by Millie Thom
The damp cold of the January night seemed to seep through clothing and skin alike, rendering sleep well-nigh impossible, and with the first signs of a greying sky they were on the move again. By noon they were heading down the steeper, scarp slope towards the expansive lowlands of the Vale of White Horse.
Aethelred raised his arm for a halt. Below them Kingstone nestled at the foot of the escarpment, one of the many springline settlements. Five miles further east, and a couple of miles from the ridge, was Alfred’s beloved vill at Wantage.
‘You’re sure this is the place, Alfred? I can’t see anything of particular note.’
Alfred watched his brother glancing up and down the undulating slope, its crest at the Ridgeway path above them. Scores of Saxon warriors spread out in all directions, their faces as nonplussed as their king’s. No one but Alfred knew the reason for this route. The biting wind whistled around them, and many of the men were in dire need of warm food and sleep.
‘No, brother, we’re not quite there, yet. But this is definitely the right hill: I’ve been here many times and would probably recognise it in my sleep. Another couple of hundred yards or so further down and you’ll see it.’
‘See what, exactly?’
‘You’ll be able to answer that for yourself before long, my lord.’
A mere twenty-five yards from the base of the hill and the outlying buildings of settlement, Alfred signalled to Aethelred to stop. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Aethelred drew rein and looked about, then pointed at the only object to catch his eye, his face reflecting his bemusement. It stood close to the spring that gushed merrily out from the slope after its lengthy captivity in the belly of the escarpment.
‘Surely we haven’t stopped to look at a chunk of dirty old rock! It’s a peculiar-looking thing, I’ll grant you, but it’s still just a rock . . .’
Alfred nodded, dismounted and strolled over to the hefty stone as the men came to mass around.
‘I purposely requested our king should take this route across Ashdown in order to reach this very stone,’ he called out, raising his voice to reach as many of the men as possible. He gestured up the hill they had just descended. ‘Blowing Stone Hill is not so named for nothing. This great lump of sarsen stone, with these many cavities penetrating deep into its dark interior, is a thing of local legend . . .’
Alfred held out his arm to Aethelred. ‘It is said that only the breath of a king can persuade the stone to release the sound that will carry for many miles, asking all free men to come to his aid in a time of need. And I can think of no greater time of need for Wessex than now. Our army is still short of over a hundred warriors.
‘Would you like to try it out, my lord?’
Aethelred’s nose wrinkled. ‘No, Alfred, I would not. I’ll delegate that task to you. I’m surprised you haven’t already tried it yourself, since you know this area so well.’
Alfred moved to his brother’s side. ‘My lord, you are the king, not I,’ he whispered. ‘The men will think it strange if you leave me to do this.’
‘I have no intention of grovelling down there, huffing and puffing into a filthy rock like a demented boar for . . . well, for nothing! You can’t seriously think it will work?’
‘We’ll never know until we try,’ Alfred responded, returning to kneel by the hole-riddled rock. Locating a few of the more accessible cavities dotting its irregular sides, he started to blow, his cheeks bulging and turning crimson as he huffed. But to no avail. Behind him, Aethelred chortled, and the men close enough to see what he was doing soon joined in.
Alfred stood and scratched his head, refusing to give up. Along the top of the stone were a few wider openings, but in order to reach them, he’d need something to stand on. He gestured to a smaller boulder and two of the men rolled it over for him. Then, perched like a statue on a plinth, Alfred selected a particularly interesting-looking hole, and drew breath . . .
The sound was truly deafening, booming out across the Vale. Villagers streamed out from the settlement, watching in awe, hands on their ears, as Alfred repeated the process.
Aethelred stared at him, agog, then simply nodded and continued on to Kingstone, a group of village elders as his escort. Alfred now had no cause to explain the name of the village to the king, or his army.
Their scouts had been waiting for them at the village, as had been prearranged, and had been amongst those who had hastened out at the great boom of the king’s stone. Their news was as Alfred and Aethelred had anticipated. The Great Army was preparing to move out towards Wallingford with the next day’s dawn. Alfred knew that once they had access to the very heart of Wessex, the Danes would be almost impossible to stop.
