The clash on the southern knoll was like two stags locking antlers.
Duncan's Scots, raw-boned and broad-shouldered, came on with a roar, their round shields beaten with the flats of their swords to summon courage and fear alike.
They crashed into the line of Cnut's earls, men from Denmark, Norway, even a scattering of Swedes and Saxons pressed into service.
The field became a grinding press of men and shields, the front ranks shoving forward until the rim of one board locked against another.
There was no grace in it, no cunning maneuver. The line surged and trembled like a timber wall against the tide.
Spears thrust through gaps, swords jabbed between shield-rims, axes rose and fell in blind arcs.
One Scot drove his blade through a Dane's thigh, only to be hewn down himself by a hammering axe.
A man's scream was drowned in the din, his body swallowed under trampling boots before his soul left him.
The Scots were well-fed and fierce, their king at their back spurring them on.
