Mount&Blade: Warband > Brytenwalda [B]
Trunk of dreams: Literature, ARR's, player exp. (Update: Marcus Clodius Ballist)
Idibil:
This place is the threshold of dreams
Here you can post your experience in the game, the story of your character, your ARR's, or your ancient dark ages story ...
Let us enjoy and share good literature :D
INDEX:
--> I fought in Haethfelth (story in english and spanish)
--> Story: Picts Defeat Northumbrians (Bridei vs. Ecgfrith)
--> Story: Carolus the ambitious priest
--> Story: Tael the Saxon
--> Story: Hrothgar - Blood, Faith, and Fire
--> Story: High King of the Britons, Brenin Owain ap Ceredig, scourge of Northumbria
--> Story: The Black Elite
--> [AAR]:Rise of the Britons.
--> [Story/AAR] Under Fading Stars
--> [Story/AAR] Story Of Brytenwalda by Master Ronin
--> [Story/AAR] The Dark Road by Lynna of Bernicia
--> [Story/AAR] Marcus Clodius Ballista
Idibil:
Story: Anno Domini 633, Haethfelth Battle
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Introduction:
In the year 633, two men, two legends comparable to Arthur Pendragon, met in battle in the fields of Haethfelth (actual Hatfield, near of York)
On one side were the Angles, led by their Brytenwalda, the great king Eadwine.
On the other hand, the Britons of High King Cadwallon of Gwynedd. Cadwallon was punishment of Anglo and Saxons, and defeated them same or more times than Arthur.
Ally of Cadwallon, King Penda de Mierce, The March, brought his men to war.
This is their story...
Credits:
Autor: Idibil
English Traduction: Piipe and KPJZKC
if you wish read spanish version click HERE
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Capitule 1.
Sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1pSyYhRYeIM (vol. low)
Credits:
Autor: Idibil
English Traduction: Piipe and KPJZKC
(click to show/hide)
--- Quote ---
Anno Domini 633, October 12th.
In the north, near Caer Daun, 64 kilometres from Eoferwic
It's raining! Gods! The water is freezing and it's soaked my tunic. The ground has turned to mud, and the northern winds cut like cold steel.
I'm afraid, and it's not hard to notice it, but others are worse, some have even pissed themselves (I've held out so far). What am I even doing here? I should be at my farm, with my wife and children!
The hand holding my lance is shaking, and I'm shivering. I'm just a mouse in a time of titans.
Woden, you know that I'm no warrior.
The man to my side nudges me, our lord has ordered us to advance two steps and present lances. Our lord is Osfrith, the son of the great king Eadwine of Deira. I can see him not far from here, moving between the men, dressed in mail to his heels and his steel helmet, from which falls his long and blonde hair, dirty and sweaty. His sword jingling, hanging from his belt, and an enormous shield jutting out at his back. He jokes, laughs, hits a man in the chest and asks another about his dog. Two of his bodyguards accompany him.
Osfrith reaches us, looks at us with his deep blue eyes. He's a boy, and I a man of thirty two winters, but I feel small at his side.
-"Ceowald!" He greets my neighbour, who lowers his head in respect. "Tell your wife that the child grows healthy and strong! My father is proud of you, there isn't a better midwife in all the kingdom!"
-"Thank you, Aetheling."
-"Rejoice, man! This is a great day. Tonight we'll be getting drunk in the camp of our enemy" - he places his hand on the shoulder of Ceowald - "and you'll be able to return home and tell your ten small ones about how brave you were."
Osfrith continues his trip, and stops in front of me. His hand, gloved in hide, holds my chin, and turns my head to look me in the eyes.
-"Eappa" - he pronounces my name shrilly, he hates me, I know it, he wants my wife, but the law protects me and while I live he can't have her - "remember that you still owe me a cow. I'll only forgive you if you can kill 10 bastard welshmen today. I want you in the first line."
-"Aethel..." - the words catch in my mouth. He laughs, and he walks away from me. One of his men, a well built man with a full beard, takes me from my companions, and drags me, insensitive to my cries and begging, to the centre of the battlefield, where Osfrith's elite hold ranks. They're all men of war, with serious faces, fierce and brave, dressed in iron, armed with sword and lance. They're the bravest, those who face the worst of the battle.
My destiny, my Wyrd, is written.
