by M J Porter
“We ride, ready for battle. Should we be attacked without warning, do as you’ve always been trained. You’ve seen battle before. Remember that, against the bloody Scots. And remember that you are only as strong as the men you fight beside.”
Ælfgar nodded, trying to relax his grip on his horse’s reins, and on his seax, that he had in his left hand, ready to defend himself with, should he need to. Not that he believed they’d be attacked on horseback.
Ælfgar knew any fighting would take place on foot. No doubt, should a battle occur, he’d have ample time to grab all of his weapons, from his shield, bouncing beside his left leg, to his axe, slung on his war belt, and his sword, fashioned over his shoulder, the hilt ready for his grab. But he still needed the reassurance of the seax in his hand.
Ælfgar’s byrnie was already around his chest, hidden beneath his fur cloak, the shoulder clasp ready and easy to release, should he need to discard the cumbersome warmth quickly.
Every man around him was similarly equipped. It was not the fyrd of Mercia that had marched into the Welsh kingdom of Powys, but rather the household men of his Uncle, and his fellow commanders, aided by a force of fifteen men from Earl Leofric’s household troop. These men, all of them, knew the borderlands well.
In all, they numbered close to eighty men and horses. Not a considerable force, but the intention had been to scare and intimidate more than seek battle, to try and bring about a stop to the annoying border raids that were unsettling all who lived close to the Welsh kingdoms, by merely showing that they would fight, if they had to.
Neither was this the only English force in enemy territory. No, he knew that King Harald has also dispatched a host of Northumbrian’s under the joint leadership of Earl Siward and the self-proclaimed Earl of Bamburgh, to ensure that unrest along the border with the kingdom of the Scots was brought under control.
Donnchaid Mac Crinain, plagued by Macbethan Mac Findlaich seemed to have made the decision to attack the English border as a means of reasserting his control over the Scots. It was that or face Macbethan Mac Findlaich in an all-out battle, and it appeared that Donnchaid Mac Crinain was keen not to pit Scot against Scot.
“My Lord Ælfgar,” the sound of his name made him grab his seax all the tighter, his horse dancing to the left side of the trackway before he realised it was his uncle calling for him.
Cursing his unease, he shrugged an apology to Ælfwine, whose horse he’d nearly collided with, and urged the animal forward as soon as he was back in control. The other men made way for him.
As Ælfgar made his way to the front of the snaking formation to his Uncle’s side, he noticed that all of the men were making their own preparations. Some drank deeply of the ale they’d stored in their water bags, a few prayed, but many quietly fingered their weapons, as Ælfgar did, keen for the battle, should it happen, to get underway. The waiting was the worst of all.
These men had trained all their lived for this, and while they might not have often put their skills to use in the relatively peaceful years of Cnut’s reign, many had gained experience elsewhere. Cnut’s wars in the Northern kingdoms of Norway and Sweden had provided opportunities for those who wanted to test their skills.
“Uncle,” he greeted Eadwine, noticing the pinched expression on the older man’s face. Eadwine had always been more taciturn than his father, but now his face mirrored slate, smooth, grey and uniform. He was a man resolved to what might come, and his age, while less than his father’s, hung heavily around him.
“Nephew,” Eadwine managed to inject some warmth to his voice, and Ælfgar nodded, rather than speak, fearing his voice would be little more than a squeak.
“You feel it too then?” Eadwine asked as Ælfgar nodded again
“There’s something out there, that’s for sure.”
“I agree, and it’s still some way to the borderlands. I’m not sure that our enemy, whoever they are, will allow us to leave unscathed. But, on my life, I must insist you take no risks. Your father, my dear older brother,” and here a warm smile touched Eadwine’s pale lips, “will never forgive me if anything were to happen to you. I demand, as your Uncle and as your lord in this hostile land that you return home to your father hale and hearty. Should an attack happen, you must ensure you survive!”
A bitter laugh erupted from Eadwine’s mouth.