The Saxon army had no other choice but to confront them before that happened.
*****
As afternoon wore on, men from Vale and Downland villages flocked to Kingstone, all swearing to return by daybreak tomorrow. Those whose homes were too distant stayed at Kingstone. Alfred counted almost two hundred heads and Aethelred was jubilant. Unless further reinforcements had joined the Danes at Reading, their own numbers would now surpass those of the Great Heathen Army.
With their ealdormen and thegns, Aethelred and Alfred were housed and fed in the hall of the most important of the village’s elders. Those of the fyrd who moved fast enough found shelter in the numerous barns and storage sheds of the substantial settlement. Others, not so quick-thinking, dived for sheltered nooks and crannies between buildings, keen to be out of the cruel wind, at least. Many of the householders provided pottage, bread and cheese, or whatever they could spare to supplement the scant rations they carried themselves. From the news their king had relayed, tomorrow the men would need all the strength they could muster.
*****
At first light, four days after their victory over the West Saxons at Reading, Halfdan and Bagsecg rallied their armies and set out in a north-westerly direction across the Berkshire Downs. They were heading in the direction of Wallingford and the rich monastic lands at Abingdon further on. The mounted men moved quickly, following the River Thames upstream and cursing the wind-swept drizzle that was doing its best to obscure their vision.
Halfdan smiled at the ingenuity of their plan. What could be a more provocative move for their Great Army to make than to head into the very heart of Wessex, towards one of its most important fords across the Thames and one of its wealthiest monasteries? The previous night, he and Bagsecg had devised battle plans with the jarls. Should the enemy come upon them suddenly, they had no intention of being caught unprepared, as the Saxons had been at Reading. They would split their forces into two, one led by Bagsecg and himself, the other by five of the most influential jarls. As they rode, they kept in that order: each force in constant readiness.
Bagsecg turned to face Halfdan riding at his side, and squinted through the driving rain. ‘The Saxon army’ll be closing in on us any time now.’
Halfdan stared at the self-acclaimed king. ‘How do you know that? We’ve had no sightings of them yet.’
Bagsecg shook his head, as though dealing with a particularly dim-witted child. ‘Who says we have to see them to know they’re there? It stands to reason the Saxons’ll attempt to put a halt to our little foray before long. They can’t afford to let us anywhere near that ford for a start.’ His arm swept out to indicate the expansive downland to their west. ‘Anyway, I’ve sent a few scouts out across this bloody wilderness. If there’s any kind of army on the move, they’ll soon hear of it. In the meantime, we keep moving . . .
‘But I wouldn’t be too concerned, if I were you. The Saxon army’ll be little more than a bunch of pissin’ farmers, armed with their pathetic hoes and flimsy shields.’
Halfdan smirked, savouring the thought of another resounding victory.
*****
The newest recruits to the West Saxon fyrd arrived with the dawn, armed with their round shields, spears and axes, as well as a variety of other sharp implements. After brief words of heartfelt thanks from
the king, they set out from Kingstone. It was now Monday, January 8: three days since they’d left Windsor. Not the best time of year to do battle, Alfred mused, blinking into the cold, hazy mizzle.
They headed east through the Vale, following the foot of the scarp slope of the Downs. The fyrd were fresh and walked speedily, not wanting to disappoint their king, and before mid morning they had covered almost thirteen miles. Once past a tiny hamlet perched beside another spring that oozed from the chalky ridge, they veered along a well-used path to make the gradual, winding ascent up to the Ridgeway.
Alfred calculated that from here it would take them at least another two hours to reach Streatley, a substantial village alongside the Thames, through which the Great Army would pass. It was Aethelred’s intention to stop the Danes before they could move on from there. Alfred frowned as he considered the likelihood of that. It would be noon by the time their own army reached the village and, if the Danes had set out at dawn, they could easily be approaching Wallingford by then . . .
But what if Wallingford was not their true destination?
