by Joan Wolf
Indeed, hearts all over Wessex were beginning to rise, for their king was abroad in the land. Time and again, Alfred and his men would emerge from their swamp, fall upon a party of unsuspecting Danes, slay the men and steal their horses, then withdraw back into the watery wilderness where the Danes were not able to follow.
Guthrum sat in Alfred’s royal hall at Chippenham and raged. He had spent the winter feasting at Chippenham and watching his raiding parties return laden with the booty of the rich countryside. Guthrum had thought to have Wessex pinned firmly beneath his fist. He had even begun to give some thought to portioning out the rich farmland of the country among his followers. And then, when all seemed to be accomplished, Ubbe was killed by the men of Devon, and eight hundred of his men along with him.
Guthrum had already made plans for Ubbe and his men. He had decided that when the ship army landed, he would launch a combined land-sea attack upon Alfred in Somerset. Consequently, the loss of Ubbe and his men had been a heavy blow. Further increasing Guthrum’s displeasure was the fact that once Alfred learned of the defeat of Ubbe, he had greatly increased his attacks upon Danish war bands. Alfred must guess, Guthrum thought bitterly, that without Ubbe, the Danes would not have the necessary manpower to confine the West Saxons to the marshes.
As the spring advanced, it became clearer and clearer to Guthrum that it was absolutely essential for him to capture Alfred. Time after time Guthrum sent parties into the fens of Somerset to track down the fox who was harrying his war bands, and time after time he lost men and horses in the reeds and the lagoons.
“You will have to wait until the water goes down,” Athelwold told the Danish leader one April afternoon in the hall at Chippenham. Athelwold had come to the royal manor as an uninvited visitor, to find Guthrum distinctly out of temper. “In winter and spring, the marshes are impenetrable to all but those who know them,” Alfred’s traitor nephew concluded.
“Name of the Raven,” Guthrum swore. “He has control of the whole of western Wessex from those cursed swamps. And we never know where next he will emerge! I cannot wait until the summer. Already I sense a change in the mood of the country.”
“Name me king,” Athelwold demanded eagerly, bringing up the object of his visit. “Name me king, as you promised, and you will see a change. The West Saxons will follow one of their own where they will not follow a foreigner, a Dane.”
“They bow to me because of the strength of my fist.” Guthrum’s face and voice were brutal. “You they will never follow, not while Alfred lives. Once he is dead, then I may name you king. Not before.”
Athelwold raged, but he raged in private. Like the rest of his countrymen, he went in terror of this Danish conqueror who knew little of mercy and even less of fear,
It was the fourth week after Easter when Alfred sent out from Athelney several parties of his thanes dressed in peasant garb, traveling on foot. Their mission was to find the ealdormen of Wiltshire and Hampshire and give them a message.
The memorized command they bore was simple: SEND WORD TO THE MEN OF THE SHIRE FYRD TO MEET ME AT EGBERT’S STONE ON THE DAY OF WHITSUNDAY. ALFRED THE KING.
The king was calling out three fyrds only: the men of Somerset, who were with him at Athelney; the men of Wiltshire, whose ealdorman had fled to France and who consequently must be led by a new replacement; and the men of Hampshire west of Southampton, those who had held firm to their land and refused to flee with those of their shire who were less hardy.
Three shire fyrds out in full force, together with the hearthbands of their ealdormen, would give Alfred perhaps twenty-five hundred men. Ethelnoth had suggested that the king call up the men of the more easterly shires also, but Alfred had refused. The whole key to his plan lay in surprise. The fyrds were not to gather; each man was to make his way to Egbert’s Stone on his own. Alfred did not want Guthrum to know what was afoot until the men of the three shires were gathered together.
He explained this to Ethelnoth. “It would be too long a march for the men of Sussex and Kent. It is too long even for the men of Berkshire. I do not want Guthrum to know we are abroad until we have joined together at Egbert’s Stone. For now, I want only the shires I can collect quickly.”
Ethelnoth had acquiesced in the king’s reasoning, and had ceased to protest.
