Low Tide

By

Timothy C. Phillips

England: Summer, 991

I am Gothric. This is my tale. Once, I held wide lands in the north; these were

handed down to me by my father. I have in me no noble blood, but nonetheless in Essex I

was counted a thane. I have been a soldier since, and many things after that; these due to

my own shifting fortunes. I am no poet, but I answer here charges made against me, and

this is my tale, told truthfully.

I am scorned as a coward throughout the land, due to the ramblings of a bitter

poet who himself lived out the black day that brought infamy to me. None questioned

why the poet’s own body fell not upon that gloried field, and lived to letter my soul so

blackly. It is because of this scribbler that I, Gothric, I am known as the coward of

Maldon, though Great God as my witness, no coward am I.

Had it not been for the poet’s writing, there would have been fame enough for all

who lived through that day. Our cause was lost from the onset, for in truth the Vikings,

Dane invaders, were our superiors in number and in arms. An attack upon them would

never have been made, if a more cautious man had been our marshal.

But, as fate delivered us the day, Earl Byrtnoth was our leader, a young man of a

wild line; he was descended from men who often boasted and challenged, and minded not
the cost others had to pay. It was by virtue of his nature that the common folk loved him,

a few more cautious feared or even hated him; and it was also the reason so many poor

fools of every stripe followed him to their dooms.

Aye, and I was one of these fools; for I was numbered among his thanes, was

given arms as his retainer, and swore to him my trust. Summer was dying, and the Danes

had come down from their northern lands, and there was news from Sussex of burnings,

rape, murder, and bloody atrocities. Fear had grown on every countenance, and wild talk

was heard in the ways. Byrtnoth wisely chose to put together a force, both to guard Essex

township, and to ease the people’s fears.

But more of the bitter day itself. There was considerable preparation, since it was

known to all in those parts that the Danes had set there camp nearby. It had been seen

from afar, upon an islet in the mouth of the River Pant. From here, they launched long

boat raids along the coast. It was also possible for them go forth on foot from the islet,

when the water went down. This, only at low tide.

This we had from shepherds who ran their flocks near the River Pant. They had

lost sheep, grabbed by foragers to feed the hungry Norse army. In the evenings, upon the

distant isle the people counted many fires, and had heard the heathen songs of the foe

floating in like demon-songs. But for all this news, the Dane’s numbers were quite

unknown. Were there Five hundred? Two thousand? No one could say.

So when we were gathered into the village green, and our poor host assembled,

there was much cause for dismay among those who had joined the enterprise with hopes

of crushing the invaders. By truth, we were a sorry lot. Twelve hundred, gathered from

throughout Essex. Few bore any real armament; many carried their wooden shovels; there
were pikes here and there. A tenth of the entire force carried swords; and most of this lot

had come from Brytnoth himself.

The Danes had been quiet for about a week, keeping to their island, or else

launching forays by ship to other areas. Thus, Brytnoth adduced that surprise was ours.

In the main, he told he told us, his assembled thanes, we had them. We had trapped them

there, he declared. But it ran another way….

Ten miles from the last outlying village, there was little order left in our army.

Most of the farmers were unlettered rabble, without any training in martial matters. These

simply sat and rested whenever they were tired, so that our force was much depleted by

straggling when we came at last to the place that the villagers told was that of the Dane’s

camp. Until the army camped, and stragglers caught up with the main body, we would be

below full strength. Also, it was fully expected that some would not be catching up;

having been counted at the muster, some took the chance of deserting unnoticed. They

would slink back safely to their farms through the forests.

But this was of little matter. When lords and thanes had taken council, it was

decided that we would not meet the Danes in the field, owing to their well-known

craftiness, and love of the fight. Rather, owing to their situation, being cut off from land

and in this way vulnerable, we should compel them to attack across a narrow causeway,

That ran out from the island to the mainland, so that we could destroy them piecemeal.

Thus, they would be forced to accept our terms, or face destruction. All were agreed, this

seemed a sound and workable plan.

 The Norsemen, it seemed, were not surprised by our arrival, and had made plans

of their own.

