Crown of Vengeance

by Stephen Zimmer

Even the last moments following the final review of his mustered warriors were turning out to be supremely difficult. A few last echoes of warm, relaxing nights spent in his great hall, surrounded by his wife Gisela, his children, and the men and women of his household retinue, tugged mercilessly at his tormented mind.

  He could not deny that he would much rather be taking deep draughts of ale or mead, while listening to wondrous tales of adventure and heroism spun expertly in verses from the lips of a gleeman. An approaching evening would be an anticipation to savor if it were to be occupied listening to the notes of a well-played harp, or putting his mind to games of riddles, as the central hearth fire blazed vibrantly.

  While all of that was true, it simply did not do any good to dwell upon such thoughts. Neither could he pity himself, as the burdens were not his alone. Those that went and those that remained behind were both being laden with a very ponderous burden.

  Yet despite the unfortunate nature of all of it, there was nothing that the great thane of Wessachia felt the need to question, justify, or regret in regards to what he had to do.

  He was grimly resolved. The sudden turn of events in his life was not completely a surprise to him. Aethelstan had long felt the subtle dread common to many Saxans, that even the warmth of life itself was simply a short passage from one vast darkness to another. The good moments in life always had to be cherished and remembered, as no man could stop whatever had been destined for him to face.

  A few spear-bearing guards were walking slowly along the inner walkways, running along the top of the timber walls that crowned the earthen rampart ringing the entire market-town, or burh. The walls had been fashioned with wooden crenellations, its outer facing of horizontal wooden planking set between a framing of tall, timber posts. The embankment that the wall surmounted sloped far down into a successive series of three deep, outer ditches.

  His eyes swept around the square, stone towers erected at several points along the oval-shaped perimeter. Four held large, iron-banded oak gates set within arches. The other four were placed at even distances in between the gate-towers, providing additional lookout positions and strong-points for defense.

  As a whole, the defenses were capable enough, but only if there were enough fighters to man them. Once the column had departed and gathered up other musters, there would be scant few left to defend the burhs of Wessachia, such as Bergton, and even fewer for the outlying villages and hamlets.

  Most every man who could bear weapons from the immediate region was now assembled in the masses arrayed all about him.

  A number were on horseback, well-prepared for the journey and its considerable demands. These included the men of his immediate household retinue, and warriors from the garrison of the burh itself.

  Others similarly equipped and with horse were lesser thanes from smaller, fortified estates who were mustering at Bergton, having come along with their own bands of household followers.

  Still others had been equipped collectively, some on horse, and some to travel on foot, to fulfill military obligations to Ealdorman or thane. While not thanes, these men, the ceorls, were qualified for the more commonly utilized Select Fyrd.

  All these principal groups would have been expected for a campaign or normal army summons. They were not the elements of the muster that had bestowed Aethelstan with the deep misgivings that he was feeling.

  Rather, it was the much larger element of the gathering whose presence at Bergton troubled the great thane, and it was one that was far from common within a Saxan muster.

  This larger group was entirely on foot, and included weathered farmers, lifelong craftsmen, simple laborers, and all manner of commoners. They came from within the lands surrounding Bergton, as the territory’s populations of able-bodied men had been summoned almost in their entirety to the unprecedented call to arms.

  A greater proportion of these men had never gone far beyond their village areas, some having never before even seen the market town that they were now standing within. Rarely did they stray to other villages and hamlets in their vicinity, with the exceptions of special occasions and necessity. There was a great nervousness within this portion of the force already. Aethelstan could see it reflected in their eyes, and feel it coalescing in the air.

  A great number of women, children, and older men had gathered to see the massive throng off. They had come in from all the surrounding farm villages, isolated farmsteads, hamlets, and the burh of Bergton itself.

  A great trepidation hung over them all.

  Aethelstan could not fault them for their anxiety and distress, as he knew in his heart that they had great reason to fear. A General Fyrd was not something that was idly called, and everyone knew it.

  A burly man stood near to the front of the massed force. His face was pensive, as he stared out over the gathering. The reeve of the town, assigned to represent the King’s authority, Berhtwald would be one of the few able-bodied fighting men remaining behind. With Aethelstan’s confidence and insistence, Berhtwald would see to maintaining some semblance of order within the burh, despite the depletion of the overwhelming majority of the able-bodied menfolk.

  A fair number of carts and wagons had been readied, piled high with extra weapons, mail shirts, helms, sacks, chests, and barrels of provisions. Helms rested upon the tops of vertical posts in the frames of the wagons, and mail byrnies were carried suspended, with horizontal poles running through their sleeves of circular, iron links. Bundles of spears were tied together and leaning against the sides of the wagons.

  Stout oxen with bulging muscles were already yoked and tethered. The creatures waited patiently for the signal to begin pulling their substantial loads forward. The occasional bellow came from the stalwart beasts, as if they periodically sensed the anxiety looming in the air around them.

  A good number of horses were standing idly, near to the carts, their backs loaded with leather packs filled with further supplies. A number of men who would be leading and tending to them were busy making last minute checks on metal buckles and ties on hempen rucksacks.