“I don’t believe our enemy to be from Powys. No, I believe our show of force here has worked on the men and women of Powys. But I think another is here, no doubt bloody Gruffydd from Gwynedd, a man I spoke with last year and the year before, who promised peace with England, but without an oath being given. I must have your word that you’ll return to your father, taking your cousins with you.”
Ælfgar tried to open his mouth to argue with his Uncle, but Eadwine shook his head, forestalling him.
“My brother would have wished for more children, I’m sure, but that isn’t because you lack the skills needed to be a great earl. No, I just believe he would have welcomed a larger family, but you’re all he has. You have a child, yes I know Burgheard grows day by day, but the future of the House of Leofwine’s is yours to claim. He should not have let you come, but I’m pleased. If I must meet my death here, to do so knowing that you’ll survive. It’s a worthwhile cause to lose my life for.”
Ælfgar again tried to speak, but Eadwine, his eyes busy behind him, watching the towering hills for any tell-tale sign of riders or armed men, interrupted him before he could voice his words.
“I’ve seen what the death of a son does to a father. I’ll not allow it to happen, not to our family, not again. I would have your oath.” Now Eadwine pulled from beneath his byrnie, a small replica of the Deerhurst cross that stood for the family’s honour, and Ælfgar sighed heavily. His Uncle meant to extract an oath from him, one he’d be unable to break, even if it meant Eadwine’s life.
“This is all worry and nonsense,” Ælfgar tried to make light of the situation, his voice too high. His Uncle’s creased eyes filled with understanding for the denial as shook his head sadly.
“No, this has been a trap, and we’ve ridden right into it. Quickly, you must make your pledge, and then I want your cousins to come and make the same oath. All three of you, with the guidance of Orkning, must ensure you return to England no matter what calamity befalls us.”
Heavy-hearted, Ælfgar placed his hand over the smoothed edges of the small golden cross. If he closed his eyes, he could have imagined the larger cross before him, installed at Deerhurst. The smooth rubies and intricate gold work impressed themselves as he covered the cross with his naked hand having removed his riding glove. His Uncle held Ælfgar’s hand in place as he made the pledge, just as Eadwine demanded.
The words caught in his throat as he watched Eadwine’s face. He showed no emotion, but his hand trembled above Ælfgar’s. This meant a great deal to him.
“Uncle,” he tried to say when the words were wrenched from him, but Eadwine shook his head, denying him the words he wished to speak.
“Go, send Wulfstan and Ælfwine. Tell Orkning my wishes. He’ll understand. And remember this, Ælfgar, no matter what happens here, I do not truly believe the Welsh are our implacable enemies. This has the smell of opportunity about it. Tell your father my words.”
With that, Ælfgar was dismissed. His Uncle rode on in front so that there was no opportunity for further words, as Ælfgar stilled his horse, and waited for Orkning and his cousins to join him.
Ælfgar took the time to gaze around him as he fought for composure. Was this, as his Uncle believed, truly an opportunistic attack, or had they been shepherded here, beneath the peaks of the hills, where battle would be difficult, if not impossible? Escape would not be easy.
Ælfgar shook his head. Surely there would be no attack. Not here. But even he knew that he tried to fool himself. His Uncle was not blind to their plight.
“What did Lord Eadwine want?’ Orkning demanded, startling Ælfgar from his thoughts.
“My oath that I�
��ll survive this battle. Ælfwine, Wulfstan, you must go and make the same for our Uncle’s peace of mind.” His voice was sullen. He’d not liked being manipulated in such a way. While he understood Eadwine’s desire to ensure his nephews lived, what he’d asked from him, and demanded from Wulfstan and Ælfwine was not honourable, and the House of Leofwine had always been bound by its honour.
“You must accompany us,” Ælfgar informed Orkning. “My Uncle was most insistent,” he added, seeing the rebellion he felt showing more openly on the older man’s face and taking some comfort that Orkning wished to disregard the orders of Lord Eadwine.
Wulfstan and Ælfwine looked ready to argue as well, but Ælfgar pointed forward.
