Shieldwall

by Justin Hill

  ‘Perhaps they’re spies,’ Godwin said.

  Edmund stopped his horse. They waited for the boys to catch up. They came within twenty paces and Edmund shouted to them, ‘Go back!’ But one of the boys pushed his horse forward. He was thirteen, perhaps, with the first down of blond stubble on his chin.

  ‘We want to follow you,’ he said.

  ‘Go back,’ Edmund told them. ‘You have neither mail nor helm, and things are not so dire that we need boys to fight for us.’

  The boys did not move. In the end Godwin rode up to them and spoke gently. ‘Go back and care for your mother. That is your job now. She has lost too many sons this year. But tell me your names.’

  The boys announced themselves proudly.

  ‘Well, Egbert, Elfstan and brave little Dunstan, the time will come, I am sure, when it is your turn to step up and defend our country. Save your lives and your strength till then. Listen to the great tales; practise your sword skills; keep your oaths and pray each night before you go to sleep; and remember your father and brothers, and feud against the Danes.’

  Godwin smiled, but they did not move.

  ‘I will come back for you when the time is come,’ Godwin said gently. ‘Do not make a gift of glory to the Danes. Wait till your lives are better spent.’

  The boys turned their horses slowly back, labouring under the weight of disappointment.

  Each time they arrived at a village, town or hall, the eyes of the women seemed to ask, We have already given you our sons and husband. What else can we give you? Make peace, their sad eyes seemed to say. Make peace and let us live.

  Edmund gathered five hundred men. Some of them were those who had come too late for battle; others were wounded men they had left behind; a hundred came from the garrison at Malmesberie.

  They camped in the graveyard at Glowcestre and waited for news.

  None came.

  The country was exhausted and timid.

  In the end it was Eadric who rode deep into Wessex to find them. He brought three hundred of his own men and left them outside the burg gates as his horse walked forward. Eadric’s men were tellingly hale. There were no wounds on them, or broken limbs. It was as if they had never been on that battlefield.

  Edmund would not open the gates. He glared down from the wooden palisade and Eadric approached as cautiously as a carrion bird that tilts its head, hops sideways towards the carcass.

  ‘Why are you here, fickle traitor?’

  ‘Knut wishes peace,’ Eadric said.

  ‘There will be peace when he is gone from this broad kingdom and when you lie dead, throttled with your own guts.’

  Eadric was unswayed. ‘God has judged you, Ironside,’ he called up. ‘It would be well to heed his voice.’

  Edmund looked down. ‘If your men stood in battle, we would have won at Assandune.’

  Eadric said nothing. The two men stared at each other.

  ‘I will return in three days,’ Eadric said at last. ‘Knut has said that he will take Mercia and the old Danelaw. He offers you all of Wessex as your own.’

  ‘Wessex is not his to offer!’ Edmund shouted but Eadric rode slowly away.

  There were burgs and shires that did not send men to Assandune, so Edmund sent men out to raise more war bands.

  ‘There is time for one last battle before winter sets in,’ he said.

  Godwin went from hall to hall. The reception ranged from polite to frosty, but no one wanted more war.

  ‘Make peace!’ the women urged. ‘If God is against us we cannot give you more of our sons.’

  Godwin came back with barely enough to fill a hall, and he had done better than most.

  ‘They will not come,’ he said.

  ‘They will not come yet,’ Edmund corrected.

  Later, when Godwin and the king were alone, Edmund was less cock-sure. ‘What if Knut rides into Wessex? How will we resist him?’

  Godwin frowned. ‘We cannot. No doubt Eadric will ride with him. Will your wife’s people ride with us?’

  Edmund did not know. Fate had spun on its wheel.

  ‘We could take to the hedgerows and byways again,’ Godwin said.

  ‘They will not,’ Edmund said and their gaze fell on the weary men as they prepared for sleep. ‘We left all the best men on the battlefields. They are buried.’

  ‘Maybe, but our greatest kings and heroes walked on the same soil as us, slept under the same sky. What is a little frost and rain?’

  Edmund smiled. He loved Godwin.

