by Millie Thom
‘Retreat to Englefield,’ he ordered. ‘We bury our dead and wait for the king and his brother with the full West Saxon fyrd.'
*****
It was January 3 by the time King Aethelred and Alfred approached Reading with their large army, having taken a similar route to that of Ealdorman Aethelwulf, along the northern bank of the Kennet as it flowed towards its confluence with the Thames. After a night’s rest for the men of the Hampshire fyrd, who had marched at a rapid pace to cover the thirty-five miles from Winchester the previous day, Aethelred rallied them for battle. With them were Ealdorman Aethelwulf’s victorious forces from Englefield.
‘I’m convinced we can win this one,’ Aethelred said, adjusting his mailshirt as they rode. Behind them, the men of the fyrd followed in silence, their faces grim beneath their leather helmets as they contemplated the oncoming battle. ‘The ealdorman’s success has given me reason to believe the Danes aren’t as invincible as we thought them to be at Nottingham three years ago. From what he tells us, the battle at Englefield was a complete rout.’
Alfred was surprised at his brother’s shallow estimation of events. It wasn’t like him at all, and he wondered whether Aethelred was simply trying to bolster his courage before battle. He stroked Caesar’s neck, considering whether or not to voice his own assessment of events at Englefield. The decision made, he turned to look at his brother.
‘Surely, Aethelred, we must take into account that Ealdorman Aethelwulf encountered not a waiting army, fully prepared to do battle. It was a foraging party, when all’s said and done, intent on gathering food supplies to augment stores already at Reading. And it’s obvious that the Danes didn’t believe a West Saxon force could be mustered as quickly as Aethelwulf’s was, or they wouldn’t have sent out such a vulnerable company.’
His expression downcast, Aethelred nodded as Alfred pushed on. ‘And, as the ealdorman himself admitted, he’d had news of longships sailing up the Thames as well as huge overland forces crossing into Berkshire, and had simply guessed that their target would be Reading. So he had time to gather the Berkshire fyrd together before the Danes even got here. I don’t want to demean Aethelwulf’s victory, brother, but I think we must view it for what it was: a lucky strike at an unprepared foe.’
‘I know what you’re saying, Alfred, and I can only agree with you. Aethelwulf has served Wessex well for many years and won more than a few victories against the Danes, including the one ten years ago against Weland. And I do realise that Englefield can’t be viewed in the same way, but . . .’ A look of deep concern crept over Aethelred’s face and he glanced behind to make sure none of his men were close enough to overhear his words. ‘I have to force myself to think positively,’ he confessed, ‘to believe that we can win – just as easily as did the ealdorman. The alternative is just too terrifying to contemplate.’
‘It is,’ Alfred replied. ‘But we will do our utmost to oust the Danes, not only from Reading, but from our entire kingdom. That is our goal, and we must never lose sight of it. The outcome of this battle remains to be seen but, no matter how events unfold today, we will learn from the experience. The next time we face our kingdom’s invaders, it will be armed with an awareness of at least some of their battle tactics.’
They rode in silence for a while, the significance of Alfred’s words hanging in the air between them. At length, he added, ‘I can foresee many battles along the pathway to our goal. Some we will win; others we’ll lose. But, whatever else we do, we must not lose sight of that single goal. And to do that, we must truly believe that we will not fail. Wessex will not be taken.’ He frowned as a sad memory returned unbidden.
Aethelred watched him, eyebrows raised.
‘Father made me promise that, on his deathbed.’
‘Promise what, exactly?’
‘That I . . . that we,’ Alfred reworded quickly, ‘we would not let Wessex fall.’
‘Aethelwulf didn’t ask much of his heirs, did he?’ Aethelred said, his voice oozing sarcasm.
Alfred smiled. ‘He had faith in us, brother. And I’ll tell you this: I’d rather die than let the Danes take control of our kingdom. I’ll fight them with every ounce of my strength until my dying day.’
‘As will I, Alfred. As will I.’