We made camp on the evening of our arrival and sent no party out to treat with

the Danes. Early in the morning, however, Brytnoth and three thanes, I among them,

went out to the causeway. It was low tide, and so we rode half-way out and four Danes

rode out to meet us. They wore no armor; instead they wore red and white Robes over

colorful woven garments; and in their long hair and beards were clasps of leather and

silver. They were striking, tall, fearsome-looking folk.

Their war-chief , a giant with a great red beard, spoke directly to Brytnoth, and

addressed him respectfully, so surely he was aware of the man’s title and position. “Why

has your lordship some to this place with the host here assembled?”

“I bring this army to compel you and your men to leave this land and these

waters, which belong to the Anglo-Saxon people. I command you to go at once back to

your own land and people.”

The Danes all laughed loudly and crudely at this.

“Your land?” The War-Chief, Red-Beard, roared mockingly. “Did the Angles and

the Saxons not rend this land from the Gaels? And they themselves had it from the Picts,

ages ago? Even the Romans were in these isles, in the times of our forefathers, long-dead.

No, my lord. What is in these isles is there for the taking, as it has always been. That is

fate. I think we will not leave, and that if you do not let these farmers return to their

plowing, we will be forced to fight you.”

“You cur!” Brytnoth insulted the man, and reached for his sword, but stopped

short when he considered that the man, nor any of his companions, carried weapons.
 “We will give you until tomorrow morning to leave this place.” Brytnoth told

him, quaking. And then he did a curious thing; he told the Danish War-Chief a great lie,

which the man must have believed. “You must,” Brytnoth told him, “escape in your long-

ships by night, for we have word from the King that a fleet is on the way to cut off your

escape by sea. So I have come with my army to give you terms. You may flee and live, or

come ashore and figth us. IF you do neither, you must starve on the island.”

At this, the men looked at each other with obvious concern. The war-chief

nodded, and the men wheeled and rode hell-bent back to the island. I know that Brytnoth

smiled inwardly at the success of his ruse; but I felt my mouth go dry. I knew there was

no fleet on the way. No word had been sent to the King, and no help was on the way from

his court. The Danes had no way of knowing this. I was afraid that the War-Chief Red-

Beard now thought he had but one choice, and that was to come across the causeway, and

slaughter us all.

The next morning found neither army departed. We rode out with Brytnoth again

upon the morning, and a lone Dane rode out upon the causeway to meet with us. He was

tall and bearded, like the war-chief, with great brown braids, but he wore polished armor

that looked like silver scales upon his body, armor that bent and moved as he did, and

seemed no encumbrance. He carried a round shield and a great lance in one hand, and

held his horse’s reins in the other. On a broad belt he had a scabbard with a fine sword in

it, and across his back he wore a fearsome war-axe. Upon his head there was a metal

helm with steel guards for the cheeks and nose. Over all this he wore a tunic that bore a

device of a skull with crossed leg-bones under it. Before he uttered a word, I thought, if
they are all this well-equipped, we should all turn and flee into the Maldon woods, and

God keep us.

“Lord Brytnoth.” The Dane said in a courtly tone, and inclined his head, mockery,

I felt, that was lost on our Earle; “I am a captain, sent by my chief, to make a last request

of you.”

We held our breaths. Hopefully, they would ask for safe passage, and would flee

this place. It was all our hope, discussed all night over myriad campfires by a thousand

tongues, as men awaited the dawn, and the death or salvation it must bring.

“Go on.” Intoned Brytnoth.

The Dane nodded. “If it please thee. My lord, we held a council last night and it

was decided that we could not escape this place without offering battle to this assembled

host. But our numbers are so few, we fear, that you would easily overwhelm us, in fact,

destroy us altogether. As it is, with a fleet on the way to surround us, our only hope

would be to break free and flee into the country, and make our escape from some other

place. So I have come to ask you if you will do one thing to make this contest more fair.”

I glared at the Dane in astonishment. “My lord, he dares mock you!” I cried, but

Brytnoth held up his hand. “Go on.”

