Before they turned to enter the tent and take a cup of ale with the King, Ælfred moved forward to address his son’s massed men, thanking them in few but heartfelt words for their service. The cheer that went up in response rang out across the encampment: “Ælfred, Wessex!”
It was a mark of special regard that Ceric was invited within. Though he was one of Ælfred‘s godsons, an invitation to sit with the King, not at a feast at Kilton, but in his military headquarters was an altogether quieter, and higher, honour. Ale was poured into simple bronze cups, the King’s alone being of silver. Ceric recalled the young man-servant who had been with the King as they approached Middeltun; this was the same man.
The King looked tired indeed to Ceric. The dark golden hair had wholly paled to silver, and only the king’s beard showed traces of its earlier, warmer hue. The pallor of his skin made the dusky circles under his eyes the deeper. The eyes themselves though were still sharply blue, alert, and keenly vigilant.
Distinction though it be, Ceric was glad when the bailiff and he could rise, leaving father and son to the tent. When last he had seen Raedwulf, the bailiff was making hurried flight from Eadward’s camp to Ælfred‘s side, to help repulse a sudden attack in which the Danes had taken the burh of Exanceaster, and ravaged all along the coast of Defenas. Once outside the King’s tent Ceric turned to him.
“Defenas – we heard it was a great action. How did your home fare?”
“My hall was spared,” Raedwulf said, “held by the men of Exanceaster who had fled there.”
Ceric gave brief thought to this. The routed thegns of the burh might have almost stormed the place in their flight. He did not care to think of the damage a large number of warriors may have inflicted on what he guessed must be a hall known for its handsomeness. At any rate, Ceric knew Raedwulf would not be a man to dwell on mishaps, not when he had escaped disaster.
Raedwulf turned now to the subject of Ceric’s home. “I have no news of Kilton,” he admitted. He gave thought to this and added. “It is always for the best that we have heard nothing. Word would have been brought to the King of any attack.”
This was ever true, though silence was scant consolation.
Ceric would hazard another question of the bailiff, though he asked without much hope of return. Raedwulf knew nothing of Kilton. For him to have heard anything from what was now enemy territory was too much to hope for.
Still, if Ceric had ever earned the right to ask, it was now.
“Have you heard news of Hrald, and Four Stones?” he asked. “I myself know nothing of it. I have sent letters with monks, the most recently a few months ago. They were two we met upon the road, journeying from Ælthelinga to Oundle.”
The bailiff’s face had changed. Mention of Four Stones summoned its women to his mind’s eye. Ashild, the daughter of the hall, was loved by Ceric, who had the approval of his King in her pursuit. He himself loved the Lady of that place, a feeling as sacred as it was secret. Of Oundle he had the warmest memory. A tiny and now crumbling rose bud from that famed garden sat in a small leathern pouch in his belt.
Raedwulf answered without hesitation. “We know that Four Stones stands firm.”
How know you this, Ceric once again found his mind asking the bailiff. It went unvoiced, but Raedwulf read Ceric’s question in his face, and answered. “The King’s riders carry all manner of news to him.” Raedwulf paused. “Also, there are Danes who will bring report.”
Ceric considered this. “They have been bought.”
The bailiff gave a short laugh. “Almost all men can be bought, for the right price. Hungry men, the more so.”
“One of Hrald’s men told you?”
The bailiff paused once more. “A man formerly of Four Stones.”
Just north of Ælfred‘s camp lay the fields of rippling oats and barley on which the sustenance of Lundenwic depended. Æthelred, Lord of Mercia, had some number of his own men stationed about the fields, but needed many more now that the crop was ripe and reapers ready to scythe. Under the bright and hot Sun was set a double perimeter. Stationed just at the edges of the golden furrows were foot-men ringing the fields. They stood at intervals with their spears, pacing slowly to meet the next man and return to where they had started. Thegns on horseback patrolled further out, some by pasture lands, others at the edge of forest growth, waiting to respond to any threat.
