“I do not know you well enough, woodsman, and perhaps one day you will share more tales of your journeys with me. But my instincts tell me that it is an honor to have been judged in such a way, in your eyes,” Aethelstan said, inclining his head towards Gunther. “The refugees are under good care with you … but also know that I give you my word that I will see to their needs, if you should ever feel a need to place them among my people. I wish you all good in life, and that the coming storms will pass without bringing you harm.”
“And you as well, Thane Aethelstan,” Gunther replied, giving the Saxan a slight bow.
Aethelstan raised an arm in farewell to Gunther, casting a last glance at the four refugees with the woodsman as he turned his proud stallion around. The men around him also brought their own steeds about, as Aethelstan led them back in the direction from which they had come. The metallic rustlings of their mail and the clops of hoof-steps faded steadily, lasting just a little longer than the sight of their forms amongst the trees.
“Who was that?” Lee inquired in a low voice, when Gunther and the other four were all alone once again.
“That is the thane Aethelstan, who serves the Ealdorman Morcar of Wessachia,” Gunther explained. “His market town, which are known as burhs in these lands, is not altogether far from here, called Bergton. He has always seen to the protection and needs of the only villages that I care to visit, at Dragon’s Back Ridge and Oak Crossing.
“Aethelstan is well above most men, in heart and honor. There are so few like him in this world. That is a misfortune to our kind. I shall tell you more of these lands, when we reach my home. But we must tarry here no longer. Come, we must get going, if you are to hope to adequately rest, and eat your fill. I do not wish to linger any longer outside of my own domain. Not when such storms are gathering.”
Following the dangers that they had already been through, it came as no surprise to the woodsman that there was no dispute from any of the refugees as they started forward, resuming their march. The other four were quiet, lost in their own thoughts as they traveled in Gunther’s wake.
They were not the only ones dwelling upon some inner concern, as the brief interaction with Aethelstan had given Gunther plenty to ponder himself. He was grateful for the uninterrupted time to think, as when they reached his homestead, he was certain that he would be faced with a barrage of questions.
A storm was approaching, and it was only a matter of time before it would break. Gunther had some notions of what could be done if the enemy swept through the woodlands, including taking some paths in the woodlands that even the Saxans were not aware of themselves. It was still too soon to make a decision, but it was good to keep all options in mind.
The immediate future boded more favorably. Visions of a good meal and an approaching stretch of repose beckoned invitingly to Gunther. As soon as he reached the sanctuary of his woodland haven, he would be able to partake of both.
The thought put a little extra spring into his step, as Gunther walked briskly forward at the head of the small group.
WULFSTAN
It was about midday when Wulfstan’s eyes finally came to rest upon the sprawling, enormous collection of tents that formed the main field encampment for the swelling forces of Saxany. Having never before seen more than a few hundred warriors together at once in his own lifetime, at most perhaps a thousand, the vision before him was entirely breathtaking in scope.
The last stretch of the two-week-long journey had been a particularly difficult, half-day march. All elements of the Great Fyrd had been implicitly instructed to get to the Plains of Athelney as fast as was humanly possible. Every last moment of preparation was critical, according to the word that filtered down to the marching masses.
Wulfstan remembered the earliest stages of the summons well enough. Beacons lit on the summits of great hills soon resulted in a chain of smoking signals whose meaning was as unmistakable as it was urgent. Couriers and messengers dispatched to all parts of the kingdom had spread the alarm with tremendous rapidity. The word had raced throughout Wulfstan’s home region in Sussachia, eliciting a great panic amongst the occupants of nearby villages, hamlets, and larger estates.
Wulfstan had quickly gathered up his arms and whatever provisions he could carry. Having said his goodbyes, he had hurried with some men from the nearby villages to the designated muster point for his territory, a place located just east of the fortified market-town of Langstenford.
From the muster point, it had been a most tiring march. More had been added daily as the main column passed by the other muster points set along the way. Like rivulets feeding into an ever-growing river, the many smaller musters combined their numbers with the growing column.
The larger market-towns that they had passed contributed supplies and provisions to the column. An abundance of swiftly collected materials and foodstuffs were given over to the force as it passed by, to be conveyed out to the great plains.
After a few days, more than a few men within the general Saxan ranks greatly envied the thanes and their houseguard, all of whom traveled mounted. The overwhelming number of the men in the column came from the sweeping, expansive levy of the common folk, known as the General Fyrd. There were very few from the Select Fyrd of thanes, ceorls, and the like who did not have a steed to assist their travel.
As a ceorl, Wulfstan was of a rank to qualify him for the Select Fyrd. Yet as fortune had not favored him, he was a ceorl that had not been afforded the luxury of a mount. As such, he had marched among the majority on foot. At the least, Wulfstan was not ill-prepared for the arduous endeavor, having gained some experience with enduring long marches on the two previous campaigns that he had been called to serve in.
Back at his uncle’s homestead, near to the village of River’s Edge, he was also used to a number of day-long forays into the woods to hunt. He wished that his current exertions were for such a purpose.
Wulfstan sensed a growing anxiety among the common men with each passing day. He could not belittle the nerve-wracked men in his heart.