  All through the next days monk and abbot and reeve and thegn battered Edmund with talk of peace. Godwin and Edmund resisted, but at long last Edmund’s shoulders sagged lower with each hour, each day that passed and he was persuaded to at least meet with Knut.

  Godwin was appalled. It was like a girl being cajoled into an unhappy marriage. But he was as beaten as Edmund.

  ‘What should I do, Wulfnothson?’ Edmund asked, but Godwin could see that he had already made up his mind.

  ‘I would fight,’ Godwin said. ‘Everything Eadric touches is poisoned. But you are king. This is your decision to make.’

  The peace-makers cast mistrustful looks at Godwin.

  Edmund nodded. He coughed to clear his throat. ‘If it gains us time to meet with the Dane, then I will meet him.’

  The isle of Derheste in the Vale of Glowcestrescir was chosen as the meeting place. It was a wet green land of many rivers, which drained into the Avon and Severne, crisscrossed with marshes and soggy hollows of watching, stagnant green water, soaking the long tresses of the hanging willows.

  It was also a site of ancient religion, where men threw sacred objects and waited for the response of the water-spirit.

  Derheste lay in the middle of this mysterious landscape. It was a secluded spot, with the slow brown Severne drifting along the north side, marshes and wetlands on the south. There was a monastery now, built on the flat-topped hump, to tame the wild water-spirits with prayers and devotion.

  Edmund came from the south with a hundred retainers, and it was arranged that Knut should come from the north with the same number.

  Both kings had sworn oaths on holy relics, and each had given the other twenty men as hostages.

  ‘I want Eadric as a hostage,’ Edmund insisted.

  When Knut heard, he was glad to agree. ‘Tell Edmund that I will give him Eadric and his chief men as well as twenty of my own warriors.’

  ‘What do you think he’s like,’ Edmund asked Godwin as they prepared to meet their foe, ‘this Knut?’

  Godwin gave an odd gesture. ‘He’s a bastard.’

  Edmund nodded. ‘I find myself looking forward to meeting him.’

  They washed and dressed and turned out in the finest clothes they could find or borrow. They were a young and handsome company as they set off that morning. Godwin rode at the front with the king. His skin prickled as the road tipped them gently downwards towards the green and reedy isle. Far off, in the distance, rising above the morning mists, was the humped back of the Malvern Hills. The road descended to the Severne Valley. The dank air was chilling, the dark water impenetrable.

  Mist filled the valley, and only the tops of a few tall trees and the monastery tower rose above it, but they were lost to them as they went deeper. Godwin looked down into the flat black water. It was still and stagnant, and did not bode well. They passed a swineherd driving his charges to the side of the road. His dirty face looked up at Edmund’s company as they passed by. The lad caught the eye of Edmund, Godwin and many of the chief men of the kingdom and stared dumbly up at them.

  He does not know that he has just seen Edmund Ironside, Godwin thought. He does not know and he does not care as long as he has a gut full of food, and peace enough to marry and raise sons and daughters of his own.

  Doubt was rust corrosive.

  If he does not know us, then why are we fighting? Godwin wondered, and did not know any more, except that he had sworn oaths to Edmund and that he would never betray his d
ear lord.

  The river was high and many of the lower pastures were flooded, but monks came out with boats to show them the way, and their horses slowly picked a way across the flooded pastures.

  ‘So this is Derheste,’ Edmund said as they climbed up the far side. ‘Alfege was an oblate here, was he not?’

  ‘He was, my lord king,’ the abbot said.

  Edmund gave him a bag of silver. ‘For your troubles,’ he said, and the abbot bowed and thanked the king. Godwin caught an odd tone in his voice and wondered if other monks were addressing Knut the same way. If the same thought crossed Edmund’s mind, he did not let on, but dismounted and knelt and crossed himself. His company joined him, a noble congregation, men with much on their minds, and many sins to atone for.

  Godwin prayed only reluctantly. The words came slowly and a voice in his head kept accusing God of failing him, failing them all at Assandune. Godwin saw that the abbot was looking at his king and there were tears running down his cheeks, and Godwin understood. The monks wept to see the piety of this bravest of kings.

