Sarum

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “Soon Thane Aelfwald,” the king said quietly, “I hope we shall return to a time when the king collects his feorm as before.” Then turning to Tostig the slave he announced: “You are a freedman from this hour: I shall pay your lord Aelfwald the price of your freedom.” At which, true to his character, the surly slave bowed his head respectfully, but did not smile.

  But what gave the thane more pleasure even than the king’s praise was the cargo Tostig brought in the last boat: two small children whom they had assumed must be dead. When he saw these, tears came to the thane’s eyes too and he shouted:

  “Tell Port we have livestock for him.”

  Later that day the two children told the sheep farmer and the thane how they had lived alone for weeks at the sheep farm, and then at the empty farmstead in the valley; and how during the massacre they had been saved by a grey-bearded Viking about whom they could tell the listeners nothing except that he was called Bar-ni-kel.

  The battle of Edington which took place in the spring of 878, though it involved only modest numbers of men, ranks with those other small but vital conflicts – Hastings, the Armada, the Battle of Britain – as one of the turning points in the island’s history.

  As the winter drew to an end, Aelfwald was aware of a sense of anticipation growing within the community at Athelney. The king was active now: scouts were being sent out in all directions to monitor the Vikings’ changing dispositions; others were sent to rally support.

  It was in late March that the spirits of all at the camp were raised by a piece of unexpected news. A detachment that the king had sent into the rich lands of the south west had succeeded in collecting a sizeable force together there, and this new group had met and defeated a Viking raiding party which had crossed, in no less than twenty-three ships, from Wales. Over a thousand of the raiders were reported dead: it was the first hint of success for many months.

  The thane’s sons were eager to attack in force.

  “We should raid Guthrum himself at Chippenham,” Aelfstan urged. “Teach him a lesson.”

  But King Alfred waited. For too long the war with the Vikings had followed this pattern of inconclusive battles followed by a payment of danegeld and a temporary withdrawal.

  “This time,” he told Aelfwald, “we must force them out for good. Nothing less will do.” And each day, messengers came with news of more thanes willing to meet him when he marched.

  Easter came and the whole camp gathered in a nearby field where a tall wooden cross had been set up. The nuns of Wilton, and the few monks whom the king had in his entourage celebrated a mass and it was after this that Aelfwald saw King Alfred advance to the cross and turn to address them.

  “The time has nearly come,” he cried. “And if it is God’s will, we’ll drive the Vikings out of Wessex for ever. If not,” he added grimly, “we’ll die in the attempt.”

  As the thane waited eagerly for the day of departure, one problem arose that he had not anticipated. It concerned his daughter.

  After her escapade with the Vikings at Sarum, he had been furious as well as relieved on her return, and for the rest of the journey he had ordered her to ride in one of the waggons with her mother so that she could not get up to any further mischief. At the camp, she had been duly submissive, confining herself to domestic tasks and helping the other women prepare food and look after the soldiers.

  “My daughter is a little wild,” he had confessed to Alfred, “but I can control her.”

  He was astonished therefore when, the evening after the mass, Aelfgifu had appeared before him and calmly announced:

  “I’m coming with you to fight.”

  “Impossible. You’re a woman,” he told her.

  “But I’m coming anyway,” she repeated obstinately.

  How dare she defy him? The whole idea was absurd.

  “You’ll stay at the camp,” he thundered. “Let me hear no more of this.”

  “I fight as well as any man,” she insisted.

  He glowered at her. He knew that what she said was true and, secretly, he was proud of his extraordinary daughter’s prowess. But it was not seemly for a young woman to behave like this and he knew that some of the other thanes smiled at him behind his back because of her.

  “It’s impossible,” he repeated, and expected that to be the end of the matter.

  It was not. The very next morning, to his fury, his two sons appeared before him to plead the foolish girl’s cause.

  “I’ve seen her fight,” young Aelfstan said, “and I’d sooner have her with me than most men.”