He stared down at Caesar’s twitching ears as he mulled things over. For a start, it stood to reason that the enemy would have their spies out, and would soon get wind of their approach – if they hadn’t done so already. Both he and Aethelred felt certain that to provoke the Saxons into another battle was the sole purpose of their move into the heart of Wessex. The Danes would believe them to still be weak, undermanned, ill-equipped and too demoralised to fare well in another engagement. So it was quite possible that the Great Army would not move on, but simply wait at Streatley. Or, more likely still, turn onto the Ridgeway to meet the Saxons head on . . .
‘You think that’s likely?’ Aethelred responded when Alfred voiced his thoughts as their horses picked their way along the chalky, flint-riddled path. He dipped his helmeted head against the stinging wind that blew across the exposed slopes of Ashdown, driving the icy rain into men’s faces and reddening their cheeks.
‘I do, brother. That’s what I’d do in their shoes. You and I both believe that reaching the ford at Wallingford is not the motive for their move. And there are a number of places along this route where they could make a stand.’
Alfred turned his thoughts to the inevitable conflict. Their own numbers were now impressive – over nine hundred men – and likely to be well over a hundred more than those of the Danes. Nonetheless, he knew that many of the new fyrd were untried warriors, and would never have stood in a shield wall. Success today would lie in the men’s ability to obey orders and learn quickly how the battle lines were organised. Alfred could not deny the men’s courage and determination to fight for their homes and families, nor could he question the physical strength of most. They were men of the land, after all, used to hard physical work.
But their battle skills remained to be seen.
*****
The Great Army reached Streatley by mid morning. The deserted village sloped gently down to the Thames, the absence of small boats along its jetty revealing the means by which the inhabitants had fled; the village on the opposite bank, their most likely destination. It was clear they’d left the place divested of all foodstuffs and objects of worth. Halfdan grunted. No matter; his army was after more important game.
Once beyond the village, they would follow the Ridgeway as it curved north from over the Downs and continue on to Wallingford. It seemed to Halfdan that the Saxons were running out of time. It was little over six miles to the ford from Streatley, and then they’d be into the very heart of Wessex. So where was the blasted Saxon army?
He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
The scouts Bagsecg had sent out returned with the news that the Saxons were moving slowly up from the lowlands towards the Ridgeway. They would be nine or ten miles away by now.
‘Then we’ll give the swine a surprise that’ll really make them jump,’ Bagsecg yelled, to the cheers of the men around him. ‘They’ll find our warriors heading right into their bloody faces.’
Not to be outdone, Halfdan flung out his arms. ‘Stay with the company to which you were assigned,’ he bellowed. ‘You all know who your leaders are, so listen for their orders. Fight hard and fight well. And if need be, die well! Remember that to die in battle today is to feast in Valhalla tomorrow!’
The roars of approval rang out as they veered west across the chalky downland.
*****
The West Saxons were still some six hundred yards from the top of the slope when the Danes loomed into view. The men at the front stopped dead in their tracks, many of those behind, who had not yet crested the steep rise in the hillside and were unable to see the ridge, murmuring at the abrupt halt. Alfred squinted up at the foe, strung out across the crest of the ridge, drawn up into two distinct divisions, several warriors deep with a fifty-yard gap between.
‘We have no other choice than to confront them here,’ Aethelred said, surveying his own large army, four-abreast along the pathway behind. The men were silent and Alfred knew that many would be wondering whether they’d still be alive by tonight. His own heart thudded and he fought to control Caesar’s sidling, the stallion unnerved by the anxiety he sensed in his rider.
‘We split into two forces before moving up to confront them,’ Aethelred ordered, his eyes darting between the ealdormen and thegns gathered around him before fixing on Alfred. ‘Besides the remnants of your own bodyguard, brother, you will have the fyrd we gained along our route, together with those of the Vale, who undoubtedly look to you as overlord. I’ll take the rest of the fyrd, plus Ealdormen Radulf and Brihtnoth. Paega and Unwine will be with you, and of the dozen thegns, we’ll have a half dozen each. That should give us about equal numbers.’