Osfrith isn't a bad kid, but he's capricious, and noone can dissuade him when he gets an idea in his head. His father has spoiled him too much, nothing like his brother Eadfrith, the other son of the king Eadwine, straight and saintly like a christian priest, but merciless on the battlefield.
If only I had him as my lord, he only cares about his serfs for the due taxes, not interested by their wives, their children, or their cows.
Eadfrith is a dryhten, a lord of war, in all the senses. He chooses and trains his warriors personally, equips them with the best weapons and conducts the riskiest operations. His father is proud of him, I can see it when he looks at him. And because the great king Eadwine loves war too.
Cyning Eadwine of Deira is more than a man, when you stand at his side, you don't feel small, like with his son, you feel like the luckiest person in the world, even if it's just to serve as a footstool for mounting his horse.
Eadwine is tall, despite the years weighing down upon him, lean like a staff pole, and his hair has barely grayed despite being near 50. Eadwine is the king of Bernaccia and Deira, the most powerful man of the Angle & Saxon Brittania...he is Brytenwalda.
In another time I knew him well, he and his sons, I was a priest of Woden and I gave counsel, and thanks to that I knew how to keep myself far from war.
Then, politics caused Eadwine to convert to Christianity, though his heart remained pagan, and I left his side.
He gave me a farm in the lands of his son Osfrith and made me his serf. I took a wife and I dedicated myself to ploughing and bringing children into the world. Until today, when they claimed me in the levy to face the most important battle of our time.
I hear the horns and the sweat begins to bead on my forehead, while the first welshmen appear between the trees on a hill. Here comes Cadwallon ap Cadfan, the Brenin of Gwynedd, the High King of the Britons. I had hoped that our enemies would not accept the battle that day, but I was mistaken.
Gwynedd commands the best men of the welsh kingdom, hundreds of spears that hate us for stealing their lands, even though it happened hundreds of years before they were born.
If Eadwine is a titan, the best king that the Angles know, Cadwallon is his alter ego, a legend among his people, able to unite the welsh and drive them towards victory. Some say that he's a second Arthur, but I don't think that anyone had caused such a great loss to our people before.
Cadwallon, gods curse him, had killed more Angles than all the previous kings put together. Without him, Eadwine would have long since subjugated the lands of the north, and all these wars would have been finished. But Cadwallon and Eadwine are two suns who struggle to shine, two giants for whom the world is too small, and when they die, their war will continue in the Waelcyrge. But the men who say that are fools.
Together with Cadwallon comes Penda with his army, Cyning Penda with the Angles of The March, our brothers from the south who prefer to fight at the side of the welshmen, but to repay them like always we have tried to steal their livestock and their women.
They say that Penda is a rising star, that he'll never be as great as Eadwine or Cadwallon, but he'll survive when both stars go out.
I have never seen Penda, but I've heard things. They say that he's a born warrior, a man without scruples who desires to be Brytenwalda above all other things.
I have heard that he is a hard man, strong like a mule...and I have heard that his mother was a Briton and that he feels more Briton than Angle.
Now he comes at the head of his people to massacre us.
If only I had been born in another time, less overshadowed by the terror of weapons, where I could read books or sit around the hearth, listening to stories about an age of heroes, about how Eadwine and Cadwallon faced each other, near Caer Daun, in the Final Battle. But that's not how it is, and the horns sound out around me calling out to war.
There are some priests (Eadwine permits it, now that he's Christian) delivering blessings among the troops, who accept them with fervour, prepared to try to receive the blessings of the old gods just as much as the new.
I have been chosen to live in the time of the sword.
Our enemies have formed ranks on the hill, their helmets shine, their shields have formed a wall, and they advance at the sound of the horns. Don't they doubt? Or fear? How can we defeat them?
To our left, we hear the sound of Eadwine's horn, our king, and we see his standard move off with the cavalry towards the flank. Everything is being prepared. Chaos breaks out. The officers move between the men ordering the ranks, preparing the troops. Some of men are so afraid that they're stuck, paralysed with fear, and the officers hit them to snap them out of it. Those who try to flee are beaten.
-"We've come here for victory or death!" - shout the warlords - "If today we are defeated, tomorrow our women will lie with some filthy welshman or the bastard son of King Penda." - the officers are the backbone of the army of King Eadwine, without them everyone would have long since fled - "Hold tightly your shield and lance, and remember what you've been taught!"
