Shieldwall

by Justin Hill

  ‘Are you all right?’ Wulfnoth asked Godwin, who already had a large bruise starting to bloom on his ribs.

  Godwin nodded.

  ‘Good,’ his father said. ‘Now, let’s get this craft back to shore before night comes in!’

  That evening, Godwin was too wearied to join in the revelries, but Wulfnoth and his men spent the night feasting and bragging. Morning brought hangovers and headaches, and a scattering of dead Norsemen along the strand, wet like the regurgitated mice the owl brings to the nest.

  Wulfnoth set his men to search for the captain’s body, ‘For he wore enough gold to buy a man a manor!’ But the sea did not choose to return that treasure. Instead, on the next tide, in an apologetic act it carried Osgod back to land. Caerl found him two miles along the beach, lying on his side, with weed in his hair and a few tentative crabs crawling into his open mouth. Caerl flicked the crabs away, bundled the dead weight over his saddle and led the horse back to the nearest hall, which had a table where he could be laid out and dressed for burial.

  Caerl looked at Osgod’s wet body and, in an odd moment, brushed the sand from the left side of his face.

  ‘My lord will pay whatever you need,’ he said to the women hurrying to fetch water. Then he went out without looking back.

  Wulfnoth gave the captured ship to the king’s reeve, to add to his fleet, and his victory gave Wulfnoth even greater wealth and fame – and it was the fame he valued most of all, for it brought men to his side who would obey his commands and fill his ships and, when that dread day came, meet the Army in battle. Songs about Wulfnoth Cild were sung as far west as Bade and as far north as Bebbanburge and the king heard them and it was rumoured that he intended to appoint Wulfnoth as commander of the king’s fleet.

  Wulfnoth’s mood was optimistic as the year 1009 drew to a close, for he had been hailed by all as Wulfnoth Cild, Wulfnoth the Hero.

  ‘Maybe the king will summon you to court,’ Gytha said, as she and the women stitched the sail with needles of horn.

  ‘Maybe he will,’ Wulfnoth said, as he stretched his toes to the fire.

  ‘Do not sound so pleased. Nothing good comes of the king. Remember Elfhelm,’ Gytha warned, but Wulfnoth was a proud man, swelled with victory, and determined to lead where so many had failed.

  ‘Godwin,’ Wulfnoth said when the summons came, ‘fetch your cloak and your sword. We are going to see the king.’

  ‘You really intend to go?’ Gytha asked that night as they lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I do not like it,’ she said. ‘You should not have given him that boat. You should not outdo a king in generosity. He will have to repay you and nothing good will come of that.’

  ‘Do not fret, wife.’

  ‘I do fret!’ she said, sitting up and leaning on her elbow. ‘There are many jealous men whose bile will rise when they see you march into the hall with all those gold arm-rings, for you won yours in battle, when they took theirs from their fathers.’

  Wulfnoth pulled her back down but she shrugged him off.

  ‘Eadric Streona will be there,’ she said.

  ‘So? What care I of this Eadric!’

  ‘He rules the king’s mind with guile. Or worse.’

  ‘Witchcraft?’ Wulfnoth said.

  ‘So some say,’ she said, and turned towards him.

  ‘Then say a prayer for me at the Virgin’s Chapel.’

  ‘Don’t mock,’ she said.

  Wulfnoth put his hand up and kissed her cheek.

  ‘I do not mock.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The English Fleet

  That summer all England was abuzz with the news that in the Holy Land the Fatimid caliph had ordered the destruction of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Ierusalem. Preachers called for a holy war against the heathens, but Christendom was too riven with barbarianism and conflict, and England was fixated on the fleet and the Army that it was meant to defend against.

  ‘This is our chance,’ Wulfnoth said. ‘If we cannot stop them this time they shall return even bigger and then how can we defend against them?’

  ‘Bones in a field or slaves in the Moors’ markets,’ Hemming said.

  ‘It is what was prophesied in the Gospel: “When ye see the abomination of desolation standing in the holy place”,’ one of the neighbours quoted to Wulfnoth. ‘“Woe unto them that are with child. Pray ye that your flight be not in the winter: for then shall be great tribulation.”’

