Vikings: Revenge (The Great Heathen Army series Book 3)

by Ceri Bladen

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  Chapter 6

  January 878 - Guthrum’s camp – Gleawcesterscīr

  Guthrum sat confidently on his large stallion, surveying the warriors around him. They were preparing for battle, and a sense of calm and ease surrounded him, despite the chaos. He winked at one man, who nodded back and then smiled at another. He wasn’t wary of the upcoming battle — he’d had far too many encounters with King Alfred over the last couple of years to be vexed. In fact, tonight he was more roused by his plan, as it was more calculating than normal. Tonight, they were going to surprise King Alfred and win, easily — for they were attacking at night and during a Christian feast. He smiled to himself at his cunning, before he caught the eye of his second-in-command, Wade. He spurred his horse to move and approached slowly. He ignored Bard who was at Wade’s side. He still didn’t like or trust the man — he’d betrayed Ubba, his Sire, far too easily — but Bard was an extra pair of hands in a fight. “Are we ready, Wade?”

  “Ay, Sire, we are ready. The men have also been informed that we will not use torches, but use the moonlight to guide our way.”

  “Do you trust that Ealdorman of Wiltshire to keep his mouth shut?”

  “Ay, I trust him.”

  Guthrum’s gaze flicked towards Bard. He wouldn’t put it past Bard to try and double cross him with the Anglo-Saxons. It was the reason he always kept him near.

  “You are sure that Alfred knows nothing? He is a shrewd king, one not to be underestimated.”

  Wade shrugged. “I’m as sure as I can be. Besides, the Ealdorman would be a fool to tell any of Alfred’s men because it was he that gave us the valuable information about the Christian feast taking place. We have to trust him.”

  “Or fight,” Bard butted in.

  Guthrum’s eyes narrowed briefly on Bard before he turned away and nodded. He suddenly laughed. “I pity Alfred for trusting his Ealdorman.” The smile fell from his face and he glared at Bard. “I for one, do not trust anyone.” When he thought he got his point across, he repositioned his horse to address his warriors.

  Silence fell when they noticed him raise his hand. “Tonight, we will surprise King Alfred and take over his court.”

  The cheer reverberated around the camp. They were ready for a battle.

  One month later…

  February 878 – Athelney island - Marshes of Somersæte (Somerset)

  King Alfred’s camp

  “’Tis a cold month of Sōlmōnath, to be sure,” Cynebald said. He blew on, then rubbed his hands together, trying to keep them warm.

  “Ay, it is,” said Alfred, as he stared into the fire.

  Cynebald eyed his king. He was concerned that since Alfred’s court at Chippenham had been captured by the Vikings, he had looked unwell. He was pale, lethargic and struggled with his sensitive stomach more than usual. The food and accommodation were fine for soldiers, but not the king. Cynebald scanned the camp, deep in the marshes of Somerset, to look for a solution to his king’s discomfort. It was a bleak place, made bleaker with the biting insects, which swarmed at sunset. There was an old fort on the island they occupied, but it was in the process of being fortified, so at present, it was uninhabitable. His jaw clenched. Nay, the conditions were not worthy of the King of Wessex. He had an idea. He stood. “My Lord? Come, let us get some warmth from the home of one of the villagers around her.”

  Alfred looked up at his Ealdorman. “The village people have been more than generous with their shelter and food.” He patted his stomach.

  Cynebald wasn’t silly, he knew it was empty but said nothing.

  “We are lucky that it is the month of cakes. All those ritual offerings of savoury cakes and loaves of bread — to ensure a good year’s harvest — have truly been a blessing for me and my men.”

  Cynebald widened his stance and looked down on the seated king, aware that he was one of the few permitted to stand over him. He wouldn’t contradict his Lord, but he could try another tact. “It is a cold month, especially by this water. And food in our bellies will not keep our bones warm. Mayhap we take some shelter from the brisk wind.” He could see Alfred was going to protest. He had to make his argument about helping others, not the king’s weakness, otherwise, we would get nowhere. “If we shelter with some of the other Ealdormen, we can plan our attack on Guthrum.” He noticed a spark enter his King’s eyes. “It will give us some peace from the noise of this camp, so we can concentrate.” He waited for him to stand, pleased to see some vigour return.

