by M J Porter
Leofwine’s victory had been stunning, driving Swein’s men back to their ships. It was not his lack that had brought the raiders back amongst the devastated remains of the ship army, but rather a sudden and unexpected summer storm that had struck out at sea and forced them to come ashore again near Canterbury.
It was unfortunate that Leofwine had dispersed his fyrd back to Mercia happy that the raiders had gone. His reasoning had been sound. It had been harvest time and the fields were full of crops, which after last year’s famine needed to be carefully reaped. And he’d personally seen the vast fleet set out to sea, and he’d seen to the lighting of the beacons along the coast. The King’s ship army had arrived with all haste and they’d followed the path of the retreating raiders.
Leofwine couldn’t have known that the raiders would sneak back onto English land like rats from a sinking ship. But King Æthelred didn’t see it that way. All he saw was the reversal of what he’d been told: one day the menace was banished; the next day it was back. The King blamed Leofwine not Swein, no matter how unjust his anger was.
Swein of Denmark was again raiding in the old Wessex lands and that was why the King and his family had retreated to Eadric’s ‘safe area’. The irony that the lands of Eadric were only safe because of Leofwine’s efforts and agreement with the King of Powys was not lost on Leofwine. With bitterness he’d realised that the King hadn’t yet made the connection. He’d been heard to praise Eadric for actions that he’d played no part in.
Before he’d left home, Ǽthelflaed and Wulfstan had both spoken angrily to him about the King’s irrational response to the success and failure of the summer season. He’d attempted to calm them, but it had been hard when he’d agreed with every word they’d spoken.
Ǽthelflaed’s anger had been magnificent to watch as she’d angrily marched from one side of their home in Lichfield to another. All the servants and children had fled at her ire, only Wulfstan, Oscetel and Horic staying in place as she’d vented her anger and frustration. Leofwine had worried that her words would be overheard, but then he’d realised it mattered little. The King had made his decisions, and no matter what Leofwine now did, he would continue to be used as a weapon, while Eadric became his blunt tool.
Even now he could hear the murmur of the voices of others around him – a loud humming noise where the only word he could pick out was his own name or that of Eadric’s before the haze of noise descended again. He’d braced himself for this, but it was not a pleasant experience.
He’d purposely only arrived today, under the impression that the Witan would convene today, but for some reason the King had delayed. Leofwine had wanted to spend as little time as possible socialising with the King and his cronies. Now he had no choice.
Beside him Hammer stirred, sharing his master’s restlessness, and Leofwine offered some words of comfort that fell unheard to his own ears, although Hammer stilled. His back was so ridgid that a spark of pain shot down it every so often and he’d spoken little and taken less from the table before him piled high with food. Beside him, Oscetel shared his alertness while Horic, seemingly impervious to their perilous position, laughed and joked with all who came near.
A loud bark of laughter from Horic and his words finally penetrated Leofwine’s disturbed thoughts, the use of the word ‘Swein’ rousing him from his self-imposed introspection.
“You ask me if I can believe that of Swein of Denmark? Of course, I do. Swein is capable of anything. Surely you should know that by now.”
Turning to Oscetel, Leofwine raised questioning eyebrows to see if he was aware of what Horic spoke about.
“There are tales of Swein’s barbaric treatment of those who go against his wishes. He, like our own King, has little problem with blinding and killing men who displease him, or of getting others to do his bidding and then denying his own involvement.”
Oscetel glanced unconsciously at his King as he spoke, and Leofwine laid a calming hand on his arm. He didn’t want his men to get involved in his power struggle. Regardless, they would remain his men, loyal to him through their oaths of commendation as well as through their land ties. It was only he who was at risk, and yet he knew the men spoke amongst themselves in concern. He appreciated their outrage but cautioned them all against speaking openly of it; he didn’t want his men to suffer in his wake.
A hand on his shoulder and he turned in confusion to find Bishop Wulfstan beside him. He settled himself beside him on the wooden bench, although he faced outwards, studying the King.
“You’re well Leofwine?” Wulfstan queried quietly.
“As can be expected,” Leofwine muttered as respectfully as he could.
“Unease runs through the Church at the King’s intended actions. You’re a good man, loyal without the requisite need to gain from your association with the King. You’re an Ealdorman alone with your morals and your beliefs, but don’t think the Church doesn’t notice your good ways.”
Leofwine turned to stare openly at Wulfstan, not so much shocked at the words as pleased to hear them from the great Bishop.
“We live in difficult times. We may have survived the millennium since our Saviour’s birth, but still we’re tested almost every day … some more than others,” he added as an afterthought.
“The King is a man wise in how to govern, but he lacks skills in his interactions with people. He was King from a young age. He’s grown to love those who don’t question him, little understanding that by taking advice from others he’ll grow in stature.”
“You’ve made a study of the King?” Leofwine queried, intrigued to hear another voice his own thoughts so eloquently.
“Of course, my Lord; it’s always best to know your friends and your enemies in equal measure.”
“And what would you suggest I do?”
“Little or nothing – you must ride this out as best you can. The King is angry. Swein of Denmark is a menace, but so too is Eadric. But my Lord, a spy here and there would do you no harm.”