  Wulfnoth listened, but did not seem dismayed. ‘If this is the End Times, then I at least shall hold my head up high when the Archangel Gabriel blows on his war horn, and the Angelic Host meets the forces of the Devil in battle.’

  But later, when he and Godwin were alone, Wulfnoth laughed at the doomsayers: ‘Much nonsense a man talks who talks without tiring. The court is at Lundenburh. There you will hear more and bigger tales. Listen well and hold your tongue, for they talk much nonsense there. Now go and get your things ready. Bring your sword. We leave on the morrow.’

  That evening Godwin washed and combed his hair, and his mother came and picked out the best clothing she could find. Most of them were Leofwine’s old clothes, but she held them up to Godwin and nodded.

  ‘This will fit you well enough.’

  When Godwin was dressed in his best kirtle of sky-blue wool, and trousers of red, and a silk-lined cloak, he felt half a prince already.

  ‘Here!’ Wulfnoth said as the firelight gleamed on their faces, and he took a gold arm-band from his own arm and put it on to his son’s. ‘In honour of your first battle.’

  It was a thin band of two plaited wires, with wolf heads at the ends. It barely made a circle about Wulfnoth’s arm, but on Godwin it made almost two. He marvelled at the weight of it.

  ‘The first of many, son,’ Wulfnoth said and winked.

  Next morning there was an air of optimisim and celebration as Wulfnoth’s war band mounted up. They had all dressed in their finest, and Godwin sat high on his horse and looked back to wave to his mother and his childhood. He would have stopped and taken a better look if he had known how long it would be before he would see his home again.

  It was three days’ ride to Lundenburh and while Wulfnoth’s ships sailed to Sandwice, he and his companions took the high roads along the Weald. The chalky soil made good going, the air was bright, the leaves were beginning to unfurl, and they filled the forest with a bright green light. On the second day the trees began to fail, and as they came out into a strange landscape, Godwin felt strangely exposed. They came to a town and were turned away.

  ‘Why are men burning fires?’ Godwin asked.

  ‘There is plague in the city,’ Caerl said.

  Godwin nodded, though he didn’t quite understand. He would rather have ridden with Beorn than the taciturn shipmaster, but Beorn was riding at the front with his father, and Caerl had been put in charge of him this day.

  That night as they lay down to sleep without tale or song, Godwin wished he had stayed at home.

  Bear up, he told himself. Only half of all journeys take you home.

  England held a million souls, and it seemed to Godwin that half of them were crammed into the narrow and dirty streets of Lundenburh. It was not the capital of England – that was Wincestre – but when King Alfred, Shield of the English, Shepherd of the Folk, united Mercia and Wessex he refounded the city within the old square of the Roman town and repaired the stone walls with ramparts of earth and timber, and since that time Lundenburh had thrived like lice on the fat man.

  Lundenburh was Ethelred’s favourite city, not least for the devotion its people showed to him and his family. When Wulfnoth’s men went to the muddy shore market – little more than trading ships beached along the flat banks of the Temese – there were boats and voices and clothes from all the four corners of the world: the four corners of the cathedral maps, painted on square boards with Ierusalem in the centre, the continents arranged round it. Godwin saw such a m
ap in St Paul’s Cathedral and looked up at the world in wonder at how small was his corner of it, and how tiny the vast seas seemed when painted on a board.

  ‘So where is Cornwalia?’ he asked and, his father pointed.

  ‘And that was four days’ sailing.’

  Godwin looked and wondered.

  ‘So where have you sailed to?’

  Wulfnoth pointed. ‘With Seasnake I went to Flandran. With Seawolf we sailed all the way down the coast to Burgenda land, and saw the Moors there.’

  ‘Are they evil?’

  ‘They are heathen,’ Wulfnoth said. ‘As to evil … you will see some here in Lundenburh, then you may judge for yourself.’

  Wulfnoth’s men stayed at the hall of a rich and well-respected Snotingehamscire thegn named Morcar. He was broad and thick, like a barrel with arms and legs, and a round face with balding pate. He was a cousin of Alderman Elfhelm and greeted Godwin as if they had met before. But Godwin did not remember him, and he did not look like Elfhelm, though there was an air about him – honest and straightforward and slightly embarrassed, as if he felt his Mercian manners did not quite match up to those of Wessex men.

