by Stuart Hill
Mouse now joined us from where he’d been watching from the edge of the training ground. He jumped around us in excitement for a while but then sat down squarely in front of Edward, his mouth wide and laughing as he stared up into my brother’s face.
Edward squatted down and rubbed Mouse’s chest roughly, sending the dog into a frenzy of excitement. “You know about things, sis. Lots of things; you’re clever. You see beyond things, you see what could be ... like Mouse here. I thought he was a runt, but you said he would be a war-dog some day and look at him now: he’s growing fast and looks like he’ll make a big dog when his bones finally knit. But I’m not stupid either and one day I think I’ll make a good king, as long as the Witan votes for me, but even a good king needs friends and allies, especially clever ones. So what do you say?” He looked up at me. “Allies or rivals?”
I stood in silence as I thought over his words. Sparring with Edward was always good fun, whether we used weapons on the training grounds drawing blood and bruises or words that sparked jealousy and a bitter sense of rivalry. But perhaps it was time to take a different route. Certainly it was true that sometimes one of us found out things that the other knew nothing about, and working together could double our potential for information gathering. And he was right: when we were older and trying to make our way in the world, we’d both need allies. I looked at my brother as he watched me smiling from where he squatted with Mouse and I finally made a decision.
“I think you’re right,” I said at last. “We are better off as allies. So let’s do just as you say and work together against all those who try to keep things from us. We can share everything we find out and learn as much as we can!”
Edward spat in his open palm. “Pax?” he said, using the Latin word for peace.
“Pax,” I agreed as I spat in my own palm and shook his hand.
Mouse wagged his tail so hard he almost fell over and when he barked his approval it had the loud and deep tones of an adult dog. I decided that the world had better take care. Aethelflaed and Edward Cerdinga had a mighty war-dog as an ally and soon our enemies would know it.
As it turned out the rumour of a large-scale raid that I’d taunted Edward with was just that ... a rumour. Cerdic hadn’t really told me anything; I’d just wanted to make Edward jealous. But all that was behind us: I and my only brother were now allies. In fact, though we didn’t know it at the time, that one small agreement would last throughout our lives and would change the island of Britain forever.
The Viking army had its camp below the walls of the fortress. In the centre flew the magic Raven banner that made any army that carried it invincible. The scent of the sea rose up from the shore below the cliff where the fortress stood, and the calls of the gulls that wheeled and dived over the walls sounded eerily like the cries of frightened children on the early-morning air. The Saxon commander felt the fear of his men around him. These were only part-time soldiers of the fyrd; a long siege would have them beaten before they’d even raised a sword.
He made his decision quickly and gave the order by word of mouth: there’d be no booming horns that would warn the Vikings of their plan. The men gathered in a silent knot behind the main gate, shields settled on arms, swords and spears drawn and raised ready. They knew enough to keep close ranks even in the charge.
The gates opened and they rolled out, a solid wedge of iron and wood and steel. They ran in silence obeying the given orders. The Viking camp was quiet. Their lookouts expected nothing like this from the half-trained Saxons.
Then at last a warning shout, the war horns growled and the Vikings scrambled to raise their shields around the magic banner. Voices shouted in panic, but this time the words were Danish. The Saxons hit them like a hammer and now they gave the war cry, now they roared, now they raged their hatred of the invader. But still they kept their ranks, shield overlapping shield, spear and sword striking again and again like the fangs of an adder.
The Danish shield wall stood unbroken and unbreakable. The Saxons beat against it like a stormy sea against an immovable rock. The Raven banner rose up over the heads of the Great Army, and the Saxons drove forward in desperation to seize it. The line of shields before them tightened, bristling with spears and axes.
For a moment the Saxons drew back, paused and then smashed forward again, the crash of shield on shield, blade on blade, rising into the air and echoing over the land. The warriors stood toe to toe, their shields grinding together as they hacked and slashed at each other. The screams of the dying filled the air and the ringing clash of steel clamoured over the battle. But then, almost impossibly, the Danish line gave back a step. Encouraged, the Saxons pushed forward, their swords chopping and thrusting as they sensed the incredible. The enemy gave back another step and with a joyous roaring heave the soldiers of the fyrd rolled forward in a concerted push against the enemy line. In desperation the Danish commanders rapped out orders and the wall of shields almost straightened, but the Saxons smashed against it and, with a final roar, broke the enemy line.
The Danes were thrust aside, falling in heaps. A frantic last stand of Vikings quickly formed around the magic Raven banner, but the Saxon fyrd drove forward, crashing through the wall of shields and wrenched the banner away. Now it rose against the dawn sky held in Saxon hands.
The Vikings left alive turned to run, but thousands fell to the swords and spears of the chasing fyrd. Soon the enemy all lay dead or wounded and their dragon boats burned on the nearby shore. The men of the fyrd finally stopped and stood in silence, unable to believe what they’d done. The commander ripped the magic banner from its pole and then broke it over his knee.
A single cheer rose up and then in a great crash thousands of voices joined it ...
