“Not yet, Hel-hide.” His smile faded. “Not yet.”
17
One month after the battle at Bedwyn, word reached Wælingford that Æthelred had died and his brother, Ælfred, had been named king. The Danes rejoiced at this news, assuming the Saxons to be in a state of weakness, and they began to form a plan for the final assault against Wessex. By way of rivers, trackways, and Roman roads Guthrum’s raiding parties had reached deep into the lands south of Readingum, and they had discovered a place called Searesbyrig, near the town of Wiltun, which lay less than a day’s march from Ælfred’s seat at Wintanceastre.
According to the Danes who had seen it, Searesbyrig must have once been a mighty stronghold. It sat atop a flat hill over two hundred fathoms wide, with steep slopes nearly fifty fathoms in height. A deep trench encircled the hill, adding to its defences, with a second inner trench to defend a great hall. The hilltop also bore the signs and markings of previous fortifications, perhaps belonging to the Romans or the Britons, though the Saxons had foolishly abandoned the place and now made no use of its fastness.
Guthrum and Halfdan decided to join their armies and march to seize Searesbyrig, which offered their warriors a new site for an encampment that sat almost at Ælfred’s gates. But they had to plan well and move quickly to take it, or else Ælfred might discover their intent.
Weeks passed before the time came to march. They left Wælingford and Readingum by the silver light of the moon in its fullness and journeyed south by night, making their way first to the ruin of a Roman city much like the one Geirmund had passed through with John the priest. The Saxons called it Calleva, and the Danes stopped there to rest during the day, hidden among its bones and broken foundations.
Geirmund’s warriors made their camp outside the fallen town walls, at the bottom of a large bowl some thirty-five or forty fathoms wide and built from stones. Trees grew within and around it, partly hiding its true size and perhaps making it seem larger than it was. Even so, Geirmund couldn’t imagine how such a building could be roofed, and he decided it must have been open to the air. The crumbling sides of the bowl climbed to its lip in large steps, as though made for the feet of an enormous jötunn.
Skjalgi looked up and around at the place, wide-eyed. “What do you think the Romans did here?”
“They held fights,” Rafn said. “People would pay silver to watch them.”
“How do you know that?” Steinólfur asked.
“Vetr and I have raided south into Frakkland,” the Dane said. “There are many places like this. In Langbardaland they are said to be even bigger. Much bigger.”
“Bigger than this?” Skjalgi asked. “How tall were the Romans?”
Rafn laughed. “Smaller than Danes.”
“And Northmen,” Steinólfur added.
“Those are seats, Skjalgi,” Rafn said, “not stairs.”
“And yet where are the Romans now?” Birna asked. “They are dead and gone because they were mortals like us.”
“Real battle must have been far distant from them,” Vetr said. “Why else would they build a place just so they could pay silver to watch it?”
That question put Geirmund in mind of the battle ahead. It seemed to do the same for his company, for they all turned silent and sombre after that, and then a drizzle of cold rain came through with slow and rolling thunder to match their mood. That storm made it difficult to rest, and it slowed their travel that night, darkening the Roman road they followed south-west to Searesbyrig.
The clouds finally scattered just after midnight, though the air and their clothing remained damp and chilled, and Geirmund was grateful for the heat their marching stoked in his legs and arms. The rain had swollen the streams and marshland through which they journeyed, but the Roman road kept them mostly on dry ground, only sliding below the water in three places that were easy to ford.
When dawn found the Danes, they had not yet reached their planned place of rest, a defensive mound similar to Searesbyrig and ringed by a trench, but not so steep, high, or broad. But it would serve well to hold their forces for the day, so they pushed hard to reach it before the sun could reveal their presence to the Saxons.
Yew, birch, and ash trees grew thick around that hilltop and held the heavy air close to Geirmund’s chest. His sleep in that place was deep and filled with strange dreams of ocean waves that turned into waves of heath, and storms that rained blood and golden rings.
