would be caught cold. Viking bands had been
defeated before but at a huge price.
It was six months since he was summoned to arms
from his farm. Three times he had fought with
the Danes and three times he had survived. They
had chased these plunderers across the lowlands,
fighting running battles. But they had been
weakened, hit by lightening raids on their
supply lines and on one occasion lost nearly
half their horses, their necks and throats
slashed in the dead of night in their stabling.
Now it was time. Time to show these invaders
that the Saxons ruled England and wouldn’t
fall prey to any band of devils that think this
green and fertile land is theirs to take. He,
Hothga, had answered the call. The call of his
King Alfred. He would die if he had to, if that
meant ridding his country of Guthrum and his
band of scum. Hothga’s mind turned to what he
had seen. Villages burning, women screaming,
children crushed under horse hooves and village
elders castrated and hanging by their necks. His
rage was rising, the adrenalin pumped through
his veins. Blood lust exploded in his face
contorted with hate, his cold grey eyes wide and
trance like.
His war band was a thousand strong, formed in
two parallel lines of three hundred infantry in
each. A hundred men on each flank curved their
line forward so the whole formation looked like
the horns of a cow. Any enemy attacking the
flank would be drawn into the middle and the
flanks closed behind them. Behind the infantry
ranks in the centre were the horses. Any enemy
horsemen sighted in the front would mean the
infantry would part and the armoured horses
would charge through and engage them head on.
Hothga knew that this was one of the most
dangerous times for him and his men in the
centre. If the enemy weren’t dangerous enough
your own horses would kill you if you were too
slow clearing to the left or right. Armoured men
on horseback tended to rather kill you than risk
injuring their horses. A horseman in full armour
was so restricted on the ground that he knew if
his horse went down in the middle of a battle it
would almost certainly mean that he would die,
stabbed through his eyes slits or axed in the
unprotected groin.
In between the infantry and the horses were the
bowmen. They could move at will in and out the
infantry lines. Mobile and fast moving,
unrestricted by armour or shields they could
concentrate a volley of arrows on a small area
of the enemy line, downing enough to form a hole
to break through or pinning an advancing line to
a standstill. The best archers had the task of
identifying the opposing infantry’s
commanders. A quarry in the neck or throat made
giving orders difficult and an army without
leaders could soon become a rabble. The best
willow long bows could drive an arrow through
the thickest chain mail at over two hundred
paces. Only heavily armoured horsemen and stout
shields offered protection.
However, the Danes had no heavy armour. They
moved fast and travelled light. Their shields
were smaller but made of metal. Their sword
blades were generally shorter than the Saxon
ones but of better quality. Blacksmiths had been
trying to emulate them for years but had rarely
succeeded. But what they lacked in organisation
they made up for in sheer savagery. They were
fast, strong and totally fearless. They seemed
as though they had been bred to fight. Hothga
had seen only days before, a Dane with spear
wounds in his chest and back and an arrow
sticking from a gaping wound in his thigh, kill
two men before succumbing to a rain of axe blows
and even then still tried to carry on fighting
while prostrate on the floor with one arm almost
severed. Severing his head from his body
appeared to be the only way to render him
harmless. Once charging at you These Vikings
would never take a step backwards. They would
repeatedly throw themselves at your shields
wielding double bladed battleaxes like madmen.
They wouldn’t stop until either you were dead
or they were.
Hothga turned his eyes to the ealdorman at the
front of the formation. The latter held his
right arm up. Instantly the front line of
infantry locked their shields together. Large
rounded wooden boards almost a yard in diameter
with a heavy leather covering were difficult to
hold up in front for any length of time, but it
was that or risk a spear at head height.
Hundreds of spears protruded from the niches
where the shields met and Hothga pulled his
fleece lined scabbard containing his sword on to
his left hip lest it hindered his movement and
made it easier to draw with his right hand
should they be in close quarter. He pressed his
face onto the back of the shield so under his
helmet only his eyes could be seen over the top.
His left forearm tensed behind the reinforcing
strip at the back of his shield. It was time.
