The Edge of Light

by Joan Wolf

  Chippenham had proved to be an ideal location for a base camp. The town was situated in a strong defensive position, protected by the Avon on three sides and by a ditch and palisade on the fourth, blocking off the promontory. The sort of defenses a Viking leader most loved. The royal manor had been provisioned for the king’s Christmas visit, and so the Danes were further pleased by the food stores of salted meat, eels, bread, honey, and unhopped beer that they found waiting for them in the manor storehouses.

  And so, on the night of January 7, while Alfred lay a fugitive at Cheddar, Guthrum sat in the royal hall at Chippenham and found himself well-pleased. He had a secure base here, close to two main roads by which he could probe ever deeper into Wessex. This part of Wiltshire had as yet been untouched by previous Viking raids, so the local inhabitants were ripe to be squeezed for more food, fodder, horses and, possibly, geld. Supplies would be no problem this time. Guthrum would easily be able to feed the four thousand men who were following him to Chippenham on the morrow.

  It was a nuisance that he had been unable to catch Alfred. Someone had evidently seen the Danish vanguard coming down the Fosse Way and had managed to warn Alfred in time. Guthrum had decided against setting out in pursuit of the West Saxon king. It would have been eminently satisfying to have that hawk-eyed West Saxon in his power, but it was more important to consolidate his base of power first.

  It was Alfred’s kingdom that Guthrum wanted, and the Dane had no intention of letting slip the advantage he had won. He knew from Athelwold of Alfred’s present shortage of men. It was the first time Guthrum could remember that the West Saxon king had so let down his guard. The Dane had every intention of striking hard while Wessex’ king was yet vulnerable.

  As all Vikings knew, terror was always the most effective weapon. Thus far, Wessex had managed to stay remarkably clear of the devastation that the Danes had visited on the other English kingdoms of Northumbria, East Anglia, and Mercia. Well, Wessex would learn. So Guthrum thought, with deep satisfaction, as he sat this winter’s night in Alfred’s high seat, in Alfred’s royal hall, and contemplated the destruction of Alfred’s kingdom.

  This time, Guthrum’s plans would not fail. As before, he had reinforcements coming by sea in the spring, and the additional thousands of men would make the Danish army invincible, But even with the numbers he had presently, Guthrum was still safe. The men of Alfred’s fyrds would be too busy at home, with their own burning barns, to answer this time to the call of their king. They might rally to defend their own shires, but such a fragmented defense would play right into Guthrum’s hands.

  This time, thought Guthrum, raising his drinking cup and draining it in one long swallow, this time nothing could go wrong. By the summer, he should have put his hand upon Alfred himself.

  Within days, raiding parties of Danish horsemen were galloping down the Fosse Way and along the Roman road to Winchester, looting, raping, and burning as they went. Toward the end of January, Athelwold rode to Chippenham to see Guthrum and to protest the harshness of the Danish occupation.

  Guthrum laughed.

  “You promised to make me king!” Athelwold said in fury through the medium of the interpreter Guthrum had brought from Repton. “King, as Ceolwulf is king in Mercia.”

  “Exactly as Ceolwulf is king in Mercia,” Guthrum agreed derisively. “King by my pleasure, king at my command. When once Wessex is subdued, my lord Athelwold, then will I name you king. But if you wish the people to forsake Alfred and turn to you for salvation, then first must they feel the power of my fist.”

  Athelwold thought about this, and it made sense.

  “Alfred is in Somerset,” he told the Danish leader, his voice more conciliatory than it had been at first. “He has taken refuge in the fens, where he hides himself and his few followers from your vengeance.”

  “I know where Alfred is,” Guthrum replied, his blue eyes glittering dangerously. “He cannot hide from me forever. Once his kingdom is delivered over to my yoke, then will I worry about taking Alfred.”

  “The marshes are easier of access in the summer,” Athelwold said. His pale reddish lashes flickered as he blinked nervously. “In winter half the land is covered with water, and you must know the tracks and trails, else you will never get through, but in the summer it is dry.”

  “You are most helpful, my lord,” said Guthrum, and his eyes were now as derisive as his voice.