The Dane rolled his eyes at me and smiled. “My Lord, it is well-known

throughout the land that you are the most honorable of men, and that is why so many

have followed you here today at peril to themselves. I now appeal to the Great Honorable

Lord, Earle Brytnoth, to pull your army back to the trees. Then I will go back to the

Island, and fetch my small band out, and we will then offer you battle.”
 “And what shall I receive in consideration of this favor, if granted?” Brynoth

asked, his eyes glowing.

The Danish devil grinned. “You are indeed as wise as they say, my lord.” He said

with his forked tongue. “If the battle goes against us, we will throw down our arms,

surrender them to you, and leave this land and your people in piece, taking only our boats

and enough provisions to see us across the sea and to our homes.”

Brytnoth gave a curt nod, and to my astonishment, turned to me, and said.

“Gothric, tell the men to move back to the trees.”

“My lord, you cannot—“ I began, almost dumb with anger.

“Enough. They are but few. Besides, in this way our men will have more room to

maneuver. Now see to it.” And then he turned his attention back to the canny Dane, who

watched me go with his wise eyes.

I rode, desperate now, back to the men who were assembling, curious, anxious,

not knowing what to expect. They cried out to me for news.

“Back to the tree line, men, and wait for the Danes to assemble…Lord Brytnoth

has a plan to draw the Danes out.” I added this last because I saw the puzzlement in so

many of their faces, the faces of men who I had known all of their lives, men who had

come here to defend land and family, all of which Brytnoth’s vanity had just placed in

utmost peril.

We fell back to the trees, and formed up into ranks, and I rode up and down the

length of them, bidding them hold fast and await orders, all the while looking back

toward Brytnoth, who only then had quit his new friend the Dane and rode back to us.
 “Men of Essex!” He cried as the rode up. “The Danes prepare to meet us upon the

field of battle! I have given them safe passage across the causeway, as their number is

few. There they will meet us in battle, with their backs to the sea. We will then defeat

them and send them back across the sea, never to trouble us again.”

Now many grumbled and looked worried at these words, for the most unlettered

farmer standing there knew one never gave his enemy an advantage in combat, and I

heard many remark this; for a favor given to the enemy is a strike against one’s own

cause.

There was great tumult in the ranks then, for the men beheld the Danes, in their

shining battle array and steel weapons, all every bit as equipped for war as the catty

herald, striding out over the causeway and carefully assembling upon the strand. It took

them an hour to gather across from us. One hundred paces separated us from them; they

were six hundred, by my count, half our number; but they were trained from birth as

soldiers, heavily armed and armored, and, besides, they were gigantic men, most of them

over six feet, and demonically strong-looking. Numbers meant little in this contest, I

mused.

Brytnoth raised his lance and pointed to the Danes, who beat their shields and

cried out their war song.

“Forward, men of Essex! For Land and Liberty!

The men cried out; the long-awaited order come at last, the lads surged forward,

and made my heart swell with pride at them, at the same time feeling more desperation

with every step, for the Danes were waiting there without the least concern, it seemed,
and some of them even smiling. Before our two armies ever came together, the source of

their amusement was made clear.

Somewhere at the back of the Danish host a warrior on horseback raised a horn

and let out three long blasts. It seemed there was a pause while Heaven considered what

would come next; and then, we were undone, and our doom was made apparent to all

upon that field. From the forest on either flank came a mass of Norsemen, armed like

their brethren in front of us. Even Lord Brytnoth must have seen the folly of his

kindnesses, in that moment.

The Danes had not wasted the night that they had been given. They had either sent

half their number ashore by boat or had sent for reinforcements. In the night, one or many

boats leaving from the rear of the island would have been invisible to us; the Danes had

never believed Brytnoth’s story of a fleet on the way to assist us, but had allowed us to

think so, and used the allotted time against us.

They had done the same thing today, once again appealing to a Christian sense of

fair play that they liked to prey upon, but did not share. These were all realizations that

came to me as my horse galloped over those hundred paces of sand-strewn beach, just as

the men of Essex and the Danish invaders came together, with a fateful cry, and the clank

of metal and the screams of man and beast.