I have the shield in front of me, crossed with that of one of the veterans, who doesn't seem very pleased to have me beside him.
-"If you screw up, I'll kill you, you bastard" he grunts, and with this I lose control of my bladder.
Our lord, Osfrith, runs to the centre of the battlefield. He's taken off his helmet, his blonde hair free to the wind, so that we can all recognise him, and joins us in the middle of the battlefield. There, he joins with his most faithful men, men dressed in iron, with sword, lance and shield...true warriors.
The son of the king jokes, perhaps hiding his own nervousness, and his veterans laugh.
Everyone is ready to kill, everyone but me, I know, and I'm terrified.
--- End quote ---
Capitule 2.
Sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKqAsNgH05c (Vol. low)
Credits:
Autor: Idibil
English Traduction: Olla Podrida
(click to show/hide)
--- Quote ---
It had stopped raining, but the wind continued to whip our tunics and freeze our muscles.
I think about my wife and my children, who will pray for my return, about my parents, who are already dead and who always trusted in me being a man of providence.
I remember other times, when my only occupation was to interpret the flight of a bird or the intestines of an animal. A happy time, but gone forever.
I quietly repeat my name, Eappa, Eappa... I am Eappa Eappaling.
But the words sound so empty to me.The memories float through me but are incapable of soothing the fear. I am going to face death and I am going to yield.
I realize that i am crying. My body trembles and I won't get around it. Damn Gods! I shouldn't be here in the first place, I never killed a man.
My feet are hurting, they remember last night's long march. We avoided the heights and passed through the woods, so that they might not see us in the dark.
We are sleepy and exhausted, but king Eadwine has got his will. He maneuvered us in front of the enemy, denying him the access to our country. So that's it.
Now the Britons are caught between the waters of two rivers, and our army in front of them. If we have victory here, it would be the end of Cadwallon and Penda. The end of the war. If we win...
Around me the air is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. The men are watching the host of the Britons forming up. Even the hardened veterans around me seem to be silent and nervous.
I see Osfrið coming near defiling before his men. Tall, with his red hair in the wind like a flame and the shiny mailshirt covering him unto his knees, he looks like a god of old, marching right out of a song of heroes.
-"Look!“ he shouts pointing to the Britons who erect a forest of lances There they come! They are the descendants of the men who lost their land and their women to the hands of our grandfathers. Because our grandfathers were much stronger then they were. Are we not worthy of our grandfathers? Don't we have their blood running through or venes? Don't' we desire battle as much as they did? We are giants!“
Around me the men shout out, they are eager, they are proud, they are ready to give battle.
-"I don't say that because what we have between our legs, Æðelbeorht“ - he stops in front of a hardened hearthweru, one of his favorite bodyguards, and slaps him on the shoulder.
He laughs and the men laugh with him. It seems that a part of the anxiousness vanishes. Even I feel a bit calmer.
Osfrið pulls out his sword and hits the shields of the warriors he passes.
-"Every single one of you is worth ten of them!“ he shouts. And I see that the men rise their arms and haul like the wolves of battle. -"Hear!“ Osfrið regains the atention of everyone, „we are not mere men, we are warriors! The blood of the wrath god, of Woden, is in our venes. And what we are going to do today will be celebrated in songs by our Scops! Do you hear me? Today all of you will gain immortality!“
His warriors burst out shouts of ardour. I shout with them, I need to foucs my mind on something. I need to keep the fear at bay.
I am given the opportunity to be something more then a simple human, to shine in this dark and forgotten world.
Osfrið approaches me, continuing to brandish his spatha on the shields of our comrades...
-"Today some of us will die.“ His eyes rest on me, and he blinks at me „But is that important when you gain such glory today? Is it not better to feast in Waelcyrge with heroes, relishing an eternity of glory at the side of the Gods?“
Now he reaches me and gives my shield a hit with his sword, too. Suddenly I feel honoured and content with my fade. Now i would happily give my live for him, even though I hate him because he desires my wife. But he is the son of a king and I am only a flea and he looked at me and gave me a hit on my shield.
-"We are Warriors!“ he repeats, " Did not Ecgberht slay three Britons on his own in the last battle?“ Osfrith grins at a man in the second file some ten metres away from were I stand, and points his sword to him. Ecgberhts chest swells as he hits his shield with his lance. „Will we others do less today?“
The men should No, they will kill a hundred Wealas each, I realise that I should with them.