*****
Reading was barely half a mile away when King Aethelred and the leaders of the West Saxon army dismounted and tethered their horses in the fringe of woodland aligning the banks of the Kennet. From here they would advance toward the vill on foot with the fyrd.
Well over three hundred men moved across the open land, senses alert to the possibility of ambush. To their sides the two rivers flowed, the Thames meandering eastward on its journey to the Northern Sea, and the Kennet, hastening north-easterly to keep its rendezvous with the far superior Thames. The land gradually tapered, and close to the place where the two rivers became one stood the West Saxon royal vill – a largish settlement with numerous outbuildings and homes clustered about the royal hall.
Alfred recalled the last time he’d stayed here seven months ago with his wife and daughter. Ealhswith had chosen the time to tell him of the babe growing in her womb. Now she was at over eighty miles away at Wedmore in Somerset, under the watchful eye of Wulfrida for the duration of her pregnancy. Once the Danes had taken Reading, Aethelred had insisted their wives and children would be safer at his distant estate. Alfred’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his exquisite pattern-welded sword, praying he’d soon be with them.
As they advanced, the vill gradually came into focus. Alfred stared at it. Even from this distance, he could see that the Danes had transformed the place.
‘The pagans have been busy during their short occupation of Reading,’ Aethelred said, his voice edged with bitter sarcasm. ‘It looks like they’ve actually made themselves an island. I’ll wager that outer ditch runs from the Thames to the Kennet. And if that’s not enough, that earthen rampart looks impregnable, especially with the palisade running along the top. I can only see two gates . . .’ He flashed Alfred a look of frustration. ‘And if the entire Norse army has withdrawn behind all that, we’re in for a prolonged siege. Damned Nottingham, all over again!’
At his brother’s side, Alfred nodded, but held his tongue. They were little more than a hundred yards away now and, as he scanned the line of the rampart in search of any weakness, one of the heavy wooden gates swung open.
Norse warriors streamed out, crossing a bridge that spanned the ditch, swords, spears or battle axes to hand and garishly painted shields on their left arms. They gathered in the open ground before the ditch, adding further reinforcement to the already impenetrable earthworks.
The Saxons stopped dead in their tracks, anticipating orders to form the shield wall. But Alfred knew that no such order would be given. A mere glance at the amassed Danes told him that they numbered fewer than a hundred – too small an army by far to counter four hundred West Saxons. And, from his brother’s face, he knew that Aethelred was of the same opinion.
This was some kind of Danish ploy, Alfred felt certain. But what . . . ?
At that moment, the Danes charged.
Despite being vastly outnumbered they drove into Aethelred’s army with the ferocity of starving wolves. At his brother’s side in the midst of battle-trained thegns, Alfred’s sword found many a target, and his shield parried some lethal blows. Around him the spears of the fyrd struck out, their simple round shields their only defence against the punishing strikes of Danish swords and battleaxes. But, as Alfred had foreseen, the Danes could make little headway against such numbers and many of them fell, along with a number of West Saxons.
As suddenly as they had charged, the remaining Danes turned tail and ran for the rampart gate.
‘Don’t let them get back inside!’
Aethelred’s yell set his warriors in pursuit. Some caught up with the enemy’s rear and further skirmishes broke out.
Then, both of the gates opened wide.
Heavily mail
-armoured Danes poured out like an endless wave, crashing into the Saxon force from all sides and crushing it beneath its weight. Too late for shield wall and battle order, Aethelred’s men fought for life and kingdom. But, although the number of Danes appeared little greater than their own, the unexpected attack had caught the Saxon ranks in total disarray. Many of the fyrd panicked and tried to flee; many ended their days as blooded mounds on the earth.
Men fell like swatted flies, and more than once Alfred came close to death himself. As the battle raged, Saxon thegns closed in around their king. By now, Alfred knew that the battle was lost, and to fight on would gain them no advantage. All they could expect was further bloodshed and death. It was either surrender, or run . . .