  “And would you like to see her killed beside you as well?” he demanded irritably.

  “No,” Aelfstan confessed, “but if she’s so determined to do it, then I’d rather she took the risk. And I’d rather we both died fighting together, if we lose, than leave her to her fate with the Vikings.”

  To the thane’s surprise, his elder son Aelfric agreed.

  “He has to,” Aelfstan laughed, “she’s threatened to break his arm if he doesn’t!”

  He had heard enough. It was time to assert his authority.

  “I’ll hear no more of this,” he ordered. “Bring her here at once. If necessary I’ll put her under guard.”

  But now the two young men were looking at each other awkwardly.

  “The fact is,” Aelfric confessed, “she’s already left the camp. She says she’ll follow us anyway, if you refuse,” he explained. “If you change your mind and agree, though, then we’re to let her know by leaving a sign in the woods up there,” and he gestured towards the hill nearby.

  Aelfwald gazed at his son in stupefaction.

  “And you didn’t stop her?”

  Aelfstan grinned.

  “How, father? She was already armed and we weren’t.”

  The thane was lost for words. He was not sure whether he wanted to explode with fury or burst out laughing. Finally he sighed.

  “I shall be the laughing stock of the whole army,” he acknowledged. “Tell her she rides.”

  A few days later, they started.

  The camp at Athelney was left with a light guard. As well as leaving Aelfgifu, it had also been Aelfwald’s intention to leave Port at the camp, but when the sheep farmer pleaded with him – “Let me fight at your side my lord, as I swore an oath to do; and let me avenge my wife” – he could hardly refuse. His own wife and the abbess were placed in charge of the women, and they too were armed. Even Edith proudly showed the thane a spear that she had been given, and brandished it with such ferocity that he had to turn away so as not to let her see him smile.

  The valuables were loaded into Tostig’s boat so that they could be transported either back to Sarum, or if necessary, to another hiding place, and the thane ordered the former slave and his family to guard them with their lives.

  As he left the camp, the last thing that Aelfwald saw was the fisherman crouched over the boat by the swollen stream, his bare feet with their long, prehensile toes gripping the bank, and his dark, narrow face concentrated on his task, oblivious to the Saxon warriors passing by. He would never know, he thought, what was passing in that curious fellow’s brain.

  At first it caused some amusement to the soldiers that Thane Aelfwald was accompanied not by two, but three fine warriors, and that one of them was a woman.

  “She’s there to protect them,” they cried. But some of the others, who had ridden with her and Aelfstan at Sarum assured them: “You may laugh, but the Vikings won’t.” And though the stern-faced thane remained aloof from all these conversations, he felt a secret flush of pride in his brave daughter as the little force made their way from Athelney.

  The place where Alfred had told his thanes to gather lay two days away, at the edge of Selwood Forest. As the little force from Athelney drew nearer, Aelfwald wondered how many they would find there. Would the thanes of Wessex prove as good as their word?

  It was almost with a shout of delight that, as they finally drew close, he saw a noble army gathered to
greet them. They had rallied to their king, who was also their last chance to keep their independence. Together the Anglo-Saxon fyrd moved north to confront the Viking invaders.

  It was the next day, fifteen miles south of Chippenham, that they saw the long lines of helmets glittering in the sun. Guthrum was waiting for them.

  As the Saxons drew up into battle line, Aelfwald stood a little to the right of the centre. He was flanked by his children: Aelfric on his right, Aelfstan and Aelfgifu on his left. Immediately behind him was Port. To all of them he said:

  “This is to be the last battle. We win or die.”

  It was a well-chosen site – a broad piece of open ground, and fairly dry. As he looked to the right, Aelfwald noticed that there was a huge, untended field, over whose brown furrows the crows were sweeping, unconcerned by the lives of the warriors nearby; and in his heart he knew, at that moment, that they would win. The Anglo-Saxon fyrd was going to defend its fields.