The reaping took a week. The bundled sheaves were even more vulnerable to theft, and after the reapers had left, the guards remained until the sheaves dried and could be collected and brought within the walls of Lundenwic for threshing and winnowing. There was some interest for the foot-men when the reapers had been afield, with the sharpened scythes flashing as the curved blades cut through the yellow stalks, and those holding them sang their repetitive swing-chants to stay in rhythm as they worked their way across the knee-high grain. Now the furrows were silent, empty of any life save the jackdaws and blackbirds who dipped down, seeking shattered heads of barley or plucking worms from the soil now exposed. When the waggons rolled in laden with men to pluck the sheaves and carry them to Lundenwic, even those who had most craved the rest this detail had given them were ready to move on. Eadward told Ceric that within the week he would dismiss them all, riding with his own men back to Witanceaster, and sending all others to their home burhs.
The Prince did not have the chance to make good on his promise. Before the final sheaves had been loaded, two of the King’s riders brought word to him and Æthelred of an encampment of the Danes. The scouts had ridden up the banks of the River Lyge. At midday they heard sounds of habitation; hammering, and distant voices. They quit their horses to draw nearer. Up a slight tributary of the Lyge they found a timber fortress being built, far enough from the banks of the Lyge itself not to be readily discovered. The encircling wall was complete, and men laboured within at their building works. The scouts continued a short way up the Lyge. The numbers of drekars pulled bow-first into the banks, or hauled up entirely to list on their sides on the grass, told that these Danes had sailed in stealth up the Thames, then turned up the River Lyge, evading detection by the Lord of Mercia’s men.
Ceric was not privy to the council taking place between the King, his son-in-law, and his son. When Eadward returned from his father’s tent to where his own men were camped, he called Ceric to him. He told him more of the discovery, and of the decision made.
“We will attack. The King has placed all in Æthelred’s hands; it is a Danish incursion on Mercian lands. But we are to aid.”
Ceric drew breath. They were but a day or two away from being released. Now they were being asked to fight for Mercia. He could do nothing but nod his head, and re-double his attention to what the Prince next said.
Surprise, as always, would be their greatest ally. They had questioned the scouts carefully, to make the best determination of approach. Sailing up the Lyge, to land just short of the Danes would grant both silence and secrecy. Yet Æthelred could not supply the troops with enough ships from Lundenwic to carry all, which meant a split force working its way up river, some in ships, others coming by foot and horse. The Lord of Mercia then had decision to make. Eschewing any ships and the ungainliness of a divided force, they would travel by foot and horseback. The scouts warned that owing to the narrowness of the banks they must come largely through the trees. The river bank in most places would allow men to ride only single file.
Eadward summed up the urgency of the task in his next words.
“We start tomorrow, at dawn.”
Chapter the Eleventh: Ever Deeper
A force of over two hundred from Mercia and Wessex set out at daybreak. Æthelred and his chief men led the way, themselves mounted and leading nearly four score of Mercian foot-men. It was the first time Ceric had seen more than a glimpse of the Lord of Mercia. He was approaching his fifth decade, and the long hair for which he was known by the Welsh during his wars against them was now largely grey. Ælfred was both father-in-law and overlord to Æt
helred, but the Lord of the Mercians was kingly in dress if not in bearing. His ring-tunic was laid over a leathern tunic of deep red, and his helmet with its wild boar crest upon the skull plate had a thick row of that beast’s real bristles running down its iron back. Ceric remembered Æthelred’s green serpent banner from the siege at the River Colne, when Eadward had held one bank, and the Lord of Mercia’s men, the other. Several of Æthelred’s body-guard sported these banners now, rising from the cantles of their saddles.
Eadward and Ceric too would ride, along with the Prince’s body-guard, with two score foot-men. When they neared the place, Ceric and most others mounted would quit their horses. Only Æthelred and Eadward and their direct body-guard would remain horsed, that they might see and be seen by their men. With rare exceptions fighting was done on foot, and Æthelred, knowing their palisade to be already complete, planned to call the Danes out for pitched battle on their doorstep.
