Just for fun and for a little practice (I'm interested in writing historical fiction) I've written my own short story version of the epic saxon poem of an actual battle. The Battle Of Maldon (991 ad). Please tell me what u think.
The Battle Of Maldon
A monotonous mantle of cloud hung over the estuary, only weary grey light that carried little warmth fought through, leaving the wind that harried the coarse grass with a frigid caress. The Curlews call echoed across the sandy waste like a lament for a lost summer.
The cold serenity of this place was broken as gulls raucously took flight at some disturbance. The soft whisper of feet on sand could be heard. Just a few feet at first, then joined by more. Then the susurrus of many feet and hooves on the dunes rose to a trampling as many more joined the throng.
Men and horses marched over the dunes, hundreds of them. The dull thumps of their wooden weapons and shields, the iron clangs and rattles of their swords, axes and mail dispelled the soft chorus of nature on the shore.
No voices could be heard, only their eyes spoke, in varying dgrees, of fear, trepidation or determination.
At a barked command they drew up in a ragged line on the yielding wet sand of the flats.
And waited. A damp tension hung over the host, as all eyes fixed on a partly wooded island standing just off the shore.
A murmur rose as some began to speak.
'Where are they?'
'Maybe they've sailed already, off to harry some other God-forsaken coast'
'Please god let it be so'
'What a grim day to die' said Dunnere. He gazed solemnly at the shrouded sky which seemed, to him, to shield this scene from the eyes of Heaven. He shivered and wondered what events were to come.
Dunnere stood among the Ceorls, the peasant warriors. Summoned by their lord as part of his militia levy, or Fyrd, in defence of the land.
The Ceorls clutched their long thrusting spears and round wooden shields awkwardly, as if they were foreign objects from over the seas. They wore no mail, just the clothing of farmers. The cold wind gave them leave to shiver a little with fear.
'Dont speak of dying, lad'. The voice came from a rugged, older man who had formed up on Dunneres right. He grinned through a rough, red beard and placed a hand on Dunneres shoulder
'That may come to some of us' he continued 'yet it may be that for the price, God will give us the strength to rid ourselves of these heathen, Viking vermin'.
He turned to look at the island thoughtfully.
'My wife and bairns will live safe if we're granted that'
He smiled again at Dunnere, who noticed tension around the older mans eyes. He returned the smile with a thin one of his own and nodded roughly. All here had fears, he realised. He straightened his back and tried to absorb some of the resolve of his companion.
The talk turned his own thoughts to home, of smoke rising through rain from the chimney of the hut on his small farm. Of the warmth within, and of the gentle chatter from his children and busy wife. Then a strong voice rang out, and thoughts of home fled as Dunnere jerked up his head.
Eorl Byrhtnoth came riding down the line, the lord of these lands. He issued strident commands as he rode, fixing the line, ordering warriors to stand here and there as he went.
'Hold your shields tight, firm in your hands' he ordered 'Fear not, do as you are bid and we will prevail today'
The sight of him strengthened Dunnere. The Eorl sat confidently astride his horse, iron mail coat shining. A gold-gilted sword hilt jutted from a jewelled scabbard at his side. He held a slender ash spear with a relaxed grasp.
He rode on down the line and dismounted at the centre, among his thegns. There he drove away his horse, as all the mounted men had done upon arrival. It galloped away across the dunes to the fields to join the other horses. Dunnere watched it go with longing.
He remembered his place, and dispelled thoughts of flight. He leant forward slightly to watch the Eorl and his thegns, as if he could draw strength from them. The thegns were Byrhtnoths elite warriors. Land owning nobility, they had the best equipment and training, and sought eagerly to
prove their worth in battle.
The sight of their palpable, war ready confidence did assure Dunnere. Clad in iron mail and wearing iron helmets with long nose guards, carrying iron swords at their sides, they handled their spears and shields with grace. Dunnere adjusted his own grip on his weapon as he watched.
Then a loud voice broke his thoughts again. He snatched his sight around to its direction and his heart thumped. Around him the murmering ceased abrubtly.
On the far bank, on the shore of the island, stood a dark figure. He was clothed in black and dark browns beneath dull mail. On his head was an iron helmet that descended at the front to almost mask his eyes, which gazed out through slits. Hanging from the back of the helm was a
mail hood that protected his neck. In has hands were a spear and round shield, similair to Dunneres' own. Unlike Dunnere though, he had an iron sword slung at his side.
