Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (30 page)

Twenty Seven

Wessex: late March – April 871

Two weeks after the meeting at Swinbeorg, the Danes emerged from their Reading stronghold and renewed their efforts to subjugate Wessex. They headed west across the Berkshire Downs for some fifteen miles before veering south for a further five. They looted the settlement at Newbury, raising most of it to the ground and leaving few of its inhabitants alive. And now they were riding south-west towards Wiltshire.

News of their activities reached Alfred and his brother within the day. It was not unexpected, nor did it find them unprepared. From Winchester, the city to which they had returned following the Council meeting, they were ready to move out.

‘There’s only one place in that direction they can be heading,’ Alfred said, when the messengers arrived.

Aethelred nodded. ‘The bastards are aiming for my estate at Wilton. They’ll likely target all our major centres. They intend to take Wessex, brother, so why would they bother with villages, other than for food as they move from one to the other?’

Soon after daybreak the following morning the Saxon army was heading west, aiming to cover as much of the thirty-mile journey to Wilton as possible before dark. It was a dull, overcast day, which reflected the cheerless nature of their journey, though the absence of rain offered a degree of consolation. Alfred was once more reminded of his father as he rode his black stallion, Caesar, at Aethelred’s side. King Aethelwulf had always loved his estate at Wilton. The lump that rose in Alfred’s throat took some time to disappear. But when it eventually did, the surging wave of anger almost took his breath away.

The Saxons had been mustered at Winchester for the past six days. The Berkshire, Wiltshire and Surrey fyrds had been raised and the men were well rested and ready for combat. They looked an impressive force, although Alfred felt their numbers would simply not be enough.

On this occasion, it was Aethelred who allayed some of his fears.

‘I’m inclined to think the Danish forces won’t greatly outnumber our own,’ he said, twisting in his saddle to face Alfred. Behind them rode Bishop Heahmund, four ealdormen and a score of thegns, followed by eight hundred men of the fyrd, marching with grim determination. In his mailshirt and helm, the bishop struck an imposing figure as he headed towards his first major battle for Wessex. ‘They’ve had no more sizeable reinforcements since mid-January, whereas we’ve now amassed our troops.’

Alfred acknowledged that with a nod. ‘And, let’s not forget,’ Aethelred continued, ‘the “Great Army” we now face is a much less ferocious beast than the one that initially landed and swelled to obesity on the Anglian coast six years ago. For a start, a considerable number of Danes chose to settle in Anglia, substantially lessening their army’s size before it stormed into Wessex. We could even take a further step back and contemplate how many Danes must have fallen in Northumbria.’ He glanced at Alfred, who was curling strands of Caesar’s long mane round his fingers as he listened. ‘So what I’m saying is that even by the time they took Reading, the Norse army was considerably reduced. And –'

‘No, brother, let me finish,’ Aethelred said, raising a hand as Alfred drew breath to speak. ‘You’ll have your say when I’m done. At Ashdown, you’ll recall, it was we who had the larger force. And Danish losses there were higher than ours, which meant that we still had the greater number . . .

‘So it’s probable that the Danes’ win at Basing was simply a stroke of luck on their behalf,’ Aethelred added, frowning. ‘The addition of the new fleet in mid-January was the
only
reason for that particular victory. Our own army at that time had not been reinforced since Ashdown, which – despite our victory – also took a great many of our men.’

‘So you’re saying we’re once again evenly matched?’ Alfred got in at last.

‘I believe our numbers will be close, certainly. Which doesn’t necessarily guarantee us victory, I know. But it surely gives us grounds for hope?’

Alfred was impressed by his brother’s positive attitude which, in turn, lifted his own spirits. ‘It does indeed, my lord,’ he said with an encouraging smile. But he kept his innermost thoughts to himself. Even should a victory at Wilton prove decisive, the likelihood of many more Norse ships arriving over the following weeks would ensure that the war continued. And the task of increasing the Saxon forces would not be easy.

