by Justin Hill
Godwin was withdrawn at first. Kendra waited for him. When he came to her, she held him tight, and when night fell and the closet door was shut, they clung to each other through their lovemaking and beyond, as they lay asleep and dreaming.
Autumn was just setting in. Halfway through September they awoke to a thin scattering of frost that lightly dusted the morning slopes of the Downs.
There was a glorious sky that afternoon as a storm blew in from the west. It was time to ride, Godwin thought.
That night they sat in the hall. They listened to the blackbird. The doors were thrown open, and Godwin stood outside and watched as twilight slowly settled over England.
Kendra stepped up behind him. He felt her step close to his side. She leant her head on his shoulder.
An early fox barked in the far valley. It made Kendra’s skin shiver.
‘So,’ Kendra said, ‘the summons has come.’
‘It has.’
‘Your king has need of you,’ she said. ‘You had better go.’
On the next morning Kendra stood in the hall doorway and watched them go.
Farewell, Godwin son of Wulfnoth, she thought and stood and watched for a long time but he did not turn and the horsemen disappeared into the fringes of the Weald, and despite everything, Kendra had a feeling low in her gut that she would not see them come again.
CHAPTER TEN
The Battle of Assandune
All England was united and all men answered the summons who could make it to Lundenburh in time.
Godwin had quite a reputation and many wanted to ride with him. They stopped at his tent as soon as they arrived at the muster, and when the day ended, he rode at the head of nearly a hundred mailed warriors who were keen and eager as young pups.
As he looked behind him, Godwin felt strangely hollow, despite the warm words and the friendly greetings and the firm hand’s grip. There was an air of things passing. The leaves were turning to yellow, red berries splattered the green hedgerows. And the men about him were gentler folk. There was no need for secrecy; they rode the straightest and most open roads, and every few miles companies of horsemen fell in with them. Many men brought their wives and sons to witness the triumph over the harried Danish remnant. It was as if they were drawn from a different nation: fatter, more complacent, less angry, more cheerful, like the rich pilgrims who set out to St Hilda’s Shrine in Wincestre each year.
Godwin yearned to be with Edmund again, riding in his mail. He felt as though that were the only real life, and that now he was falling asleep again, or that something within him was gently dying. All he wished for were more of the men who had spent the summer eluding Knut’s riders, the men whose names he had not known, the dirty and the desperate men, the half-hundred who had lain under hedgerows to sleep, been rained on each night and stood back up with dawn and shared a breakfast of cheerful words and grinning dirty faces. But they lay slain on the many battlefields.
That night at the feast he looked at the confident faces of this new muster and a voice in his head asked, Where were you at Sorestone? Why did you never answer our summons?
Edmund had girdled the Danish camp about with burning and such was the confidence of the new muster that it was hard to get men out of their beds each morning, after the long night’s drinking. In the end Godwin left them behind.
‘Come! When the battle’s over, there’ll be time enough to sleep,’ he said to Beorn as they waited for men to comb their hair or boil their morning brew. ‘Let us ride together and leave these lazy thews behind. I wish to see King Edmund.’
Lundenburh had not changed, but the tents about it were no longer Danish besiegers, but an English host such as had not been seen before.
Godwin rode along the West Minster causeway and hoped to see men he knew on the gateway, but he did recognise them.
‘Go away,’ the men called. ‘The king is busy in council. Camp in the fields like other men and come at the appointed hour.’
Godwin was furious. ‘I do not know your face, young warrior, but I am Godwin Wulfnothson, returned from the dead. Open this gate!’
The men were horrified, and Beorn gave them a long, hard stare as they rode through into the palace. There was a sudden shriek and Godwin paused as he handed his reins to one of the stable lads and turned and saw the old peacock strutting out from behind the abbey walls. It cannot be the same, he thought, but as if in a sign, the bird turned its narrow head towards him and opened its fanned tail in a brilliant blue and green and turquoise salute.
At the hall there was a crowd waiting, and Beorn was appalled. ‘I was fighting Danes when this lot were still dangling from their mother’s tit. Are they here to fight a battle or learn how to ride a horse?’