  It was a long battle. The Vikings fought furiously; but the Saxons were fighting for their existence. As each Saxon advance was checked by the terrible battle axes, it fell back like a retreating tide, reformed and crashed forward again.

  “They’re like the waves of the sea,” Aelfwald thought. And indeed it seemed that no matter how many blows the Vikings dealt, the waves of Saxon warriors continued to pound upon them endlessly. Inspired by the slight figure of their king who fought with such determination amongst them, the Saxons were unstoppable.

  Aelfstan and his sister fought together, side by side, and they made such a fearsome combination that few who came up against them escaped.

  All the time, however, Aelfstan had a particular object in the back of his mind, and it was at one crucial point, when the Saxons broke through the Viking line, that he saw what he had been searching for. He motioned to his sister and they began to make their way towards it. For fifteen yards away, he had caught sight of a tall figure with a pock-marked face. It was the man who had raped Port’s wife. His face was imprinted on Aelfstan’s memory.

  Fighting their way through the mêlée, it took them some time to draw close, but as they did so, some of the Viking’s companions in turn recognised them, and a cry went up: “It’s the Saxon woman!” From all sides, it seemed, warriors were suddenly turning on them, for the pleasure of striking the impudent woman down.

  Before they knew what had happened though, they had been transformed into a little rallying point. Saxons were rushing to their defence. A cry went up in the middle of their part of the battle: “Aelfgifu!” and seconds later they saw another group, led by Aelfric, surging towards them.

  For several minutes, they became the focal point of the line; the fighting was desperate; but all the time, Aelfstan was conscious that they were drawing gradually closer to their chosen object, and now, only five yards away, he guessed that the tall, pock-marked Viking had sensed that he was their quarry. Pressing forward, at the front of the fighting, they came up with him at last.

  He stared at them with scorn; swivelling round, he raised his axe to smash the young woman who was glaring at him so defiantly; but not quickly enough. Before he could strike, Aelfstan made an upward swing with his sword, so quick that the Viking never saw it, and which split him open from stem to stern.

  The rape at the sheep farm had been avenged.

  Meanwhile, none had fought more bravely than Port. He had prepared himself for battle by strapping a small round shield of the Viking type to his right arm while in his good left hand he wielded a short, light sword with which he showed a surprising dexterity.

  “You fight better with your left hand than you did with your right,” the thane called to him. Certainly he was glad of Port’s presence. Each time Aelfwald turned in the thick of the fray, the solemn sheep farmer was always there, either just behind him, guarding his back, or on his left side, acting like a second shield.

  But it was at the turning point of the battle, when the Vikings after seeming the first time to waver, were launching a furious counter attack, that Port performed his most noble service.

  Aelfwald and the sheep farmer had found themselves unguarded for a moment, just as two huge Vikings had borne down upon them, one from each side. As ill luck would have it, the ground on which they were standing was muddy and slippery, so that when the thane despatched one with a magnificent thrust from his sword, he slipped and fell, while at his side, Port was knocked to the ground by the other with a mighty blow that completely shattered his shield. As he struggled to get up, he saw the Viking’s axe raised above Aelfwald.

  He knew what he must do. With a calm gesture, he raised his good arm to take the blow that was meant for his lord. While the heavy blade, deflected, bit past the bone, Aelfwald had just time to recover, raise himself on one knee and plunge his sword into the surprised Viking’s heart. Then he seized his loyal retainer and dragged him from the fight.

  Port lived; but his remaining hand, and most of the forearm, was gone.

  Soon afterwards, the Viking retreat began; within the hour, Alfred was master of the field, and as night fell, Guthrum and the tattered remains of his horde limped into Chippenham. The Saxons camped outside.

  Aelfwald himself dressed Port’s terrible wound and his sons made a rough stretcher with their spears, on which they carried him. It was not long before the report of his gesture was common knowledge throughout the fyrd.