  They did not drink, but spent a quiet night sipping buttermilk and chewing on their barley bread and cheese as they swapped news.

  ‘Eadric continues to insult us and our people,’ Morcar said. The words were hard for him, and Godwin felt his pain. It was hard to suffer without recourse. ‘He has four brothers and they are bastards all. The worst is Brihtric, a one-eyed villain. He is an evil man. He covets land and power even more than his brother. He rides about the land and no one dares stand against him whatever mischief he commits. We cannot go openly against him, for he has the full backing of the king. But there are many among my people who call out for vengeance for Elfhelm and his sons. They grow more angry as each year passes. We pray that Ethelred will die soon and a better king will take his place.’

  ‘He has passed his fortieth year.’

  ‘That he has. And the lives of the kings of the House of Cerdic burn bright and fast.’

  Wulfnoth said, ‘Has Ethelred started burning at all?’

  There were low chuckles. ‘Well. It cannot be long till Athelstan is king.’

  ‘The Wise will choose Athelstan?’ Wulfnoth asked.

  Morcar nodded, but there was hesitation. ‘Yes, the Wise will choose Prince Athelstan,’ he said. ‘Unless Queen Emma gets her way. She wants her son Edward to be anointed.’

  ‘He is barely ten years old.’

  ‘Eight. But if Ethelred lives another six years, he might be old enough.’

  Wulfnoth laughed at the idea. ‘No. The boy is a weakling.’

  ‘But he has a strong mother.’

  ‘The Wise are not choosing mothers.’

  ‘That is true. And let us speak no more of this. If Christ was to bless us, it would be to take Ethelred to his eternal rest sooner rather than later. Men in the north talk of finding a new king, perhaps one not born of the House of Cerdic.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘In York they always took their kings from Northweg.’

  ‘But they are heathen. They would break the country apart. That is madness.’

  Morcar stopped. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Well, pray that the king soon sees sense or the afterlife,’ Wulfnoth said, and the discussion ended with the men crossing themselves.

  As they brought out mattresses to sleep on, Wulfnoth took Godwin aside and spoke gravely to him: ‘What you have heard tonight is not to be talked of to others.’

  ‘No, Father,’ Godwin said.

  Next morning the summons came and they dressed in their finest clothes. The king’s palace lay on Thornei Island, the Eyot of Thorns, which had long since been cleared of brambles. Now it was home to the Abbey of St Peter, the West Minster, which gave the place its name. Godwin and Wulfnoth rode at the head of the men as they passed reedy Tyburn banks on their left and saw the stone tower of West Minster Abbey rise above the green spring willows. As they approached, a church bell began to clang, and then another, till the air was discordant with their noise.

  ‘The king’s manor has no wall,’ Godwin said. ‘Doesn’t Ethelred fear for himself?’

  Wulfnoth laughed. ‘The Army does not want him dead. If Ethelred was dead, then his sons would fight. They would have to. No. With Ethelred alive he keeps the country together and makes it easier for the Army to milk us dry.’

  ‘Stay, strangers unknown! Who approaches Ethelred’s hall?’ an armed warrior called out as they rode along the causeway.

  Wulfnoth spoke in a loud, proud voice. ‘I am Wulfnoth, son of Athelmar, Marshal of the Southern Shore. Men call me Wulfnoth Cild.’

  The man bowed. ‘Greetings, Marshal,’ the door ward called out. ‘The king is waiting for you. It is good to see that in Sudsexe men remember how to defend our lands.’

  The gates swung open and the man who had spoken walked out to greet them.

  ‘Greetings, Gamal,’ Wulfnoth said, and both men spoke in a friendly tone. ‘How is the king?’

  ‘He will be happy to see you and hear your news. There have been too many pirates and too little resistance. In the Walsh marches, where I was raised, men say that killing without resistance is not slaughter. We have heard you have killed five ship crews of Danes.’

  ‘They were Normans.’

  ‘Normans or Danes – there is little difference, is there not?’

  Wulfnoth shrugged. ‘It is a brief tale.’

  ‘Then make it long! In court there are too many men who speak much and act little.’

  The king’s manor was a pleasant and peaceful place. There were ordered gardens, both physic and ornamental, and a trellis through which a stone path led down to a wooden quay lined with magnificently painted boats.