Aethelred turned and waved the signal to retreat. Those not engaged in combat fled, Alfred and his brother still protected by their thegns. Around them, men staggered in their haste, some close to death already. Alfred glimpsed Ealdorman Aethelwulf being dragged along between two of his men. Perhaps they’d get him to his horse. Perhaps not.
Alfred felt no fear as they reached their horses, just a fuming rage that the Saxon army had fallen so readily into a Danish trap. Riding in the midst of the fyrd fleeing on foot, they followed the banks of the Kennet for several miles as it gradually turned southwards and began to narrow. Although the river was deep enough to be navigable in its lower regions close to Reading, before long it became little more than a shallow, chalky stream. With the Danes close on their heels they waded across.
No time to stop, they headed north-west, keeping the Kennet to their left. Passing south of Reading they continued on, desperation aiding their flight, and soon the Danes seemed to be falling back, abandoning the chase. Close to the village of Whistley Green, almost five miles east of Reading, Alfred and Aethelred led their men towards a little-known ford across the Thames. Should any of the enemy still be in pursuit, the ford was well hidden by thick woodland and would be easily missed by anyone unfamiliar with the territory.
Throughout the evening and into the moonless January night they kept moving, and after a further twelve and a half miles, again they forded the Thames, this time to reach its southerly side and the relative safety of the town of Windsor.
‘My heartfelt thanks go to all of you this day,’ Aethelred yelled as the last of the men staggered into the town, their entry in the blackness illumined by the burning torches of the Windsor guards who had hastened out at the stricken army’s arrival. He stood next to Alfred inside an empty tradesman’s cart in order to be seen. ‘My grievances for your losses cannot be put into words. Many of our friends and comrades have fallen this day . . .’
Alfred watched his brother struggling to turn his ravaged thoughts into words. In the flickering torchlight he could see Aethelred’s face, contorted with the agony of defeat – and so many deaths. Their losses were, indeed, heavy; in the Hampshire fyrd particularly.
‘But our fight is by no means over,’ Aethelred eventually resumed, his face now reflecting determination and steely grit. ‘We will not let these thieving pagans take our lands . . . our homes . . . our very birthright! What would Wessex become for our children, and our children’s children, if the Danes are allowed to rule . . . ?
‘I’ll tell you what Wessex would become,’ he growled in answer to his own question. The men were still and silent in the face of their king’s rising anger. ‘It would become a land in which no man, woman or child would ever feel safe again, inside or out of their own homes. It would be a Godless wilderness, where the pagans practised their barbaric rites . . .
‘So, my friends, while the blood still flows though our veins, we fight on!’
Aethelred suddenly swayed and he reached out to the edge of the cart to steady himself.
‘My lord, we must all rest now,’ Alfred murmured to his brother. ‘Including you. But first, I need your permission to address the men.’
Aethelred nodded and all attention focused on Alfred as he began to speak. ‘Words cannot convey our gratitude for your selfless actions today,’ he said, his arm sweeping round to encompass them all. ‘Every one of you has made us both proud and humbled by your loyalty to your king and your kingdom. Yes, our losses were high – likely well over half our number – and many of you will be sorely grieving for fallen friends. And amongst those we count the wise and noble Ealdorman Aethelwulf.’
Aethelred groaned and Alfred realised he must not have known. ‘I have only now been informed that the ealdorman died within a few miles of reaching Windsor . . . So very close to safety!’ Alfred went on, shaking his head at the injustice of that. ‘Over twenty years ago, Ealdorman Aethelwulf made a request to our father to be buried in the Mercian town of Derby – should the circumstances of his death permit. I saw how close to death he was as we fled from Reading, and I cannot give praise enough to his loyal men who put their own lives at great risk by carrying him from the battlefield. Tomorrow, those same brave men will convey Aethelwulf’s body north to Derby.’
Alfred glanced around at the citizens of the town who had gathered to investigate the commotion. ‘I’m sure the good people of Windsor can spare a wagon to convey the body of so loyal an ealdorman to his final resting place . . . ?’
