Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (24 page)

She turned to leave the hall, just as Burgred’s voice rose again. ‘You may take food and drink, and rest here the night,’ he said sharply to Brinn. ‘Tomorrow you will return to your father. Tell him I thank him for the news, but Mercia is presently in no position to offer aid to anyone. We have been bled dry by the Danes . . . and will be unable to raise the fyrd at this time.’

By the time Aethelswith eventually sank into her bed, she was too distressed to sleep. She had never understood the behaviour of the man she called husband: a man she had tried so hard to love, but over the years had come to loathe. Burgred was selfish and cowardly, frequently hiding his failings in the contents of an ale cup. He was devoid of all warmth and feeling towards her or their daughter. But his blatant disregard for an ally’s desperate need for aid was intolerable. It was as though he simply didn’t care . . . didn’t care about anything or anybody at all. Other than himself.

His feeble excuse that a suitable army could not be mustered during the holy period had rendered even the most ineffective of Burgred’s councillors livid, and Aethelswith knew that once the messengers had left for Reading, she and Mildrede must avoid the hall. Shamed by Burgred’s response to the news from Wessex, tomorrow the councillors would thrash the matter out with him.

Tomorrow would be the last day of the year and, before Aethelswith eventually closed her eyes, she prayed that God would keep her brothers safe.

*****

Ealdorman Aethelwulf wasted little time in raising a substantial number of the Berkshire fyrd. Within four days of the Danes taking Reading, his army was heading towards the town. It was December 31, the last day of the year, and the seventh of the twelve days of Christmastide. But the veteran Mercian ealdorman could not simply sit around and wait for King Aethelred’s armies to arrive without confronting his shire’s invaders. He’d been ealdorman of that area of Mercia for over thirty years, continuing to serve her loyally even after a sizeable portion of it had come under the control of Wessex, twenty-two years ago. Despite remaining a true, loyal Mercian, Ealdorman Aethelwulf had vowed to serve Wessex for as long as he lived. And he had no intention of giving up now.

Skirting the vast, dense Windsor forest to their south, Ealdorman Aethelwulf and his army of almost two hundred men followed the banks of the River Kennet towards the small village of Englefield, some six miles to the west of Reading. On the old Roman road, midway between the once thriving town of Silchester and Dorcester-on-Thames, they intercepted the Great Army’s foraging party. Taken completely by surprise, the Danes were quickly routed, the survivors having no other choice than to mount up and flee back to Reading.

‘After them!’ Aethelwulf yelled, already heeling his grey to a gallop. But on nearing the town he brought his army to a halt, realising the inexpedience of attempting to drive home his advantage now. His own forces were insufficient to face the vast army installed behind the vill’s new ramparts. Better to wait for the reinforcements he knew to be already marching hard for Reading.

‘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.