They were all leaving places where they knew virtually every tree, animal, large rock, meadow, furrowed strip, and, most certainly, every person around them. It was no surprise that their anxiety had risen precipitously as they passed into a far land, where nothing was familiar, and everything hinted at a looming danger.
A couple of mild rains along the way had brought some periods of discomfort, but overall the skies had remained generously clear and bright throughout the long march. The first part of their march was conducted through the forests of Byrtnoth’s lands, taking wide, beaten trails through woods that were known to contain outlaws and brigands. Once they had reached the Iron Heart Mountains, they had proceeded through a broad valley, and on into the tree-covered range of low hills that bordered upon the far eastern edge of the Plains of Aethelney.
At long last, the ground had started to level out, and the trees had begun to thin, until one day, on the edge of dusk, they had emerged out onto the great plains. From that point onward, it was little more than a night spent out in the open air, and the half-day brisk jaunt that they had just endured.
Out on the sprawling plains there were hundreds of field wagons and carts, with many more oxen and horses. The animals had been herded and gathered in large throngs far to the rear of the front line tents. The beasts were grazing idly where they dotted a wide expanse of grasses, and Wulfstan had no doubts that the creatures were grateful to be relieved of their burdens. The baggage train and attendant animals traveling with Wulfstan’s own column would shortly be added to that mass.
Seeing the staggering sight of the encampment, Wulfstan’s left hand inadvertently drifted towards the sword sheathed at his left side, his fingers clenching around the leather-wrapped hilt. His hand rested against the straight crossguard, where the latter pressed against the metal rim that formed the lip of the scabbard. The flesh of his hand was barely covered by that short, horizontal bar, serving as the base of the untapered,
double-edged blade.
His unstrung hunting bow of ash wood was carried in a loose grip in his right hand. A low-hanging, cylindrical quiver full of beech-shafted arrows rested just behind his right hip, affixed to a diagonal leather strap that looped across his body and up over his left shoulder. His current weaponry was rounded out with a long, single-edged seax, carried in a horizontally aligned sheath at his waist.
Wulfstan did not bear all of his means of war upon his own person.
His older chain mail shirt and segmented iron half-helm were currently stored on one of the ox-pulled wagons within the baggage train. So were a long, broad-bladed spear, and a large, newly crafted wooden shield, which had been given to him at the moment of his departure. Having some of the items placed on the wagon had taken a little of the burden off of the extended march, but there was no way that Wulfstan was about to part for even a moment with his sword; a sword that his very own father had directly passed down to him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering a wisp and taste of that very day, when he was just sixteen summers in age.
Wulfstan gently fingered the loose hilt-ring, akin to one that would be worn on the finger, which was attached to a loop solidly attached to the tri-lobed pommel of the sword. He often wondered about the origin of that ring, as the full history of the sword had been lost to time.
His father, Ealdred, only knew that the sword was at least one hundred years old. Regarding the hilt-ring, he had indicated that it might have had something to do with being a symbol of an oath taken by one of their ancestors to their lord.
As his father had insisted that the blade had been passed straight down through their own family, Wulfstan had often wondered whether his forefathers had once fought at the right hands of greater lords. As a youth, it had been an inspiring fantasy to think that Wulfstan’s own bloodline had once included renowned warriors.
The heirloom sword was about the only part of Wulfstan’s equipment that had not been provided to him by his community.
The collective support of seven other families, totaling eight hides of land between them, had been required to equip him with his half-helm, mail shirt, and some provisions as a warrior of the Select Fyrd. Ever since his father had passed on following a long illness, not more than a year after he had bequeathed Wulfstan the sword, Wulfstan had lived with his uncle, Ealdhelm.
As a young, strong, single male, who had no overriding objections or obligations, Wulfstan had been a prime choice to be the one sent to the main musters to fulfill the families’ commitment to the land’s defense.
Wulfstan had been feeling fit and strong for the current sojourn, as he had just been engaged in the taxing labor of assisting in the annual plowing of his uncle Ealdhelm’s fields.
Of a modest build, his five foot nine inch body was clad in a light brown, knee-length tunic of wool, with loose-fitting trousers wrapped about below his knees with long strips of cloth. Simple leather shoes caked in dried mud covered his feet.
A silver brooch at his right shoulder clasped a dark brown cloak that flowed out behind him. At the moment, his head was covered with a round cap of felt, also of an earthen color.
His face was starting to gain a dense, lengthening stubble, well-advanced and spread all over his cheeks and chin. The nascent growth went along with the pronounced, dirty blonde moustache that graced his upper lip.
Mentally, he had already admonished himself to shave the considerably established stubble, determined to maintain his regular habits, despite the presence of a nearing war. On his two previous campaigns, he had learned that such seemingly inconsequential things helped to keep his inner moorings in place.
Wulfstan’s sharp eyes peered diligently outward from beneath his prominent eyebrows, a gaze that always seemed to take in his full surroundings. Sometimes, those keen gray eyes reflected the hardness of stone, and at other times they echoed the gentleness of a misty morning. The great vision of the enormous encampment and the horizon beyond it was enhanced by the clarity of the beautiful day, with nary a cloud in the sky. A bright sun stood out radiantly in the sky above, permeating the plains with a soothing warmth.