  Aethelstan pulled his gaze from the massed supplies, and looked towards a trio of men from his retinue who were mounted on their steeds nearby.

  One bore aloft a large banner that displayed a field of red trees set against a white background.

  The second carried a spear-mounted pennon, whose right end had been cut into three triangular extensions. The tapering extensions were red, with the rest of the pennon’s body white, reflecting the color pattern of the larger banner.

  Both the banner and the pennon were flapping within the clutches of the steady breeze.

  The third man carried no banner or pennon, but instead had a large ox-horn. The horn was resting at his right side, hanging from a strap placed over his neck, running across the front of his chest down to his waist.

  All three were meticulous men when it came to matters of campaigns and war. Where the three of them could have had their chain mail shirts and helms carried on the wagons, they had the former rolled up behind their saddles, and the latter hanging from the wide pommels of their saddles.

  Disciplined, and always keeping in a state of readiness, they were very valued warriors. Their influence would be welcome among a host whose greater number would soon be longing greatly for their homes and hearths.

  The great thane slowly nodded to them, as the moment that all of them dreaded could be put off no longer.

  The banner and pennon-bearing warriors then turned their horses about at Aethelstan’s signal, and started their steeds forward. They cantered down the hard-packed dirt path that led from the open square within Bergton. The path continued out through one of the square tower gates, through an expanse of cleared land, and on into the depths of the surrounding forests.

  The third warrior then raised his horn to his lips and blared loudly again upon it, the resonant call carrying far and swiftly throughout the still, tense air.

  Last minute hugs were then exchanged, with an open and d
esperate passion, amongst the commoners of the force with the members of their distressed families and friends that had gathered to watch them go forth.

  Aethelstan had a considerable amount of sympathy for the inexperienced commoners about to set out on foot for the long journey. No small number of tears was shed, as feelings and emotions flowed powerfully in those last, precious moments.

  Aethelstan turned his gaze from such disheartening sights and inwardly batted down the sharp pangs of empathy that rose up within him. At all costs, he knew that he had to present a visage of determination to all that looked upon him. Serving as a pillar of strength and leadership was an excruciatingly difficult challenge in a moment such as this.

  His own personal moment of severance had arrived. Thoughts of the world around him faded into the background as Aethelstan looked to the attractive, dark-haired woman standing just behind his two sons and daughter. Her bright blue eyes were moist with tears that she was trying desperately to keep back.

  She rested one weary hand upon the right shoulder of one of the boys, a normally vibrant lad of twelve who now looked quite dispirited. Her other hand lay upon the left shoulder of their young, usually effervescent daughter of seven years.

  The two children were gently corralled between her hands before her, looking despondently towards their father.

  Their other son, who had just turned eleven, stood a few paces in front of his siblings and mother. He looked up inquisitively and anxiously, peering out from underneath a mop of stringy blond hair.

  The little girl remained tucked close to Gisela’s side, clutching her mother’s leg tightly, as if fearing that she might be leaving too.

  Named Wynflaed, Aethelstan’s daughter had a cherubic face with a little nose. Her hair was as fair and golden as the light through a bountiful field on the edge of an abundant Saxan harvest. Her eyes were wide and shy, prompting Aethelstan to smile gently at her, even as he could sense the deep sorrow within the child’s gaze.

  “You be a good girl, and be of help to your mother in all things,” Aethelstan told Wynflaed, still feeling a little more awkward when he spoke to his daughter than when he was addressing the two boys. “I am counting on you in a big way. Be good and I will take you for some horse rides when I return. Maybe even give you your own horse to ride. Does that sound good?”

  The little girl nodded timidly from her mother’s side, her sorrow at seeing her father leaving not placated even by the promise of getting her own horse. The subdued response pained Aethelstan all the more.

  “Father? Can I not go with you?” the younger of the boys, named Wyglaf, asked.

  Aethelstan smiled as reassuringly as he could. He knew that the boy would go with him if he knew his father was walking to face a dragon with just a sword in hand.

  “No, Wyglaf, as I need for you and your brother to help guard the burh,” Aethelstan said, looking his son straight in the eye, with a serious tone of voice. “It is a very important task. You see all these warriors leaving with me. Who will protect the people of the town? You must help our good reeve Behrtwald, and you must appreciate this task, if you are to lead men some day.”

  Wyglaf stood up a little straighter and nodded his head, struggling to look dutiful.

  “When will you return?” asked the other boy, Wystan.

  His thicker dark hair framed the well-defined lines of his face, which seemed to be continually manifesting towards a likeness of Aethelstan himself. His body was showing the first signs of growing into the tall, strong build, replete with broad shoulder and slim waist that his father was graced with.

  Aethelstan looked to the older boy, and then slowly brought his eyes up to meet those of his beloved wife. His words were intended for both of them.

  “I do not know when I will return …” he said, his words low, somber, and purposeful. “But know that I will do everything in my power to return. Be strong and work hard in my stead. Obey your mother. And in all things place your hearts in the hands of the All-Father, as well as your trust.”