That night’s march brought them at last to Searesbyrig well before dawn, allowing them to take some rest before the work of strengthening the fortifications began the next day. Geirmund lay upon the ground amidst his warriors, looking up at the stars. There were times when those lights felt near, as if they knew him and watched him, and times when they felt distant, cold, and unconcerned with him. That night it felt as though they paid him no more mind than the sea would pay to a grain of sand. His brief sleep did little to renew him, and then the sunrise revealed the enemy.
The Saxon army had gathered less than three rests to the west, on a hilltop above the village of Wiltun. Several of the commanders and jarls joined Guthrum and Halfdan at the edge of Searesbyrig to discuss what the Danes should do.
“Ælfred somehow guessed our plan,” Guthrum said. “He must have. Perhaps he is cleverer than his brother.”
“Let him sit there on his hill,” Halfdan said. “We have the stronger position. We will fortify this place, and they will never dig us out.”
“We were expected!” Guthrum said, pointing at the Saxon army. “Ælfred will have moved all grain stores and livestock far from here, beyond our reach. We have food to last a short while, but we will need more soon, and we cannot count on raids to provide it.”
“What do you suggest?” Halfdan asked.
“We thought Ælfred would be in Wintanceastre,” Guthrum said, “hiding behind his walls. Instead, he is here, but perhaps that gives us an opportunity to finish this. I say we attack him now, this day.”
Halfdan folded his arms. “That was not our plan–”
“Our plan depended on taking Ælfred by surprise,” Guthrum said. “We failed at that, and we are now encamped in the heartland of Wessex. I swear to you for each day that we delay we will stand here and watch the enemy’s numbers grow until we have no hope of victory. This is the time to attack.” He turned to his jarls and commanders. “My warriors are ready. Are yours, King Halfdan?”
That question seemed to have the effect that Guthrum undoubtedly intended, for Halfdan unfolded his arms and lifted his chest. “My warriors are always ready.”
“Good,” Guthrum said. “Then let us put them to work felling Saxons instead of trees.”
Halfdan glanced at his jarls and commanders, and then he agreed.
After that, the jarls and commanders ordered their warriors to battle, and the army marched from the high ground of Searesbyrig, across a river ford at Wiltun, through the abandoned village, to the hill where Ælfred had gathered his force.
The Danes faced the same uphill challenge that had almost defeated them near Bedwyn, but they possessed greater numbers and began their assault. Guthrum and Halfdan divided their forces as they had done before, with Guthrum attacking from the north, and Halfdan from the east. Geirmund and his warriors stayed close to Guthrum as the king led the charge, but the Saxons sent no wave against them, and they did not divide as they had done before. Instead, they tightened their position on their hill as if they meant to stand there until the last warrior had fallen.
As soon as the Danes came within the range of the Saxon bows, arrows fell around them in thickets that succeeded in slowing their advance. Geirmund and his warriors ducked under their shields, but he soon saw that one of Rafn’s legs had been pierced at the calf. Vetr flew to Rafn’s side and held his own shield over his companion.
“Can you march?” Geirmund shouted.
Rafn grasped the shaft of t
he arrow and wrenched it from his leg. Then he tossed it aside, looked at Geirmund, and nodded.
“Shield-wall!” Geirmund shouted, and his warriors closed their ranks around him to form a tight front. Arrows rained like hail on their wooden roof. “This is our Valhalla!” Geirmund yelled, laughing. “Raftered with spears and roofed with shields like Óðinn’s hall!”
He then gave the command to step forward, and he called that same command for each step, and for each push up the hill after that. They advanced as one towards the enemy, one pace at a time, their line unbroken.
By midday Geirmund could no longer see Guthrum, but he knew the king would be unharmed so long as fate let him wear Hnituðr, and eventually the Saxon quivers emptied, and the arrowfall slowed until it was time to resume the charge in earnest.
“Are you with me?” Geirmund shouted to his warriors. “Today we take Wessex!”
They roared and rushed up the hill, but when they reached the top they found the enemy already falling back, retreating to the west before Halfdan’s assault from the east. But Geirmund saw that their retreat was not disordered by fear. The Saxon line held, even as the Danes chopped at it and rammed into it again and again.