At least the door wards knew Godwin. They pushed the crowd out of the way and a voice called out, ‘Godwin Wulfnothson, King’s Thegn of Sudsexe, Banner-Bearer at the Battle of Penne, Companion to the King.’
Godwin’s heart swelled to hear this title attached to his name. Surrounded by his men, he strode into King Edmund’s hall, heels booming on the well-cut boards.
Edmund jumped up when he saw his friend. The two men hurried to greet each other. They embraced. Edmund crushed Godwin to him; the strength and passion of the greeting surprised him, and the anger and irritation he had felt at the door wards fell from him.
‘God Almighty be thanked,’ Edmund said. ‘My bravest warrior is brought back to me!’
‘Yes, lord,’ Godwin replied.
Edmund held him again. ‘I have missed you, Godwin. Come, sit next to me. Word has come this morn that Knut has broken out of Tanet, but we have him trapped.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure,’ Edmund said. ‘Here, sit!’
Many of the men sitting on the king’s bench were men that Godwin knew. Ealdgyth was there, and Queen Emma, the White Queen, as men now called her, and Archbishop Wulfstan, of course. And Eadric.
Godwin stopped. ‘You are with us again,’ he said.
Eadric smiled.
‘Find any traitors amongst the Danes?’
Eadric’s smile soured.
‘We found a traitor, after the battle at Penne,’ Godwin said. ‘His name was Edwine. He was a young Sumersæton thegn who sold news of us to the Danes. He was one of your men. I remember him clearly. We cut his head off.’
‘Then he is surely dead,’ Eadric said.
Godwin laughed. ‘Yes, that usually does the trick.’ His gaze lingered a little longer on Eadric than was normal.
‘Sit!’ Edmund said. ‘We have greater matters afoot. Knut has run out of food and crossed the Temese into Exsessa. Godwin, you are just in time to ride! I have a fleet sailing into the Temese to prevent the Danes’ escape. This time Knut cannot flee. He must meet us in battle, and as God is my witness, we shall destroy the invaders.’
The court that sat that day was very different from the rough court the princes had kept. Strangers held places of honour; some men looked at him and wondered who he was.
‘I am Godwin,’ Godwin told one man who was old and a little blind.
‘Oh, you are Godwin,’ the old man said, and many in the room turned and stared.
Yes, Godwin’s look said. I am Godwin. Who are you?
There was no time to get Edmund alone and so Godwin sat unhappy and brooding as the council went on. Men who had sworn oaths to Knut that summer were now sitting on the same benches as men they had tried to kill.
The sight robbed Godwin of hunger or pleasure.
Godwin had a brief moment in the king’s dressing room. Eadwig was there, Edward and Alfred also.
‘There have been a lot of changes,’ he said to Edmund.
Edmund nodded. He could tell what Godwin was getting at and did not like to have to explain himself. He took Godwin by the arm and led him aside. ‘Much has happened since you were last at court, Godwin. There have been many hard choices. I have extended the hand of peace to all honest Englishmen. All of them have relinquished their oaths
to Knut. Knut is like a frightened girl now, forever running from us. We have him.’ Edmund held his hand open and Godwin saw the scar where they had cut their palms as blood brothers. Edmund’s hand closed into a fist. ‘We have Knut here. I have not forgotten you, or the oaths we swore when we were young.’
‘That Eadric would be the first to hang.’
Edmund gave Godwin a look and spoke in a low voice. ‘First the Danes.’
Godwin nodded.
Edmund laughed then raised his voice so that all could hear. ‘Listen, tonight you shall sit with me at the feast.’
‘I do not need to be honoured in public. Let another man, less trustworthy, take it and I will sit on the lower benches.’
Edmund spoke sincerely. ‘No. You have earnt the place more than any other man. I would not have any say that the king does you dishonour when you have worked so hard for my cause.’
*
They ate finely spiced stews and rich platters of crusted bread but the food tasted bland as barley as a procession of traitors took their places at the benches.
First was Aylmar the Darling. He strode in with his two grown sons and sat on Edmund’s left. Aylmar talked quickly and laughed too loudly and watched too intently the face of the king, like a hound that searches its master’s face as it waits for scraps.