The one flaw in Alfred’s plan was obvious: the way Alfred had arranged for the fyrds to be notified meant that he would not know until he got to Egbert’s Stone whether or not his summons had been answered.
No one suggested that Alfred send word of his undertaking to Dorset, home shire of Athelwold.
* * *
Chapter 38
Immediately after dawn Mass on Sunday, the eleventh day of May 878, Alfred and his followers rode out from the marshes of Somerset to meet with the men of Wiltshire and Hampshire at Egbert’s Stone. This famous landmark, associated in folk memory with Alfred’s grandfather, lay on the eastern edge of Selwood, and could be reached in a day’s march by most of the men Alfred had summoned.
Erlend rode with Alfred. “I will not fight,” he had said. “Not for Guthrum, not for you. But you may need me to interpret.” He did not say the other thing that was in his mind: You may need me to bargain for your life.
Alfred had prepared for this venture by going during the week to see Elswyth and his children at Glastonbury. He had come back clean-shaven and with his hair looking several shades lighter than it had been when he left.
“I see your wife washed you up, my lord,” Erlend had said when Alfred first arrived back at Athelney.
Alfred grinned. He looked younger without the beard. Or perhaps it was just the glow that being with Elswyth always gave him.
“She said none of my men would recognize me if I arrived at Egbert’s Stone looking as I was.”
Erlend’s eyes measured him, from the top of his now-shining hair to the tip of his muddy boots. The Dane shook his head. “They would recognize you, my lord,” he said. “No matter how you disguised yourself, they would recognize you.”
Alfred rubbed his bare cheek. “Erlend,” he said fervently, “I cannot tell you how good it feels to be rid of that itchy beard!”
Erlend had laughed.
He remembered that conversation this morning as he mounted his black stallion and prepared to follow behind Alfred and Ethelnoth, who were riding side by side in front of their men. With Erlend marched the men of Alfred’s hearthband and the men of the Somersetshire fyrd who had been with them at Athelney.
There would be more Somersetshire men at Egbert’s Stone, so Ethelnoth had assured Alfred. The ealdorman had sent word around the shire. All those who had not been able to leave their farms to join the king at Athelney were to meet with him at Egbert’s Stone on Whitsunday. Ethelnoth seemed quite certain that a minimum of a hundred more men would answer this call.
What if they did not? It was the thought that had been preying on Erlend’s peace of mind for the last two weeks. Alfred was putting his life into jeopardy with this open-ended summons of his. The king had no assurances at all that the fyrds of Wiltshire and Hampshire would rise. Neither shire had as yet made any attempt to rise in its own defense. Wiltshire’s ealdorman had even fled over the sea, and Alfred’s summons had been sent around by a new appointee. Who was to say the men of the shire would answer him? And Hampshire … Many men of Hampshire had fled overseas also. Where were those remaining to get the courage with which to answer the call of their king?
Name of the Raven, what if there was no one at Egbert’s Stone? Or only a few hundred?
Alfred would be left standing alone on Salisbury Plain, with no marshes to escape to, no refuge to shelter him from Guthrum’s vengeful knife.
Erlend looked once more at the too-vulnerable back of the man riding before him. So slim Alfred seemed, yet he was stronger than you would think. He had lifted logs at Athelney with the best of them.
Erlend ran a hand through the brown hair that was blowing forward across his check. Name of the Raven, he thou
ght furiously, this whole plan was madness!
They were passing out of the fen country now, following the River Brue as it wound eastward toward Salisbury Plain. It was a magnificent spring day—a light breeze was blowing, bluebells dotted the grass, and cuckoos called in the oak trees—but Erlend found he could not appreciate it. His apprehension about what awaited them at journey’s end was too great.
The Brue began to slant to the north, and Alfred’s troop forded it and went instead directly east, on into the ancient forest of Selwood. Here, within the protection of the thick trees, Erlend felt safer. A forest such as Selwood could function similarly to the fens of Somerset, If necessary, he thought, appraising his surroundings as they rode along a fairly well-traveled forest track, at least Alfred could find shelter in Selwood should his plans come to naught.
The miles passed and the day waned.