“You try it with him, not with me,” he commanded them, a harsh edge to his voice that his cousins heeded, as they threaded their way through the backs of their fellow warriors.
“Your Uncle means well,” Orkning tried to console, his voice rough-edged, but Ælfgar shrugged away the words. They both knew that Orkning didn’t mean them.
“If we can just make it away from this valley, it won’t really matter what my Uncle says,” Ælfgar spoke heatedly, and Orkning grunted softly.
“Perhaps, but it’s still a day’s journey to the border. There’s a long way to go until we reach Mercia, and as much as I don’t like to admit it, your Uncle is right to make such arrangements. Your father would have done the same.”
Ælfgar lapsed into silence. His eyes were busy, taking in all that he could see. He searched the skyline far above his head, to either side of the towering hills, trying to catch sight of any who might attack them, but he could see nothing. Whoever these people were, captured only in the flicker of a blink, they were good, and they knew the land well.
As his cousins re-joined him, anger set into their faces as well, none of them spoke. In fact, few spoke now. Rather eighty men strained to hear, even the slightest of sounds, over the gentle swirl of the wind that buffeted the undergrowth, causing a ripple of sound that had men turning with haunted eyes to see what caused it.
Ælfgar thought of his wife, and his young son, Burgheard, just a babe, and the new life that had just begun to form for his wife’s second pregnancy, and his father as well. His wife would never forgive him should he lose his life here. His father likely wouldn’t either, but it was the thought of his son that truly twisted into his torn heart.
His Uncle was a stalwart of his childhood. He couldn’t imagine abandoning Eadwine to the seaxs, axes and swords of his enemy, but neither could he leave his son defenceless. Not when the family of Earl Godwine stalked the English kingdom, just waiting to exploit any signs of weakness in their enemies.
Even with Harald as king, Ælfgar was far from reassured that his family would hold onto its power should he lose his life here.
Yes, he had cousins, and his father would yet live, but Earl Godwine and his bevvy of sons, all of them young and hungry for the power their father enjoyed, would overwhelm even the wily Earl Leofric.
Angrily he gripped his seax between finger and thumb ever tighter, gasping when the skin split beneath the force of his fury, reminding him that he’d not yet replaced his riding glove after giving his Uncle the demanded oath.
Hastily, ignoring the sharp tang of his own blood, he shoved his hand inside his riding glove, meeting the sympathetic eyes of Orkning when he again looked up. In those eyes, Ælfgar saw more understanding that he thought possible. So many possibilities, Orkning’s eyes said, and all of them denied him because he was the Earl of Mercia’s heir, and the future was never assured, and he was the family’s future.
Abruptly, the sweat down his back dried, as he heard the cry he’d feared from the front of the column.
Glancing upwards, peering into the bright sunlight, he finally caught sight of their elusive enemy as flashes of black against the blue of the summer’s day.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, turning to meet the eyes of his cousins. Ælfwine looked rebellious, Wulfstan only slightly less, but it was Orkning’s gaze that steeled Ælfgar’s resolve. Those eyes knew so much, and they promised that Uncle Eadwine’s commands would be obeyed. No matter what.
“We stay for the attack,” he commanded his cousins, Orkning as well.
“Only if we’re totally overcome do we make a break for freedom. Only then will I leave my Uncle and his men to their fate. Swear it.” He demanded this from Orkning, not Wulfstan and Ælfwine. Ælfgar already knew their resolve would match his own, but as a commended man, Orkning would think of Earl Leofric first, Uncle Eadwine second, as would the remaining fourteen men of Earl Leofric’s household troop. As their commander, Orkning had the final word, not Ælfgar.
For just a moment Orkning hesitated and then spoke gruffly.
“We stay, and fight, for as long as we can,” he affirmed, turning to pass the word to the remainder of his men. In the other men’s muted response, Ælfgar knew his words had been heard and accepted.
For one final time, he glanced around him, just hoping that somewhere there would be the means to escape, for all of them. Even if it was back the way they’d just come, along the twisted trackway used more often by the sheep and their shepherds than warriors. But there was no such easy chance.
