THE SAXONS HAVE ARRIVED.

In the same spirit that people flee the war-torn towns of their birth—desperate for safety, happiness, and a new way of life hundreds of miles away—so did the Saxons of the 5th and 6th centuries.

Fifteen hundred of them had left the coastal regions of Germany, the Netherlands, and Denmark. They huddled in timber boats, thirty feet long, crammed with thirty or forty people each. A mass migration from the northwestern coast of continental Europe was in full swing.

If a man with a keen eye had stood on the cliffs of South West England on that particular night 1,500 years ago, he would have spied a fleet of fifty ships making slow progress toward a river estuary — a gateway inland to woodlands, swamps, and scrublands where their countryfolk had already settled and terraformed the ground for crops.

Hortwulf, a Saxon chief, scanned the faces in his boat: old, young, fierce, vulnerable. All of them looked at him.

"The tide is coming inland," he said. "Dusk is not far away. Soon, my brethren. Soon we will be on solid ground."

He had been surveying the coastline for days. The tell-tale dip in the cliffs meant a stream or river cutting down from a valley beyond. A beach or a mud-banked estuary. The ideal place to land.

Another boat drew up beside them. Witgar, the chief with whom Hortwulf was making the migration, spoke just loud enough to be heard over the lapping waves.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes. Let's get this done."

Women and the elderly baled water from the bottoms of the boats. The fleet made its slow approach to the narrowing mouth of the river estuary.

Fifteen hundred people of all ages. Fifty boats. This was no raiding expedition. This was a migration, whole villages looking for another life.

They had already come far: from the flat swamplands of Holland, Belgium, and Germany, to the coast of France the night before, then across the Channel and along Britain's south-eastern shore.

They knew the danger would soon end. Large areas of Britain were still dense woods and thickets — ignored by the British inhabitants, uncultivated and underdeveloped. Perfect for the Saxons. They knew how to turn such land fertile. Fish filled the rivers. Rabbits, boar, and deer roamed free. Britain was the land of milk and honey. The risk was worth the reward.

Now, anticipation pumping in their hearts, the fleet rowed silently toward the narrowing mouth of the estuary.

Mud flats on either side. No sign of human habitation. Hortwulf and Witgar breathed relief.

"We have over six hundred men of fighting ability," Witgar had assured him earlier. "No village could oppose us."

Hortwulf had tempered that confidence. "We may fight off a group of farmers. But a well-armed British chieftain? We will all be killed."

Six hundred men, poorly armed and trained. Against British soldiers with long spears, battle axes, swords, and archers. One bad decision, and they would lead their people into a massacre.

The boats pulled together and moved as one. They had arrived.

Hortwulf stood at the prow of his boat. A powerful man of nearly forty, his brown face weathered from years of seafaring. A magnificent moustache. Long fair hair bound into a tight topknot. A heavy brown woollen shirt to his knees, thick leather belt, a short thick-bladed sword in a scabbard on his left hip. Thick leather sandals. Heavy bronze bracelets on his forearms. Gold and silver studs on his belt and scabbard.

He gauged the depth of the water, felt the river shallowing as it narrowed, and gave the signal to stop rowing.

Thirty yards away, Witgar stood in his own prow—taller than Hortwulf, light brown hair, round iron helmet, heavy leather jacket. He passed the signal on, then jumped overboard and waded over.

"The god Ing is with us," Witgar said. "We could not have chosen a more perfect place."

Hortwulf nodded. "No fires. No spears. We are fortunate."

A dozen ducks and a flock of wood pigeons flew from the trees, startled. Otherwise, the place was deserted.

Men slipped over the sides of their boats, the fast-flowing water reaching above their knees. Women joined them, lightening the boats. Soon the hulls scraped the riverbed. They pulled the boats ashore.

This was the most dangerous moment: stepping ashore. If anyone was watching—if they were spotted—local British chiefs would be told. A killing party would assemble.

Hortwulf heard a baby cry in the distance. He beckoned Witgar closer.

"We must be careful. Very careful. One false move and we are all dead."

