“The barbarians drive us to the sea; the sea drives us back to the barbarians; between them we are exposed to two sorts of death; we are either slain or drowned.”
(From the Britons’ appeal to Aëtius—Commander of the Roman armies 446 A.D.)
Upon a cold, spring morning in the year of Our Lord 577, the closing scenes of a battle were being fought out on the western shore of Britain; in that part of the country then called Damnonia; on a stretch of low-lying land, between the two rivers—the Yeo and the Axe.
On the winning side stood the Saxons with the whole breadth of vanquished Britain behind them—on the losing, the Britons with but a narrow strip of land between them and the sea; that narrow strip of flat sea-shore.
There were women on both sides. Brawny-limbed, red-skinned Saxons with floating ruddy hair—fighting with a strength and valour worthy of the men beside them; as much at home in that scene of blood-shed as they were by their hearths making the trews and baking the bread of their lords and his ceorls. British ladies reared in the refinement and luxury that the Romans had made common in Britain; satin-skinned and white-handed, strangers to the lightest toil—now forced, in dire necessity, on the battle-field; but, once there, waging war with the spirit of their ancestress, Boadicea; smaller and slighter than their foes and untutored in the art of weapons, they were gifted with a natural dexterity and passion that enabled them, in this hour of need, to be of service to their lords and brothers.
One, in particular, had been conspicuous in the long three days’ fight, on account of her activity and skill. A slight, dark woman, raven-haired and white-limbed, clad in robes of royal saffron-colour, flashing with gold and emeralds. Often by her side was a youth, who bore a strong likeness to her; and these two, woman and boy, commanded the retreating Britons.
The boy was mounted on a beautiful Hibernian stallion, of a pure jet-black, and on the banners still drooping, here and there, overhead was the emblem of a Black Horse in opposition to the White Horse of the Saxons.
No leader could have shown more courage and spirit than this youth. In this last agony of defeat his example still inspired his followers; he gave no sign of the almost mortal wounds with which his body was pierced; his garments were red with blood, and his horse was smeared with white, where the sweat had lathered into foam—but on that stricken field every valiant warrior showed battle stains, and every jaded steed was pale with foam.
Strapped on the shoulder of the boy-leader was a small image of the Virgin, and in the ranks, behind him, were numerous emblems of the Christian Faith.
This was not only a battle between Saxon and Briton, it was also a battle between Christian and Heathen; and yet the woman, on the Christian side, from time to time broke forth into the Druidical incantations of early British days; this she did in moments of savage passion as she stood upright in her car dealing forth death from the sheaf of arrows at her side.
In one corner of the battle-field the mist-cloud lifted wholly for a few minutes, and the sun shone on the thinned ranks of the Britons showing them woefully hindered in their movements by fallen warriors and horses; a mere sprinkling of young and strong remained; here and there a wounded man raised himself and still tried to use his bow. Old men and women fought on desperately. The war-dogs were still numerous—a veritable phalanx armed with spiked collars and goaded into savage rage, strangely horrible with their red, hanging tongues and bloodshot eyes.
In the sudden gleam of sunshine the boy saw that the woman leader was in extreme peril. She had driven her chariot so quickly over the grass—slippery with dew and blood—that her horse had fallen. The boy galloped over dead and dying to her side—as he rode he saw a javelin, aimed at the woman, pierce the side of the struggling horse.
At a sign from his friend, the youth, with rare dexterity, harnessed his own horse to her chariot, in place of hers. She pointed to a gap in the ranks of a small band of Saxons; and, mounting again on his steed, the boy galloped with her to the spot—the sharp knives of the chariots doing desperate work among a body of Saxon soldiers through which they ploughed.
It was the ancient method of warfare, which the woman by instinct had followed. At just such a gap in the ranks of the foe as she had chosen it was the custom to leap from the chariot and charge on foot; but now she remained standing in her car and, suddenly cutting the traces, set her companion free to charge furiously on the surprised enemy—whilst she aided him by a quick shower of arrows. Her artifice succeeded; the boy bounded forward causing such havoc among a little band of Saxons that they—taken off their guard—turned and fled.
In the panic of the moment the enemy did not see that the boy’s gallant horse had received his death-wound. With a last frantic attempt to obey his master’s onward signal, the animal raised itself on its hinder limbs, pawed wildly in the air, gave one long, whistling breath and, with throat and nostrils choked with blood, fell back dead—and, in falling, fell upon his master.
It was the last act of the long, stubborn, futile resistance. The hovering fog-cloud swept down again upon the field as a curtain drops at the end of a scene.
The woman stood—listening. She could hear the steps of the retreating Saxons—but, beyond that, was another indistinct and distant clamour; her quick sense of hearing was confused; she bent and laid her ear to the ground. She listened intently and learnt that the main body of the Saxon host was advancing towards them.
Flight alone remained. She looked towards the flat sea-shore; the water only revealed itself for a stone’s throw—all beyond was fog—the sea that was visible was sullen grey with furious, crested waves of dead-white foam. Even in that moment’s glance she saw fugitives from her own ranks, perish on the ocean—washed from the frail rafts they had hastily made and set forth upon.
What of the boy lying crushed under his war-horse—was he dead?
He still breathed—but not all the strength she could summon was sufficient to extricate him from his position, had not a larger and stronger woman come to her aid. From her appearance the newcomer was Saxon, rather than British; she had the same blue eyes and yellow hair, the same strong features and heavy frame as the enemy from whom they were fleeing! With the strength and haste of despair the two women dragged the dead horse from the boy’s body, and carried off the unconscious hero.
When they reached the shore they found a raft awaiting them; and in a few seconds they were being pushed off, through the surf, by a few remaining British slaves.
They were accompanied by two or three scores of their own countrymen; but of these the greater number were soon washed from their rafts and their drowned bodies cast back again upon the beach.
In a few minutes the approaching Saxons had reached the shore; some of the more blood-thirsty dashed through the water in pursuit, but they were either drowned or driven back by the waves.
Just as their bark had passed safely through the surf, the two women saw a dark form swimming swiftly towards them. The fair-haired girl gave a cry for joy, as she distinguished the head of a great war-hound above the water; the animal had been often by the side of the youth during the battle and now love of his master drew him, bruised and bleeding, through the waves. The smaller woman would have beaten him off with her oar; but the other prevented her and aided the animal as he scrambled on to the raft, and threw himself beside the boy. The quarrel over the animal was so violent that the bark was in danger of foundering; the dark woman showed as much fury against the girl as she had shown that day against the enemy.