Father led many raids against the Danes. More and more Saxon fighters joined us, and soon we had a solid core of over a thousand trained soldiers who would act as the anchor and centre for any army we sent against King Guthrum, General Ubba and their invading Vikings.
Then one day when the hall of the Little Palace was filled with people eating the first meal of the day, the high-pitched call of the hunting horn rose into the air. A silence fell and I immediately looked to where Father sat. He stood slowly, his head tilted to one side as he stared down the hall to the main doors.
Everyone followed his gaze and soon the sound of running feet could be heard drawing closer and closer. I remember it was so quiet I could hear Edward’s breathing as he too stared at the doors. The hunting horns only called to announce victory.
Suddenly the doors burst open and a soldier stood silhouetted against the bright morning sunlight. For a moment his dark shape was as unmoving as a doorpost, but then he leaped into the air:
“MY LORD! MY LORD ... THE RAVEN BANNER HAS FALLEN!”
I gasped, the small sound falling into the silence that followed like a blast of wind in a winter gale.
“Where did it fall and to whom?” Father asked quietly.
“To Ealdorman Odda and the fyrd of Devon,” the soldier answered, and again the following silence deepened. The fyrd were the ordinary men of the Saxon world, part-time soldiers who trained once a month and then went home to carry on with their jobs as farmers, bakers, potters or whatever other work they did. It was these men who had defeated a Viking army! Not only that, but they’d defeated a Viking army that was carrying the magical Raven banner!
The silence deepened again and I watched my father’s face closely, knowing in my heart that this was the victory he’d wanted.
“Was King Guthrum in command?” he asked, his voice measured and steady.
“No, My Lord, their general was Ubba. It’s said that he crossed into Devon to extend the Dane’s control of the west.”
Father nodded. “Of course; the natural thing for any invader to do. What happened?”
“Odda and his fyrd were trapped in the fortress of Countisbury,” the messenger shrugged. “They broke out and attacked the Danes when they least expected it. Ubba was killed al
ong with most of his men and the banner was taken.”
Father’s face was expressionless. “Then Guthrum and his army remain to be beaten.”
Edward and I looked at each other, both of us caught between conflicting feelings: joy that Ubba and his men were dead, and that the Raven banner had fallen, but disappointed that after all his work, Father himself hadn’t had this victory.
My mother who’d sat as silent as the rest of us during this exchange now stood and placed her hand on Father’s shoulder. He seemed to wake then from his thoughts, and turning to her he suddenly threw back his head and let out a huge bark of laughter.
“We smashed them! Ubba is dead! The Raven banner has fallen!” Then throwing all royal dignity aside he leapt up on to the table, dragging my mother with him, and there they danced amongst the ale pots and platters even though there was no music to be heard but our cheers and screams of joy and relief.
The shouting and celebrations flowed outwards from the Little Palace like a river in flood and soon all of Athelney was loud with cheering and laughter. Edward, Mouse and I leapt up and followed the flow out into the compound. We were so excited we ran on through the celebrations, Mouse’s bark echoing over the fortress, joining in with the dancing, and cheering ourselves hoarse with the soldiers. We lost ourselves completely in the celebrations until we arrived somehow at the gate in the defences that led out into the marshes.
It was only when Ara stepped out into our path that some of the excitement drained away from us and we realised that our nurse hadn’t been with us at breakfast. In fact we hadn’t seen her since late the previous night.
“Come with me,” she said quietly.
It was a command rather than a request and we were so used to being told what to do by her that we fell in behind without a word and followed. She led us through the gates and along a path that wound away from the main causeway through the reed beds. I almost expected her to take us to the punt she had hidden in the reeds like she did when she showed me the Black Pool. But instead she took us along a narrow path that opened up into a small island of dry land that nestled almost immediately under the walls of Athelney’s defences.
There were the remains of a fire in the centre of the space, and we stood and watched as Ara laid some dry twigs and larger sticks over the ashes. We looked at each other. Neither of us could even guess what she wanted, but we waited patiently to see what she’d do. Whatever else our old nurse was, she was never less than interesting.
This was proved almost immediately when the cold ashes spontaneously burst into flames. Mouse let out a bark of surprise and tried to sniff the flames until I pulled him back.
“Hot embers from the last fire must’ve lit it,” Edward muttered. I nodded but both of us knew that Ara had called the blaze with her magic.
She then stared into the sky and called out, using words that neither of us understood but which to me sounded like the land itself would sound if it had a voice.
Two black specks appeared high in the sky and gradually resolved themselves into Raarken and Ranhald as they flew closer. They descended to Ara’s shoulders, their wings held stiff and curved from their sides like arms embracing the nothingness of the air. When they’d settled they looked at us with their eyes of glittering jet and croaked as though greeting us.
Edward and I stared at the strange figure of three that now stood before us, the old woman of power and her two companion ravens. The small clearing in the reeds seemed to take on the same sort of atmosphere you sometimes find in an empty church, when the fading evening light has pooled its shadows between the columns and the walls, and the only other light comes from a single candle burning over the altar. We held our breath waiting for what would come next.
“Sit down; you’re making the place look untidy,” Ara said, breaking the strange atmosphere that had accumulated about us.
