“Here they come again!” somebody yelled, although there was no need. Magnus and everybody else in the English shield-wall could see the mass of men advancing up the slope towards them, the low autumn sunlight glinting off helmets and the blades of spears and axes. All along the top of the ridge the English tightened their grip on shield straps and weapons, stared ahead, waited for the shock of battle.
The dead lay between the two armies, and the grass was slick with blood beneath the boots of the living. Magnus felt the sweat running down his face from under his helmet, and the men on either side of him squeezing in more tightly, their chain-mailed arms grinding against his. He hefted his spear, pushed its shaft over the rim of his shield, rolled his shoulders to try and get the terrible aching out of them.
“Steady, lads!” another voice called out. Magnus craned round to look at the hill crest, where two banners streamed in the breeze, The White Dragon of Wessex and The Fighting Man. A knot of men was there too, chief among them his father. Their eyes met and his father nodded, but Magnus turned away – just in time to see the opposing shield-wall split, each half swiftly moving aside to leave a wide gap.
A squadron of mounted warriors with lances burst out of the gap and charged up the slope, the ground trembling beneath the hooves of the horses. Suddenly the sky darkened, and Magnus saw yet another cloud of arrows dropping towards the English line, the deadly barbed points slicing down through the air. The arrows arrived first, men screaming and falling, and then the horses crashed into them too.
The man to the left of Magnus died quickly, a lance ripping into his throat and out through the other side, flinging him backwards. The man beyond him stepped into his place, overlapping his shield with that of Magnus, both of them thrusting their spears up at the mounted warriors in front of them. One loomed over Magnus, chopping and hacking at him with a sword, trying to knock his shield down or smash it.
For a while the madness of battle took over, Magnus jabbing his spear at the horsemen, their wild-eyed, foam-flecked mounts rearing, lashing out with their iron-shod hooves. Blade clashed on blade, men yelled and cursed and grunted and fell dying around him, until at last he glimpsed a sword swinging in an arc, bright sunlight flashing like fire off its steel. He tried to duck, but wasn’t quite fast enough.
There was a great CLANG! as the sword hit his helmet, and he was knocked sideways, dropping his shield and falling across several bodies, hot blood running down the side of his face. The roar of battle faded and Magnus lay staring up at the cold blue sky, a bird circling far above. It looked like a kestrel, he thought, or perhaps a hawk, and it seemed to be moving further and further away…
Darkness filled his mind like night falling.