Osfrith fits himself into in a gap between the men of the first rank, surrounded by his dearest, the most valiant ones. We are in the centre of the shieldwall of Bernicia and Deira. The flower of the Engles of the North.
-"I will be with you!“ shouts the son of King Eadwine while he locks his roundshield with the ones of his warriors. „I will fight and bleed at your side!“
Before us the Britons have begun to descend their hill they seem that they put it all out. Cadwallon wants to decide it all in one battle.
Usually the king will be at the right flank with the horsemen, at the place of honour
But strangely, I see the standards of the Engles of Mercia, the March, unfold at this spot. I do not understand much about war but I thought that the forces of Penda would unfold un the left flank, the second most important place of the formation, opposite to our King Eadwine. What are they planning to do?
At my right side the man with which I have interlocked my shield turns around nervous,
-"Why did they abandon the advantage of the hill?“ I hear him muttering. He doesn't speak to me, I know, but I can't help turning towards him „ What do you look at me, fool?“ he snubs me, and I rapidly turn my eyes away.
I hear the man to my left laugh. „Damn it Hereweald, calm down. He is going to piss himself because of you, and it's smelling quite ugly here already.
I look straight forward, I don't dare to move a muscle. I feel humiliated.
The Britons have descended to the uneven ground between the two hillslopes and have stopped there.
I see men on horses who ride in front of them, talking to the men, encouraging them, emblaze their fighting spirits.
I perceive that the Britons do not form a tight shieldwall like us, but leave more space between each fighter.
The Battlestandards are being positioned near each of the warlords and their leaders of warbands, so that everyman can see them and identify them by only looking up.
I see the Christians priests distribute blessings and prayers. The men fall to their knees and bow their heads before them. Then they raise; some of them more relaxed then they were before.
What do they feel, our enemies? Do the feel the same fear like me or are they determined men?
The greater part of the men below there are Britons. The fierce spearmen of Gwynedd form the centre. Towards their left flank are men from the other British realms like Pengwern, Powys, Dyfed, including men which have traveled from the far away Dumnonia. They have formed large shieldwalls more then six ranks deep.
They are many... way too many.
--- End quote ---
Capitule 3
Sound: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKqAsNgH05c (Vol. low)
Credits:
Autor: Idibil
English Traduction: Motomataru
--- Quote ---
To the right of the enemy formation, I hear the roar made by the Angles from Penda when the men beat their shield with their weapons and shout. There are pagan priests among them who have approached within a stone’s throw of our lines. They howl and call us cowards. They say we are losing as they curse us in name of their gods and dance to cast the evil eye on us.
Penda remains pagan and hates Christianity. If I had been born in that kingdom, I now would be dancing with those bastards, and after I would retire behind the army, to safety from the slaughter.
The horns sound, the standards are raised, priests Christian and pagan retire, and the enemy shield wall opens to let the archers through.
About time! I do not know much of battles, but I certainly know that generally they begin with arrows.
We have not moved, we stay high on the hill. If the Britons decide to come to us, they will have to climb. The slope is not pronounced, but is muddy, and they are tired. And when they draw near, we could charge downhill.
The new Christian priests of king Eadwine are providing ceremonies to the troops. They speak Latin, and I do not understand that nor the Pope. Moreover, I do not understand why they throw water on the heads of some men and give them a new name.
One of those priests arrives in front of me and pronounces his spells. At another time, I would have spat at him and called him a crow, but now I restrain myself and lower my head, without daring to meet his gaze. The power of the Christian god grows every day whereas the old gods, my gods, die.
-“The skirmishers are on the move!” In a shield wall, news flies from one companion to the other at his side, and soon everybody finds out what is happening elsewhere.
A skirmisher is not the bravest of the Angles; in fact their ranks are usually filled by the dispossessed and poor. So it is always best that they go in front to receive the arrows and javelins of the enemy.
I cannot see them, but sound of what is unfolding to our right runs out and spreads to cover the entire front. They are archers, javelin men, slingers and other such troops – men whose lives matter very little, and among whom I would have been found if my lord, King Eadwine, had not given me a house and good land to cultivate. I am a Kotsetla, a wealthy farmer who may carry spear, shield, sharp seax and good javelins.
