Authors: Stephen Zimmer
“Hold!” Aethelstan called out forcefully, seeing the enemy retreat. “Hold the line!”
He hurried back up to the ridge’s apex, to get a better look. The enemy forces were pulling back en masse, and the pause in the fighting afforded the Saxans a prime opportunity to regroup.
His own men had suffered heavy casualties, and were in dire need of a respite after an extended period of hand to hand combat. The wounded were helped away from the shield wall, as both clergy and non-combatants from the areas behind the battle lines hustled forward to assist.
As the din of battle was suspended, the sickening sounds of groans and cries from wounded men reached Aethelstan’s ears. They were terrible noises that jabbed right into his inner heart.
Keeping his face steady, he rapidly disseminated orders that the men were to remain along the ridge-top. As with the last lull in the fighting, they were also to set about acquiring whatever weapons, shields, helms and even mail coats that could be retrieved easily from the fallen of both sides.
Each break in the fighting provided a grisly opportunity, but they were ones that could not be overlooked. The men of the General Fyrd could now arm themselves with something much better than makeshift clubs, low quality spears, harvest tools, and long knives. The men of the Select Fyrd could replace shattered shields, and broken swords and axes. Stripping the dead was a repulsive, unwelcome chore, but given the dire circumstances, Aethelstan believed that the Saxans would be forgiven for the mild violation of the corpses.
Aethelstan then repeated a very strict dictate that he had issued before the fighting had begun, that if any Avanoran wounded were come across, they were to be tended to. He knew that there would likely be moments of personal vengeance, as men who had just lost kin and dear friends came across enemy wounded, but the great thane hoped to keep bloody revenge to a minimum. Though his hope was rooted in sheer idealism, mercy was one of the ways that the Saxans could distinguish themselves further from the invaders.
Men from among the peasant levies were then ordered to gather up any arrows that they could find intact, as many of the Avanoran arrows that had missed their intended targets could be pulled out of the ground, from trees, or picked up in a reusable condition.
Aethelstan strode down the length of the Saxan front, heading back towards center where his standard still flew unscathed. Cenferth rushed forward to greet him eagerly upon his return.
“Thane Aethelstan! The right flank was saved, The Almighty is indeed with you this day!” Cenferth exclaimed, in excited tones.
“For now, Cenferth,” Aethelstan replied calmly, clasping his household warrior on the shoulder. “The marauders will be back soon enough. But we have some time, as even they need some rest.”
“How long do you think we have this time, before they attack again?” Cenferth asked, running a grime-covered finger over the five-lobed sword pommel jutting up from his scabbard.
“A handful of moments? An hour? Maybe they will simply retreat back to Avanor. Could we not hope for that?” Aethelstan asked, with a sad, regretful smile. He wished it could be so simple.
Aethelstan glanced towards the skies. The airborne scouts for the Avanoran force continued to circle in wide, gliding patterns overhead. In the midst of so much death, Aethelstan found that they now resembled carrion birds, readying to descend for a gruesome feast.
Relatively few in number, the sky riders would not be a great threat to the Saxan force, but they would convey to the enemy commanders that the Saxans were still concentrated along the ridge line. Any movement the Saxans tried to undertake in any numbers would be easily spotted during daylight. Edmund had so few Himmerosen available to him that the enemy presence in the skies would go uncontested. There was no hope of reinforcement, with the overwhelming majority of sky steeds requisitioned for the massive battle out on the Plains of Athelney.
Aethelstan knew that time was working at cross-purposes for the Saxans, both in their favor and against them. The longer that the Saxans held out on the ridge line, the more that the chances of the enemy’s goals being achieved would dwindle. There was little doubt that the force before them intended to pass through and strike the flank or rear of the Saxan forces out on the Plains of Athelney.
The battle before them, on the other hand, would likely be lost in a struggle of unrelenting attrition. Aethelstan would not have been surprised to learn that he had already lost one in four men to death or serious injury.
He turned back towards Cenferth, who was awaiting him patiently. “Yes, we could hope that they decide to retreat. Come, let us take a walk together.”
Cenferth quietly fell in with Aethelstan as they strode along the back of the ridge. Just past the center, a large group of levied peasants were sitting down and taking a rest. They looked haggard and weary, no longer unfamiliar with the horrors and agonies of battle. Aethelstan knew that for a great many of them, their outlook on life had been changed irrevocably, in just a few short hours.
A few had fallen asleep, having slumped down to the ground where they stretched out without concern for cover. Some seemed to be in a silence of their own, while still others passed the time talking with each other in low, subdued voices. Some wept openly over the losses of comrades and kin, as others sought to comfort them, speaking gently or putting an arm around their shoulders.
Aethelstan’s heart ached at the mournful sights. Though phyiscally unscathed, with only a few cuts and bruises incurred in the fighting, the men were profusely bleeding in spirit.
A little more reassuring, Aethelstan could see that several peasants had procured shields, helms, swords, and other well-made weapons. One man of more advanced years was wriggling into a mail shirt, though the blood-stained, punctured iron links in the chest area spoke volumes as to what had happened to its former owner. Nevertheless, the man seemed eager to don the mail coat without delay.
