by Justin Hill
At evensong no bells were rung, no voices sang, and a deep gloom spread over the land as the light slipped quickly from the grasp of the overcast day. Church altars were stripped of cross and candlesticks and embroidered cloths. Night fell, final and complete, and campfires were lit against the dark. As though in answer, the stars began to glimmer in the Heavens and Godwin clenched his right hand and felt power and fury surge though him, as if he was one of the Angels of Vengeance.
Hard they rode through Holy Saturday, but always ahead of them flew the king’s banner, a White Dragon on a field of scarlet. Harder yet went the messengers of the king, bidding provisions, horses and reinforcements be made ready for his coming.
Gamal, the king’s door ward, was one of them. ‘Make ready,’ he bade the men he passed. ‘The king means to come against the Danes with great speed and force.’
At Northantone Godwin camped with Alderman Ulfcytel and his grim company of axe- and swordsmen, each one mailed in a dull coat of grey links. The English slept as soundly as the carven images in the cathedral chapels, but in the churches of Northantone dark-cowled monks did not sleep. In the hours of deepest darkness, a single candle was lit and seemed to float uncarried into the unlit church. ‘Lumen Christi!’ the choirs sang as glowing tapers went from candle to candle till the yellow light blazed and the monks lifted their voices: ‘Exultet iam angelica turba caelorum …’
Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels! Exult, all creation!
Jesus Christ, our king is risen!
Sound the trumpet of salvation! Christ has conquered! Glory fills you!
Darkness vanishes for ever!
The monks were still singing joyfully when again in darkness Godwin’s men saddled fresh mounts, took the street known as Wæcelinga – an ancient way, broad and hard and well tended, so wide that twenty men could ride abreast.
Here, in the eastern part of Mercia, the Danish influence was still strong in language and manner and custom. Here men ate cake, not buns; walked on legs, not shanks; washed their faces in becks, not brooks; and in the morning when the hens were laying, they ate eggs, not eyren.
They reached Liguera Ceastre on the third day. Black storm clouds thundered over the great mass of the blue and far-off Bredon Hill. The bells were ringing for evensong as they clattered through the ancient gates; abbey monks were chanting in clear and joyous voices, ‘Deus, in adjutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina’ – O God, come to my assistance. O Lord, make haste to help me.
The Saxon mint town still huddled within the square Roman ditch and walls that King Edgar the Peaceful had strengthened, but to the north and east sprawled the unplanned Danish town, and it was there that Morcar greeted Ethelred with much pomp and ceremony and as many fresh mounts as his people could gather. Comb-makers went from table to table selling their wares, and young girls gave out sprigs of borage for courage, while the leadsmiths had smelted the little bronze St Cuthbert pendants that the men of Danelaw loved to wear and a heap of simple pewter crosses for the southerners. Morcar spoke for all his people, as honestly as he could, and begged forgiveness.
Ethelred put his hand on Morcar’s head. ‘Do not fear, good thegn. We have all been tested and found lacking. Will you ride with me and strike a blow against our Danish tormentors?’
Morcar could barely believe his ears. ‘I will, lord.’
‘Good. Then welcome, for we have all suffered tribulations, and God has been gracious to me, so I have pardoned all crimes against me.’
Godwin watched the exchange with incredulity, then shook Morcar’s hand and made him welcome.
That night they rested in Alderman Elfhelm’s hall, and Godwin walked around and remembered the kind man who had sat him on his knee, long ago, when he was young. He looked up at the smoke-stained rafters, where threads of soot wafted above the fire, and took in all that had happened, and all who were missing. He brought them back to mind: his father and mother, Leofwine, of course, Blecca and Hemming and all those who had lost their way. He gathered them round him, as a man will gather friends, and held them close. Their ghosts stood over him as he slept that night. And watched. And waited, lest danger come creeping.
In the morning the air was bright and damp from night showers.
‘Eadric is here,’ Caerl said as they filed out of the gates on to the road north.