The ealdorman’s arm dropped and the line moved
forward. Marching feet squelched across the soft
ground, clouds of hot breath steamed in the cold
morning air and a thousand hearts beat faster.
In front Hothga could see the boggy meadow begin
to drop down towards the river. Within a couple
of minutes he could see the tops of tents along
the riverbank and the smoke from fires send
arrow straight plumes up into the still air.
Still nothing! Maybe they had gone. Maybe they
had spotted the war band and deserted the camp
across the river. Maybe they were fleeing of
their own accord realising they were
outnumbered. Maybe they would flee all the way
to the sea and disappear to where they came from
and nobody would ever have to fight again.
Hothga’s heart rose, he may survive the day
after all.
Arrows poured down from the sky like rain,
thudding into shields and helmets, driving into
chain mail and peppering the ground in front of
Hothga. The man to his right slumped then sank
to his knees with half a shaft protruding from
the only few square inches of unprotected neck.
A cry was dragged from his throat like the
gurgle of a man drowning before he fell forward,
his face buried into the soft turf. Hothga’s
heart pounded, he gripped his shield so tight
the blood drained from his hands. All along the
line, men fell, their arms flailing, their cries
filling the air. An arrow skimmed Hothga’s
helmet and another buried itself with a crack in
the top of his shield inches under his nose.
Volley after volley of flying death seared into
the line. Men who had fallen were replaced by
men from the second line. The shield wall held
firm and still they moved forward. The arrows
stopped.
The camp by the river was in full view now. It
stretched hundreds of yards along the bank of
the river. Large fires and dozens of makeshift
tents and shelters could be seen behind an outer
wall of brushwood and lines of upturned spears.
Behind the wall hundreds, maybe thousands of
helmets, their Viking horns glistening, could be
seen above the wall. Swords and axes whirled in
the air and a roar drowned every other noise as
the mass of humanity exploded out from the camp
straight towards the Saxons. Hundreds upon
hundreds of thrashing blades, swarmed over the
perimeter. A solid wall of bellowing rage and
hate seemed to be aiming straight for Hothga.
His blood turned to ice. To his right he saw
more Danes emerging from the tree lined hill.
Their axes were swinging above their heads. It
would be only moments and the hoard would be on
top of them. Hothga’s men started to bellow
and scream and their pace quickened. Within
yards they were trotting and a few more yards t!
hey were running. Six seconds later the two
forces collided head on in a thunder of metal
upon metal. Thousands of men now writhed in a
mass of slashing and stabbing.
A large Dane, ignoring Hothga’s spear, drove
straight into his shield, swinging a double
bladed axe over the top trying to bury it into
the top of the Saxon’s head. Hothga bent his
knees in to a crouching position. At the same
split second the axe blade glanced off the side
of his helmet he drove hard forward and upwards.
The top edge of his shield smashed into the
Dane’s mouth forcing his head back. So violent
was the blow that the Dane’s helmet flew off
backwards. The Dane rammed his back foot into
the ground to steady him self then drove forward
again. With two hands he swung the axe and with
every ounce he had buried it into Hothga’s
shield. This time the shield clattered back into
it’s owners’ face and the force of the blow
forced Hothga back onto one knee. But he still
had his balance. The Dane pulled the axe from
the shield and again swung it above his head to
repeat the blow. Hothga was ready. As the axe
was lifted above the man’s head Hothga drove
forward with his shield in his left arm. He
drove the spear with his other hand up under the
unprotected chin of his attacker. The point
entered the large man at the top of his
windpipe. It travelled from such an angle that
it thrust into the base of the man’s skull
killing him instantly.
The Norseman went down like a stone dropped to
the floor. Hothga stamped his foot on the dead
man’s chest and ripped the point from his
throat. Brutal combat raged all around him.
Screaming and mud, hot breath and blood were
everywhere. Axes, swords, shields and bear fists
clashed with horrifying ferocity. The will to
survive overcame every other emotion. Such
gruesome and terrifying circumstances can bring
the basest of behaviour out of ordinary people.
Men were being cleaved apart with axes and
swords, strangled with bear hands and impaled on
long spears. For Hothga the carnage seemed to
last for ever.