At mid-morning, after walking their horses upon the firm soil of the river bank, and the foot-men making their way as rapidly as they could through the brush and trees to keep time, the scouts signalled they neared the new fort. In plain view ahead was the stream they had followed, and from which they had heard the work of joiners. Silence greeted them now; no sound of work came from behind that timber wall. None at the front of their ranks stopped to puzzle over this. A clear and blue sky was overhead, with only the finest of clouds streaking the distance. Rising about them was that smell of fresh river water they had walked with the whole journey, and the wood to their right was bedded in a mix of yellow lichens and deep green mosses from which tiny white and pink flowers rose. All moved as noiselessly as they could. Ceric swung from his saddle and handed the reins of his stallion to one of Eadward’s body-guards, and joined the foot-men of Kilton.
He had ridden, as they all had, in as full a war-kit as all possessed. For Ceric that was his dark steel helmet, ring-shirt, sword in its black baldric over his left shoulder, seax across his belly, and shield of blue and yellow. He left his spear back at camp; all his foot-men carried them. The Danes were bound to have swordsmen, and as Kilton’s leader he would engage as many as he could. Standing there, seeing his horse being led away, swinging his shield round from his back and fitting his hand through the grip behind the pointed iron boss, he was struck by Worr’s absence. He had fought skirmishes since he had sent Worr home, but never in his life had he stood in any pitched battle without Worr at his right side.
Worr was not with him, and today, instead of starting for home, he fought for Mercia.
He blew out his breath, trying to clear his head of this thought. Wherever he fought was for Kilton. And his first allegiance, after Christ, was to Wessex and Ælfred. These encamped Danes might be those soon heading for Kilton, or Four Stones.
Those mounted, Æthelred and his men foremost, started up the bank. Ceric slipped into the trees, fronting his men, and began to follow. The dimness of the tree cover made but slight contrast to Ceric’s blackened ring-shirt and helmet. His sword was still in its baldric, and for ease of walking he would leave it there until needed. When they gained the fort they would quickly form up into ranks. It was a tactic much used by the Danes, creeping quietly through forest trees to emerge at a clearing ready to assume their lines of attack. This morning would see a shield-wall of the thegns of Mercia in front, with Eadward’s men, including those of Kilton, just behind.
They did not get the chance to make good on these plans. Ceric had kept close enough to the river bank that through breaks in the trees and shrubby growth he could see the last of Eadward’s mounted thegns. Of a sudden a yell rang out, and the thegn he had watched kicked his mount and sped forward. Ceric could see no clearing ahead of him through the trees, had no idea of how much further lay the fort of the Danes. He only knew they had been discovered. Those foot-men of Eadward’s in front of his own began to run, as well as they could in the undergrowth, towards an ever-growing mix of war-cries, yells and oaths.
Ceric pulled his sword and cried out, “Kilton!”, a rallying call answered by those behind him.
As he moved forward the light was changing; the trees thinning before him. He could see blue morning sky and a glimpse of fresh, nearly white timber walls. Then one of his foot-men, running a few arm lengths alongside him, screamed and fell. Ceric turned his head to see the throwing spear the man had been hit with, protruding from his lower back.
Ceric was now aware of another man, behind him. His own had kept their distance, while this one was coming up with speed. He jolted himself to a stop and whirled, sword foremost. It would be no good against a throwing spear, but taken in ambush as they were, he would rather die facing his enemy than be dropped by a blow from behind.
It was a Danish warrior, holding a sword and shield. The warrior lacked a helmet. Ceric could guess why he had been his target.
He has no helmet. Ceric heard a voice within him, his own, the voice of Cadmar, of Worr, of every skilled warrior who had ever trained him, posing just this situation to him.
Hit at the head.
In turning as quickly as he had, Ceric had brief advantage. The Dane staggered to his own stop, shield lifted, sword ready to engage. Ceric narrowed his eyes at him through the oval openings of the coveted helmet.
His opponent was as tall as he, no taller, and Ceric was standing on higher ground. A sidewise swipe would give Ceric more strength and leverage. Yet that was what the Dane would expect. Ceric saw his opening and took the offensive, jumping to his right. As he struck out with his blade towards the Dane’s shield shoulder, the man recoiled and pulled the shield closer in. As he ducked Ceric was able to lunge forward, and bring his blade directly down through the top of the Dane’s head, between the eyes.
There was a terrible moment, one almost of suction, as the blade of Ceric’s sword cleaved through the skull. The curved plates of bone seemed to close up around the width of sharp steel, even as the white and red brain matter was expressed about it.