  Edmund rose. ‘Is he here?’ he said gravely.

  They all knew who he was talking about.

  ‘He is, my lord.’

  ‘Then,’ Edmund said with weary note in his voice, ‘it is time that we should meet.’

  Godwin felt uneasy as they all put their weapons aside, but the monks were very thorough.

  ‘It is the same for both sides,’ they assured them. Godwin looked at them as if he suspected them of not telling the truth, gave them Næling without words but with much feeling. This was his father’s sword, notched with the deaths of many men.

  Two bodyguards then led the men to the church door. Edmund went quickly, as if he wanted it to be over. Godwin lengthened his stride to keep up. His footsteps were heavy and solemn on the linden boards. He was Godwin Wulfnothson. He had fought at Sorestone, Sudwerca and Assandune. He had the scars to prove it.

  The two bodyguards halted fifty yards apart. Now the two companies stood and stared at each other with frank curiosity.

  Knut stepped forward. Godwin had heard much about Swein’s second son. He looked small and slender. Though his face was handsome enough, Knut looked no more than eighteen.

  ‘You fought a good battle,’ Knut said. His English was heavily accented.

  Edmund spoke to him with the Northymbrian accent of his mother.

  The two young kings understood each other well. They shared words that Godwin could not quite catch, and then both of them laughed and Godwin found himself laughing as well, and then the whole room was full of laughing men.

  ‘Shall we feast?’ Edmund said, and they all filed through to the room the monks had prepared and sat in alternate seats and drank and laughed and were glad to put war and war shirts and weapons aside.

  England was divided along the ancient border between Mercia and Wessex, but Lundenburh was to remain inside Wessex, and Euruic under Knut’s sway.

  Peace felt good to all of them. It was a relief, like standing under a waterfall and letting the torrent wash care from your head. Oaths of fellowship were sworn; then they filed into the church for a solemn mass. Relics were brought out, including a phial of water that St Oswald used to wash pilgrims’ feet, and Edmund and Knut renewed their oaths of peace and brotherhood. Edmund agreed to pay the Army a great sum of silver.

  ‘So it is agreed,’ the abbot said. ‘Knut Sweinson shall rule Danelaw. Edmund, son of Ethelred, known as the Ironside, shall rule the kingdom of Wessex, and peace will remain through the kingdom.’

  The two men kissed each other on the cheek, sealed their friendship with gifts in the traditional manner of their ancient ancestors.

  ‘Farewell Edmund, King,’ Knut said as they prepared to leave the isle.

  ‘Farewell Knut, King.’

  The two men shook hands, holding each other by the wrist. It was a frank and honest handshake. They embraced a final time, and their companies witnessed it and then walked away from each other. Boats carried them back to the far shore, where their weapons were waiting. Godwin strapped his sword to his belt again. They were back in the real world now, and his sword hung heavy.

  That night they rode back to Glowcestre in silence.

  When they returned the hostages were let go. Eadric rode harder than most.

  ‘He is eager to be gone,’ Godwin said.

  They watched as Eadric’s silhouette faded into the distance.

  ‘How long till Knut breaks the truce?’ Edmund asked.

  ‘The Walsh will be keen to test their new neighbour, so give him a season putting them down, and another year to get the recalcitrant in line,’ Godwin said.

  ‘So we have a year before war begins again, two at best.’

  Godwin and Edmund looked at the future before them, and although it seemed hard and difficult, they did not shirk.

  ‘We shall have to prepare the country for war,’ Edmund said. ‘But tonight you know what we should do?’

  Godwin shook his head.

  ‘The abbot here keeps some good Frankish wines,’ Edmund said and turned and looked at him. ‘I think we should get very, very drunk.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Shorn Threads

  The news of peace between Edmund and Knut spread throughout the country from the marshes of Cantware to the cliff shores of Cornwalia, to the city of Cestre on the wild borders of the north-west, to the holy coast of Northymbria and even to the parts of Northymbria that paid tribute to the Scottish king Malcolm.

