Transcript
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The year is 789 AD. It's market day in the town of Dawnwa Rychester, Dorchester, as it's known today in England's southwest. Dense clouds sweep in from the east, gathering mass. The air grows oppressive beneath them. Situated on the banks of the river from in the ancient kingdom of Wessex, Dorchester is an important settlement. It has royal connections. The West Saxon king has a winter residence here. A man patrols the market stalls with a watchful eye. There's a haughty swagger to his walk as he taps his staff on the cobbles. Traders touch their forelocks respectfully. This is not a man you want to cross. His woolen clothes are of quality, revealing his high status. Meet Beadahad. He's the reeve, an official responsible for ensuring that the king's laws are upheld. The market is a honey pot for ne' er do wells, drunks, pickpockets, cheats. And it's Berdahard's job to police and punish every kind of criminality. There's one rule above all others that he's determined to enforce, that the king must receive his portion, his cut of every transaction that takes place in his realm. It's not just about the money. It's about maintaining order. When Pierhard overhears a group of men talking about some foreigners trading furs over the side of their boats, his ears prick up. The alleged infringement is taking place on the Isle of Portland, down on the coast, about 30 miles to the south. Baederhad hurries to the guild hall and gathers his attendants. If he's to confront these strangers, he's determined to impress on them the full dignity of his office. Dorchester is an old Roman town. The roads are laid out in the classic grid pattern, but it's fallen into disrepair since the legions left long, long ago. The amphitheater turned to rubble, its arena overgrown. Sheep nibble at the grass where gladiators once fought. The reeve leads his men along South Street. They leave through a gap in the town walls where the old gate used to be, then take the long, straight Roman road down to the sea. For Beatahad, the issue is simple. The foreigners are welcome to trade, but they must follow the rules. He sits up in the saddle. All he has to do is to show them who's boss. As they reach Chesil beach, the thin isthmus that connects Portland to the mainland, Berdahard sees the strangers. Boats drawn up ahead. Three masted longboats with their sails stowed. Their crews mill about on the shingle. A campfire burns. Suddenly they stop what they're doing and turn to face the approaching posse. Berdahad and his men draw to a halt at close quarters. The size of the strangers is striking. They are a formidable sight. The reeve touches a crucifix on his belt buckle. The ultimate source of his authority is God. The strangers wear helmets of either leather or metal. Axes, daggers and swords hang from their boulderings. The loose belts slung about their hips. Their muscled arms are ringed with gold. One or two wear small gilded hammers around their necks, the symbol of a pagan God, Thor, the bringer of thunder. Their hair and beards appear well groomed. Dark green tattoos are visible on their exposed skin. Bead Ahad dismounts and strides towards them. One hand on the hilt of his dagger, he gestures towards a pile of lush arctic furs. You can't trade that here. He shouts, explaining that they will have to pass through a king's port in order to pay the correct taxes. The foreigners are unmoved by his words, if they even understand them. Then one of them reaches for a long handled battle axe. His hand rises before shooting forwards and releasing the weapon. Time seems to slow down as it spins through the air. Beadahad is rooted to the spot as the axe hits its target, the middle of his chest. With a deafening roar, the men from the ships rush forward and drag the Adahad's stunned men from their horses. As the storm clouds break, the strangers load up their long sleek vessels and heave them back into the water, the only trace of their presence the smoldering fire and the Saxon bodies lying on the blood soaked pebbles. Today, Chesil beach, with its tidal lagoons, is one of Dorset's most popular tourist locations. A favored spot for ramblers and bird watchers. It's hard to imagine it as a setting for such a shocking drama. So who were these men who pitched up on this beach a millennium ago, dispensing such violence and casual brutality? They are, in a word, that will soon strike fear into the hearts of every Anglo Saxon, every Celt, every Frisian, every Frank across the early Middle Ages. Vikings. Say the word Viking today and it conjures a certain image, one represented in countless films, TV shows, video games, comic books and superhero franchises. One of pillage and savagery. A cliched world of horned helmets and blood eagles, of barbaric hirsute heathens enthralled to gods and monsters. The Hell's angels of the high seas. Men who came in longboats to terrorize and slaughter the innocents of Britain, France, Ireland and Beyond. If those men who killed Beahad are anything to go by, then certain aspects of this legend are true. But it only tells part of a bigger story of a people who were so much more than the fur clad thugs of popular imagination. The Vikings hailed from a sophisticated and developed civilization. They were master navigators, fearless explorers, diplomats, traders, craftsmen, storytellers, and, yes, warriors. Moreover, they were adventurers, men and women whose feet still defy the imagination. A people who crossed vast oceans and discovered new lands, building up an impressive trading empire that spanned four continents, four centuries. The Viking age is perhaps the most revolutionary, crucial and seminal period ever in the history of the Scandinavians. We're dealing with a group of people who really transform the history of Europe. There's a real sense in which there's almost no parts of Europe they leave completely untouched.