Godwin could see Eadric’s banner, but he refused to look at the man.
‘Has he seen us?’
They couldn’t tell.
‘Maybe we should hang well back,’ Beorn said.
‘I will not,’ Caerl said and Godwin rode with him.
North they pressed, but the Danes would not give battle.
The princes rode at the head of the English host, and there were many places where they crested a ridge or rounded a wood and expected to see the Army drawn up across the road, but each time they saw nothing, and the fastest riders came back with no news of the Danes, except the ruin of their passing.
‘They’ve ridden past us,’ Caerl said that night with grim laughter. ‘They’ll be burning Wincestre before the week is out. Contone will see Danes long before us.’
Men began to look behind them, and a pessimistic air spread, as if they feared that they would be caught up in another of Ethelred’s great defeats. Godwin’s exultation began to dip into worry and despair, and he lay under a hedge that night and slept fitfully.
Next morning he woke to the sound of horses. Scouts were coming in and Godwin leapt up to hear their news.
‘Gainesburg is burning! The Danes are retreating to their ships with all the speed they can manage.’
Edmund blew his horn to wake the men. ‘Up!’ he shouted. ‘Ride. Before Knut escapes!’
By that evening they had ridden more than thirty miles, north and east, hoping to catch the Danes before they could slip out of the Hymbre. A dusty haze hung in the air, and the evening light lingered as they drew their exhausted mounts onto a ridge of the wolds and looked all about them.
There were fine views to either side. On the right, green salt marshes gave way to the deep-blue North Sea. On the left, the view stretched all the way across the Vale of Lincolia to the Pennines, and between the foothills lay a flat patchwork of long strip fields, curving gently at either end. Before them the wolds fell gently away to the flat coastal plains. Evening shadows stretched across the land, and the last light of the day caught for a moment on the church tower at Bereton.
Godwin’s knowledge north of Wæcelinga Stræt was patchy indeed, but Morcar pointed north-west, to where the land faded into haze. ‘Half a day’s ride ahead, the Liguera Ceastre and Lincolia roads meet at a town named Donecastre. All the land between Donecastre and Eurvic is impenetrable marsh, so the road loops far to the west, following the foothills of the Pennines. It’s a wild place of dales and rivers, but there is shelter for travellers at Tatescastre.’
‘And where is Eurvic?’
‘It is a day’s ride from Tatecastre, which is three days’ ride from here.’
Godwin stared in silence. He had never thought to travel so far north, and now none of it made much sense to him.
‘And what is that?’ he said, pointing straight ahead.
‘That is the great firth of the Hymbre.’
The water was dark and flat. It was approximately five leagues distant. Between them and it, the land was flat and featureless, except for a brief patch of trees and houses. Godwin looked from west to east and saw no Army, but kept his mouth shut.
They all stopped and looked. And saw nothing.
‘Where are they?’ Edmund said.
Athelstan had barely spoken the entire day’s ride, except to drive them forward. No man wanted to say it before him, and Godwin looked from west to east and back again three times before Athelstan said anything.
‘I do not see them,’ he said.
Everyone waited.
It was Edmund who spoke. ‘Two horses have died already, and we do not have spare mounts.�
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Athelstan nodded.
‘I think we should rest and push on to the Hymbre. Perhaps we can catch the Danes before they make the open sea,’ Edmund said.
Athelstan nodded again. His voice was dry with dust. ‘Let us rest for a few hours and then ride again,’ he said, and coughed. ‘If we let the damned Danes escape, then all this will have been for nothing.’
They rode quickly down through the sloping pastures and made a brief camp in the first village on the flat. Godwin was asleep before his head touched his rolled-up cloak, but heavy clouds passed over them, hurrying in from the west, and sprinkled them with rain.
They were not there more than three hours before Athelstan had his men up again. Godwin felt as if he had put his head on the pillow and then sat straight back up. A ruddy crescent moon rose over the sea in the east. He yawned and rubbed gritty sleep from his eyes, and leapt up into his saddle.