He acknowledged the ready offers with a nod then opened his arms to the men. ‘But now it’s rest you need. You are all exhausted and close to collapse – and some amongst you have wounds that must be tended before you sleep. Tomorrow your king and I will confer with our ealdormen and thegns regarding our next move. By mid morning you will all know of our decision.’
*****
After a few hours of fitful sleep, Aethelred summoned his remaining nobles into the Windsor hall to divulge the battle plans he and Alfred had discussed before retiring. The hall was the home of Eglaf, a Berkshire thegn, who had already sent out his warriors to call the local fyrd.
‘The one thing of which I’m certain is that the Danes will recognise their need to bring our armies to battle again as soon as possible,’ Aethelred began, glancing round at the listening men, knowing he wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already realise themselves. ‘A decisive victory for them now would avoid the possibility of a long siege at Reading and give them the freedom to pillage around Wessex and forage for food for the rest of the winter.
‘We cannot afford to give them that victory!
‘It will likely take a couple of days for Eglaf’s men to assemble the fyrd. Then we move.’
No one voiced the obvious question, but waited silently for the king to unfold his plans. Alfred glanced at his brother, who gave a curt nod, and took up his cue.
‘My lords, after giving much thought to this, King Aethelred and I have come to the conclusion that the Danes’ most likely move will be towards the rich lands north and west of Reading. There are monasteries and estates in that direction that would yield abundant plunder, including food supplies. Their leaders will surmise that we will have stayed within a few hours’ march away to make our plans for retaliation once we’ve replenished our losses. And in heading for those lands, they will be well aware that we will not sit by and watch.’
He paused, just long enough to order the thoughts he would now put into words. ‘No, my lords, whatever moves they make will be carefully calculated to draw us to them, thus provoking another battle, well away from Reading.’ He held out his upturned hands. ‘We simply need to discover their chosen route . . .
‘We intend to send out a number of scouts, and for that we require volunteers from amongst our remaining fyrd.’ He allowed his gaze to sweep the seated men. ‘My lords, I must ask that some of you seek out volunteers for this task.’ A number of fingers were raised and Alfred nodded. ‘Those men must be mounted, since their roles will be to follow enemy movements out of Reading and get word to us regarding the direction in which they head. Such knowledge will enable us to determine the best site for us to engage them in battle.’
Again Alfred paused as the men digested the information. ‘The sc
outs must leave directly after this meeting and ride with all haste. As soon as the new fyrd has been mustered, the rest of us will set out towards Reading, then up and across the Downs. The scouts will locate us easily once we reach the Vale of White Horse. Since we’ll be moving slowly with men on foot, they should have ample time to complete their task.’
Alfred said no more and Aethelred drew the meeting to its conclusion. ‘We realise that such a task will not be without risk to the men involved,’ he admitted. ‘There is always the possibility of being spotted and captured by Danish lookouts. Be certain that the volunteers are aware of this, and assure each one of them a goodly reward after we have confronted the enemy.
‘And when we do confront them, my lords, the Danes will face no unsuspecting or disordered army. We will be organised and strong, ready for battle. And this time, we will win!’
Twenty Three
By dusk the next day, Eglaf’s men had summoned the local fyrd, and at daybreak the following morning Aethelred ordered immediate departure from Windsor. Despite the addition of over a hundred fighting men their numbers were still dangerously low but, along their route, men emerged from the villages, steadily swelling their contingent. Most of the new recruits swore they’d rather die fighting than see the pagan Danes destroy their lands and ravage their womenfolk. Alfred was truly impressed by the loyalty of his countrymen, which did much to release Aethelred from the grief and shame that had seized him after their recent defeat.
They headed towards Reading, skirting the town a good five miles to the south and continuing west for a further fifteen before veering north into the rolling Berkshire Downs, some sections of which the local people called Ashdown. After a further five miles, Aethelred ordered a halt. The fyrd had marched over thirty miles and he could not push them further.