Hothga’s spear was wrenched out his hand. He
drew his sword and slashed wildly at a Viking
grappling next to him. The Norseman’s shinbone
shattered as the blade scythed into the lower
part of his leg. He crumpled lop sided to the
floor as another sword tore into his abdomen,
the owner driving hard and twisting the blade.
Hothga pivoted around and saw at the last second
a blade arching towards him. He ducked
instinctively and the blow rammed into his
helmet above his right ear. Although instantly
dazed he thrust his shield up in front of his
face as another blow thudded against it. He was
disorientated, he couldn’t pin point where the
attack was coming from. He still had enough of
his senses to realise that if he didn’t get it
together instantly he would die right here and
right now. He desperately tried to clear his
blurred vision and make sense of what he was
seeing. He tried to raise his shield up in front
of his face but before he could manage it a
large fist ram!
med into the centre of his face. His nose broke
instantly and blood exploded over the bottom
half of his face and eyes. He collapsed to his
knees, his shield dropped to the floor. His
strength left him. He drew his sword and tried
to lift it up but it seemed to be made of lead.
The Viking in front of him swung his axe over
his head and Hothga knew that this was the end.
He closed his eyes and waited for the blow that
would send him to oblivion. It never came. He
forced his eyes open to see the Viking standing
motionless for a moment then falling towards him
then past him like a falling oak with a blank
look of horror and disbelief on his face. The
man hit the ground motionless like a sack of
wheat. Hothga saw that a sword was imbedded in
his back so far it made a bulge in the tunic
across his chest.
For precious moments Hothga was ignored by the
slaughter all around him. He desperately tried
to clear his head and orientate himself. He held
his shield up above his head as he steadied
himself one knee. His nose was agony. He could
hardly breath, his nasal passages blocked by
quickly congealing blood and mucus. His eyes
were watering and his head above the right ear
throbbed with blood trickling down onto his
cheek. Before he could regain his footing he was
bundled to the floor. Two men grappling in a
fight to the death barrelled into him knocking
him to the floor and literally rolling over him.
Their attention was focused on nothing but
killing each other. Hothga was ignored like he
was the branch of a tree. Both men had swords in
their hands and both had their other hands on
their adversary’s sword arm. Both were kicking
and trying to use their heads or teeth, anything
to gain an advantage. To stay alive brought
forth the darkest primeval instincts in
everybody. Gone was any instinct of the rules of
engagement, chivalry or fair play. This was to
the death; there were no rules. Killing your
opponent was all that mattered. How didn’t
matter. Face to face or in the back, it didn’t
matter. If, at the end of it, you were alive and
he wasn’t, that was the only concern.
Hothga lay on his left side in the mud. The
Viking and the Saxon grappled at his feet. The
Saxon was on the bottom and the Viking straddled
across his chest was trying to force his short
sword down into the former’s face. In a second
Hothga could see that his countryman’s
strength was failing. With both hands the Saxon
heaved to try and break free and stop the
weapon’s descent. Try as he might the sword
inched slowly but surely towards its target. The
Viking’s face was contorted with hatred and
eyes blank and cold. Hothga stretched, bent his
right knee and delivered a flat-footed stamp
into the right side of the devil’s face with
all the strength he could muster. The Viking’s
jaw shattered and the grip on his sword was
instantly relinquished. The man on the bottom
spun around onto his shoulder and heaved the
limp body from on top of him. Grabbing the
Viking’s own sword he slashed the
foreigner’s throat wide open from ear to ear
with one scything blow. Hothga watched the
man’s face twist in agony and horror; blood
spurted from the wound in between fingers that
were forlornly holding his own neck. The dying
man opened his mouth as if to utter a prayer but
his face froze forever, eyes wide open as if
disbelieving.
Hothga thought he heard a distant horn. Within
moments the Viking horde disengaged. Personal
duels all around him seemed to cease at the same
instant. Struggling men parted. The Danes were
turning and running; running back towards their
own encampment. It was the most wonderful sight
Hothga had ever seen. He forced his hurting and
panting body to its feet and held his sword in
the air. His shield dropped to the floor and he
screamed with joy and relief. The heavy thunder
of hooves brought him quickly back to reality.
