by Joan Wolf
“Athelwold!” It was Edgar calling his name. Athelwold blinked and looked at Alfred’s thane.
“Yes?”
“One of the grooms has come to tell you your horse is lame.”
Athelwold looked at the groom standing before him. He had not even seen the boy approach. “Lame?”
“Yes, my lord. A bruised hoof, we think. Do you want to come and look at it?”
Athelwold swore and rose to his feet. It was the fault of those cursed brats, he thought, swore again, and strode to the hall door, followed by the groom.
Edgar watched him go, a thoughtful look on his face.
Two days before the royal household was scheduled to remove from Wantage to Wilton for Easter, Alfred and Elswyth went for a ride on the Downs with their two elder children. The spring weather was beautiful and Alfred felt he had good cause to be pleased with his world.
It seemed that Wessex would be safe from the Danes for yet another season. Guthrum was still entrenched at Cambridge, deep in the fens of East Anglia and watched by a selected guard of Alfred’s thanes. Alfred’s ships were sailing proudly up and down the coasts of Sussex and Kent, keeping watch for any Viking long ships that might venture into West Saxon waters. They had actually had an encounter with a small fleet of Viking ships the previous year, and the West Saxon ships, manned by a mixture of West Saxon thanes and Frisian sailors, had successfully driven off the invaders.
Alfred himself had been on board the largest of Wessex’ ships during the fight, and it had been one of the most thrilling experiences of his life. Over the four-year course of this peace, the king had come ever more firmly to believe that the only way to successfully defend against the Danes would be to challenge them on the element they had so dominated for this last century of warfare with western Europe. If he could neutralize the Danes on the sea, then he thought he could beat them on land.
Next to him Elswyth said, “You are thinking about your ships again.”
He turned to her, too accustomed to her reading his thoughts to find the remark surprising. “How did you know?” was all he asked.
“You get a certain look on your face.”
“What kind of look?” He was genuinely curious.
“I don’t know. Salty …”
“Salty?” He squinted a little in the sun. “Elswyth, how can a look be salty?”
She chuckled, the dark, rich sound that meant she was perfectly happy.
He smiled at her. She had ceased to hover so frantically over the new baby and was more relaxed than he had seen her in a long time.
Thank God I bought this peace, Alfred thought. No matter what may happen in the future, at least we had this time of respite. All of us.
The sound of his children’s laughter floated through the air. Flavia and Edward were riding before them, talking together busily. Those two always had something to say to each other, Alfred thought, looking at his children’s blue-clad backs. Edward was now slightly the taller and his sturdy back was distinctly broader than Flavia’s.
“It is nice that they are such good friends,” Elswyth said.
Alfred thought of Ethelred. “Yes,” he said. “I think they will always be each other’s best friends.”
They rode into the courtyard of Wantage, happy and content, and found the household in an uproar.
“My lord,” said Brand, running to hold Alfred’s bridle, “the guards you had posted in East Anglia have just come in. The Danish army rode out of Cambridge three days since!”
Alfred swung down from his saddle. “Where have they gone?”
“My lord, they went first to London, but did not stay. They took the Roman road to Silchester and then continued to the west.” Brand swallowed. “Toward Wilton, my lord,”
“The entire army?” Alfred asked.
“Yes, my lord. All mounted and riding hard.”
“Bring these guards to me,” Alfred said, and strode off” without a backward glance at his family, who sat as if paralyzed on their horses and watched him go.
The Danes had invaded Wessex. The peace was over.
* * *
IV
THE CRISIS
A.D. 876-878
Chapter 29
The Danes did not stop at Wilton, but continued down the Roman road almost to Dorchester before veering to the east and finally lighting at Wareham. Wareham was Erlend’s idea, He had been there before while in disguise as Alfred’s harper, and he had thought at the time that the site might have its uses for the Danes. Wareham had been a castellum, or fortified town, during the days of the Romans, and the old stone walls still stood. The Danes were always eager to make use of an already-well-fortified position, and Roman Wareham, situated as it was on a narrow spit of land betwixt the rivers Frome and Tarrant, was extremely well-sheltered from any attack that might be mounted from the land.