  “Ay, gather some men. We need to find a home that we will be welcome in. We have planning to do.”

  While the men plotted and schemed around the small wooden table, Cynebald studied the peasant woman who had allowed them to warm by the fire. Her mousy hair was scraped off her face, under a dirty cap. Her sleeves were fastened back with string, pulled out of the way while she tended the fire. Her outer dress was of poor quality and her pinafore, her peplos, was dirty, indicating that she worked hard. He rubbed his shaven chin. Regardless of her poor and dirty appearance, she reminded him of that serving woman he’d met when he was a prisoner at Guthrum’s camp. Over the years, he’d convinced himself it was she who had passed the keys through the wall for him to escape, although he wasn’t entirely sure having never seen her face. When she’d passed him the keys for his escape, she’d told him that her name was Edeva. That was all he knew about her.

  He looked at the peasant again and he felt his loin tighten. He shifted in his seat. He glanced at the men around the table, but they were too wrapped up in their planning to concern themselves with him. He looked at her and she caught his eye. He was pleased with the flush on her face, even more pleased when she took a quick look towards the back entrance. He knew that signal, very well. He stood and moved his armour to conceal his interest. “If you would excuse me a moment, King, men. Nature calls.” Alfred barely flicked him a glance. When he moved past the woman, he nodded to her. The gleam in her eye told him she would be a willing partner.

  He walked outside and scanned for a quiet area for their tryst. He heard her telling the men to keep an eye on her loaves and cakes, which were cooking by the fire. He smiled to himself. There would be some scolding going on, once they returned, and she found them burned — the king and company too interested in what they were planning to take heed of her request.

  Chapter 7

  February 878 – Somersæte (Somerset) Woods

  Rosfrith held her hands in front of the small campfire, and tried, unsuccessfully, to get warmth back into them. The wind whistling through the trees was frosty, but they couldn’t make the fire larger — it would draw unwanted attention from any of Alfred’s men wandering around the area. Even though the end of winter was nowhere near as frigid in Briton as it would be in Ranaricii — where the snow would be thick on the ground — the winter wind still sent a chill deep into her bones.

  She studied the men with her. It didn’t help that they were tired. They’d been in Briton for many moons, trying to chase down Guthrum on false and old information. Moving a group of warriors, west through the country, was difficult without the luxury of horses. She’d hoped they would have found Guthrum by now, and hopefully, be one step closer to finding her children, but the Gods evidently had other fates in store.

  “Thanks.”

  She smiled as she handed a dried biscuit to the warrior sitting next to her. Today, they’d had a long day, trekking through marshes and woods, to keep out of sight of the Anglo Saxons who were dotted around. The camp was unusually quiet. It seemed as though all their previous optimism was waning. She looked at Ubba and noticed he was deathly still, staring at the fire. “What’s wrong, Ubba?” Rosfrith worried her bottom lip, concerned that even he looked tired.

  Ubba dragged his eyes away from the light and frowned at his wife. “Tis nothing, my love. I’m just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  Ubba gave a small smile. “About a lot of things.”

  “You’re not regrettin
g coming to Briton?”

  Ubba sat up straighter and shook his head. “Nay. I regret leaving our children behind, but not about coming here to find our twins.”

  Rosfrith gave a large sigh and lowered her gaze towards the fire. “I miss our children, too, but they are safe with Hilde. I need to do this. I need to find out what has happened to our barns, then I can rest my mind.”

  “But, what happens if they have departed to….”

  Her eyes flicked back to Ubba, tears making them shiny. “Then we will deal with it, but I won’t spend the rest of my life wondering if we could have got them back.”

  “I understand, I feel…” A sound — to the untrained ear, merely a bird — made Ubba stop in mid-sentence. It was a signal.

  Within seconds, the fire was doused and the group of warriors had grabbed their weapons and crept slowly towards the lookout. Ubba arrived first.

  “What is it?” He whispered when he was near enough to Finn.