He half turned to see dozens of horsemen
charging through the middle of the line across
ground strewn with the dead, dying and wounded.
Hothga stumbled to the side desperately trying
to get out of the way. He glanced forward to see
hundreds of Vikings running away at full tilt
and jumping into the air like deer pursued by
the dogs. The strangeness of the sight was lost
on him in that moment. They were running; we had
won, that was all that was important. He had
survived again. Hothga’s mind was blank his
reasoning forgotten, when he saw the line of
Vikings turn, to a man, and stand line abreast
facing the charging horsemen goading and
bellowing. They were some two hundred paces
away. They just seemed to stand, waiting to be
annihilated. Hothga’s mind was racing, trying
to work out what was happening when he saw the
lead horse some fifty paces from the Danish line
suddenly just disappear. Hothga forced his eyes
wider open as if he’d seen some act of God.
Another dozen horses, in a line behind the lead
horse, suddenly braced, their front legs ramrod
straight, trying to stop. In the boggy ground
their front legs slid, their back legs buckling
then collapsing. Some catapulted their riders,
before sliding into the large trench in front of
them. The ground seem to open up, as the trench
covered by rough netting and loose grass became
evident. More and more tons of armour and
horseflesh vanished into it. The Vikings howled
their approval. Some men in armour were trying
to clamber out only to be enveloped by swirling
masses of Danes slashing and stabbing at them
like hounds around the captured fox.
Hothga forced his tired legs to one more effort
as he and his countrymen, watching the
catastrophe unfold before them, marched onwards
again. His front line joined up together and
Hothga bent to pick up his shield. He never saw
the arrow that streaked across the hundred paces
from its origin in the trees on the Saxon’s
right flank. There was no pain as it burrowed in
a microsecond through the thin mail into the
left side of his chest. For a second Hothga lay
on his back looking at the shaft. He tried to
take a deep breath but it felt like he had
swallowed nettles. He felt nothing but numbness
and a coldness spreading across his body. He
tried to breath shallower. A sound like gurgling
water frightened him. He looked around for help
but there seemed to be nobody left. He looked
across the field in front of him. Where there
had been a tumult of noise only minutes ago,
there was now only complete silence. Men seemed
to be moving in slow motion. He could see people
sho!
uting but he could hear no sound. He tried to
lift himself from the floor but he had no
strength left. He could sleep now. His wife
would look after him. His battle was over, he
would soon be back on his farm, tending his
animals, harvesting his crops. The dull grey
morning was now bright. Brilliant sunlight, just
for a second, how strange! He put his hand up to
shield his face then laid his head back down.
Hothga slowly closed his eyes never to open them
again.
Alex, Paul Lu and Sir Terence sat wide-eyed and
silent as the Saxon line advanced once again
across the boggy meadow towards the camp
defenders. They were looking from an elevated
position, which seemed to be about a hundred
over the whole meadow with the river and the
elongated encampment to their left and the
beginning of a thick wood to the top of the
picture. The thick, dark spectacles they were
all wearing shielded their eyes from the bright
halo around the sphere. The picture they were
seeing often flickered, sometimes it appeared to
be in colour and some times in a grainy black
and white. Alex thought it was amusing, like
watching an early Hollywood silent film. The
room they were in was even dark. Alex could have
sworn that any minute an usherette with a tray
of ice creams would appear. He forced his
concentration to return. The images in front of
them all, for a few seconds, accelerated then
appeared to slow down almost to a complete stop.
Alex was feverishly scribbling. The power output
to the gravimetric field was fluctuating. It was
clear to Alex after this last two months that
this particular point was becoming a problem. A
far more sensitive calibration was needed to
keep the output level stable. Everything
depended on this power output. This controlled
the space/time wave. Many of the scientists
present had spent many days observing scenes of
a distant and past Earth; endless tropical
forests, limitless oceans, deserts and arctic
wastes with not the faintest ideas where or when
they were observing. Without a measured time or
space frame the value of what they were seeing
was worthless. However, at last they were
getting it. |