The aspect of Wareham that made it particularly attractive to Guthrum, however, was its nearness to the sea. The Danes’ main tactical problem in Wessex during the campaign of four years since had lain in supplying their army. For this upcoming campaign Guthrum planned to rely upon the Vikings’ age-old ally. He would use the sea this time, supply his own army from ships, and thus not be dependent solely upon pillaging the countryside. Wareham was situated on the Frome just before the river emptied into Poole harbor, and its admirable anchorage would give the Danes a perfect opportunity to bring in supplies by sea.
When Guthrum actually saw Wareham, he pronounced it perfect. The Danes took over the town, threw up some earthen walls to reinforce the Roman stone walls already there, and prepared to gather as much food and plunder from the surrounding country as possible before Alfred arrived. They began operations with the sack of a local nunnery.
It was five days before the West Saxon fyrd made its appearance at Wareham. Erlend stood on the heights of the old Roman wall and watched as the men of Wessex made camp on the far side of the Frome.
“There are fewer foot soldiers this time,” he commented to the man standing beside him. “At least half of them appear to be horsed.”
“Yes,” Athulf replied. “And they are in far better case than you to find fodder for their horses. Not to mention food for their men.”
Erlend’s eyes were on the banner of the Golden Dragon, flying so bravely in the breeze from the river. Athulf knew nothing of the hundred and fifty Viking ships that were by now sailing to Wareham, bearing supplies and additional men for the relief of Guthrum’s land force. Nor did Erlend say aught of the ships to Athulf now. Instead he let his eyes move across the impressive array of men in the West Saxon camp and said, “Alfred has the fyrds out in force. They must number five thousand at the least.”
“More than you have,” Athulf said. And smiled with grim satisfaction.
A strange sort of friendship had developed over the past two years between the hostage Mercian and Guthrum’s nephew. When first Athulf had come to the Danish camp, Erlend had found himself feeling inexplicably responsible for the well-being of Elswyth’s brother. He had volunteered to act as Athulf’s interpreter, and Athulf had soon found himself dependent on the young Dane for the only companionship he was likely to get in his exile in a heathen world.
“My uncle will not risk an open battle,” Erlend answered Elswyth’s brother now. “Guthrum can show patience when patience is necessary. He knows it will take time to wear the West Saxons down.”
“There!” Athulf’s voice was suddenly sharp with excitement, his head lifting like a hound’s that has scented its master. “There is Alfred now!”
But Erlend had already seen the man on the big gray stallion. The king was riding among his men, threading his way through the litter of the camp, giving a word of encouragement to some, a command to be followed to others. As Erlend watched, Alfred halted his horse, raised his head, and looked toward the walls of Wareham.
The brilliant spring sun gilded Alfred’s face and the sea wind blew his hair, and Erlend felt as if someone had punched him in the stoma
ch. Hard. Alfred was too far away for his features to be distinct, yet the mere sight of his distant figure on horseback had been enough to produce this breathless cramping in Erlend’s stomach. The Dane was furious with himself for such a reaction, and he scowled as Athulf said, “He is a fighter, this husband of my sister. You will not get Wessex the way you got Mercia.”
“We know that.” Erlend sounded as angry as he felt. “I can assure you we have not underestimated Alfred,” he snapped.
“I wish to God I was out there with them!” The words sounded as if they had been ripped from Athulf’s throat.
So do I. The words formed in Erlend’s mind before he could do aught to stop them. His right hand flew up to his mouth, pressing hard against his teeth, forcing the treacherous syllables back before he could say them out loud to Athulf.
Name of the Raven, what was wrong with him? How could he think such a thing? He was a Dane!
On the other side of the river, the man on the great gray stallion removed his gaze from the walls of Wareham and turned away. Athulf’s hands clenched together into tight fists. “There goes my true brother,” he said bitterly, turned, and walked away. A white-faced Erlend stood alone on the wall, his hooded eyes on the retreating figure of a man on a large gray horse.