  When they reached the entrance to the hall, Wulfnoth’s men handed their reins to the king’s servants, who took the horses to the long stables.

  The king’s hall was built of stone, with high gables and a great ornate doorway. ‘Leave your swords here,’ the door ward told them.

  Godwin did not know the man, but, like Gamal, he seemed to know his father, for the two men embraced briefly and then the man looked at Godwin with surprise.

  Wulfnoth put a hand on Godwin’s shoulder. ‘This is my younger son, Godwin.’

  ‘Welcome,’ the other man said, but he gave Wulfnoth an odd look.

  ‘Died,’ Wulfnoth explained. ‘Two winters past. So, how goes the king?’

  ‘He is still at prayer.’

  ‘What is the news?’

  ‘The king’s fleet is gathering. There will be two hundred ships. Not even the Army can summon that many.’

  ‘But the Army have a strong leader,’ Wulfnoth said. There was a long pause. Even the finest swords were useless if handled by a fool. ‘We do not.’

  ‘Wulfnoth Cild!’ a voice announced, and through the king’s own doors Wulfnoth strode in. The black-and-white tiled floor rang with each heel-fall.

  The hall had a cool church air, but instead of God, the House of Wessex was worshipped here, and the present king Ethelred, ‘Wise-Council’. There were two lines of carved wooden pillars and in the shadows, from the corner of his eye, Godwin saw banners, with shields and crossed spears, and old coats of grey mail, and bright tapestries showing stories from the Old Testament, legend and the deeds of Ethelred’s illustrious ancestors. At the end of the room, sunlight streamed in from high windows, and before the king a charcoal fire was smoking lazily.

  And there! Godwin thought. That must be the king.

  Once English kings were presented with a sword and helmet to show their role as protector of the folk, but now they were crowned and presented with an orb and a sceptre, such as was given to Roman consuls.

  Ethelred was tall and fair, with shots of grey in his moustache. But there was nothing infirm about his eyes or manner. His look was hard and vital. He had a quick mind, listened to the monk next to him and then cut him off with simple an
d direct speech.

  The king kept talking to the man seated to his left. Arrayed to either side of the king was an assembly of monks, bishops and warriors, and longbearded old men. Godwin realised that these were the Wise. They sat on long benches, a motley array of ages and faces, bishops and warriors, Mercians and Northymbrians, Walsh and Cymbrian, men from Cornwalia and even Lombards. They regarded Wulfnoth and his men with a mixture of resentment and curiosity.

  ‘Wulfnoth Cild!’ Ethelred said suddenly. He stood and threw back his cloak and greeted Wulfnoth all in one movement. ‘Do not kneel,’ he said, and lifted Wulfnoth. ‘Come! Sit! Tell us your news.’

  It was hard to dislike Ethelred. Godwin was struck by how handsome the king was. The history of England flowed through his veins; his face carried echoes of the kings before him. His father was Edgar, son of Edmund, son of Edward, son of Alfred, son of Ethelwulf, son of Egbert, back to Cerdic, who was a pagan and came over the seas, son of Elesa, son of Esla, son of Giwis, son of Freawine, son of Frithgar, son of Brond, son of Bældæg, son of Woden, whom heathens worshipped as a deity.

  But Ethelred was more than a man. He was the anointed. The cyning – of the people – their king. The only man who could unite feuding families.

  The meeting was long and Godwin could not stop his attention from wandering. He yawned. A bell was rung to announce that the day meal would soon be served, and the assembly rose and chattered amongst themselves as water and linen were brought for washing hands before the feasting.

  At that moment a voice called out from the open doorway, ‘Eadric, Alderman of Mercia! You are just in time,’ said Ethelred. ‘We would have waited but the thegns were hungry!’

  ‘Not at all, my lord. There is plague in Oxeneford and the road was flooded and we had to ford the river upstream.’

  Eadric was not the twisted monster of Godwin’s imaginings. He was slender, short and well mannered. His eyes moved quickly along the faces before him, and paused for a moment on Wulfnoth.

  ‘We have not met,’ Eadric said.

  ‘That is Wulfnoth, Athelmar’s son,’ Ethelred put in. ‘The man we have spoken of.’