Finally I see them approach. They are advancing covering the whole battle front. There must be more than two hundred. They go dispersed, guided by their leaders to position themselves in front of the Briton archers.
Those men must be exhausted. If we have walked all night, the archers have been days without sleep, harassing the enemy, delaying them. Thanks to them, our Cyning Eadwine, gained time to gather the host of Deira, and for reinforcements from the north, from Bernaccia, to arrive. Thanks to them, today we can fight here with the advantage of the land, on the edge of the conquered Briton kingdom of Elmet in this muddy field, and not in a Deira desolated by the passage of armies.
Those men are heroes who spend days in the forests fighting for each hand’s width of land. But in reality, it’s always the same. They will be despised, as they despise me, because they are the dregs, the ones unable to pay for a spear and a shield, to fight like men face to face, hand to hand.
A horn is played behind me. Its melody extends along the line until it dies out. Osfrith issues an order and the standard is raised. The Lords of War from Deira and Bernaccia order the men and we move a few meters until we are situated at peak of the hill, so that our enemies still have to fight looking up.
The Christian priests scurry to the rear, where they will be out of danger, where I would like to be.
The officers order the line. It is easy, when advancing, to lose the synchrony or the perfection of our shield wall. Moreover, the formations are always pulled towards the right by the weight of the shield. But there they are, recomposing it, animating the men, punishing the weakest. There, I’ve said that they are the backbone of this army.
We are more than two thousand men. We in the center are mostly from Deira and Bernaccia, and are under the command of the son of the king, the Aetheling Osfrith. To the right, all the men are from Deira, veterans of a thousand battles. Among them is the cavalry of the king, with Cyning Eadwine himself in front. On other occasions, I have heard, the king has brought the cavalry to the enemy flank, dismounted and charged to disrupt to the shield wall. I do not know if today he will do it, our enemies outnumber us by hundreds of men.
The left wing is commanded by the Aetheling Eadfrith, under whose orders serve people from other parts, including the Britons of the conquered Elmet and tributary Angles from the kingdom of Lindisware. Eadfrith will have to face the hosts of Penda and the elite of Brenin Cadwallon ap Cadfan, if it is that the Briton High King is there, because some men with better vision than I are passing the rumor that his standard is in the center, in front of us.
That is strange. They say that battles are rarely decided by the center, but on the wings, that if Eadfrith holds off the Angles of Mierce long enough, our king Eadwine will break the enemy on the right and enter his lines, causing death. Then the enemy will flee and all that will remain will be to pursue him… and to gather the booty.
That’s what they say, and I hope they are right. Some of these men have been fighting since before I was born.
It is noon, but the sun hardly manages to show itself in a sky dominated by rain-charged clouds.
Down below, the horns sound, one following the next. We hear the Britons sing, yell and beat their shields, perhaps a good way to drive away the fear. Then they advance, they begin the slow ascent up the hill, step by step, protected by a screen of archers that soon will be in range of our skirmishers.
I wish that the hill were more pronounced and the field more muddy.
A meter… two meters… they do not stop. Still they come, the gods protect us. Still they come! I see the lines of their shields painted with the most varicolored emblems. I see their brown hair, and the glint of coats of mail. Their horns hurt my ears, their shouts cause dread in my soul. Still they come!
My teeth chatter, the arm that holds my spear trembles. I would like to be somewhere else, but it has been mine to live during the time of the sword.
I don’t know if I mentioned it, but this is my first battle… I’ve never killed a man, and still they come. The wind has stopped blowing, but I am cold, very cold, and very afraid.
--- End quote ---
Snuggydoodle:
Story: Picts Defeat Northumbrians (Bridei [not the NPC Bridei ingame :wink:] vs. Ecgfrith)
Background to the Battle:
After the Anglo-Saxon incursions into Britain during the fourth and fifth centuries, the invaders created several distinct kingdoms throughout the island. The northernmost of these nations was Anglian Northumbria. In the succeeding years, the Anglian kingdom pushed northwards, past the old Roman physical boundary of Hadrian’s Wall. Through alliances, marriages and conquest, a number of the native Pictish, Scottish, Briton and Irish kingdoms north of Northumbria were brought under its control.