The herald surveyed the English host nonchalantly, as if they barely mattered, then his voice rang out again.
'Bold sea-raiders have commanded me to say this to you: that you must quickly bring treasure as tribute to buy off our spear-assault, for we will give you harsh war otherwise. There is no need for us to destroy you. If you are rich enough to pay, we will confirm truce and keep peace with you'.
The viking grew silent and waited. Eager and fearful eyes turned towards Byrhtnoth.
He paced forward, held up his spear and shield defiantly and shouted with anger,
'Hear me, seafarer, we will give you spears for tribute, point and sword. Take back this message to your people, that here stands a lord who will defend his kings land. It seems too shameful that you should go unfought with tribute after you have come so far. Though not easily shall you receive it, spear and sword will first reconcile us, grim battle-play, heathen shall fall in battle'.
As the Eorl spoke, Dunneres mouth grew dry. He placed the butt of his spear on the ground and leant on it for support. Once again he felt the red-bearded mans' hand on his shoulder, who said only 'Be strong', in a thick, distracted voice. Dunnere wasn't sure if the man was speaking to himself.
The time for further thought ended, as Byrhtnoth ordered all men forward to the bank.
Dunnere picked up his feet as if he were uprooting them and moved forward with the host.
They walked to the waters edge, looking about the island as if it contained some evil for them. The herald had crossed back over the small hill in the centre of the island.
He had not been gone long when he appeared again. This time he was not alone. More figures appeared at the crest of the hill as if they had grown out of it, constantly joined by more. Soon, hundreds of vikings were descending the hill.
Each one was armed and armoured in similar fashion to the herald, though a few carried broad axes instead of spears and shields. All looked grim and ready for battle.
Nervous gasps and whispers hissed along the wind. Behind Dunnere a man moaned 'God preserve us'.
Then a young man to Dunneres right began to chatter excitedly 'they cannot cross, the tide is in, they cannot cross!'
Dunnere had hardly noticed him before, he was young and small, only up to Dunneres' shoulder.
The red beared man spoke 'that will not save us, Byrhtnoth must give battle, so I'll wager we wait till the tide is out'.
So they waited, with only insults and sporadic arrows from the few that had brought bows exchanged across the water. But soon, too soon it seemed to most, the tide retreated from between the two armies as if to escape from harms way. It exposed a stone causeway, a natural bridge between mainland and island.
From amongst the thegns, three of the most skilled and hardiest warriors sauntered arrogantly onto the bridge to taunt the enemy to attack. The rest of the host stood at the head of the bridge, spears ready to hold the headland.
The thegns on the bridge hurled insults and brandished their weapons defiantly, heedless of danger.
Still the vikings refused to cross.
'Are they cowards? surely not, not these norsemen, but why will they not fight' the young man jabbered.
'They would be foolish to cross, against bitter bridge defenders' whispered the red-beared man, 'I do not see enough of them to try such a crossing'.
'Then we may be spared after all' gasped the young man.
Then the Eorls voice could be heard loudly again, shouting commands.
'The lord wishes us to retreat, to give the raiders room to cross, so that they may give fair battle, god almighty' a voice behind Dunnere groaned.
'Why' cried the young man, 'why throw away our advantage?'
The voice behind Dunnere spoke, Dunnere turned to look at him for the first time, A tall, thin man, with a bitter expression. The man replied 'A lords' bravado maybe, or maybe he does not wish the vikings to merely sail from this place were they cannot win, only to return some other time. It is ill for us, whichever'.
Reluctantly, they retreated, until a wide space of dull sand and harsh grass lay between them and the bridge. They had hardly reached their places when the black horde came swarming over the bridge.
'They come' rasped the bearded man through gritted teeth.
As the raiders formed up on the near side of the water, Byrhthnoths commands could be heared again.
'War-hedge, form a war-hedge!'
Galvanised by fear and determination, the English host formed a tight line of interlocking shields, with spears pointed outwards.
Dunnere dug his heels into the sand and steadied his legs. Around him he could smell the sweat of fear and resolution. Men jostled as they readied themselves in place, shields together to defend themselves and each other.
In front, no more than 30 yards away, the vikings had halted. Jeering, shouting and cursing. They brought out small throwing spears held in their shield hands. Dunnere watched transfixed as they brought back their throwing arms, and in unison, let their spears fly.
'Shields!' a cry rang out, startling Dunnere, he jerked his shield up as loud thuds could be heard along the shield wall, punctuated by cries of pain. Then a moment of silence.