Determination and assurance battled with desperation and panic in Aethelred’s eyes. He was making this stand for far more than his own life, or the lives of a single army. What mattered to Aethelred – as it did to Alfred – was his beloved kingdom.
‘The cursed Danes have the choicest site and we are forced to attack uphill, an added strain we could well do without,’ Aethelred griped. Then he flashed a grin of bravado round at his nobles. ‘Prepare to do battle, my lords.’
*****
It was almost an hour before noon when Alfred moved his forces up to an expanse of level ground, some thirty-five yards below the enemy lines. Aethelred’s men were still six hundred yards down the hillside, awaiting the return of their king. Alfred silently cursed his brother’s foolhardy decision. Having ordered his troops, Aethelred had slunk back to where their mounts were hobbled in order to pray.
‘If I beseech God’s help on bended knees, He might consider us sufficiently penitent to come to our aid,’ Aethelred had replied to Alfred’s protests as he began his retreat along the path. ‘Prayer might be our only means of deliverance.’
‘It’s too late for prayer . . . !’ Alfred shouted, exasperated, as his brother disappeared down the slope, views of the Vale below obscured by the wind-swept mizzle. Above, stark against the skyline, the Danes hovered.
Alfred now faced the enemy, his men drawn up into five lines, each line a hundred men. Along the ridge the drumming of swords on shields began; the rhythmic, slow clanging soon accelerating into a frenzied ear-splitting racket. The Saxons retaliated with their assortment of weapons, their lesser noise drowned by the deafening clamour from above. Alfred gripped his sword, an inrush of rage taking him. By all that was holy, the Danes would not take Wessex this day!
He focused on two warlords in heavy mail byrnies, moving between their front lines, sword arms thrusting back and forth, inciting their warriors to howling battle lust. The pair sank into the front line of the company to the Saxon’s left and Alfred nodded, his unvoiced question answered. As King of Wessex, Aethelred would confront his equals and Alfred had needed to determine which contingent they held.
‘So, brother,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘the “kings” await you. Pray God you’re on your way.’
; Alfred moved along his own front line, noting that most of the fyrd carried spears, though the pitchforks and staffs amongst them would not fare well against the heavy swords and battle axes of the foe. Body armour was light. Some wore leather jerkins, others thinly quilted gambesons, and most heads were protected by a leather helmet. Better than nothing, he thought grimly, acutely aware of the protective qualities of his own mailshirt and helm.
‘On my order, the front line becomes an impenetrable wall of tightly locked shields,’ he shouted above the clamour for the benefit of the new recruits. ‘Shields overlap, left over right.’ His arm swung round to the sides. ‘You five men at each end of the lines – and those at the back – will do likewise if need be. And should a man in the line front of you fall, you step over his body and take his place . . .
‘You’ll be fighting for your lives, not mourning the dead!’ he snapped at the appalled faces, ‘as well as the lives of the men around you. Thrust and stab through the gaps between the shields with your weapons. Aim for exposed flesh – face, legs, even spaces between armour covering chest, belly, or groin. Your purpose is to kill or maim.’ He swept the men with a commanding stare. ‘We fight as an ordered unit, and no one leaves that formation unless the wall becomes irrevocably destroyed. Only then do we resort to individual combat. Is all of that clear?’
Alfred took his position at the centre of the front line, between two experienced warriors, Ealdormen Wybert and Unwine.
The racket abruptly ceased. Warriors stood rigid, muscles flexed for the opening strike, the onslaught of spears and javelins. But no missiles flew. Instead, the two men Alfred had identified as ‘kings’ stepped forward a pace.
‘So, great king, we meet at last,’ the less burly of the two yelled, his eyes scanning the Saxon forces to locate the Saxon king. ‘We were not introduced at Nottingham. Pity, I like to know the face of my enemy. Wherever you’re hiding in the midst of your piss-poor army, I urge you to look closely at what you confront. We are double your number and hold the higher ground. Surrender – or by nightfall your carcases will feed the scavengers!’