  Athelwold flushed as red as his hair. “He does not deserve any pity from me,” he said angrily. “He would rob me of what is mine by right.”

  “Go home,” said Guthrum. “I will send for you when I want you.” After a fractional hesitation, Athelwold obeyed.

  It was the worst winter in West Saxon memory. The Danes swarmed over the land, burning and pillaging. Wiltshire, wherein lay Chippenham, was struck particularly hard. Churches were desecrated, monasteries destroyed, West Saxon boys and girls taken and sold for slaves. The Ealdorman of Wiltshire, Wulfhere, newly appointed by Alfred the previous year on the death of the faithful Ethelm, followed the example of Burgred of Mercia and fled overseas to escape the vengeance of the Danes.

  The Welsh suffered as well that winter, from the depredations of Ubbe, brother of Halfdan, who was wintering in Wales before sailing to Wessex in the spring to bring his ship army to reinforce Guthrum.

  Like an Old Testament plague of locusts, the Danes also swarmed out from Wiltshire over the rest of the land: to Somerset, in hopes of capturing Alfred; to Dorset, against the protests of Athelwold; as far south and east as Hampshire, where many Saxons fled overseas before the Danes, as centuries before the Britons had fled before the Saxons.

  The long cold winter dragged on. The only thing that kept any hope alive in West Saxon breasts all through that drear and horror-filled time was the thought that Alfred was yet free. The Danes had made numerous attempts to penetrate into the Somerset swamps, but none had been successful. The king was yet free, and while Alfred lived, hope of deliverance could not entirely die in the hearts and minds of those who had once fought under the banner of the Golden Dragon.

  “I will never give up.” Such was the promise Alfred had made to his country when he had taken the kingship seven long years before. During the winter months of 878, the nadir of all the years of the Danish wars, it was a promise that he kept.

  The west of Somerset was mainly fenland, enclosed in an irregular horseshoe of forested hills. The marshes stretched inland from the coast for about twenty miles, changing from swamp to lagoon according to the rainfall and the tides. It was in these marshes, unapproachable in winter either by water or by land, safe only for those who knew their ways, that Alfred found shelter from the Danish juggernaut that was riding over Wessex.

  The winter was hard going. January and February were bitter months, with the king and his small band of companion thanes sheltering in peasant huts, forced to rely upon the poorest of the poor for safety and sustenance. As the winter went on, the men of Alfred’s guard who had not been at Chippenham for Christmas began to find their way into the king’s camp. Alfred’s companion thanes had stayed loyal, but the news they brought from the rest of the country was disheartening.

  Over all the shires of Wessex, the West Saxon thane class was capitulating to the Danish overlords. In order to save its land and its families, the nobility of Wessex was giving in. Not one shire had organized a stand against Guthrum. Not one ealdorman had risen to defy the Danish jarl, who now was styling himself as king. Unbelievably, it seemed as if Wessex would go the way of Mercia after all.

  By the end of February the mood in Alfred’s camp was as dark and gloomy as the news that trickled in from the outside world. One particularly bitter day, Erlend, who knew better than anyone the ruthless efficiency of his uncle, decided that the time had come for someone to speak frankly with Alfred.

  “He must save himself,” Erlend said to Brand as they stood side by side rubbing down their horses after a long day’s hunt. “Once these swamps become accessible to the ou
tside world, Guthrum will come after him. Alfred must get away to France while still he can.”

  “You tell him that if you like,” Brand returned with forthright vigor. “I don’t have that sort of nerve, Erlend.”

  “Very well,’ said Erlend. “I will.”

  At the moment Alfred and his men were encamped at the royal hunting lodge of Athelney, which lay deep in the Somerset marshes. In the summer Athelney was a part of the surrounding countryside, but in winter the waters of the Parret rose and it became an island of some twenty-four acres of dry land rising above the surrounding swamps.

  The living at Athelney had always been rough; one small sleeping hall and several outbuildings were all the shelter available on the island. It had been kept as a hunting lodge for the royal princes, not the king, hence the accommodations were geared for no more than forty men. There were seventy thanes now in Alfred’s guard, and quarters were very tight for both men and horses.