  Finn pointed. “Over there, Sire. A group of soldiers passed and they seem to be settling for the night at the bottom of the hill, near the bushes.”

  Ubba frowned. “That seems an unusual spot to camp. Too easy to attack from all sides.”

  Finn nodded, agreeing with his chieftain. “Mayhap they are new soldiers? Should be easy to attack.”

  “Nay.” Rosfrith shook her head. “We don’t need to alert the Anglo-Saxon army to Vikings wandering their land.” She leaned forward towards the two men. “I can get nearer and try and listen to their conversation? It might give us an explanation about who is patrolling these areas.”

  Ubba hesitated briefly before he nodded his consent. “Be careful. I don’t want you to be seen or captured.” In the darkness, a smile spread on his face. “Although, I’m sure some of my men would like to kill a few Anglo-Saxons.”

  Rosfrith cocked her head to the side. “There will be time for fighting.” She smiled. “Remember you’re not invading now, just trying to go undercover.” She turned her head to look towards where the soldiers were settling. Her violet eyes narrowed. “I won’t be long.”

  Ubba stayed to watch her. He knew it was the sensible option that she went as she understood the language more than any of them. But, he still didn’t like it.

  When Ubba spotted Rosfrith’s small form make its way through the undergrowth, he felt the tension leave his shoulders and neck. He mentally urged her on, glad when she was near enough to grab hold of his outstretched arm. “Are they a threat to us? Did they spot us?”

  She shook her head. “They have settled for the night.”

  “Then we will go back to camp.” He glanced around at his men, “Vidar, Borg, stay with Finn to keep an eye on them.” He nodded towards the direction of the soldiers.

  Not long after, they sat around the dead fire, the ash holding onto a couple of glowing embers “I have an idea, based on what I’ve just heard,” — she scanned around the men, until she caught their gazes — “but you might not like it.” She looked back at Ubba.

  “Tell us, wife. Then I shall make a decision.”

  “All right. We are in Somersæte, looking for Guthrum and his army.”

  “Ay, that we are.”

  “But we are vulnerable to the Anglo-Saxon army?”

  Ubba touched his axe. “Are we?”

  Rosfrith gave a snort. “As good as you are, my love, there are too many of Alfred’s soldiers around for it to be a fair fight.”

  “Fair point.”

  “As I was saying, as yet, we are unsure of how we will be received by Guthrum, especially if he has done us wrong?”

  Ubba’s gaze narrowed on his wife. “Your point?”

  “Well, I heard that in January, Guthrum launched a nighttime attack on King Alfred, while he was in court at Chippenham. It was a Christian feast day, so they were taken by surprise. I overheard the soldiers speculating whether Wulfhere, the Ealdorman of Wiltshire, allowed the attack to happen. Alfred and the court had to flee to save themselves, and, according to those men, took refuge in the quagmires around here, on a small island called Athenlney. Seemingly, the marshes are connected to the settlement by a causeway, so it is easy for Alfred and his army to patrol this area.”

  “Are the marshes the ones we went through today?”

  She nodded. “Ay. I think so.”

  “So why weren’t we attacked?”

  “During daylight hours, King Alfred’s men are busy building a fortress there. They are reinforcing existing defences in a hope of keeping Guthrum back.”

  “Did they mention where Guthrum was?

  “In Gleawcesterscīr.”

  Ubba whistled before sobering. “From memory, I know that is not far from here. There is no excuse to be relaxed – Alfred’s men are reckless failing to spot us.” He glanced around at his handful of men. Despite their small numbers, they were too big a group not to be spotted. “Guthrum could easily come down with his men and attack at any time.”

  “I agree.”

  Ubba rubbed his beard.

  “King Alfred has put a call out to his fyrd,” she continued.

  Borg, one of the men, listening, piped up. “Fyrd?”

  “A fyrd is an Anglo-Saxon army mobilised from freemen to defend their shires or to join a royal expedition. I think those men,” she indicated to the woods. “Are answering his call, hence their inexperience. Alfred is calling them to meet at Egbert’s stone in three moons.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” Another warrior asked.