“It seems these Wessex devils have finally found their courage!” Guthrum yelled, suddenly at Geirmund’s side.
“Do we let them go?” Geirmund pointed down the hill. “My warriors could move around them to block–”
“We let them go,” Guthrum said. “But we do not make it easy for them.”
Geirmund frowned in confusion. “My king, we have them. We could make an end to Ælfred and his–”
“Ælfred wishes to discuss terms of peace.”
Again, Geirmund was confused, and shook his head. “How do you know this?”
“I spoke to him,” Guthrum said, grinning. He held his arms out and looked down at himself. “Not even a scratch. I think the sight of me alone, behind their lines, would have turned the Saxons back.”
Geirmund made no reply as the battle raged before him, too filled with amazement, fear, and envy. It seemed that Guthrum had become invincible, and it was through Geirmund that fate had given the king that power.
“I will make Ælfred pay dearly for his peace,” Guthrum said. “You will be a rich man, Geirmund Hel-hide.”
It was mid-afternoon before the Danes finally let the Saxons finish their escape, and then Guthrum and Halfdan ordered their warriors to return to Searesbyrig. Geirmund had lost no warriors in the fighting, though some had been wounded, like Rafn. After seeing to their needs, he sought out Guthrum, seeking answers to questions that had followed him from the battleground.
He found the king with Halfdan and their jarls, discussing the terms and compensation they would demand from Ælfred to secure the safety of Wessex. When Guthrum saw Geirmund approaching, he stepped away from the others to speak in private.
“You look troubled,” the king said.
“I do not understand why we are discussing peace with the Saxons,” Geirmund said. “Ælfred is a new king. He knows he cannot defeat us, so he is trying to buy time to rebuild his armies and gather his strength.”
“Of course he is,” Guthrum said. “He is no fool. I believe Ælfred is a man of cunning.”
“But we came to take Wessex,” Geirmund said. “When you came to my father’s hall, that is what you said. Now that Wessex is almost ours, you would walk away?”
Guthrum sighed, and then he put his hand on Geirmund’s shoulder. “Hel-hide, listen well to me. When you look at the warriors in this encampment, my warriors, Halfdan’s warriors, your warriors, what do you see?”
Geirmund hesitated, unsure of the answer Guthrum wanted. “I see Danes,” he said.
“And I see that our numbers are too few,” the king said. “We could have taken Wessex today, but how long would we have held it? For now the Saxons care for nothing but their own shires, and their own fields, but that will not last. They will unite against us, and we are not yet strong enough for that. Do you understand?”
Geirmund had not considered that. “I believe I do.”
“I can also see that my warriors are tired. They are wounded. They want silver in reward for their swords and their blood. In truth, many of them would rather be farming than fighting, and so would I.” The king let go of Geirmund’s shoulder. “Wessex will fall to us, I swear it, but only when we can be sure of our rule over it. Until then, we bide our time, grow strong, and make the Saxons pay for our upkeep. You must–”
“King Guthrum!” someone called from the tent. “Ælfred has sent an envoy. He stands at the entrance to the encampment.”
“Bring him before us!” Guthrum called back. Then he turned to Geirmund. “Stay. Be silent and listen. You will see.”
Geirmund put aside his misgivings and followed the king back to the tent. King Halfdan eyed him from the side, along with several of the jarls, perhaps wondering why Guthrum had invited his Hel-hide commander to their council, but none spoke against his presence.
A few moments later, two Danes brought a man into the tent that Geirmund knew well, and he called out before he thought better of it.
“Priest!” he said. “I have wondered if you live.”
All the Danes in the tent turned to look at Geirmund. Some seemed surprised that he would know Ælfred’s man, others confused, and still a few others, like Guthrum, amused. As for the priest, he may have been equally surprised to see Geirmund, but his nervousness made itself plainer by the way he held his cross, and the way his gaze darted around the tent.