MEET ME AT EGBERT’S STONE ON THE DAY OF WHITSUNDAY. The message had been sent. The king was staking his life, and the lives of those who followed him, on his blind faith that the men he had called would answer him.
“What is Egbert’s Stone?” Erlend had asked Brand when first he learned of Alfred’s plan.
“Legend says it is the place where Alfred’s grandfather, before being driven out of Wessex by Beorhtric, swore a great oath to return and one day claim his kingdom,” had come the reply. “It stands near the borders of three shires—Somerset, Wiltshire, and Dorset—and is a good gathering place, as it is centrally located and well-known.”
Erlend thought now: What if only the two ealdormen and their hearthbands await Alfred at Egbert’s Stone? Two ealdormen’s hearthbands would yield only two hundred men. Not enough, Erlend thought, despairing. Not nearly enough. Guthrum had four thousand men in Wessex. Alfred could not fight if he were outnumbered over four-to-one.
Even if the full number of men turned out, still would they be outnumbered nearly two-to-one. Alfred was calling up only three shires.
The miles passed slowly by. Alfred’s companion thanes were horsed, but many of the men of the Somersetshire fyrd were not. The horses Elswyth had trained so painstakingly were all in their pastures at Wantage and Lambourn. Guthrum had no doubt acquired them by now.
Finally the trees began to thin and the ground began to rise. Erlend looked toward the sky and reckoned it to be about four in the afternoon. Beside him Brand said, and his voice betrayed his tension. “The Stone is just over the rise of yonder hill.”
At that moment Alfred turned in his saddle to survey the men who followed him. Seeing Erlend and Brand staring at him, he gave them an encouraging smile, then turned back to face ahead.
The day was very quiet. Too quiet, Erlend thought as their horses began the ascent of the gently sloping hill. If there was an army on the other side, surely they would be hearing the sound of voices.
He began to feel sick to his stomach. Name of the Raven, he thought, for perhaps the twentieth time that day, this is madness!
Then the king, with Ethelnoth beside him, was on the summit of the hill. Erlend, watching closely, saw how Alfred checked his horse. The sick feeling in Erlend’s stomach became acute. Ignoring it, ignoring all protocol, he pushed his horse forward to bring him to Alfred’s other side. Then he looked down into the valley.
It was filled with men.
Without a word, Alfred pressed his horse forward. Ethelnoth let him go alone, and fell in behind with Erlend and Brand and Edgar.
A single sharp cry came from the massed men below them. Then a general stir, as men faced toward the west, raising their hands to shield their eyes as they squinted into the sun.
The late-afternoon sun shone behind Alfred’s head like a heavenly halo. A roar went up from thousands of throats, a sound such as Erlend had never before heard. There was no word, no cry of “The king!” or “Alfred!” Only this mighty roar of bellowing joy.
They had come, Erlend thought, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. Alfred had asked, and the men of Wessex had answered. They had trusted him, as he had trusted them. And the note that sounded loudest in their joyful thunder of welcome was the note of love.
It was not merely the men from the fyrds who had answered Alfred’s call to come to Egbert’s Stone this Whitsunday afternoon. A thousand men had come from Hampshire alone. “Every man left in the west of my shire old enough to hold a spear,” said Osric, Ealdorman of Hampshire, with pardonable pride.
The men of Wiltshire had done as well. Fifteen hundred men of that shire stood with their swords and their spears at the gathering place of Egbert’s Stone this bright Whitsunday afternoon.
And Ethelnoth of Somerset found he had underestimated the number of men from Somersetshire who would answer his call. Six hundred men had found their way to Egbert’s Stone to join with their fellows who were already under arms in the king’s train.
Thirty-five hundred men in all were gathered together this day on the high ground to the east of Selwood, in the place where three shires met.
The scouts Alfred had sent out days before also awaited him at Egbert’s Stone. The news they brought was that Guthrum had moved from Chippenham to the royal manor of Ethandun on the chalk hills to the north of Salisbury Plain.
This was good news to Alfred. As in all the royal manors, the hall at Ethandun was protected by a palisade fence, but the manor itself was more a hunting lodge than it was a main residence, and its defenses were token. Ethandun would be much easier than Chippenham to take by assault, if that was the path Guthrum should choose to go.
