The Edge of Light

by Joan Wolf

  “Those pennants on the left belong to the different jarls,” Ethelnoth of Somerset said.

  “So,” said Ethelred, “king’s men on the right, jarls’ men on the left.”

  The men of his council grunted in agreement.

  “We shall form up in two columns also,” Ethelred said. “I shall lead the column opposing Halfdan, Alfred shall lead the column opposing the jarls.”

  A startled silence fell and the ealdormen looked at each other. Ethelnoth of Somerset, who had fought at Aclea with Ethelbald and been his friend, said, “My lord, the prince is brave as a lion, no doubt about that. But he is twenty-one years of age. Full young for such a responsibility. Give the left to me, or to another of us older men who has more battle experience,”

  Alfred said nothing, but his face was taut and his eyes were narrowed and blazing.

  “No,” said Ethelred. “Alfred will take the left. And, my lords, should aught happen to me on the field of battle today, Alfred has my name for the succession.”

  This command of the king drew no opposition. There was not a man present who wished to see a child at the helm of Wessex today. “Very well,” said Ethelred quietly. “Let us arm ourselves for battle and pray to our Lord and all his saints for victory.”

  Alfred was very silent as he donned his battle dress. Brand, who was assisting the prince, looked at the familiar face and did not after all say the words that had been on the tip of his tongue. Alfred’s mind was not on Brand. The thane lifted the prince’s mail byrnie to slip on over the leather tunic that Alfred already wore. As the mail coat settled into place, Brand lifted the prince’s swordbelt. Alfred looked from the belt to the man who held it, and for the first time his intense preoccupation lifted. The golden eyes registered his thane’s face. “God be with you this day, my lord,” Brand said fervently.

  “And with you.” The familiar clipped voice was just the same as always. Brand smiled and after a minute Alfred clapped his thane on the shoulder. “We shall beat them, my friend.” He grinned. “I know it.”

  Suddenly Brand knew it too. His greenish eyes glowed. “Yes, my lord!”

  Alfred rammed his sword into his belt and put his sax dagger through the swordbelt on the other side. His hair was bound by his distinctive green headband. The West Saxons still fought unhelmeted. “Arm yourself, Brand,” he said crisply, “and follow me,”

  Brand moved hastily so as not to be far behind.

  By the time the full light of morning was blazing in the sky, the two armies had taken up their positions. The Danes had the higher ground, on the ridge to the east of the Ridgeway. Ethelred had moved his own men to a slight rise that rose behind his camp to the southwest of the Ridgeway. The pure cold January sun shone brilliantly, the two armies faced each other with but a thousand yards separating them, and the ritual shouting of abuse that presaged every battle began. Swords banged on shields. The noise from the Danish ranks was tremendous, and as they stood waiting in the bright sun, tension began to rise in the West Saxon lines. In the war council, the leaders had determined to take the offensive. Only so could they hope to negate the Dane’s advantage of holding the hill, to break the force of their charge. Yet here they stood in the cold sunlight, waiting.

  Alfred stood under his own personal banner of the White Horse and looked to the other wing, for his brother. The Golden Dragon of Wessex flew, but the king was not in place beneath it.

  “Where is the king?” he asked Osric, the Hampshire ealdorman, who was fighting under his command.

  The ealdorman’s face was grim. “Hearing Mass in his tent,” he replied.

  Alfred looked toward the king’s tent, pitched now to the rear of the lines, His response was involuntary. “Surely not now?”

  “Yes, my lord,” came the stoic response. “Now.”

  On the opposite hill the masses of men were beginning to move. Then horns blew and an even louder shout went up from the Danish ranks. They raised their brightly colored shields and began to advance slowly down the hill. They blanketed the hillside and the noise they made was absolutely petrifying.

  “Brand!”

  “Yes, my lord?” The thane was at Alfred’s side instantly.

  “Run to the king and tell him the Danes are advancing. We must attack now!”

  Brand was gone almost before Alfred had finished speaking.