  Rosfrith looked at the men, trying to hide her excitement. “Because their service in the fyrd is for a short duration, and nobody knows each other.” She glanced around. “They have to provide their own arms and provisions, so, if we can get some, we can pretend that we are joining them.” She ignored the spluttering and remarks from the warriors, not liking the idea of pretending to be Anglo-Saxons. She concentrated on Ubba, who was quiet. “We could join the army, and when we get near enough to Guthrum’s camp, we can make a decision whether we make ourselves known. Mayhap, we see the children and can just take them and return home.”

  “And get ourselves killed.”

  “Whose side are we on?”

  “I’m not killing my kin for a Briton.”

  After a while, Ubba spoke. “Quiet, men. It could work.”

  A smile broken on Rosfrith’s lips. “If you agree, we have three months to find armour and weapons, and to learn to fight like Anglo-Saxons, not Vikings.”

  “I’m not giving up my axe.”

  “Or cutting my hair.”

  “Or wearing their armour!”

  Ubba stood and looked sternly down on the seated men. They hadn’t come up with a better solution — apart from attacking and killing everyone they came across. Not for the first time, he longed for days long ago, when Eirik, Asmund, and Gunnar were by his side. “I said silence. If there are any men who want to leave, you can. Now. But, this way, if we are accepted by the Saxons, we will be protected. We won’t have to have to spend any more nights by a dead fire, and if we come across our own kind, we can talk to them – tell them who we are. Ask them if they know where Guthrum is stationed.”

  Rosfrith stood, too. “So, men, we have three full moons to turn into Anglo-Saxons.” She glanced down her clothes, to her booted feet, and back at them. “And don’t forget, I must turn into a man.” She laughed at the more light-hearted remarks until Ubba put his arm around her waist.

  “Not too much of a man,” he whispered into her ear, his breath caressing her exposed neck. Most of the men averted their eyes.

  She felt the wild fluttering in her stomach. His hand slid up her spine to force her closer. She turned and pressed against him, conscious of the hard wall of his chest. “Let’s go and find out.” She suggested, completely forgetting about the cold. She grabbed his hand and pulled him deeper into the woods.

  May 878

  On a bright, sunny day in the month of Thrimilce — the month of three milkings — Ubba, Rosfrit
h, and their men tried to mingle amongst the crowd gathered near Egbert’s stone, east of Selwood. Even though Rosfrith had worked hard with the warriors from Ranaricii to try and get them to act like Anglo-Saxons, it was difficult. Their customs and habits well rooted within them. She only hoped that Alfred would be too interested in his battle with Guthrum and be focused on getting soldiers to question any of the large men. She glanced at two of them, who still looked uncomfortable with their short hair, dressed in the armour they had pilfered. She prayed to Thór that her plan worked.

  A call rang out before hush descended. King Alfred rode towards them on a large black horse. Once he was near enough, he studied the men gathered in front of him. It was good to see some fresh faces, especially as all the soldiers who had fled with him were battle weary and exhausted. He pulled on his horse’s reins to settle it before he addressed the crowd. “Men of the shires of Somerset, Wiltshire, and Hampshire, thank you for heeding my call. Your turn out means I have the loyalty of my ealdormen, reeves, and thegns — from the mighty to the servants — I thank you! Together, we will beat those heathens back to the soil they crawled from — back to their heathen Gods and mad women…”

  Rosfrith noticed Vidar finger his sword. He was angry at Alfred’s words, but they didn’t need to be outed so soon. She sidestepped up to him and put her hand on his to settle him. When he glanced at her, she shook her head and whispered, “Pay him no heed. His words cannot harm us.” She relaxed only when she heard him release his breath.

  After Alfred finished his rousing speech, his ealdormen started to group the men according to fighting abilities. Rosfrith fought her rising panic while she waited. She had no question about her or the men’s fighting skills, but her own appearance could cause trouble. Although she had sheared her glorious hair and mudded her face, she knew her face was not as square as a man’s. The only thing she could do was to keep her helmet low. It was imperative to pass this first hurdle — she only hoped that their men would remember their new Anglo-Saxon names and basic information that she’d made them recite and recite. It was important that their ruse worked.