“Where?” I asked, looking at the mud and reed debris around us.
“Isn’t the ground of Mother Earth good enough for you?”
Edward shrugged at me and after finding the firmest and driest spot we sat down.
“So?” Edward prompted.
“So?” Ara echoed him.
“I suppose you brought us here for a reason,” I added into the following silence.
“Can you never be still? Does there always have to be a reason for every action?”
“No, I can’t sit still,” I answered tartly. “And yes, there does have to be a reason for every action, and an action for every reason for that matter.”
I was quite pleased with what I thought was my clever answer, but I braced myself for Ara’s reply. It was almost sure to be sharp. But she surprised me by smiling instead.
“And there in that one reply we have exactly who you are, Aethelflaed Cerdinga,” she said. “A maker of happenings, one with the energy to do and the intelligence to do it well.”
“And what about me?” Edward asked, the old jealousy reviving.
Ara turned her dark eyes on him. “Oh, you’re almost exactly the same. From the same mould of the same womb ... but with even more ruthlessness than your sister. You’ll make a mighty king.”
“But no woman has the power of a king,” I said quietly. “There’ll be no place for my making and none for my doing.”
Suddenly Raarken and Ranhald called loudly, their gruff and rough voices echoing over the reed beds, the ruffs of feathers standing proud about their necks and their midnight eyes glittering.
Ara’s laughter mingled strangely with their calls and she held my gaze. “No place for your making and doing, you think? You may never have the power of a king, but you will have the towering strength of a woman. Though I think they’ll call you a ‘Lady’ when you use it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Sometimes secretive things need to keep their secrets,” she replied.
“Yes, but you still haven’t said why you’ve brought us here,” Edward said, diverting the course of the talk into a new direction.
“To celebrate the defeat of the Danes,” Ara finally answered.
We were close enough to Athelney to hear that the singing and the joyful shouting was still going on and then looked at the mud and emptiness around us.
“To celebrate?” said Edward questioningly.
“Yes,” Ara replied simply, then added, “When magic power is broken sometimes the victor needs to be acknowledged ... if only quietly.”
I was getting annoyed with the old woman’s mysteriousness by this point and snapped, “Look, if you’ve something to say, just say it!”
Ara nodded. “Then I will. It takes the power of ravens to break the power of Raven banners. And perhaps it should be acknowledged that Saxon scinncraeft is sometimes stronger than Danish scinncraeft.”
A deep silence fell and we stared at the old woman and her huge black birds.
“You mean—”
“And perhaps one day soon it’ll be said that Saxon armies are stronger than those of the Danes as well,” Ara interrupted.
Edward climbed to his feet. “You mean that you and your ravens—”
“Sometimes secretive things need to keep at least some of their secrets,” the old woman interrupted again.
“You broke the power of the Raven banner,” I whispered, finally putting into words the thoughts in our heads.
Ara said nothing for a while then said, “Not me or my ravens ... we were but the sword in the hands of the gods.”
Edward threw back his head and screamed aloud for joy. But Ara held up her hand. “Say nothing of this to anyone else. The magic works best in secret.”
VI
After this things moved quickly. With the arrival of March the cold weather was loosening its grip on the land. The raids led by the king against the Danes increased until they became a daily event. More and more Saxon fighters joined us in our stronghold and regular reports came in of ealdormen in the conquered lands defying the invaders and calling out the fyrd to fight back against G
uthrum and his professional fighters. All of this meant that even the most unwarlike of our people gained an experience of fighting that they’d never had before. Without meaning to, the Danish Great Army had made warriors of a peaceful people and those people were beginning to fight back!
It was now that Mouse began his training as a war-dog. He was growing quickly and I hoped that one day he’d stand as tall as Aethelfryth and have a chest as deep and round as a young pony. Cerdic Guthweinson put him and me through our paces and Mouse took to the commands easily. Soon he knew exactly when I wanted him to wait for orders, when to be silent and when to attack. And the warriors who stood against him in training had to be well padded against the power of his massive jaws.
“He’ll do,” Cerdic said decisively one day after a training session.
“So when can he fight?” I asked eagerly.
“When you do,” he answered. “You’re the mistress of this war-dog, no one else.”
“And when can I fight?”
The old soldier looked at me with narrow assessing eyes. “Soon enough ... but not yet.”
Then the momentous day finally came when everything was as ready as it would ever be and the call was sent out from Athelney.
For once all four of us royal children were together enjoying the early spring sunshine and idly chatting outside the main doors of the Little Palace after our daily round of weapons training. Aethelgifu had just been giving us a lecture on how we should be preparing ourselves for the coming celebration of Easter, and little Aethelfryth was playing quietly with her doll now that she’d been allowed to put aside her small wooden training sword. Mouse simply lay and snored in the sunshine, his huge feet matching his strengthening legs and fast-growing body.
“Father has promised to build an abbey and church on Athelney when he’s defeated the Danes,” said Aethelgifu.
“Good idea,” said Edward. “When you have to fight Guthrum and his Great Army, it’s best to get as many on your side as possible.”