  “Port swore to fight for me in my hall,” the thane announced. “Never was any Saxon’s vow better kept.”

  And the other thanes agreed:

  “The sheep farmer fought like a noble today.”

  Port, weak though he was, felt a glow of pride. But at the back of his mind he could not help wondering: “With both my hands gone, what shall I do?”

  As the Saxon force hurried after the retreating Vikings, one figure remained behind. The thane’s youngest son did not leave the field of battle.

  For Aelfstan still had one more duty to perform.

  Alone, as the sun sank, he searched among the fallen bodies for the pock-marked Viking. It did not take him long and when he found him, he knelt on the ground. Silently and skilfully he worked with his knife for half an hour, cutting and peeling, until he had carefully separated the man’s skin from his body. Then, rolling the dripping skin up, he slung it over his back and mounted his horse to ride after the others.

  At dawn the next morning he found a small wooden chapel just under the walls of Chippenham, and there he nailed the flayed skin on to the door.

  It was a pagan custom, but one of which, in the circumstances, none of the Saxons could disapprove.

  Guthrum held out at the small settlement of Chippenham for two weeks. Alfred and the fyrd awaited him. Finally, the Viking offered his surrender, together with a promise to leave Wessex for ever. Three weeks later, Guthrum and thirty of his nobles submitted to baptism at the Saxon camp of Athelney, in the presence of Alfred and his thanes.

  Among them was a new thane who had no hands.

  For a few days after the surrender at Chippenham, there was an open air ceremony at which the king gave his loyal followers their rewards.

  When he came to the men from Sarum, Aelfwald was pleased to see a twinkle in the king’s blue eyes.

  “Where is Port?” he asked.

  The sheep farmer was brought forward and Alfred looked at his arms before declaring:

  “This Welshman,” this was the term often applied to men of Celtic descent, “fights like a true Saxon noble.” He turned to Aelfwald with a look of enquiry and the thane nodded quickly: for the day before he had spent the morning with the king urging him to bestow this honour upon his loyal man. “Therefore,” Alfred continued: “from today, Port, you are to be a thane.” And then, followed by Aelfwald and his family, he solemnly embraced the astonished sheep farmer.

  But this was not all. If Port was to be a thane, he must have land.

  At a nod from the king, two monks now stepped forward. They held in their hands heavy sheets of
parchment: for the granting of lands was carefully recorded in writing. There were two kinds of land that the king could grant: the ordinary land of the people on which the owner would owe him the feorm tax; or the still more valuable bookland, which was exempt from all taxes except military service and contributions to fortifications and bridges.

  “Thane Port,” Alfred announced, “I will give you bookland.”

  The sheep farmer flushed with pleasure; his eyes opened wide as the monk, holding up the charter, read it out in Latin, which he translated into Saxon as he went along.

  The wording of the charter, like all such documents at that time, was resounding.

  In the name of the High Thunderer, the Creator of the World, be it declared to all present, absent and to come, by the contents of this charter that I, Alfred, by the grace of God King of the Anglo-Saxons, give and concede to Port an estate in my ownership into his perpetual possession by hereditary right.

  His own charter: his own land. Now he was truly a thane. As he listened carefully the monk continued.

  And on account of his pleasing obedience I confirm the extent of the estate: that is, twenty hides near the river Avon, immediately north of Aelfwald’s land.

  Twenty hides! He was a rich man. With the income from that he could give his sister Edith not only her gold cross but put jewels on it too. He knew the land in question. It was a fine estate. He listened intently as the monk came to the definition of its boundaries, which was written not in Latin but in Anglo-Saxon, so that there could be no doubt about what was meant.

  First along the river, then at the bend, east over the meadow to the great tree; then north along the boundary furrow to the linch, and west along the dyke . . .

  He knew every inch. Even as the monk recited, his precise mind was carefully calculating its income.

  Which lands include the place called Odda’s farm, and the right to pasture in the meadow six oxen . . .