“The West Saxons must number five thousand at the least,” Erlend said to his uncle later in the day when he met Guthrum at the horse lines.
“I can count, Nephew,” Guthrum replied. He patted his great bay stallion on its shoulder and turned to stare at Erlend. “Nor is it my intention just now to engage their full force in open battle. When once my ships arrive with our extra men, then we shall see.”
Erlend looked up into his uncle’s face, seeing the familiar features as if after a long absence. Guthrum’s brilliant blue eyes were slightly narrowed against the sun, and faint squint wrinkles fanned out on either side of them. Those wrinkles were perhaps a little deeper than they had been five years before, when Erlend had first arrived at Thetford, but otherwise Guthrum had not changed at all. The fair hair was as yellow, the hard cheekbones and sensual mouth as reckless-looking as ever.
Guthrum added, “This is just the start of the campaign. He can collect a large army, true, but can he keep it? He could not the last time, and I do not think he will this time either. All we need do is wait him out.”
He. Guthrum rarely used Alfred’s name. It was always “he.” Erlend said nothing, just looked away from Guthrum toward the West Saxon camp. Guthrum spoke again. “I can hold this site against any force he might gather to throw against me. You chose well, Nephew. Wareham is as near impregnable a location as we could hope to find.”
“Alfred”—Erlend made it a point to use the name—”Alfred may not be able to get in, Uncle, but neither can we get out.”
“We have food and fodder enough for a month,” Guthrum said. “The ships will be here before then, bringing not only supplies but also several thousand more men. And in a month’s time his men will have slipped away home to put in the corn. Then we will have him.”
“The West Saxons have ships also.” Erlend had pointed this out numerous times to Guthrum, but the Danish leader would never accept the idea that any nation could be a serious threat to the Vikings on the sea.
Guthrum’s reaction now was the same as always. He shrugged his big shoulders and smiled mockingly. “You overestimate the talents of this king, Erlend. I think sometimes he must have put a spell on you. If you remember, the last time we set foot in his kingdom, he had to buy a peace from us. Yet you persist in speaking as if he were invincible.” The blue eyes glittered bright as the sun-lit sea. “I think sometimes you were more comfortable among the West Saxons than you are among your own people.”
“I am a Dane, Uncle,” Erlend replied stiffly. He could feel the flags of color flying in his cheeks. “I am Erlend Olafson of Nasgaard, nor am I like to forget that.”
There was a moment of tense silence as uncle and nephew stared at each other with barely concealed hostility. Then Guthrum said, “You do not have Nasgaard yet, Erlend.”
Erlend quirked an eyebrow in unconscious imitation of one of Alfred’s characteristic gestures. “That is because you have not yet taken Wessex, my lord,” he answered drawlingly. “Did not Halfdan say you would lend me the strength of your arm when once you have finished your work here? And did not Halfdan also say that he himself would stand my friend?”
Blue eyes and green met and locked in silent combat. Guthrum had not been overly pleased by that promise of Halfdan’s. Then he said, “We will be finished here shortly, Erlend, I promise you that.” Guthrum took two steps closer to Erlend, so that he seemed to tower over the younger man. “And when that time comes, I shall sacrifice this West Saxon king to Odin.” His teeth bared in his white wolf smile, he looked down at the nephew whose eyes were so far below the level of his own and added with palpable pleasure, “And you shall watch me do it.”
One week later a fleet of long ships sailed into Poole harbor. At first the cry from the Danish camp was one of triumph. Then they saw the Wessex banner of the Golden Dragon.
“There must be a hundred ships out there!” Guthrum said in astonishment. “Name of the Raven, where did he get a hundred ships?”
“I told you, Uncle,” Erlend replied. “He built them.”
“You never told me he was building so many!”
“It has been three years since I left Wessex. He has had plenty of time to enlarge his fleet.”