  The Danes still held their charge, but their battle horns were blowing. The West Saxon fyrds were becoming restive. Alfred could see the men looking at him, then looking toward the king’s banner.

  God in heaven, he thought. Ethelred must attack now!

  Brand was beside him again, his breath heaving he had run so hard. “My lord, the king says that he will not leave the altar until the priest has ended the holy rite. That would bring the worst ill luck of all, he says.”

  Osric, hearing Brand’s reply, looked at Alfred. “What shall we do, Prince?” he said. “If we wait longer, we shall have to retire from the battle.”

  “The king’s prayers may well be in our favor,” Alfred replied grimly. “But it is needful also for us to help ourselves.” He drew his sword. “We will attack.”

  Osric looked unsure. “Without the king?”

  Alfred could feel the restlessness in the army. Another minute and all would be lost. He turned to Osric, and his face was bright and falcon-fierce. “Without the king,” he said. “Follow me.” And raising his sword, he gave the cry of his house, “Wessex! Wessex!” and charged down the hill. The men of his command poured after him. After a brief moment’s hesitation, the king’s leaderless column followed.

  The Danes, seeing the West Saxons beginning to charge, ran forward themselves, The two armies met with a clash at the bottom of the valley and the shock of the West Saxon charge was so fierce that it forced the Danes to fall back slightly up the hill whence they had come.

  Brand struggled to keep his place at Alfred’s back. The prince was in the forefront of the battle, with Edgar on his right holding his banner high to show to all on the field Alfred’s position. The West Saxons pressed forward eagerly, inspired by their prince’s ferocity. Up and up and up the hill they went, pressing the Danes back. Halfway up the ridge was a road junction, a place where five ancient trackways met. This junction was marked by a single stunted thorn tree, and there the Danes steadied. The slow backward retreat halted and the men under the banner of one of their jarls, the banner of a great golden eagle, rallied.

  Erlend fought to keep close to Guthrum’s eagle banner. Hammer of Thor, he had not known fighting could be so fierce! The West Saxon who fought under the banner of the White Horse was like a wild boar in full charge. Erlend had begun to think that nothing could stop him. But Guthrum was holding on now, shouting and blazing and urging his men to press forward, to push the West Saxons back down the hill. The fight between the leaders concentrated around the thorn tree. Concentrated and stuck and held. It was man against man, a clashing of sword and battleax and spear, a bloody give-and-take, with the dead falling under the feet of the living, and the wounded lying unheeded in agony while the battle raged back and forth on top of them. Erlend saw his uncle, surrounded by a wall of dead men, climbing over those he had felled to get at the ones coming next.

  Pride and the fire of battle burned in his own veins. He fought to get to his uncle’s side. His arm was bloody up to the shoulder and he hacked and swore and killed with the rest of Guthrum’s followers. Under the banner of the White Horse the men of Wessex raged full as fierce.

  Hammer of Thor, Erlend thought as he took a blow on his mailed shoulder and turned to give back as good as he had taken. The day would end with not one of them left alive to claim the victory!

  Then, from the bottom of the hill, came a shout of triumph. Erlend saw Guthrum look toward the noise, and he locked his shield with the man’s beside him and looked also.

  Fresh troops were entering the field on the side of the West Saxons.

  “Forward, sons of Odin!” Guthrum shouted. But the men
around him had begun to waver.

  “Reinforcements. They have got reinforcements.” The word was running all through the ranks of the Viking army now. They had scarcely managed to hold their own against the troops on the field at present. Fresh men would turn the tide quickly. Slowly the Danes once more began to give ground.

  “Is it the Mercians after all?” Alfred shouted to Edgar, miraculously still unwounded and still clutching the White Horse banner.

  “I don’t think—”

  “It is not the Mercians, my lord,” yelled Brand behind him. “It is the king. The king and all his hearthband, come from Mass to join the battle!”

  Alfred’s face was streaked with blood from where he had wiped his hand across it. His hair, too, was matted with the blood of his enemies. But the sunlight showed his eyes clear and golden, and his teeth flashed in a brilliant grin. “Ethelred!” he said. “Perfect!” And turning back to the battle, he hurled himself once more into the fray.