"What's next?"

"Take my brother. Pick three other men. Scout ahead. Half along the left bank, half along the right. A mile at least. The river is too shallow to pull the boats further, and darkness is coming. Move quickly. With stealth."

Witgar nodded. He fetched his heavy wooden shield, short sword, and helmet, selected his men, and set off upstream.

Hortwulf turned to his people. "Get these boats ashore."

They stumbled over rough stones and hidden dips in the riverbed, dragging the boats onto the bank, collapsing on the ground.

Then two figures came stumbling back down the river. His brother Icnar, eyes wide with fear.

"Brother, stop. Be quiet."

Hortwulf waited in dread.

"The British are camped just around the bend. Hundreds of them."

Icnar gasped for breath. "One hundred yards ahead, a bend in the river. Fields on either side. The British are in the field on the left."

Hortwulf's worst fear. Waiting just around the corner.

Fifteen hundred people, wet, frightened, exhausted. Dozens of boats ashore, dozens more still in the river, filled with everything they owned: food for the winter, seeds for the years beyond.

"How many exactly?"

"We counted three hundred. Maybe more."

"How armed?"

"Spears. Axes. Swords. It's a British war army, Hortwulf. Heavily armoured. Even the horses wear metal."

"A local prince, then. Where's Witgar?"

"Well hidden. Watching the camp."

Other leading men gathered. Hortwulf turned to them. "A British war band, three hundred strong, camped just around the bend. Two hundred yards from disaster. We have to decide."

Someone fetched Otto, the tribe's wise man. Otto listened, then spoke.

"We have few choices. Try to get back to the sea. Hide until morning. Attack and pray for victory. Or wait until they sleep and slip past them."

Hortwulf shook his head. "Returning to the sea is not an option. Icnar says the tide is falling—the river will be too low. Hiding until morning is a risk too far. A fight will be a massacre. We would need five times our strength."

He looked at the faces around him. "We keep moving. We wait until the camp sleeps, and we slip past."

He gave the order. "Pull the boats back to the bank. We wait. Then we move."

Icnar found Witgar crouched low in the riverside bushes, watching the British camp.

When Witgar returned, he reported: "The camp is quiet. They have no idea we are here. They laugh and sing around their fires, drinking ale. Sentries are on guard, but they are on low alert."

Hortwulf felt a thin thread of confidence. "We wait until they are asleep. Then we move past them."

Witgar nodded. "If we had landed an hour earlier, they would have seen us coming up the river. They would have caught us like fish in a net. The gods are with us."

"Let's pray their camp is temporary. We must get as far from here as we can."

"Patience is the key," Witgar said. "They aren't expecting trouble. We hold firm, then we move."

"Go back. Keep watch. Signal us when it's time."

Time dragged. Doubt spread like water seeping through cracks. The Saxons pressed themselves into the ground, using every bush and shadow for cover. From the darkness came the distant sounds of the British camp—laughter, singing, the crack of firewood—only two hundred metres away, out of sight.

The noises faded. The fire dimmed.

Witgar and his men kept watching. A figure throwing timber onto the embers. Sparks dancing. An owl hooting. Wind rustling the trees. The river running. Mammals scurrying through the undergrowth, living their own life-and-death struggles.

Then Icnar appeared out of the dark.

By now, everyone's eyes had adjusted. Senses sharpened. They all knew: this would bring a new life or a brutal death.

Icnar whispered to Hortwulf, "The camp has been silent for an hour. Witgar says it's safe to move."

Hortwulf turned to Otto. "Tell everyone. Now we move. Pull the boats into the water. No noise. Make haste. Tell them not to be afraid. The gods have protected us this far."

The word passed. Everyone moved as one.

Hortwulf winced at every sound: the rustle of bodies, the dry scrape of boats on gravel, the splash of re-entry, a baby's whimper, an old man's cough.

Oh Woden, protect us and deliver us.

Hortwulf and Icnar led from the front. The column of boats and people followed in the darkness, low clouds above, steady progress.