  He lingered for yet a moment longer, his look intimately holding his wife’s gaze, while holding back a wellspring of emotions that started to surge up within him.

  Aethelstan said gently to her, “Know that your love goes with me, Gisela, my beloved wife, and mine remains with you. It cannot be broken asunder by anything of this world.”

  She nodded slowly to him, the longing already present within her face and saying far more than any words could have.

  With a great effort, he ripped his gaze away from the anguished look in his beloved wife’s eyes, knowing the distress that lingering any further would cause.

  Aethelstan kept a resolute mien as he gripped Wind Runner’s reins and turned the iron-grey stallion about. He nudged his equine companion firmly in the sides with his heels, spurring the proud stallion forward.

  He was not about to show his men anything less than that he was able to move forward at their lead, after leaving his own family behind, as they all set forth under his authority. Their sacrifice was no less than his, a shared ordeal that they would all bear together.

  Aethelstan kept his gaze fixed forward as he and Wind Runner trotted off towards the open gateway, moving past the gathered throngs as he headed in the direction of the vanguard elements of the march.

  The neighs of horses, shuffling of steps, creaks of wagons, cries of encouragement, and last verbal exchanges between those going and staying filled the air, as the large force began to fall into place and lurch into full motion.

  Several bystanders called out warmly to Aethelstan, wishing the All-Father’s blessings and a safe return upon him. He acknowledged them with nods and waves to each side, as Wind Runner reached the open gateway and continued on the path passing through the three outer ditches surrounding the burh.

  He had always felt strong affection from the people, but also knew that their hopes lay with him to lead their loved ones back alive. Such was an onerous burden for any man, and in the current instance it was tempered only by the absolute necessity of the General Fyrd.

  The summons had been urgent enough, conveyed by a spirited royal courier bearing an unmistakable, clear order by sealed parchment. The distinctive seal had been from the court of King Alcuin himself, and was accompanied by another letter bearing the seal of Ealdorman Morcar.

  War was thundering towards Saxany, and for the first time in Aethelstan’s thirty-seven years of life, a full, comprehensive levy was being called.

  In his past, it was largely the household retinues, thanes, and ceorls that were called to duty. It was all that was necessary to meet most challenges, whether skirmishes or raids. This time, though, most every male who could bear arms had been summoned.

  The full levy had not been called just to defend their immediate territory, and this profound, singular fact was not lost on anyone.

  Anyone, even some of the more craven amongst the populace, could be counted on to help defend against an imminent threat to one’s own families and homes. The approaching conflict was something much larger, requiring a broad and far-reaching summons intended to bring up massive forces to deploy in strength within the western boundaries of the Saxan Kingdom.

  Simple villagers were being called upon to go forth on a long campaign, the duration of which was most uncertain. Even the destination was not entirely assured, as many changes occurred in wars.

  From what Aethelstan had been able to glean from the hurried reports and summons, a great army was to be gathered and deployed upon the strategic Plains of Athelney. The Plains lay just beyond the thin neck of land that served as the easternmost border territories of neighboring Ehrengard.

  The Plains of Athelney were the gateway to all of Saxany. Once past the Plains, an invading army could strike out in any number of directions.

  Through a network of diligent spies, much had been learned about the enemy’s intentions and preparations. It was obvious that the enemy was brazenly sending a tremendous force straight towards the Plains
of Athelney. It was a titanic spear aimed at the heart of the realm.

  Aethelstan had heard many rumors about the nature of the invading force, but all agreed that it was unprecedented in size.

  Becoming ever more apparent was that a second force with different designs marched along with the principle invasion. This second force was almost certainly Avanoran in nature, and the leaders of Saxany were now convinced that it had a very specific purpose.

  After much deliberation and study of reports, it was clear that the only logical area for a second force to try and strike through would be in the area of Wessachia. The lower areas of Wessachia offered some ideal passages for a considerable mass of warriors to get through the hilly and mountainous terrain, just beyond a stretch of open land that was part of the adjacent County of Annenheim to the west.

  The passage was made ideal, of course, if it went uncontested.

  As such, Aethelstan’s burh of Bergton, and the other burhs that were under the authority of the great Ealdorman Morcar, were coordinating the formation of a second battle group to go contest this likely thrust of the enemy. All indications showed that the enemy’s overwhelmingly best route lay in piercing the hills running south, just beyond the headwaters of the Grenzen River.

  Anything north of that area, deeper into Annenheim, would quickly become very problematic for a substantial invading force. The swift and cold waters of the broad river flowing into the seas to the north served as both a barrier and an ancient boundary. It now marked the lands of Count Einhard’s lands of Annenheim to the west, and Ealdorman Morcar’s Wessachia to the east.

  Funneled between the river to the west and the slopes of Wessachian territory to the east, an enemy force moving northward would be placed at a great disadvantage.

  Even more challenging to a prospective invader, the large hills of lower Wessachia rose into mountains towards the north. A few easily defensible passes were the only routes through the northern mountains, which could be held for a long time against any force trying to push eastward.

  It all left little doubt that an enemy would seek to attack in the south of the Wessachian region, pushing through the lower hills without the dilemma of having a river to its back.