The main problem was that so many of the kingdom’s shires lay along the coast – from Kent to Cornwall – and were presently combating problems of their own. A large fleet of over a hundred dragonships had been gradually moving along the shores of Wessex throughout the previous summer and into winter, beleaguering coastal towns and villages. Their habit had been to disperse into groups and attack simultaneously at a number of locations. Towns and villages could never be certain the ships had moved on, or when they’d be safe from further assault. Alfred had advised leaving the port reeves and ealdormen of the shires to deal with these attacks, believing them to be isolated incidents, of a type that Wessex had been experiencing for years. Aethelred’s carefully chosen ealdormen and reeves were capable leaders and there seemed no reason to interfere.

In early December this large fleet had sailed on westward to overwinter in the many creeks and bays of Cornwall, raiding the Cornish homesteads repeatedly in their quest for winter food supplies. But, with the spring the Danish fleet had turned back east, and now their concentration was focused on Devon and Dorset. They attacked with renewed ferocity, surging in from the sea to leave townships and coastal villages stripped of all food and valuables. Port reeves had had little success in holding them back, and the raiders were moving further and further inland.

It would have been unjust to demand that the men of those shires should rally to the king’s aid. All Wessex men were fighting the same battle, after all. Alfred now felt certain that the coastal attacks were part of a prearranged plan on the Danes’ behalf: to assault the Saxons from all sides in an attempt to dilute their numbers at every turn. Although he could not deny the ingenuity of the strategy, he cursed the heathens to eternal damnation. And, not for the first time, considered the need for a substantial fleet of Saxon galleys to patrol the coasts. Building such a fleet, however, was out of the question during their present state of invasion.

For the time being, at least, Hampshire was free from coastal raids. But faced with the probability of that suddenly changing, Aethelred had insisted on leaving the Southampton reeve with a good-sized force.

Alfred mused on all these things as they rode. It was rumoured that the leader of this Danish fleet was another son of the famous Ragnar Lodbrok, who had been thrown into a pit of vipers by King Aelle of Northumbria. If the rumours were true, it would certainly make sense of his belief that the seaborne raids were all part of the Great Army’s predetermined plan. Again Alfred contemplated the advantages of Wessex having her own fleet of ships . . .

Beside him, Aethelred also rode in silence. His face showed no fear, just a steely determination that made Alfred feel proud to be his brother. When the king addressed his men during periods of rest and refreshment for themselves and their mounts, his voice held that same resolve. The look on the men’s faces reflected Alfred’s own admiration and pride.

It was early evening by the time Aethelred ordered the final halt of the day. As Alfred and his brother had planned, they had reached an expanse of meadow outside the ancient town of Salisbury. Their destination, the town of Wilton, lay four miles further west. A narrow stream at the meadow’s edge flowed south-west to join the River Avon, alongside of which Salisbury stood.

The men set up their makeshift camp for a night and ate some of the dried food they carried in pouches fastened at their waists. Daylight would last for little more than an hour, and Alfred shared his brother’s impatience as they waited for the scouts they’d sent on ahead before daybreak to join them. It was imperative to know the enemy whereabouts before they moved on tomorrow.

With great relief Alfred spotted the riders approaching their camp.

‘My lord,’ the tall spokesman said, sinking to one knee before Aethelred, ‘the Danes have stopped north of Wilton, almost twenty miles from here.’ He swallowed hard before relaying his next piece of news. ‘They’ve already plundered your estate at Meretun . . . and burnt it to the ground. Now they’re massed on the edge of a large plain next to it.’

‘You have our thanks, Ceneric,’ Aethelred replied, recovering quickly from the news of losing his Meretun estate. ‘You’ve done well to cover such distance in one day. Without this information we’d simply have headed straight for Wilton.’

‘So tomorrow we veer north-west for Meretun,’ Alfred clarified. ‘It seems the Danes are waiting for us close to Salisbury Plain.’

Aethelred’s face was grim, and Alfred knew his brother shared his own thoughts. The Danes’ strike at the royal estate had been intended to goad the Saxons into action. But it also proved that Norse scouts were on constant lookout. Halfdan was well aware of the Wessex army’s position and had already selected the battle site.

*****

In the early afternoon of the following day the Wessex army reached the battlefield at Meretun. Less than half a mile away, the hall and outbuildings of what had been a peaceful estate had been reduced to charred remains, its inhabitants dead or else in hiding in nearby forest.