Godwin felt sick as Eadric strode into the hall. I would have him crawl on his belly like a worm. I would string him from the gallows tree, rip his guts from his belly and roast them over an open fire.
Edmund stood and smiled. ‘Eadric Alderman, welcome.’
Eadric caught Godwin’s eye. A smile played about his lips and Godwin looked away. Father, there is your enemy. Forgive me that I cannot strike him down where he sits, for I am bound by strict oaths of peace within Edmund’s halls.
Eadric and Aylmar made pleasant conversation, but it seemed to Godwin that the mood of the majority was heavy. No one could bring cheer to a room so full of feuds and hatred. It was like a wake, Godwin thought, or a purification, and he caught Abbot Wulsy’s eye and wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
Godwin excused himself from the hall as soon as he was able, and when he was alone with Beorn he was furious. ‘Is this what we fought for! For that bastard to sit in the hall? Why does he allow them to sit at his table? How long has this been going on?’ Godwin raged till he was red in the face.
The night outside was foul and wet: it lashed the hall with rain and wind. They stayed up late drinking and laughing and boasted of how they would deal with the Danes, and stumbled late to their beds. Godwin had a gut full of wine, and he bragged how he had stood by the gorse bush, gone toe to toe with Danemark’s finest and cut them down. Godwin bragged till he was sick, put his fingers down his throat to empty his gut and then fell into place on the hall floor, where his war band slept, sword and shield by their side, as he had done in the hedgerows: always ready for war.
That night Godwin slept and Næling slept next to him and dreamt of other battles it had fought, the skulls it had shattered, the storm of spears, the meeting of wounds, the uncaring and unlucky judgement of swords.
*
Daybreak brought clear skies. Cocks crowed as the morning minster and trees stood silent and still as Edmund Ironside’s warhost filed out of Crepelgate, and the sick and crippled reached up to touch the hem of Edmund’s kirtle.
‘Back!’ some of his retainers shouted, but Edmund put up his hand and let them touch him. The hands pawed at him, clutching and grasping and diseased and dirty.
There was a mixture of wonder and disgust and pity on Edmund’s face. He was God’s anointed now. The father of the nation. A saint or a martyr, singled out by Christ.
‘Bless you all,’ Edmund said. ‘Bless you all! Pray for us. Farewell!’
The way was paved, the stones led the way as they followed Wæcelinga Stræt north, through fields still damp with a light rainfall, that steamed under the bright autumn sun.
Edmund had his best huntsmen riding far ahead, but there was no need to hunt the Danes down. They made no attempt to hide their progress. There was a column of smoke by day, flames by night.
Ulfcytel, alderman of East Anglia, rode south and greeted them and brought his horse into step with theirs. ‘Knut dares not ride into the fens,’ he said, ‘lest my men surprise him. My men saw the English ships enter the Temese two days ago. There is no escape for the Danes this time. He has already turned back to his ships. They lie on the mudflats next to a hilltop village named Carrenduna.’
‘How far away is that?’ Edmund asked.
‘Three days’ riding.’
Edmund heeled his horse. ‘Then let us do it in two!’
Every reeve and pompous thegn and staller wanted his pound of flesh and Edmund worked to entertain them all.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I understand. Let us first destroy the Danes; then we will hold a council and put all these matters to rights.’
Godwin resented all these petitioners.
When Eadric cantered up Godwin found some excuse to let his horse hang back. He could not bear to be around the man, but on the second morning he saw Edmund laughing with Eadric and jealousy flared within him.
What is Edmund promising? a voice in Godwin’s head asked.
Fat, brave Abbot Wulsy put a hand to his shoulder. ‘You are well named, “God-win” – “Good Friend”. The king will not forget. Do not fret so. Edmund is now cyning – of the people. A king must deal out rings in hall.’
Godwin laughed. He knew the maxims as well as any man: rivers flood-grey flow from the mountain; fyrd ride together, a glorious war band, the bear on the heath, old and terrible, God in Heaven, judge of deeds.