  In Lundenburh Queen Emma sat with her sons Alfred and Edward. Both boys were shaken by their first sight of battle and had been safely plucked from the ruin of Assandune and brought back through the Crepelgate gates, which were shut behind them, barred and barricaded against the coming of the Danes.

  The Danes passed by and the White Queen stood on the walls and refused to grant them access. Knut rode up. He enjoyed the sight of the White Queen holding the city against him still. She had a chair brought to the gate top and she sat there, with her robes arranged about her, and looked down on him. Emma was a Norman. There was much about her that showed her Danish ancestry. She had a well-shaped face and an upturned nose, her hair was golden, though her eyes were nut brown.

  Knut admired her.

  ‘They say men in Normandig still speak Danish,’ Knut said to Eric, who was sitting next to him on his horse.

  Eric had lost a finger at Assandune and the bandaged stump itched. He rubbed it against his thigh and nodded. ‘Along the coast they do,’ he said.

  Knut cleared his throat and called up in Danish, ‘Who is this lady that stands on my city walls?’

  There was a long pause, and Knut thought that she did not understand, but after a moment a voice came back. It was deep for a lady, authoritative and clear. Her accent was a little barbaric, such as the country folk on Sealand spoke. Knut found it quite charming.

  ‘Lundenburh was once Mercia.’

  ‘Yes, but the oaths you swore ceded it to Wessex.’

  ‘I shall take it one day,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe, but that day is not yet.’

  Knut laughed. ‘So you will not open the gates to me.’

  ‘No,’ Queen Emma told him. ‘And not until you are king of all England. Lundenburh is in the realm of Wessex, Edmund Ironside is our king, and there will be peace between us as long as you keep to your oaths, Knut Sweinson. Keep to your oaths, young king, and God will look kindly upon you.’

  Edward and Alfred saw their mother step down from the walls.

  Edward was an uncomfortable youth and disliked his mother. She disliked him almost as strongly.

  Later that night, when Alfred was asleep, Edward sat silent in the corner and listened to Queen Emma talking to her chaplain.

  ‘What will I do with my boys?’ she said.

  Edward pricked up his ears.

  ‘They have more of their father in them.’

  Queen Emma’s face turned and saw Edward was listening.

/>   ‘Edward!’ she said sharply. ‘It is time for sleep now. Go say your prayers.’

  In Contone Kendra had not been able to sleep. She sat that night listening to Dudoc sing a poem about a great warrior doomed to die, as all men must, in the end, however much glory they won in life: ‘Wyrd oft nereð unfægne eorl, þonne his ellen deah,’ Dudoc said. Fate is often merciful to the brave man.

  But poets sang too much of war and glory. What did they know of loss and longing? And next morning, once the chores were done, Kendra felt as though a great weight was pressing down upon her. She sat at home and stared at her loom, with all its hanging threads, and could not bring herself to weave.

  All she thought about was the news of Assandune: that the English had been broken after a battle that lasted into the ninth hour of the day, and that the king had escaped, but many of the great men of the English had been slaughtered.

  She woke each morning and longed for sight of a horseman, or a band of men, picking their way home, weary and wounded.

  Had she cared for Godwin just for him to be hacked to meat by Danish swords? She would not have tended him so gently if she had known.

  King Edmund rested in Glowcestre for a week while he set the defence of his people in order. He brought back the old provision that no man should be more than a day’s walk from a burg where he might seek shelter from raiders. The whole country was crisscrossed with burg towns, and the maintenance of their defence was put upon the local landowners. The first to be repaired were the burgs along the border of Wessex and Mercia. From Malmesberie, Cracgelade, Oxeneford, Walingeford, Sashes and on to Lundenburh, men deepened the great earthen ditches and renewed the wooden palisades.

  By the time King Edmund Ironside reached Oxeneford the repairs to the burg walls were already well underway. Edmund and Godwin rode out to inspect the work on the north gate.

  ‘It’s been a hundred and fifty years since the Temese was the line between our kingdoms,’ Edmund said. ‘Will men remember me as the man who lost England?’

  ‘No,’ Godwin said. ‘Alfred lost his entire kingdom and ended up taking it all back, and more.’

  ‘Why would God do this?’ Edmund asked.