Clearly alerted to their approach, the Danes were waiting, already drawn up into battle order. They were organised into two divisions as they had been at Ashdown, each company four lines deep, each line of around a hundred warriors. To their backs, the great expanse of Salisbury Plain stretched out as far as the eye could see. Their stance was overtly menacing, with swords and battleaxes wielded to intimidate their foe. But the proud men of Wessex returned the posturing with contemptuous glares and, having been prepared for such a possibility, moved easily into two comparable divisions.

As they made their stand, twenty-five yards from the enemy, the jeering and hammering on shields began. Alfred took his place in the centre of his own front line, with the steadfast ealdormen Paega and Unwine at his sides. Aethelred’s company were to the left of his own. The king stood beside his standard bearer who proudly lofted the Wessex banner. To Aethelred’s right the imposing Bishop Heahmund stood glowering at his opponents, and beside the standard bearer was Brihtnoth of Wiltshire.

Danish shields slammed to and the first volley of spears thwacked into the Saxons behind their own wall of shields. Better equipped than they had been at Ashdown, the Saxons retaliated with a dense volley of their own, and for several rounds matched the Danes in accuracy and force. The inevitable casualties fell, to be stepped over or trampled in the rush to fill the gaps.

The missiles gradually ceased and the Norsemen resumed their thundering on shields and yelling of taunts. Their battle lust by now well roused, the Saxons returned in kind. Then Halfdan stepped forward from the company facing Aethelred.

‘This is not a battle you can win, Saxon!’ he yelled as the rumpus ceased. ‘Yield now and you could be treated well . . . perhaps rule this kingdom for us when we move on to better things.’

‘And be your
puppet
!’ Aethelred’s voice was clear and derisive. ‘Take your thieving swine back to their sties across the sea. There’s no room in Wessex for snorting pigs!’

Halfdan let out a roar of mirth. ‘So you’ve found your voice at last, great king. Not hiding behind your men this time. Well, after this battle, it will be your army grovelling in the mud with the pigs!’

‘You’ll never take Wessex, pagan! This land is protected by the Almighty God. And
we
are God’s people. It is
you
who’ll be grovelling in the mud.’

Again Halfdan’s laughter rang out. ‘Your Christ-God is a lying bastard! He promised to protect the Anglians, too – and just look what happened to poor Edmund!’ Jeers and hoots erupted from the Danish lines. Halfdan raised a hand and the laughing abruptly ceased. He stepped back into his front line and lofted his sword arm. Alfred held his breath, ready to move.

‘Attack!’ Halfdan’s voice was instantly buried by the roaring charge of Danes.

‘Shield wall!’ Alfred yelled as his own force careered to counter the strike.

The almighty clash rang out as the two forces met, either side heaving and shoving whilst swords and stabbing spears sought out vulnerable body parts to disable. Alfred fought with calculated determination to win the day. His skill with the sword had greatly improved since Ashdown and he made contact with exposed flesh with greater precision. Beside him, Brihtnoth went down and another warrior took his place.

More men were falling now, Saxons and Danes alike, but as afternoon wore on the battle continued to rage. It seemed that neither side would dominate the field that day.

Then Alfred realised that the Danes were gradually being driven back. The Saxons had the upper hand. The thrill of pending success spurred him on, and as his sword thrust into a leering warrior’s belly he felt a sudden easing of pressure. The Danes were suddenly turning tail and fleeing out to the Plain. Saxon jeers were loud and shrill and only Aethelred’s quick thinking in addressing them prevented a mass outpouring after the retreating foe.

‘The day is ours,’ Aethelred yelled, blatant elation in his voice. Alfred stood aside with Bishop Heahmund as the cheers rang out for the king. Aethelred lifted his arms for silence. ‘Darkness will soon envelop us and to pursue our enemy would serve us no purpose. We stay and move our dead from the field ready for morning burial. Our thegns will organise the night watch. My heartfelt thanks to you all for the service you have done for Wessex this day.’

Dispersed and focused on the miserable task of retrieving their dead, the return of the Danes hit the Saxons with the strength of a raging gale. Panicked, they hastily reformed into some kind of barrier against the impenetrable shieldwall that crashed into them. But their new wall was weak, and under the force of the great onrush of Danes, it soon began to crumble. Alfred fought desperately to gain some kind of order as men around him fell, unable to counter the might of the organised Danes. Daylight was almost gone when he saw the first of the Saxons take flight. Then the whole Wessex army fled the field.