  Alfred and his men were presently living chiefly off the food they themselves brought in from the hunt. They got other staples such as bread and ale, as well as some fodder for their horses, either from loyal local farmers or from the baggage of Danish raiding parties who had ventured too close to the swamps. Upon these occasions the hunted turned into the hunter, and during the last months the Danes had learned to go warily in western Somerset.

  The winter sun was beginning to set when Erlend turned his back upon Brand and went in search of the king. Alfred was not in the small hall, nor was he yet at the stable. Erlend happened upon his quarry totally by accident, after he had given up the search and gone down to the spring for a drink of water. There he found Alfred, sitting on the trunk of a fallen alder in a lingering patch of sunlight, reading from his book of personal devotions.

  The book was a small one that the king had carried ever since they had been forced to flee into Somerset. It was bound in such a way that he could easily suspend it from his belt; the outer leather cover folded over in front, and it was elongated at the top, forming a kind of hanging bag. According to Brand, it was a book of Alfred’s own making, containing passages from various authors that the king found particularly inspiring. Alfred looked utterly absorbed at the moment, his head bent, his eyes on the pages spread before him.

  Erlend stopped, hesitating to interrupt what was obviously a private moment. Alfred had precious little chance of those in the close quarters they were all forced to share these days. But then, just as Erlend was thinking he had better go, the king looked up from his book and saw him.

  “My lord.” Erlend spoke from the edge of the clearing. “If it is not too troublesome, I would speak to you.”

  Alfred folded his book and put it on the log beside him. “It is not too troublesome,” he answered pleasantly. “Speak what you will, Erlend.”

  Erlend raked his fingers through his dirty hair and began to walk toward the king. They were all dirty these days, he thought as he crossed the clearing, the mud squelching under his feet. Dirty, bearded, ragged. The king’s companion thanes, reduced to this. Alfred himself was in no better case. How scornful Guthrum would be, Erlend thought, if he could see them now.

  Erlend stopped before the King of Wessex and looked down. Alfred sat there on his rotting log, as dirty and ragged-looking as Erlend, and seemed utterly unperturbed by the indignity of his situation. He met Erlend’s eyes and raised one finely drawn, inquiring eyebrow.

  Erlend hesitated, not certain, now that he was facing Alfred, that he would have any more nerve than Brand had had. “It is about the news from Wales,” he began uncertainly.

  The news he was referring to had come in just that morning. A Somerset thane with a Welsh wife had told the king that his wife’s relations said that the Danish fleet was devastating Dyfed quite as thoroughly as Guthrum had been plundering Wessex. “My lord,” Erlend said, at last deciding on the approach he should take, “I am as certain as I can be of anything that come spring, Ubbe will be sailing to Wessex.”

  Alfred did not answer, just continued to look up at him, that single eyebrow still asking its question. “Guthrum spent the early winter in Gloucester,” Erlend continued, spreading his legs and planting himself more firmly upon the muddy ground. “It is easy to communicate with Wales from Gloucester. And Ubbe is Halfdan’s brother, cousin to Harald Bjornson, who had the command of Guthrum’s ships that went down off Swanage. Above all else, my uncle is a Viking. He will ever look to reinforce himself from the sea.”

  Alfred’s eyebrow returned to its normal arch. He looked thoughtful. “Where do you think they will land?” the king asked.

  “I cannot say, my lord. Somewhere along the Bristol Channel, I would guess.” Then, with more intensity as he came near to the point of his discourse: “Guthrum will never turn his back on the west so long as you are free, my lord. Come spring, he will make a serious effort to flush you out of hiding. I would wager he will have Ubbe land as close to Somerset as possible.”

  No flicker of alarm crossed Alfred’s politely interested face. He said only, “I will send word to the Ealdorman of Devon to keep watch on the coast.”

  Erlend set his teeth and came to the point. “The men of Devon cannot stop Ubbe,” he said, blunt and brutal. “The time has come for you to face the facts, my lord king. The West Saxon defenses have crumbled as surely as did the defenses of Mercia, East Anglia, and Northumbria. Nor is Guthrum the man to let his advantage slip.” Erlend took a step closer to the rock whereupon sat the ragged king. Without his realizing it, his voice had begun to rise. “By spring he will have a noose around Wessex, and there will be naught you can do to remove it. The time has come, my lord, to save yourself. If you wait much longer, it will be too late.”