“A spy …?”
“Your son – send him to Eadric’s household as he offered earlier in the year. If you inspire the same loyalty in your children as you do your household troops, he’ll work for you.”
Leofwine shook his head vigorously in denial, “He’s but a boy?”
“Indeed, my Lord, but at his age Æthelred was a King. The path should not be too tricky for a bright lad like Northman. He knows his place well and Eadric will do nothing to harm or injure him. It’s you that Eadric despises, and once he’s Ealdorman of the Mercians he’ll think he has all he wants. Your son will not even factor into his day-to-day thinking.”
Leofwine shuffled uncomfortably on the bench, accidentally kicking Hammer in the process, eliciting a reproachful whine from his dog.
“I’d not want to send my dog to him, let alone my son.” Leofwine spoke angrily, the confirmation of his fears of Eadric’s intended advance bitter for all that he’d been expecting them.
“Hush, my Lord. You mustn’t speak so, not here. Eadric inspires either great loyalty or great hatred, but either retainer or enemy would benefit from hearing your words.”
Leofwine took a calming breath. The Bishop was wise in his words. Leofwine sucked in a breath to ask the Bishop what he planned to advise the King, but before he could a commotion at the main door distracted everyone within the hall. Angry cries and the shouts of men could be heard. Instantly, Leofwine felt Horic and Oscetel at his back, and Hammer stood alert, growling low in his throat.
Leofwine quickly realised that this was not to be another of Eadric’s underhand techniques to rid himself or the King of any who stood in their way. Instead, a windblown and sodden individual made his way hastily towards where the King had stood.
“My King,” the man gasped, water pooling on the wooden floor he stood upon, “I bring grave news.”
“What is it man, speak up and speak clearly. And someone bring him warmed clothes, food and drink.”
“It’s the raiders, my King.
They’re attacking even now. They’ve barrelled through the Southern lands and are making their way further north. When I came upon them, they were nearly at Oxford.”
Æthelred’s face twisted angrily at the words and he looked about, almost helplessly. Leofwine stood abruptly and bowed to his King.
“My King, my men are here with me. I’ll mount an expedition and banish them back to their ships.”
Eadric stared open-mouthed at Leofwine, but Leofwine ignored him as he did the gasps from Horic and Oscetel. A winter campaign was unheard of.
“We can’t let them harry our people further.” He could feel his voice becoming angry at the inactivity surrounding him.
Beside the King, Athelstan too jumped to his feet, “I’ll accompany him. We’ll make a small force, but fleet-footed for all that.”
Without waiting for his father’s agreement, Athelstan strode from the room, signalling for his followers as he went, and his brother, Edmund also hastened to follow. As the King had still not spoken, either in agreement or denial, Leofwine merely followed suit. Oxford was a part of Mercia after all.
Stepping outside into the dismal storm was a stark reminder of how difficult it would be to mount their attack. Still, Leofwine had spoken, and there was no chance that he was going to go back on his word just because it was cold, dark and wet.
Oscetel and Horic were busily giving orders to the men who’d accompanied them. They’d rushed from the hall in the footsteps of their Lord without a word or shout of complaint. Leofwine knew he was lucky to have such loyal men.
As the wind howled and the rain drenched them immediately, Leofwine gave hasty orders to both his men and to Athelstan and his. He hesitated to order the King’s son around, but as Athelstan had made no move to organise his men, Leofwine assumed that he was happy to let the older man arrange their expedition.
There was little daylight left in the short winter day, but he deemed it best to make a start. If they could make it to Deerhurst tonight, they’d make short work of a journey to Oxford tomorrow and would, hopefully, be able to engage with Swein and his men.
He called for lanterns to be lit and leapt into his saddle, Hammer attentive at his side. He paused for a heartbeat, looking back toward the closed and barred doorway of Eadric’s hall, but the King didn’t venture outside or wish his own sons well. With a snort of disgust, Leofwine called his force to attention.
****
The journey to Deerhurst was uncomfortable and dangerous, more an endurance test than any other expedition to war he’d taken. All fifty of the men arrived drenched and drained. Their faces were frozen into a grimace of determination.
With barely a raised eyebrow, Horic’s wife settled to her task of supplying bedding and food for an unlooked-for war band. Leofwine had always known she was a capable woman, but his estimation of her increased a hundred-fold that night. She didn’t even miss a footstep when Horic jovially introduced her to the King’s sons. They swept her deep bows but she shooed them towards the fire as if they were her errant children.
Early the next morning, before the sun had risen, all of the warriors were heading out for Oxford. Horic’s four oldest sons and his household troops had swelled their numbers to sixty-five, and five of the men shot onwards as scouts to track the raiders down.
The rain had eased during the night, but the ground was sodden and the rivers and streams they came across swollen so much that passing them was a hazardous experience.
Around midday, calls from in front alerted them to a sighting of Swein and his men, and they turned further south. They finally came across the raiding force at an old earthwork, Cuckhamsley Hill. The reports from the scouts counted a slightly larger force than their own and Leofwine felt a moment of panic. He’d not had time to call on any of the men of the fyrd or any of his Reeves, intent only on reaching the raiders and stopping their advance any further north. Hastily he called his commanders and the King’s sons together.