  Ethelred’s thanes, all trained warriors frantic to join the action, thrust themselves forward with wild enthusiasm. The fresh assault took the heart from the Danes. Slowly at first, then with growing speed, the Vikings began to turn and flee from the field. Guthrum held out longer than most, but when he saw that he alone of all the jarls was left on the field, he too called his men to a retreat. The area around the thorn tree was knee-deep in the dead when Alfred turned at last to go and confer with his brother, the king.

  “A victory!” Ethelred said when he saw Alfred approaching. Then: “Holy God, Alfred! Are you hurt? You are covered with blood.”

  “It is none of mine,” Alfred replied, wiping his hand on his trousers. “Ethelred, I think we should go after them. They are in no condition to harm us now, and the more of them we kill, the fewer there will be to meet us tomorrow.”

  “I agree, my lord.” It was Ethelnoth of Somerset coming up now. “They are in full flight. Let us follow them until we lose the light.”

  “Very well,” said Ethelred. “Give the order for the fyrds to pursue.”

  Ethelnoth nodded but did not immediately turn away. Instead his eyes went to the blood-covered figure of the king’s brother. “Never again will I question your leadership, Alfred of Wessex,” the older man said deliberately. “You are a true son of your house, a battle leader I shall ever be proud to serve under.”

  “I thank you, my lord of Somerset,” Alfred answered, full as gravely. “But it was the king’s coming up when he did that won us the day.” He looked at his brother and grinned. “You came so hard, Ethelred, I thought you were the Mercians!”

  Ethelred, whose battle dress was scarcely stained, put an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “You held them for me, Alfred. Ethelnoth and all the army knows that well.” He laughed a little unsteadily. “I can scarce believe it is true. We won!”

  The brothers stood close together and surveyed the scene before them. All over the hill and the valley the ground was thick with the fallen. Most of the West Saxons were now in full pursuit of the fleeing Danes, save for the parties of men searching among the bodies to separate the wounded from the slain. The winter sun shone on this scene out of hell, and Alfred said to Ethelred, very grimly, “Yes, Ethelred. We won.”

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Erlend and Guthrum did not reach the safety of the walls of Reading until after dark. The following day, when the war council gathered once more to plot the future, the full extent of their defeat became evident. Bagsac was dead, as were five of their jarls, among them the venerable Sidroc, who had been with Halfdan for more years than any could count. And nearly two thousand had fallen.

  Guthrum sat silent in Halfdan’s booth and listened to the talk flow around him, his face unreadable. He had brought out a large number of his own men, but the thought did not console him. Guthrum had never yet lost in battle. He did not like the feeling.

  “Who was the leader who fought under the White Horse?” he asked at last, when there came a lull in the discussion and all were beginning to look at him in puzzlement at his silence.

  “The king’s brother,” Halfdan said. His seamed and weathered face looked the same as ever. Halfdan had been fighting for too many years to be dismayed by one lost battle. “Alfred, he is called. He is full young, I hear. Not yet in his mid-twenties.”

  Guthrum grunted. Alfred, he thought, and saw again in his mind’s eye the slender figure under the waving scarlet banner of the White Horse. That was the one who had led the attack, had kept the West Saxons pressing forward. Guthrum was an inspired battle leader himself; he recognized his like.

  “Their king was not on the field, my lord,” said one of the other jarls. The Viking war council exchanged looks of contempt. It was inconceivable to them that a leader would let his men go out to fight while he himself stayed safe behind.

  “He fears the blood eagle,” said Halfdan. He showed his stained and broken teeth in a pleased smile. Then he looked once more around the diminished circle of his war council and issued his decision. “We cannot let them rest on this victory,” he said. “They will expect us to lie quiet, to lick our wounds for the winter. That we will not do. We will strike. We will carry the Raven banner into the very heartland of their country. We will aim for their chief city of Winchester. And sack it.”