Ceric gave a yell and yanked the blade back, just as the Dane was falling away from under it, to sink spread-armed on the mosses of the forest floor.
Behind him he could see some of his foot-men fighting spear-to-spear with Danes. Others were running toward the open river bank, away from the wood and the dangers it held. Eadward was there somewhere on the bank, and Ceric must go to him.
He yelled again, calling his men to follow, but over the clash of metal and war-cries from ahead could not know if he was heard. He ran, jumping and nearly tripping through the underbrush, to stand panting in the brilliant sunlight spilling on the river margin.
Ahead a few riderless horses milled, snorting and tossing their manes. A shield which he knew to be of Æthelred’s men floated upon the water, painted face up, drifting downstream toward whence they had come. He could glimpse a portion of the palisade wall. Before it warriors of Wessex and Mercia faced a growing number of Danes, surging from a gate which Ceric could not see but which he guessed had opened. Æthelred had issued no demand to come and fight, shield-wall to shield-wall. The Danes had discerned their arrival and many awaited them in the wood, picking off the foot-men amongst the trees, as was their wont. Now they swarmed upon them before any had chance to form up. The narrow river bank was grown treacherous, as numberless Danes pushed Æthelred’s warriors to its brink, and fighting there meant those struck toppled into its cool and dark waters. The effort had not yet begun, and looked utterly lost.
Ceric could not see Eadward, nor Æthelred. Moving closer was to throw his life away. He brought his left hand, that which grasped the grip of his shield, into his chest, and thumped it against the golden cross that lay under ring-shirt and tunic. He did not want to die, and knew that now he very likely would. But words formed in his beating heart: Take me now God, if it be your will.
He thought of nothing but Eadward as he ran along the bank towards the fighting. He would allow no thought of Kilton, or Modwynn, or his brother Edwin who relied upon him. He fixed his mind
on Eadward, and nothing beyond. But the face of Ashild flashed into his mind, and the few hours that had comprised his sole night with her. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, that the image be imprinted there for as long as he lived. My love, I thank you, he thought.
Before him horses were wheeling and rearing, the warriors upon them yelling as they manoeuvered in a knot of loose horses and men on foot. Then a horn sounded, three times, that call only the desperate wish to hear. It was the retreat signal of Mercia, Æthelred calling all back, abandoning the attack.
Those same mounted thegns now charged along the narrow bank. Ceric leapt back to the trees to keep from being trampled under their hooves. He saw the body-guard of Æthelred come first, the Lord of Mercia one of a long string of riders. Some forced their horses into the muddy regions of the lower banks, just so that two might ride along the narrowness of that river margin, speeding their retreat. Horses which had lost their riders were amongst them, cantering to catch up or overtake those whose riders they still bore. Foot-men streamed behind and clambered from within the tree cover to join the retreat. Some carried no weapon, having lost or broken their spears. Ceric raked his eyes along the line of fleeing horsemen, searching for the Prince of Wessex. The horn, sounded by one of Æthelred’s men, had blown without ceasing, and now, the holder of that brass far ahead, grew fainter.
A gap of agonizing length was next, until Eadward appeared. With none immediately before him, he rode at speed, slowing for a moment when he spotted Ceric standing on the bank. He had breath to yell to Ceric as he shot by, “Stay with my body-guard. Bring up the rear. Protect the foot-men!”
Ceric stood to see the Prince’s body-guards come next. He saw the man to whom he had given his horse, and saw with wonderment that he still held his stallion. Ceric was about to pull himself up upon his back when the rest of Kilton’s foot-men appeared. Some had the dazed look of those who barely took notice of their surroundings, while others had panic fresh in their eyes. Ceric urged them forward. One of them, Sebbe by name, came slower than the others, in a baltering walk which had him almost stumbling in effort to stay upright. Sebbe was a year or two older than Ceric, a cottar and an able man, one with promise. Ceric called his name, and Sebbe made attempt to hasten. As he neared, Ceric saw the broad leathern belt he wore about his middle, sitting over a tunic now bloodied from waist to thigh. Ceric left his horse and ran to him.
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