All the lanes about led inexorably towards the ferry crossing of Bereton, where the stone church tower stood high above the spring trees. Their horses milled around at the muddy shoreline, as if they wanted to ride out over the waves and chase the Danes all the way back across the sea.
The ferry-master ran out to greet them with a branch of may buds in his hands as a sign of peace. ‘You have come,’ he said. ‘Bless you all. You have come!’
‘Where are the Danes?’ Edmund demanded. ‘The king has brought the whole country out. A mighty fyrd rides behind us. We are here for battle.’
The man’s face fell. ‘You are too late, lords. The Danes came down the river two days past. It took two days for their fleet to pass. They have gone with all their ships, back out to sea.’
‘Which way did they sail?’ Athelstan said.
‘South,’ the man said.
South. The word fell heavily among them. They had ridden north, and the Danes had sailed south.
Athelstan said nothing, but you could tell from the way he sat in the saddle that he was broken by the news: humbled and furious and broken.
News came slowly to Contone. Without the menfolk the place seemed to lose its direction, though the routines continued in a dull and predictable way. Kendra kept herself busy, and each afternoon she put her stool outside the door of the hall, so she could look out for men who might bear tidings.
At the end of April, news came that the king had ridden north from Oxeneford to fight the Danes. But then there was nothing. No news filled each day. Newslessness provoked their imaginations: the Danes had won; the English had been routed; Godwin had been slain.
It was four days after the first full moon of May that tidings finally came. At Contone the ale-wife was chewing on a crust of bread when Kendra burst into the brew house. ‘We’ve beaten them!’ she said, and it took a moment for the words to register.
‘Have we?’ Agnes said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Two monks are in the hall now,’ Kendra said. ‘They come from Wincestre. They say that the king has driven the Danes from the north. The Army has fled before the king.’
The Alewife was all in a fluster. They’d beaten the Danes! she thought, and wrung her pudgy fingers with delight and anticipation. Victory meant feasting, and there hadn’t been a grand feast in Contone since she was a little girl. She remembered those days with nostalgic delight. ‘Well, they’ll need ale, if I know anything of men!’
At Athelingedean, Edmund’s grandmother lay on her death bed and heard the news with a sigh of relief. She had a special gift sent to the monks at Leomynstre of a hundred and twenty fresh Ethelred pennies, their minted edges sharp and clear. They had ETHELRED REX ANGLO on one side, EDPINE MO GRAN on the other, with the words ‘To the good monks at Burne, to pray to the Lord, and express our gratitude for our victory.’
The old lady consoled herself that she had schooled her grandsons, and it seemed as if all her labours had paid off. Her days were short and she closed her eyes and crossed herself and thanked God personally, as if He had done this just for her, so that she could depart this world in peace.
The money was taken and prayers were added, and in Heaven Christ and his Father heard. But victory was measured in the numbers of enemy slain, and there were few Danish corpses buried that spring who had not died of flux or ague.
*
In the May fields at Contone the corn grew knee-high. The first crop of hay was cut. The king had turned south. Kendra settled back into the routine of sewing and spinning, eating and praying.
‘Don’t you wish you’d ridden north?’ Kendra said to Brunstan.
‘Bah!’ he said. ‘No. I couldn’t ride so hard. A day’s ride is far enough for me.’
‘They have won,’ she said.
‘Good. I am glad for them. I look forward to hearing their tales. I bet they’ll have grown with the telling.’
Kendra smiled. She was brim full of expectation and kept herself busy imagining what they would say and the great deeds they would have done.
‘Mistress Agnes has you working?’ Kendra said.
‘That she does.’
‘Where today?’
‘Brooms,’ he said. ‘From the hazel thickets in the top fields.’