“My Lord Athelstan, how many archers do you have amongst your men?”
Athelstan, pinched from the cold, looked questioningly at his men. “Five of the men are proficient with their arrows. Why do you ask my Lord?”
“I normally have a larger contingent of archers, but in my haste I’ve only just realised that I have a mere handful. With your own, we should have enough.”
“You’ve decided on a plan of attack already?” Athelstan queried.
“Yes, but first, we’ll offer Swein the opportunity of leaving quietly, and then if not, we’ll use the same tactic as in the summer only on a much smaller scale. Horic will lead forward with a shield wall of ten men, two deep. The ten archers will then mount an attack and the remaining men will join them when the time is right.”
“But Swein will have heard of your ploy?”
“I’m counting on it. I hope he’ll try to rush the shield wall before the archers can attack, and as soon as he does the shield wall will attack as the arrows fall, and the rest will rush forward to extend the shield wall. Even if he’s heard of my previous tactics, the familiarity of the attack will lull him into thinking that we, or more specifically I, am too stupid to have changed my methods.”
Leofwine knew that his voice was steely with resolve, with no opportunity for arguing. Still, the ǽtheling thought about arguing and Leofwine admired him afresh.
“Do you want to approach Swein of Denmark?”
Athelstan, shutting his mouth suddenly on whatever comment he’d been about to make, shook his head. “I would happily, but we both know that the King would not approve.”
Athelstan sounded unhappy at the words, but Horic offered him words of comfort. “The King can, on occasion be wise.”
Athelstan quirked an eyebrow at the huge man and a tired smile spread across his mud-streaked face. “I suggest we remember that,” he muttered darkly, before stepping away to ready his men.
Leofwine looked to Horic, “Would you like to do the honours?”
“Of course, my Lord, I’d love nothing better than to face the slimy worm again, but Athelstan has the right of it. It’s your place to offer him a bargain.”
Leofwine stared grimly towards the small hostile force massing around the earthwork.
“Do the Danes not say something about this place?” he asked, a spark of memory that had been annoying him all day, finding its way to the forefront of his mind.
“Aye, my Lord. Well, in my day they did. At some point, someone has told them of this sacred site, deep within the King’s Wessex territory and it’s become a source of honour to reach it.”
“And why is that?”
Horic tried to shrug the question aside, but Oscetel spoke quietly into the silence.
“They believe that if they reach this hill they’ll hold England and will never be forced to leave.”
Turning sharply to Oscetel, Leofwine spoke to Horic, “Is this right?”
“Yes, my Lord, it’s true. For many, many years the raiders have seen this small hill as an emblem. These men here, they’ll return home rich with tales. That is if they return home at all.”
Leofwine took a moment longer to consider. “Tell the men this, ensure Athelstan and his brother are aware: this battle, for that’s what it’ll be, will be a test of more than our resolve; we must beat them back to their ships or kill them and ourselves in the process. News of their advance must not be spread further than it needs to be. The bloody Danes already think they can take England whenever they want to. I’ll not allow their foolhardy prophecy to gain any more weight.”
Horic grunted to show his understanding of his Lord’s words and wandered off to speak to the rest of the men.
“You’ll accompany me Oscetel?”
“Of course, my Lord, but are we to go alone?”
“I think it best. Now come. We must hurry. I want to fight him in the light.”
Leaving his horse behind, Leofwine instructed Hammer to walk before him. The dog whined a little at the smell of campfires and blood that filled
the air but was finally convinced to walk towards the ancient mound.
They’d taken less than ten steps forward when a similar party of two began to walk towards them from the opposition’s side.
“Is that Swein?” Leofwine inquired, his eyesight being next to useless in the dull day.
“Yes, my Lord, although I don’t know who accompanies him; he’s young, though, perhaps one of his sons.”
As they walked closer, even Leofwine was able to see Swein’s self-satisfied swagger, and his resolve intensified.
“Well met, my Lord Leofwine,” Swein shouted within spitting distance.
“I can’t say the same for you, King Swein.”
“Well, that’s a shame, to come to your death with such bad humour,” was the insolent reply, “but I suppose I can’t blame you.”
“Why are you here?”
“I came to see if I could reach this excellent place, and now that I’m here I intend to stay, for rumour has is that once this place is mine it shall remain mine. I’m quite looking forward to being King of this land.”
“You think you can take my King’s land with only a handful of men?”
“I think I’ve done very well so far, with just my few men and that pitiful excuse of an Ealdorman Leofsige. You can tell your King that the man is dead. He had no taste for battle. Where have you been my Lord? I’d been expecting you much sooner, but I’m happy that you took so long to find me.”
Leofwine contained his anger and forbore to answer.
“Now that I’m here, you can leave.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I’m quite content here. The Isle of Wight is a grim place. The land around here seems more proliferate in warm houses and warmer beds.”
“But none of them is yours, and so I must insist you leave or we’ll be forced to chase you from the land.”
“Like last time?” Swein countered.
“Like last time,” Leofwine replied, not allowing his purpose to falter.