In the year 670 Ecgfrith (pronounced EDGE-frith) was crowned king of Northumbria, succeeding his father Oswiu. Ecgfrith was about 25 years of age at his coronation. He had some experience as a ruler, having previously been a sub-king of the Northumbrian subordinate kingdom of Deira from 664 until his father’s demise. After becoming king, he spent the next fifteen years trying to reassert his hegemony over the Pictish lands to the north.
In 684, he sent an expedition to Ireland in an attempt to add to his domain. This adventure failed to conquer any new territory, but it did succeed in acquiring large amounts of plunder and slaves. Apparently, for some time after the death of Oswiu, some of the Picts had been lax about sending their tribute to Northumbria. In early 685, King Ecgfrith decided to make an example of the kingdom of Fortriu, which was located in northern Scotland near present-day Moray. The ruler of Fortriu was Bridei mac Bili, described in the chronicles as a cousin of Ecgfirth, probably by marriage.
King Bridei had failed to send Ecgfrith his annual tribute of cattle, corn and gold. In addition, Bridei had been expanding Fortriu at the expense of other Pictish kingdoms. Perhaps Ecgfrith had decided that cousin Bridei was getting too big for his boots, and needed to be taken down a peg. Consequently, Ecgfrith mustered a force of men to strike fast and strike hard at Bridei. Modern scholars have speculated that Ecgfrith gathered a small force of no more than 300 or so men, all mounted warriors. Ecgfrith probably wanted to make this foray in Fortriu a lightning raid, similar to the methods he used to put Bridei on his throne in 670.
The Northumbrian force was likely composed of the young warriors of Ecgfrith’s household, with a few veterans sprinkled in to provide leadership. One chronicle even states that, for at least part of the journey into Pictland, the “Bishop to the Picts” Trumwine accompanied the Northumbrian force. It is possible he was an eyewitness to the upcoming battle. The Northumbrian force probably followed an old Roman road which hugged the coast of the North Sea in Pictland. Then, a series of abandoned Roman marching camps were certainly utilized by Ecgfrith to work his way towards Fortriu.
Apparently, the Northumbrian monarch and his men knew exactly where they were going, for they made a beeline straight for Bridei’s stronghold, a location unknown to the modern historian. However, at that time Scotland was a land of bogs, marshy areas, and small lakes (lochs) that flowed between rocky hills. If you include the near-constant foggy weather for which Scotland is famous, these conditions made travel confusing and treacherous.
In addition, many Iron Age hill-forts – called duns – were scattered across the landscape, providing local people a modicum of protection from raids by their neighbors or a foreign enemy. Some historians speculate that Ecgfrith got himself and his warriors lost in the Pictish terrain; this is rather unlikely, as the Northumbrian king was a seasoned campaigner, probably had personally been this way at some past time, and he almost certainly would have sent out scouts to obviate ambushes by the Picts.
King Bridei lured Ecgfrith and his force northwards, avoiding contact with the invaders and staying just a step ahead of them. The Picts continued to lead the Northumbrians north into hilly, boggy land that would be perfect for an ambush. Relentlessly, Ecgfrith followed the Pictish monarch farther into the highlands.
The Battle:
At about mid-afternoon on May 20, Ecgfrith and his Northumbrian horsemen continued their approach to Bridei’s stronghold. Wending their way between the Loch of Forfar and Restenneth Loch, they rode southeast. A short distance to the east loomed Dunnichen Hill, a fairly tall (764 feet) local prominence that held a Pictish hill-fort. Skirting the western edge of the hill, they followed a local track that took them between the southern slopes of Dunnichen Hill and Dunnichen Moss, a smallish local pond that had probably been overgrown and was now mainly a marshy bog.
The Northumbrians were likely wearing iron helmets, some form of chainmail, large round wooden shields, and armed with lances and probably swords as secondary weapons. Though later Anglo-Saxon armies were essentially footmen, there is evidence to suggest that these earlier Anglian warriors were trained to fight on horseback. As the mounted Northumbrians traversed the area between the hill and the bog, the Picts emerged from the hill-fort and quickly arranged themselves for battle.
They probably lined up on the lower southern slope of the hill, displaying their far larger strength for Ecgfrith to see. Most of the Picts wore little armor, perhaps an iron helmet here or there, carrying small shields with spiked bosses. Their main weapons were long thrusting spears, with short swords probably secondary weapons. There were probably a few bowmen present, as well as huntsmen who used a primitive crossbow.