Brunstan took the sickle and the twine with him, with a pot of ale. There were many hazel coppices in the high fields. He worked hard that day, was happy to have been left behind at Contone. He had never been a warrior, and had never been much of a seaman either. He liked woods and fields and good hard earth beneath his feet. There was work and company about the manor, constant food in the hall, warmth and conversation and shoulders to rub up against.
The next day he climbed further up into the high fields with a scythe to cut the late hay. Agnes’s son, Godmaer, followed him with a long piece of grass in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. He went slowly with his twisted foot.
‘Come on, you lazy bugger!’ Brunstan said.
Godmaer grinned and hurried to catch up.
The sun was hot that morning. Brunstan wiped the sweat from his eyes on the back of his sleeve and straightened his stiff back.
Godmaer was supposed to be raking the hay out to dry, but Brunstan turned and couldn’t see him.
‘Oi!’ he shouted. ‘Club foot never stopped a man working with his hands.’
Godmaer appeared over the bank that kept livestock from the forest. He was still chewing his grass stem. Brunstan didn’t know why he had to have this battle with him.
‘Are you going to do an ounce of work today?’
The boy chewed his grass and strolled towards him.
That morning armoured men rode through the Weald. Their harnesses jangled. They carried spears and shields, had violence in their hearts. They were not king’s men, and any who saw them stopped and felt a prickle of fear, but the alarm faded as it was apparent that the horsemen were passing them by.
A milkmaid sat on the paddock fence in a high stead and saw the riders passing beneath, spurring their horses down towards Contone. A shepherd stood in the high fields, where he was herding sheep for the first shearing, saw the riders and thought for a moment that it was Godwin returned. But they did not see him and passed on, taking the path through the high pastures that led to the hall. Through the field where Brunstan scythed.
Brunstan’s back was damp with sweat and he paused when he felt the thunder of hooves through the dry earth. He looked up. His eyesight was not good. He leant on his scythe and put up his hand to shield it from the sun.
‘Greetings,’ he called out. ‘This is Godwin’s land. There is no hunting here.’
‘We’ve not come hunting,’ the lead man said. He pulled his horse up as he approached. It stamped sideways, slowing to a trot, biting its bridle and tossing its head. The rider was a thick-necked man with bright orange hair and freckles. He was the ugliest man Brunstan had seen.
‘No?’
‘No.’ The orange-haired man drew his sword. He kicked his horse, drove her straight at Brunstan. Brunstan ducked, but he was no warrior and ducked too late. The yard of st
eel broke his skull as if it were as fragile as a hen’s egg. He was dead before he hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Godmaer finished his crap and wiped himself with moss from the tree trunk next to him. He stepped away from the smell and hauled up his trousers, tied the cord that knotted them and walked out into the field.
He was just in time to see the horsemen ride up towards Brunstan. He spat the chewed grass stalk from his mouth, and sauntered forward. Steel flashed in the sunlight. Brunstan fell dead, and then the horsemen looked up and Godmaer realised they were looking at him.
Shit! he thought, and turned and hobbled desperately down the hill as the horses thundered after.
Two of the farm men saw Godmaer as they rested under a shady tree and ate a meal of bread and cheese. He was hurtling down the hill, arms flailing as he leapt through stubble and fence and stone. The two men had been sharpening shears. They were slow-thinking. They saw the horsemen and they saw the boy and they stood up and scratched their heads.
They’d never seen him run so fast.
‘That’s Agnes’s son,’ one of the men said.
‘He’s being chased,’ said the other.
‘That he is.’
‘What’s he done now?’
They shook their heads and tutted. The two men hung for a moment in indecision, but chasing a lame boy, however lazy, with spear and sword went against their sense of right and wrong and they scowled.
‘He’s not going to make it,’ one of the men observed. And it was true. The horsemen rode up to and over Godmaer. Once they had passed, his body lay still among the cut grass
And then the horsemen saw them and the two men realised that they were next.
Kendra was sitting in the herb garden when Agnes ran around the side of the hall, her skirts hitched up, like a terrified hen.