  Alfred’s dogs, hearing the raised voice, came racing out of the trees and clustered around the figure on the log. Alfred murmured a few words and scratched a few ears, and Erlend watched him, an expression of angry frustration on his face. When the king did not reply to him, just continued to soothe his dogs, Erlend said with unforgivable rudeness, “Did you hear what I just said to you?”

  In one easy fluid movement Alfred was on his feet. “I heard you,” he replied mildly. He bent to pick up his book. “And how do you propose I go about saving myself?” he asked as he straightened up again.

  “You must take ship to France,” Erlend said. “Collect your wife and your children and get you to safety, my lord, before Guthrum cuts your back open and spreads your ribs in an eagle’s span for Odin.”

  It was brutal, Erlend thought, but brutal measures were called for.

  “No,” Alfred said. His voice was perfectly quiet and perfectly final.

  Erlend’s anger grew hotter as he stared at the man standing before him. Alfred was bearded now, like the rest of them, and the golden whiskers disguised somewhat the leanness of his cheeks. His hair was dirty and matted, his clothes were mud-stained and ripped from the narrow paths they rode through the marshes. The long fingers that held the leather-covered book had broken nails and were blistered with chilblains. He looked tired and dirty and cold; but somehow, Erlend did not know how, he yet managed to look like a king.

  “I never before thought you were stupid,” Erlend said furiously. “Are you incapable of assessing the situation? Then let me assess it for you. You have been deserted, my lord. Which of your thanes has come flocking to your call? Which shire fyrd has even tried to rally to meet my uncle’s army in the field? Wessex is finished, my lord king! There is no need for you to die with it.”

  “There are worse things than death,” Alfred said, still in that same quiet, final voice.

  “Yes,” Erlend flashed in instant agreement. “Torture is worse than death. And that is what Guthrum will have waiting for you!” The golden eyes looking at him were unclouded and perfectly fearless. Erlend felt a fury such as he had never before known rip through him. “You are beaten, Alfred of Wessex,” he said viciously. “I know the sagas. There is no king who has ever been able to wrest victory from a defeat as
thorough as this one.”

  “I am not beaten until I am dead,” Alfred said. “And I am not dead yet, Erlend Olafson.” He turned his head away from Erlend to look toward the small spring from which they got their water, and the setting sun cast a red glow upon his bearded face. The dogs left Alfred’s feet and ran down to the spring to search out what might be there.

  Erlend said, aiming for the one place he knew Alfred was vulnerable, “If you will not think of yourself, think of Elswyth and your children.”

  For a long moment Alfred did not answer. Erlend suddenly thought that the king looked very alone, silhouetted there between the bleak muddy earth and the blazing red sky. Then Alfred said, “They are safe at present with the monks. If it becomes necessary, I shall get the children away to Judith in Flanders. You can rely on that.”

  “And your wife?” Erlend asked tightly.

  “Elswyth will never leave me. You know her well enough to know that.” Alfred’s still profile was unreadable. Then he turned. “Should something happen to me,” he said, “I want you to promise me you will see her safe. Will you do that, Erlend Olafson?”

  “I …”

  “I can face whatever Guthrum may have in mind for me,” Alfred said. His face was stark. “But not Elswyth. Erlend, promise me you will see her safe.”

  “Nothing will happen to Elswyth,” Erlend said. “I would die for her. You know that.”

  Alfred nodded and turned away, hiding the naked emotion that had been exposed much too clearly on his face.

  “You will not leave yourself.” It was a statement, not a question, but Alfred answered it anyway.

  “I cannot.” Alfred was intently watching his dogs. Then, clearly feeling he owed the Dane more of an explanation: “You see, I am not just a king, Erlend. I am a Christian king. And to me Guthrum represents the darkness.” Still Alfred watched his dogs as his voice went on evenly and firmly, “He is the darkness of ignorance, of cruelty, of wealth abused and power misused. He represents everything my Christian faith tells me to abhor.”