Either in front or behind, it seemed that their enemy had taken the initiative. They could, should the need arise, crash through the river gurgling beside them, but it was filled with the rain of a few nights ago, and rushed at too high a speed toward its goal. A rush into the river was no sure sign of survival, not laden down with fighting equipment and a horse. They would drown.
Ælfgar wasn’t even sure if there was room enough to jump from his horse’s back and form a rough shield wall across the trackway. Indeed, in front of him, he heard the call to force the horses ever onward, and so, with a sharp dig to the side of his horse, he gave the order and followed the men before him.
It seemed like a desperate attempt, and yet Ælfgar was relieved his Uncle hadn’t merely given in to the attackers. No, as he’d said to Orkning, if they could only get to open land, there was more scope to counter the attack. If they could just reach the edge of the valley, wherever that was.
His horse’s hooves pounded beneath him, and he breathed deeply, holding onto the animal’s rein in one hand, his seax in the other. His helm was already on his head, covering his hair and causing more sweat to drip down his neckline.
The sound of eighty plus horses, plunging along the narrow trackway filled his ears, and he concentrated on staying on top of his horse, and not crashing into his allies. It was no easy feat.
The horses, pleased to have been allowed to increase their pace, careered all over the place, jumping at even the slightest twitch on the rein of their rider, so that more than once, Ælfgar had to take avoiding action to prevent a collision with the horse and rider before him.
Behind him, he could hear the curses of other riders as they experienced the same, and he swore once more.
His heart was hammering in his chest as Ælfgar concentrated on making it as far along the valley as possible before encountering the enemy. The sun, hanging as though suspended in the most inopportune place, made it hard for him to see more than a few horses in front of him. Neither could he risk looking behind him, to see if the enemy had caught them. Instead, he felt blind, powerless to do anything other than follow his comrades in front of him, his view restricted to only the next five men and horses in front of him.
Abruptly, the surge of horses before him came to a stop, and he reined his animal in so sharply, the animal tossed its head and only narrowly avoided crashing into the rear end of the animal in front.
Before him, Ælfgar could finally see, as the restrictive sides of the valley side gave way, the open countryside he’d desperately wished for. But instantly his hopes faltered. They’d been shepherded along the valley sides, there was no other way to describe it, and before him now stretched a line of enemy warriors, at least four deep, and many times wider.
> The force of Mercians was massively outnumbered.
The strident calls of his Uncle’s voice filtered through the air, as men jumped from their horses, leaving them to meander as they would. There were no squires here, and no time to ensure the animals were hobbled together. Already, the enemy could be seen starting to make their way toward them, menace in their stances.
Ælfgar, still on his horse, turned the animal to look back the way they’d come. A force of at least twenty mounted warriors, arranged on raggedly looking mounts, were working to block the chance of escape from behind, and Ælfgar felt a moment of panic.
Wherever he looked, the enemy had them surrounded.
His horse, detecting his panic, danced on the spot, as he turned to meet the haunted eyes of his Uncle Eadwine. Even from his place at the front of the forming shield wall, Ælfgar felt the force of the glare. His Uncle was instructing him in that look to make a run for it, to ensure he returned to England. But no matter Ælfgar’s personal opinion on abandoning men he looked to as brothers, he could see no way to bring about the wishes of his Uncle.
“Get down,” Orkning grabbed Ælgar’s reins roughly, simultaneously pulling on his foot. “Get down, you’re a target while you remain up there.” Orkning’s voice was controlled but angry.
Recalled to his senses, Ælfgar slid from his horse, grabbing his shield as he did so. His cousins, all traces of worry fled from their faces, were garbing themselves for the coming confrontation.
“We must fight our way clear,” Orkning was instructing them all patiently. “The bastards have encircled us. No matter your Uncle’s wishes, we have no choice but to fight. And you, young lord, must stay alive.”
His horse’s rein yanked from his hand by Wulfstan, Ælfgar turned to his cousin and thrust his arms around him. It was not a gentle embrace.