A hundred yards downstream, the river bent sharply left. Open plains backed by a low ridge of hills lay to the right—where the British war band was camped. Glowing fires dotted the field. Distance from the river, but not enough.

Everyone's eyes were fixed in the same direction. If they could see the camp, the sentries could see them.

Then they saw the two sentries. And the horses standing still in the gloom along the riverbank.

Everyone froze.

Hortwulf and Icnar made their way to Witgar's advance party. Hortwulf whispered, "Find us a place to get out. We need to get up the hill into the woods. Away from the river. Go."

They had to keep moving.

The stronger men pulled the boats against the current. Everyone else followed, water at their chests. The camp was in full view. The riverbed was uneven. Women stumbled, clutching children by hand, babies to their chests. The young and the old rode in the boats.

The river widened. The current eased.

Fifteen hundred Saxons, pulling fifty boats, had inched past a British war band.

And then a baby cried.

It cut through the darkness like a bolt of lightning. Everyone held their breath.

The mother clamped her woollen cloak over the baby's mouth, holding the child so tight against her chest. If she held much longer, the baby would suffocate. But if she didn't—someone else would drown it.

Forty yards away, a sentry turned to his fellow. "Did you hear that?"

He peered toward the river, seeing nothing in the darkness.

"Most probably a fox."

"Aye. Got a rabbit or a water rat." He threw another log on the fire.

The Saxons stood motionless in the current. Then they looked up in despair. The clouds were parting. Silver moonlight began to stream through.

Now it was a race.

Hortwulf waded from boat to boat. "Go. Go. As quick as you can."

The moon was coming out. Their cover was disappearing.

Somewhere in one of those tents, the British chieftain Llwydawg the Killer slept on a cowhide, his red cloak around his shoulders. He turned in his sleep, dreaming of glory—of how the bards would sing of his victories, how Saxons would scream and beg for mercy.

He did not wake. He did not see the silent pandemonium of 1,500 Saxons heaving their boats around the bend and out of sight.

With each inch forward, the clouds inched apart. Radiant moonlight illuminated the landscape.

Otto turned to Icnar in amazement. "The gods have made us invisible. It's as clear as daylight, and they haven't seen us."

Icnar managed a faint smile. "Keep moving, old man. If they don't see us in the next few minutes, then maybe we'll be safe."

The hills and fields bathed in cold silver light. Hortwulf knew the river would be next. His heart pounded as the last few boats neared the final bend.

He urged the last men forward. The river lit up in bright moonlight.

He waited for the shout. The alarm. The charge.

Nothing.

He turned for one last look at the camp. The sentries had their backs to the fire. Their backs to the river.

They could never have imagined fifty boats and 1,500 Saxons passing silently past them. This was their territory. Miles from the sea. Hundreds of miles from the despicable Saxons. Trouble was the last thing on their minds.

And so the latest migration of Saxons rounded the bend and disappeared into the night.

Hortwulf had convinced these people to come. Now he had steered them through their first challenge.

Arriving.

The Saxons had landed. Elation and victory washed away the cold and exhaustion.

Witgar had chosen a landing spot less than a mile beyond the bend. As Hortwulf arrived, the boats were already being heaved out of the river. Food and belongings moved from the water to the cover of the trees on the hilltop.

Hortwulf stood on the riverbank and watched his people drag the last of the boats ashore.

A woman climbed out of the water, her child still clutched to her chest. She looked around at the dark woods, the open sky, the solid ground beneath her feet. Then she sank to her knees and pressed her forehead to the earth.

A man helped his father—grey-haired, shivering—up the bank. The old man stood straight, looked back toward the river, and laughed. A raw, ragged sound. Not joy, exactly. Something rarer. Survival.

Icnar came up beside Hortwulf. Neither spoke for a long moment.

Then Hortwulf said, "Break the boats."

The hides that had kept them watertight would become shelters. The timber would become homes. The seeds would be sown in the spring.

Now it was about surviving or perishing. Their moment of truth had come and gone. They had proved worthy.

The Saxons had arrived, and they were here to stay.