Edmund’s mounted warriors followed the long, low ridge that ran along the north of the Temese estuary. It was a bleak and wind-blasted place, dwarfed by the emptiness of the flat horizons.
At the end of the ridge was the last hill before the land gave way to salt marshes and wading bird mudflats – unstable and temporary land – and then ten thousand acres of restless and uneasy steel-grey sea.
It was there that Edmund ran the Danes to ground. From the heights of the hills they looked down to the Danish camp, which had a gloomy and trapped air about it. Their camp was on a low hump of land at the point where the Cruc River drained through reeds into the Temese.
The Danish ships were beached on the mudflats.
Between the hill of Assandune and the sandy hump the Danes were sheltering on was a narrow causeway of fields that led through the marsh-green reeds. It was evening on the second day.
‘They say that place is named Carrenduna – the Hill of Cana,’ Edmund told Godwin.
Edmund held a mass that night, before another feast of hard drinking. He entertained all his chief men and then sent each back to their companions.
That night Edmund gathered all his companions, all stout men who had stood in battle with him and followed him through hedge and marsh. Eadric was not there, and it was like the days of the Wild Hunt. Godwin raised a silent cup to Edmund’s grandmother and hoped her soul was watching this moment when the blood of the English kings ran true again.
*
In the morning Godwin took out sturdy leather shoes. ‘No lamb for the lazy wolf,’ he could hear his father telling him as he folded his trousers twice in the front and then crisscrossed the thongs up to his knees. He triple-knotted them. Did not want to lose a shoe when battle came. He laced up his padded hauberk over his kirtle and was helped into his steel-knit war shirt by Beorn, felt the weight of it upon his shoulders.
Godwin’s footsteps were heavier then; he walked with more gravitas.
My laces are too tight, Godwin thought, and bent to retie his left shoe. He fastened the right, wiped the sweat from his hands on his thighs and buckled Næling to his side, the sword sleeping in her silver-tipped sheath.
When all was done Godwin took his hood of hand-linked mail. He’d stripped it from a Dane at Sorestone. The fine-forged links, woven at the smi
thy, were lined with calfskin. Godwin thought it lucky. He held it open. The padding smelt of stale sweat and leather. Godwin set his helmet on his head, a single piece of black vaulted steel. Gold-worked boars decorated the cheek-plates, the rim-work embossed with cunningly crafted gold.
The helmet was open faced, but it restricted his view to either side. It was like blinkers on a horse, driving the man ever forwards. It gave him a handsome look as he stood in his bright war shirt, every inch the warrior, hard eyes gleaming beneath the wolf-worked gold rim.
In his left hand Godwin grasped his wide shield of linden boards. In his right hand’s grip two fine ash spears, steel-tipped and eager: one to throw into his enemy’s face, the other to wield at shoulder height, and thrust into the face of his foe.
All about him men were putting on mail and helm, and lining up in their grim war bands. Beorn was tight-lipped. He had a long bearded axe in his hands, was proud of holding such a magnificent weapon. He rolled his head from side to side, swung the axe to limber up.
Edmund was dressed in a knee-length mail shirt. His hair fell free to his shoulders. He had cut it short in the English fashion.
The bishops came forward and Edmund knelt.
Godwin’s gaze strayed to the Danish camp half a mile away in the crook of the Cruc River. He knew how the Danes must be feeling. They were outnumbered, hunted, doomed. It made him uneasy: it was how they had been at Penne. The cornered dog bit hardest. But the Danish camp seemed confident. They were busy readying themselves, with men drawing up around their banners in the flat sloping strip fields before the chapel at Carrenduna.
There was little room for hidden troops or surprises. Toe to toe, he remembered, and Edmund’s horse was brought forward. He sat high above the English host, so that all could see him, and led them down the hillside.
A low, smooth ridge of dry land connected them to the fields where the Danes were lining up. The English took up their positions opposite. Thousands upon thousands, as leaves and flowers appear in season; the finest of England arrayed that day. Godwin spoke to many of them as they stood at the front of the battle line; conferred with Edmund, shook hands, patted shoulders, gave the men encouraging words.