The massaging touches of a cool, soft breeze flowed intermittently across the plain. It was hardly conceivable to Wulfstan, in the presence of such a magnificent view, that a great and bloody battle was so very imminent.
That grave thought dampened the elating sensation summoned forth by the sheer breadth of the vision, as much as it reminded him of his troubling, recurring dreams; powerful images of storms, destruction, and the peculiar skyward ascension that the dreams always ended with. The stark visions had begun to revisit him with every passing night.
It was hard for Wulfstan to believe that he was standing on the fabled Plains of Athelney. He had heard the stories told over the years about the old Southern Kingdom, remembering the epic accounts of battles fought within the western Marches, many involving the vitally strategic plains that he was now seeing with his own eyes.
He looked out instinctively for any sign of the enemy on the western horizon, as his contingent continued on their march down towards the broad masses of tents. There was nothing as far as the eye could see to indicate the approach or presence of the enemy army. Beyond the line of tents, and the early efforts to dig camp trenches on the perimeter, the horizon was utterly silent and still.
Wulfstan’s loose column was shortly brought to a halt, as materials for tents and other supplies were removed from the baggage train and carried onward by foot.
The slight delay at the cusp of reaching the end of the march was perhaps the most burdensome part of the entire journey. Now that they had arrived, the tired, anxious men were wholly focused on getting settled and acclimated.
Rest and sustenance beckoned tantalizingly close. There was more than a little grumbling by the time that the group of thanes finally roused the column to proceed.
Led by one of Ealdorman Byrtnoth’s most senior thanes, Wulfstan’s contingent strode through the midst of the vast multitude of tents, until they reached a cleared area towards the northern end of the huge encampment.
A number of Saxans from other parts of the realm hailed them warmly, as the arriving column passed by. Wulfstan and many of the others in his contingent returned the hearty greetings with boisterous salutations of their own.
Already, Wulfstan could feel the bonding undercurrents present with the men from the other regions of Saxany. While undoubtedly existing before the summons, those bonds had already been made much stronger by the shared threat that they were all now facing together. Rivalries existed between various regions of the kingdom, but such things were largely put aside when an existential danger towered over all the Saxan provinces.
Wulfstan’s column immediately set about placing and erecting their tents, extending the size of the massive encampment even further. The tents were simple enough to set up, as those used by the common elements of the Saxan force had a nearly uniform size and design.
Wulfstan helped to set vertical poles in the ground at a measured distance, while his comrades laid out a rectangular canvas. A tubular sleeve ran down the middle of the canvases, through which a timber rod was slid to provide the backbone for the tent’s ridge. He then helped to secure pegs in the ground along the lower edge of each long side of the canvas, through the holes that already pierced the material.
“We are here at last, at journey’s end, and there is no need for any more marching, thank the All-Father,” one of the men commented as he drove the last peg into the ground.
The speaker, a burly, middle-aged fellow named Siward, was from a village near to Wulfstan’s own home. “I say we find us some good ale,” Siward suggested. “And maybe a gleeman that can tell us some poems. Maybe even to a steady tune.”
“Or maybe a round of riddles, what do you say?” piped in one of the others, a young, wild-eyed youth of about eighteen years old, whose name Wulfstan did not know.
“My knees can take no more marchin’,
but my throat is good for ale, and my ears good for poems or for riddles,” added an older man, gray of beard, by the name of Bertulf.
“Yer ears for riddles maybe, but not yer brain,” guffawed another older man.
A round of spirited laughter gripped the group around them at the jest.
“Put your pence on a riddle tonight, then, if ya feel so,” retorted Bertulf, his tone laced with belligerency.
“I cannot, in good conscience, battle one who has no means of doing battle,” replied the other, eliciting an uproarious round of laughter, while his belittled comrade groaned and cursed under his breath in frustration.
“Then I will match wits with you, and see your measure, my good man. I could use some pence of my own. But we have not finished yet,” Wulfstan remarked with a grin to Bertulf’s oppressor.
While he enjoyed riddles, Wulfstan had more of an affinity for the thick, bitter ale that was such a staple of Saxan life. Truly, that heavenly drink was what Wulfstan had his heart set on at that moment.
Yet ale, riddles, and even poems would have to wait.
“And do not forget, my friends, we still have some weapons to get back into our possession,” Wulfstan reminded the others, after the levity had settled down a little.
Siward, still looking humored from the verbal exchanges, shook his head ruefully. “Maybe you are right. But it does not mean we cannot keep our minds on returning here for ale and song later! Don’t know how long it will be before we fly into the outer dark again!”
Wulfstan smiled at the man’s spirited declaration, though he could not help but feel a little bittersweet about Siward’s last few words. A heavy weight was carried within Siward’s reference to an old saying held among their people.
That Saxan saying likened a person’s life to the flight of a bird through the hall of a thane. It described a bird’s passage from a cold, outer darkness, into a hall full of warmth and companionship, and on out the other end of the hall, into the icy darkness once again.
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