I was in the thick of the fight. A large Norseman on horseback came at me, his

axe held high; he cursed my in his wild tongue and made a swipe, but at the fateful

moment, either by coincidence or design, a lance caught the axe beneath its head and

fouled the giant’s aim. The weight of his swing carried through, though, and he gave me

a deep cut across my right thigh, but I managed to put my sword point through his eye,
and he fell from his saddle, screaming, and the men on the ground turned their pikes on

him.

I turned, looking for Brytnoth, and I saw him, surrounded along with about a

hundred men, and it was clear that the Danes were fighting like mad to get to him. I

hacked this way and that, trying to reach him. My plan was to take him to the cover of the

field; if the Danes captured him, the battle would be lost, they would demand a huge

ransom for his release, besides.

An arrow gave me a spiteful cut on the left arm, but passed me by; I passed a

dying Dane on a red-painted horse and relieved him of his shield. I cried out to the men

around me,

“Protect Lord Brytnoth!”

My cry caused many in my area of the struggle to surge in the Brytnoth’s

direction; for our lord was sore beset, by the Danes, and that battle-within-a-battle ahd

become the dense heart of the conflict that raged there on that empty strand.

The Danes had planned against this rescue; we were met with a storm of arrows

upon our approach, and a company of around fifty that had been held in a reserve

somewhere charged into the fray to beat us back. Men fell left and right. All of the while

through the fracas I kept my eyes in the direction of Brytnoth, who I caught glimpses of,

lunging, struggling, shouting orders, bleeding from several wounds. I called out to him,

and exhorted him to fight his way to us, but doubtlessly he did not hear me over the din

that drowned out even thoughts upon on that field.

The men of Essex were falling in great numbers, I saw, though they put up a

valiant fight; the armored Danes were too much for these farm boys and fishermen, called
up hastily from their plots. Danes died there in considerable numbers, true, but that is

more a testament to the bravery of the common man than to any military leadership that

the men received. At last, in the press near me, I heard the cry being repeated until it

made its way to me, “Lord Brytnoth is fallen! Lord Brytnoth is fallen!”

As the cry grew, there was a pause in the battle for the beat of a heart, as men

threw down their weapons and ran for the cover of the forest, and the Danes roared in

triumph, and for the most part let the men flee, although they continued to press those

who had fought alongside Brytnoth.

I felt the sword slip from my hand; Danes ran past me, heedless of me. I noticed I

was surrounded by other men of Essex who had done the same. Perhaps the Danes had let

it be known that if you dropped your arms you would not be slain. In any case, I turned

with those men, and, in a mass, we left that field, and through the cover of the verdant

green, did make our way home.

So it was months later that it came to me that a poet who had gone over to the

Dane’s camp had composed a poem he called the “Battle of Maldon,” that being the

name of the wood that had sheltered our enemy’s treachery. In it, he blamed me, Gothric,

for the loss of the battle, saying that I had fled the field with my men, rather than go to

my Lord Brytnoth’s rescue. Brytnoth he makes out as a kind of Christ, who died spouting

Christian piety and slaying hosts of Danes.

As for myself, I followed my sorry little band home, and spent a month in a

monastery, where the monks washed and stitched my wounds, and helped to cure the

fever that came after and lasted many days. When I emerged I learned that
Brytnoth’s body was discovered capite et calce mutilata, “mutilated at the head and

heal,” upon that field, and that similar acts of barbarity had been perpetrated against the

fallen Essex men, as was seen when they were brought home for burial.

The story was also told that King Aethelred, whom is mockingly called the

Unready, had paid the Danes many tons of silver so that they would cease their raids

upon our lands, and that this deal had been made before Lord Brytnoth and his army ever

marched out to Maldon. But few were ready to call Brytnoth hasty; he was being turned

into a hero in poems and songs, and his faults were all but forgotten.

Only I am remembered as a living man, and I am called a coward. But was David

reviled, when he fled from Absalom? He knew his fight was lost, and he left the field to

protect his home and hearth. So, I Brytnoth know the folly of following an Earthly Lord,

and not the Lord of Hosts, I, who have left all honor soaking into the sand of the beach

that stretches away, abandoned now, from a lonely place called Maldon Wood.