  The West Saxons posted guards to watch the Viking camp at Reading and quartered their own forces at Silchester, at the junction of the two Roman roads the Danes would be most likely to take should they try to break out of Reading. Alfred volunteered to take the news of their victory to Winchester.

  “I want a bath,” he said to Ethelred the morning after Ashdown. “Let me bring the news to Elswyth and Cyneburg, and I will be back to you in two days’ time.”

  Ethelred looked at his brother with wry amusement. “Elswyth will scarce recognize her spotless husband,” he said. “You are filthy,”

  Alfred had done his best to wash in the icy conditions of the camp, but he was far from being his usual immaculate self. His hair was so stiff and matted that he had simply used his headband to tie it out of his way at the nape of his neck. He answered Ethelred now a little irritably, “I have dried blood in my nails and in my hair and I cannot get it out without hot water and soap.”

  Ethelred peered more closely. He had teased Alfred for years about his fastidiousness. “In your ears too,” he said. “However did you get blood in your ears?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is, I want it out!” There was a note of muted panic in Alfred’s voice, and Ethelred’s amusement died on the instant.

  “Go to Winchester,” he said. “Nothing is like to happen here, though we shall keep our watch on Reading.”

  “I shall be back in two days,” Alfred said.

  “No need to rush,” Ethelred said comfortably. “The Danes will wait for you.”

  Alfred took Brand and Edgar and set out for Winchester down the Roman road. The weather had turned even colder, and the sky looked to be building up for snow. The three men kept mainly to a steady canter, for warmth as well as for pace. The dark was coming on when finally they saw the walls and gates of Winchester before them. They rode in with the first snowflakes.

  All Alfred wanted was a bath. But Cyneburg had come running out onto the steps of the great hall and he had to go to her. There was no sign of Elswyth, so he turned to Brand and asked, “Will you tell my wife I am here?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the thane answered immediately, and giving the reins of the horses into other hands, he set out for the princes’ hall. Alfred went to meet his brother’s wife.

  “Ethelred is well,” he said as soon as he came within hearing range. “There was a battle and we won.”

  Cyneburg’s strained face lightened. She smiled up at Alfred as he reached the top step. “Our prayers have been answered,” she said fervently. “Come inside and get warm.”

  Alfred followed her into the hall but refused to sit. “I am not fit to sit before any woman’s fire, Cyneburg,” he s
aid firmly. “I need a bath. But the news I bear is heartening. We drove the Danes back to Reading and slew upwards of two thousand of their men.” He gave her a small smile. “Ethelred led the charge that broke them.”

  “But he is all right?”

  “He is in perfect health.”

  Cyneburg smiled radiantly. “Thanks be to God.”

  The door to the hall opened again and the voice he had been waiting for said, “Alfred! You won?”

  He looked at his wife. “We won.” Then he said stupidly, as if it was all that mattered, “Elswyth, I need a bath.”

  “Well, come with me and I’ll get you one,” she answered. She was at his side now and he looked down into the dark blue eyes he loved. He made no move to kiss her or touch her in any way, and after the briefest of moments she turned to Cyneburg. “Alfred brought two of his thanes with him. Will you feed them, my lady?”

  “Certainly,” Cyneburg answered. “And they can tell me all about the battle. No need for you to return to the great hall this night, Alfred.”

  He scarcely had time to thank her, Elswyth was moving so briskly toward the door. He caught up to her and they went out together into the early-winter dark, There was snow on the steps of the hall now. Alfred made a move to take his wife’s arm, stopped himself, and instead said sharply, “Be careful. It’s slippery.”

  She nodded and went down the steps beside him, sure of foot even though she was great with child. They walked side by side to the princes’ hall, scarcely speaking. As soon as they were in the door, Elswyth called for the wooden tub they used for baths.

  “Papa!” His daughter had seen him and was coming across the rush-strewn floor on steady feet. Flavia was an extremely agile and precocious child, had both walked and spoken at ten months of age. Her four little teeth were flashing in a wondrous smile and she held out her arms to be picked up.