In addition, Pictish fanatics, similar to Viking berserkers, who fought bravely wearing no armor, were also quite likely present. These men were usually heavily tattooed and entered battle nearly naked. Finally, it is likely that King Bridei had a small mounted bodyguard, slightly better equipped than the rank-and-file Pictish warriors. Confronted with his enemy in far greater strength – and not at a time and place of his choosing.
Ecgfrith made what must have been a split-second decision. His battle experience told him that he should make one, quick charge at the heart of the Pictish host. If everything went as he hoped, Ecgfrith might break through and engage “Cousin” Bridei and quickly defeat him in hand-to-hand combat. Unfortunately, Ecgfrith failed to realize one thing: King Bridei had spent the past fifteen years consolidating other Pictish or Irish kingdoms in the north under his rule. He was welding together a fledgling kingdom of his own, and had managed to instill some discipline in his troops. The charge of the Northumbrians was met decisively, and the Picts swarmed the mounted men, pushing them back into the margins of the boggy ground of Dunnichen Moss.
The Northumbrians were overwhelmed and cut to pieces fairly quickly. As the battle rushed to a climax, Bridei led his bodyguard cavalry in a decisive charge that probably brought down the last surviving invaders, including Ecgfrith himself. It would be somehow ironic to imagine that Ecgfrith and Bridei might have met face-to-face, with Ecgfrith getting the worst of the encounter, losing his life.
The vast majority of the Northumbrian force was slaughtered, though several chronicles state that a few survivors were captured and enslaved. From this point forward, Northumbria never again exercised control of the Pictish lands. After the battle, King Ecgfrith’s body was taken on a grand tour of the Scottish highlands. Eventually his remains arrived at the monastery of Iona – on the far western shore of Scotland – and buried.
This was probably Bridei’s way of showing that Pictland was free of the Northumbrian rule. Also, though both the Anglians and Picts were Christian by this time, the Northumbrians were more influenced by Rome, while the Picts recognized the Irish church as its authority. In addition, this may have been the Picts’ revenge on Ecgfrith for his invasion and sack of Irish territory in the previous year.
Thats the story about the Battle of Dunnichen
Footnotes:
#1: One of the most fascinating finds that may give some insight into the battle of Dunnichen is a stone monument called the Aberlemno Stone. It currently stands in the yard of a church near the village of Dunnichen. The figures depicted have been interpreted to represent the Anglian horsemen and Pictish troops that fought at Dunnichen. The stone is still under scrutiny by historians. #2: This battle was originally known to history as the battle of Nechtansmere. A Welsh chronicle referred to it as the battle of Crane Lake, which may have been the original Pictish name for Nechtansmere.
#3: In 1985 a memorial cairn was dedicated near the site of the battlefield, commemorating the 1300th anniversary of the battle.
#4: In the winter of 1950, a Miss Smith accidentally ran her car into a ditch and found herself walking on the battlefield late at night. Over a 12-minute period, Miss Smith observed men in Pictish-like outfits with fire brands searching through battlefield corpses.
#5: Today a “communications mast” (cell-tower?) stands on Dunnichen Hill. In addition, the hill is used as a campsite for an unofficial New Age Travellers’ (read “hippies”) festival that began in the 1990’s. At that time, a local company sought permission to quarry the site for stone. The company’s application was turned down, but the unofficial festival apparently is still going strong. In 1996, violence erupted when police attempted to confiscate the largest sound system of the festival-goers, following numerous complaints by nearby residents, who could hear the music from two miles away. A member of the British parliament spoke about the “festival” and some of the anti-social behavior by festival-goers, including the killing of livestock (to include sheep and pheasant chicks) by their dogs.
#6: Most of the information used to write this post came from the book, “Battles of the Dark Ages: British Battlefields AD 410 to 1065” by Peter Marren, published in 2006.
Howitzer:
I'm sorry, but could you please use paragraphs?
It's very hard to motivate oneself to read one huge wall of text.
Whitespace (e.g. paragraphs and line endings) make it easy to swallow in bits and pieces.
Snuggydoodle:
--- Quote from: Howitzer on March 12, 2011, 11:35:37 AM ---I'm sorry, but could you please use paragraphs?
It's very hard to motivate oneself to read one huge wall of text.
Whitespace (e.g. paragraphs and line endings) make it easy to swallow in bits and pieces.
--- End quote ---
Hope its better now :)
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