On the other hand, should Guthrum choose open battle, Alfred had hunted from Ethandun many a time, and he knew all the tracks and local landmarks. It would not be difficult for the king to take his stand on ground favorable to the West Saxons.
On the whole, Alfred thought as he listened to his scouts report and watched the men in his camp gathering around the cookfires for their suppers, things could not have fallen out better.
“At dawn tomorrow we march for Iley Oak,” he said to the ealdormen who were gathered around him.
Eadulf of Wiltshire grunted his approval. Iley Oak lay some ten miles to the northeast of Egbert’s Stone, in Eastleigh Woods. It would make an ideal camp for Alfred’s men, as there was an old Celtic fort in the area whose earthworks were still intact. Both woods and earthworks would provide the army with protection should Guthrum decide to take the offensive and mount an attack.
“The Danes will know we are out,” said Osric of Hampshire. “Thirty-five hundred men cannot march through the countryside unnoticed.”
“I do not desire to surprise Guthrum,” Alfred replied soberly. “I desire to force him to do battle. We are of almost equal numbers. Our men are hot for Danish blood. Now is the time to strike, before the fire in their hearts has time to cool.”
“The king is right.” It was Ethelnoth speaking. “I for one have had enough of these games of cat-and-mouse.”
“What if Guthrum chooses to hold siege within Ethandun? Or retreats to Chippenham to hold siege there?” asked Eadulf of Wiltshire.
“Then we besiege him,” Alfred said grimly. “I will not make a truce with him again. I have learned that lesson at last.”
“Aye,” agreed Ethelnoth. “There is no faith in a Dane.”
“Not unless there is also a knife held to his throat,” the king said. “And I intend to be that knife.”
Within an hour after the food had been eaten, the men of Wessex had lain down wrapped in their cloaks to sleep. They had marched far this day, and would be up again at dawn to march tomorrow. To Iley Oak, in the Eastleigh Woods, seven miles from the royal manor of Ethandun, wherein lay the Danish army and its leader, Guthrum.
It was midmorning on the Monday of May 12 when Guthrum first learned of the West Saxon advance.
“How many men?” he asked the leader of the troop who had ridden into Ethandun with the news.
“Nigh on four thousand, my lord. All marching under the banner of the Golden Dragon.”
“
Alfred is with them?”
“Yes, my lord. I have seen him before. He is not a man you can mistake.”
“Coming toward Ethandun, you say?”
“Yes, my lord. But slowly, as most of them are on foot.”
Guthrum felt a flash of satisfaction as he thought of all of Alfred’s horses penned uselessly at Wantage. “You shall have a reward for this, Erik. You did well to bring me this news.”
The man’s face creased into a pleased smile, and when Guthrum dismissed him he went immediately to tell his fellows of his good fortune.
Left alone in the single private chamber of Ethandun’s hall, Guthrum paced up and down.
Name of the Raven, how had Alfred done it? How had he gathered four thousand men under Guthrum’s very nose?
Coming toward Ethandun, Erik had said. Guthrum thrust a hand through the short hair on his forehead and continued his pacing. He had two choices, he thought, No, three choices. He could remain here at Ethandun and hold siege. He could remove to Chippenham and hold siege. Or he could meet Alfred in the open and fight.
The first choice he dismissed almost immediately. Ethandun was not well-enough-fortified to hold out under intense attack. Chippenham was better situated if Guthrum wanted to hold siege.
Name of the Raven, but he would not do it! He was sick unto death of being penned within walls while Alfred played captor from without. The time had come to meet these West Saxons on the battlefield.
The Dane’s long legs continued to pace as his brain mulled over his chances. One battle only had the West Saxons won from the Danes. The battle of Ashdown. In all the other engagements in which the two armies had fought, the honors had gone to the Danes.
Guthrum, who was usually honest with himself, if not always so scrupulous with others, forced himself to face the fact that in all the battles in which the West Saxons had been defeated, they had also been greatly outnumbered. The single battle they had fought with equal numbers had been Ashdown. And that battle the West Saxons had won.