The king looked at Geirmund and nodded towards John. “You know this envoy?”
“I do,” Geirmund said.
Halfdan glared hard at the priest. “Can he be trusted?”
“He can,” Geirmund said. “I would trust him with my life.”
Some in the tent murmured surprise at such a statement, while the priest nodded his head to Geirmund in thanks and evident relief.
“I am pleased to hear it,” Guthrum said. “You may speak, priest.”
John cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, King Ælfred of Wessex wishes for King Guthrum and King Halfdan to meet the day after tomorrow, at midday, in the village of Wiltun, there to discuss terms for peace. Neither side shall number more than twelve.”
“Why not tomorrow?” Guthrum asked.
John cast a quick glance at Geirmund before speaking. “Tomorrow is King Ælfred’s weekly day of worship and prayer. He does not want to disturb the peace of that day with worldly matters of war.”
A moment went by, and then the Danes in the tent began to laugh. The priest’s cheeks flushed.
“Tell Ælfred we will meet with him tomorrow,” Halfdan said. “His god can wait–”
“King Halfdan,” Guthrum said, “with respect, I think we are the ones who can wait. We are quite comfortable here. But Ælfred should know that we do not wait for the sake of his god. We wait because we know that Ælfred will think more clearly about the price of peace if he has been allowed to pray.”
John let out a deep breath as though from a bellows. “You are wise to see it, King Guthrum.”
Geirmund watched Halfdan to see how he would respond to Guthrum’s overrule of him. The Dane’s blue eyes bulged, and he shook with anger. Then, without word or warning, he turned and stalked from the tent, followed quickly by his jarls. King Guthrum watched them go, his own face empty of any expression, and then he turned back to the priest.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
“There is nothing more,” John said.
Guthrum waved him away. “Then you may go.”
As John turned to leave, Geirmund stepped forward, daring to speak now that Halfdan and his jarls had gone. “May I walk with the priest back to the edge of the encampment?” he asked.
That request raised one of Guthrum’s eyebrows in surprise, or
perhaps curiosity, but he nodded. “You may.”
“Thank you,” Geirmund said, bowing his head. Then he turned to John and gestured him in the direction they should go, and once they had left the tent, he smiled. “I am glad to see you, priest.”
John wiped a great quantity of sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe. “And I you. If you can believe it, I actually prayed that you would be here, so that I would see at least one friendly face among the Danes.”
“I can believe it,” Geirmund said. “But I still see no reason to pray over what is fated.”
They crossed the broad and open top of Searesbyrig as the sun neared its setting, and from that high place Geirmund could see acre upon acre in all directions, green and golden and rich, a country he had hoped would be Daneland that day.
“Once the terms of peace are settled,” John said, “King Ælfred wonders if King Guthrum and King Halfdan will keep them.”
Geirmund nodded. “Guthrum will. I believe Halfdan will also. You remember he has kept his peace with Mercia.”
“For now,” John said. “Guthrum seems to be a warrior of great skill. It is said no weapon can touch him. King Ælfred wonders if his power comes from a pagan relic, or from pagan devils.”
Geirmund said nothing in reply to that. “What terms will Ælfred demand of Guthrum?”
John glanced out over that same sunset land. “He will demand that every last Dane leave Wessex. For that he will pay in gold and silver. He may also suggest that Guthrum and Halfdan be baptized.”
“Baptized? To become Christian?” Geirmund laughed loudly. “That will never happen.”
John smiled and shrugged. “The judgements of God are unsearchable, and his paths beyond tracing out.”
“That is true of every god,” Geirmund said. “But you must tell me before you go, what happened after we parted?”
The priest grew quiet. “I travelled with the wagons, as Jarl Sidroc ordered. Later, Danes came fleeing towards us, retreating from the battle, with Saxons in pursuit. They fought. The Saxons killed the Danes, and then they took me to their camp. After the battle, Ælfred sought me out, thinking that my brief time among you pagans might be of some use to him, and to God. I have served the king since.” He allowed a brief smile. “And what of you?”
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