The field lay sodden with thawing mud, the sky low and grey with the breath of spring.
Across that mire, the two armies faced one another: the lion of Scotland and the cross of England, banners snapping in the wind.
Drums boomed from Duncan's line, a thunderous heartbeat rolling across the plain.
Shield met shield in steady rhythm as the Highland spearmen advanced, red lion rampant flying proud above their ranks.
The men moved with grim unity, their kilts clinging wet to their thighs, their breath steaming like the breath of oxen.
Opposite them, Cnut's host looked already half-broken by the winter that had gnawed it hollow.
Saxon levies shifted uneasily, gaunt faces set above shields patched with leather and twine.
Yet the king himself stood in their midst, great axe braced in both hands, a bulwark of iron.
Around him, the housecarls of Denmark and Norway tightened their grip, men who had fought from the Baltic to the Thames.
A horn blared, and the lines surged.