Guthrum squinted into the sun. “But they are long ships. Big ships. Name of the Raven, they are bigger than ours!”
“I told you that too. He brought in the Frisians to build them. And there are Frisians sailing them too, not just West Saxon farmers.”
“Our fleet numbers near one hundred and fifty,” Guthrum said. But his face was grim. He added, “And no Frisian yet has been able to outsail a Dane.”
“True. But if there is a fight, we are like to lose some of our supplies.”
Guthrum did not reply, only turned on his heel and strode away.
One month went by and still there was no sign of the Danish fleet. Nor did there appear to be any lessening in the numbers of the West Saxon fyrd.
Guthrum gave orders for raiding parties to go out from Wareham to bring in food from the countryside.
“Destroy whatever you can put to the torch,” he said to his men. “Rape their women. We must begin to make our presence felt here if we are not to find ourselves in a trap.”
Some of the Danish raiders got through, and pillars of smoke were seen in the surrounding countryside. The weeks passed and it seemed to Erlend’s searching eyes that the West Saxons were fewer in number than they had been before.
“The sheep will need shearing,” Erlend said to his uncle. “That is not a job that can be left for the women. Alfred will have trouble holding his men come sheep-shearing month.”
“Where in the name of Odin are our ships? They were to come up the Thames, around the Dover Narrows, and thence to Wareham. What has happened to delay them so? Harald Bjornson knows I am depending upon him for supplies. He would not tarry unless something has happened to disable his fleet.”
Erlend could not answer. No one in the Danish camp could. But one fact was clear to all: without their ships they would not have enough food and fodder to survive. They would have to break out of Wareham, and to do that they would have to face a battle with the West Saxon army.
“If we can hold out but a few weeks more,” Guthrum said now to Erlend, the squint lines about his eyes graven deep in the tanned skin. “In a few weeks we must see our ships. And his army will be gravely depleted. A few more weeks, then can we face them in open battle.” It was an implicit admission that in order to be assured of victory, the Danes needed to have the numbers on their side.
“We can eat the horses if we must,” said Erlend, who knew what store his uncle set by his horses.
Guthrum swore viciously and went off to stare once more toward the sea.<
br />
Brand asked Alfred, “How much longer do you think he can hold out?” The two were standing together looking across the Frome toward the walls of Wareham.
“He has already held out long enough,” Alfred answered. His hair gleamed in the bright June sun. “We are down to less than half our original number of men. We have disguised our lack of numbers well, else would he have attacked by now, but I dare not wait any longer. Ethelred did nobly in his blockade of the river at London, but the Danes are about to get their ships through. I can wait no longer.”
“What are you going to do, my lord?” Brand asked.
“Sue for peace,” said Alfred,
Brand looked at the expression on his king’s face and prudently made no reply.
Erlend and Guthrum stood on the walls of Wareham and watched as the four West Saxons swam their horses across the river. The horses touched bottom, and then dry land. The four men paused to align themselves abreast and then began to trot slowly toward the walls of Wareham.
The two men on the outside carried banners. One was the Golden Dragon banner of Wessex, the other was plain and white. The West Saxons halted outside the range of arrowshot and waited.
“What can they want?” Guthrum asked Erlend.
“I do not know. They want to talk, that much at least is clear. You had better send someone to find out, Uncle.”
Guthrum grunted, turned, and shouted for one of the men who spoke a little Saxon to ride out with an escort to see what it was the West Saxons wanted.
Five minutes passed. Erlend, staring intently at the West Saxons, thought he recognized Edgar. Then the gates of Wareham opened and four Danes came trotting out. The West Saxons waited where they were. In a minute the two groups had come together.
More minutes passed. “Ivor does not speak Saxon all that well,” Erlend muttered, and did not notice the sharp look Guthrum cast his way.
Finally the Danes turned back toward the walls of Wareham and the West Saxon thanes wheeled to return to their own camp on the far side of the river. Guthrum scrambled down from the wall and strode off to his booth. Erlend did not hesitate to follow.