Byrhtnoths host roared, emerging from their shields, they seem to have cast off their trepidation. Many brought out throwing spears of their own, or picked up viking spears that had struck only sand, and together they hurled them back.
It was the vikings turn to ward off the flying shafts. Most of the spears embedded into wooden shields, though here and there along the viking line some fell, clutching at wooden shafts protruding from limbs and torsos. On both sides, many warriors struck their shields against the ground to dislodge spears that were rendering them useless.
With a roar, the vikings surged forward. Dunnere, wide eyed, looked about him at the shield wall, he knew his life depended on it. There was a gap on his left, he did'nt know why until he looked down. There the young man lay, a spear had sunk through his neck, its bloody point emerged from the other side. Dunnere gritted his teeth and stepped over the body, trying to bring his shield more to the left to better fill the gap.
Gritting his teeth even harder, he looked over his shield to the front, and almost cried out. The raiders were closing fast and just a few yards away, within weapons reach those carrying spears halted. On both sides, the spearmen, holding their spear above their shoulders, with points directed at their enemies faces, began to jab away at other each other above their sheilds. Of the vikings bearing axes, some recklessly crashed into the line, and had spear points pressed through their mail, others hacked at the war-hedge rashly.
Dunnere could see in the corner of his sight men on both sides fall, but his attention was consumed by his desperate contest with the viking in front of him. They jabbed relentlessly at each others eyes, spear points crunching into linden wood as both raised their shields slightly when the other man thrust. But the vikings attacks were nearer the target, Dunneres head snapped back the more and his legs swayed, his shield was lowering, he almost sobbed. Then his opponent lost his footing slightly in the shifting sand. It was enough. Dunnere thrust his spear point into the other mans face with a strangled cry. The viking dropped his spear and fell to his knees with hands over his face, blood flooding between his fingers. The red-bearded man on Dunneres right drove his point home into the raiders neck.
He pulled his spear free, and flashed Dunnere a grim smile before quickly turning back to his front.
Dunnere quivered, his guts squirmed like his bowels were loose, he could hear only roars, cries and the crash of weapons.
The viking line was surging closer to him again.
'Hold the shield wall, hold firm!' a deperate cry went out. Some thing to the far left grabbed Dunneres attention.
He looked, and saw his lord, Eorl Byrhtnoth, standing in front of the shield wall, valiantly but foolishly daring the vikings. One charged him, spear held high, shield raised, a skilled warrior. Byrthnoth lowered his shield slightly to run at him, at this the viking threw his spear, it flew at the Eorl and pierced his shoulder. Dunnere choked and a desperate cry arose around him. With a snarl the Eorl struck the spear with his shield and it sprang out, then turning, drove his spear deep into the vikings neck as he was sweeping out his sword. Byrhtnoth roared with rage, he thrust with all his strength at another raider who charged the wounded Eorl, and the spear point lanced through his mail, deep into his chest. The shaft was stuck fast, he let it drop and swept out his sword, and with the same motion swung at another viking who stepped back, the sword ripping through his mail, at the same time another norse-man charged at the Eorls side and with his sword hacked at Byrhtnoths outstretched arm.
Dunnere watched feverishly, gripped by the scene, as his Eorls sword fell to the sand. Byrhtnoth looked skywards and gasped words that Dunnere could not hear. Then the vikings hacked him down.
There were cries of anguish Dunnere could hardly hear, hardly noticed the ceorls turn and flee the battle. He gazed at his fallen lord even as the vikings surged closer like eager raptors, closing for the final kill.
Then words, shouted with raw courage from the thegns pierced him.
'Purpose shall be the firmer, heart the keener, courage shall be the more, as our might lessens'
The thegns held fast, and fought with skilled ferocity, vikings fell bloodied around them. The viking horde swept around them in an iron deluge.
Dunnere realised that they would not flee, they fought with grief and passion, to avenge their fallen Eorl. They would meet their death here today and relished the battle that brought it.
A fatal courage swept through Dunnere, resolve stiffened his spine like it was iron. The squirming in his guts ceased. He turned to the red-bearded man, who knelt beside him, holding a wound on his arm that bled freely into the sand. Dunnere stooped and lifted him to his feet, pressed his spear into his hand. They looked at each other knowingly.
With a final thought for his wife and children, he raised his spear and roared 'we here will avenge our lord and not hesitate nor care for life' and, with his companion, charged at the viking horde.