Several of the men glanced in his direction as he walked through their midst. A few chewed upon pieces of salt meat or hard bread, and a barrel of ale had been tapped. A couple of men were handing out water skins, which had been filled from the stream that traveled through the low ground behind the ridge. Men cupped their hands and splashed water on their faces, working to clean off the filth and blood from the battle.
A couple of monks were assisting some men with their lighter wounds. They carefully poured water over the bleeding injuries to clean them out, before wrapping strips of cloth to temporarily bandage them.
The lessons of war were woven into the vivid images spread all around Aethelstan. Levels of fatigue and adequate food and drink were all central to the morale of an army. Food was perhaps the highest factor of them all, as empty stomachs deteriorated spirits within a force extremely quickly. In some ways, the elements of rest and sustenance were a much greater concern than all of the knights, war horses, arrows, and swords of the Avanoran invaders.
“Great Thane, you must eat too,” an older, grizzled-looking man interjected in a gruff voice, breaking Aethelstan away from his dark, inner ponderings.
The scraggly, bearded man went by the name of Bothelm, a leather worker who plied his trade in Bergton. Bothelm had a look of deep concern on his weathered face.
He extended a large chunk of bread in one hand, and a wooden cup filled with ale in the other. “The ale is from a new barrel just brought up from the camp. Not the best … not nearly as good as my wife brews … but it is the nectar of heaven right now.”
At first, Aethelstan hesitated, as he wanted to make sure that all of the men were getting a chance to get some food and ale before he worried about his own needs. Yet Aethelstan understood the look of worry in the eyes of the older man. It was the kind of expression that transcended the more worldly matters of simple artisans and high-ranking thanes.
“Thane Aethelstan, if your strength is not kept, then how can you lead us?” the older man urged, as he pushed the food and ale cup forward. “We all need you to keep your strength.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Aethelstan replied, smiling amiably, as he accepted the proffered bread and ale.
He took a deep draught of the ale cup, finishing about half of it in the first gulp. He had to restrain from downing all of the vessel’s contents in his great thirst.
In normal times, he certainly would have questioned the skill of the brewer, but, as Bothelm had said, the circumstances of the moment made it taste as sweet as anything that had ever touched his lips. A small sigh escaped Aethelstan, as he breathed out slowly in the wake of the long swig.
The older man smiled warmly at him. “Thank you, Great Thane. When you take your needs to heart, know that you take our needs to heart. Do not refuse yourself what your body needs.”
With a slight bow, the old man turned, and rejoined a nearby group of companions. Aethelstan stood a little entranced by the warm words and sentiments of the man, a beacon of light in the midst of such a terrible struggle. Even in the most daunting of times, such rays of light pierced his inner laments, reminding Aethelstan what they were all really fighting for.
After a moment’s pause, he tore off a piece of the bread and placed it in his mouth. He let the rough bread soften for a moment before beginning to chew it. Cenferth had been served with some bread, dried meat, and ale from some other men close by.
He held a chunk of the salty meat out to Aethelstan, talking through a mouth full of food, “Some meat would do you good as well. A man cannot live on bread alone.”
“I think your concerns about bread have been used in a different context by the priests, but thank you anyway,” Aethelstan replied with a grin, taking it from him. “If there is one that I am not worried about finding ample food, it is you, Cenferth. You have a nose for it, better than the most capable hunting dog in all of Saxany.”
Though he tried to slow his pace, he wolfed down the salted meat, and the rest of the ale and bread in a few moments. The heat of the battle had obscured his hunger, but now that his senses could turn towards other needs, he found that he was as famished as he was parched.
The sound of a horse galloping, coming from somewhere behind them at great speed, abruptly attracted his attention. He heard the sentries down on the other side of the ridge calling out challenges. He drew his eyes to the sight of the rider, just as a few armed warriors stepped aside to let the mounted figure through.
Approaching slowly up the back slope of the ridge was a man upon a gray horse, whose flanks were sleek with lather from an arduous jaunt. The man was lightly garbed, with a brown cloak clasped by a silver pin at the right shoulder, over a tunic and breeches of a similar color. His face was drawn and careworn, as much as his hair was disheveled. Aethelstan knew from the first glance that the rider had pressed both himself and his mount to the outer limits of their endurance.
The horseman bore a rolled up parchment in his right hand, clutched protectively, as he neared Aethelstan and slowed the horse down.
“Thane Aethelstan,” the rider addressed him without delay, pulling the reins up on the horse a couple of feet away from the Saxan commander.
“Yes?” Aethelstan replied.
“The reply from Arubandel,” the rider responded, with a leaden expression, extending the parchment towards Aethelstan.
Aethelstan accepted the parchment from the somber rider, and fingered the unbroken wax seal on it. The man’s countenance had already communicated the contents of the parchment, though Aethelstan still had to read the actual words inscribed upon it.
He turned towards Cenferth, “Get this man to our rear encampment. He has risked much to reach Arubandel and return back here. See that he is given food, drink, and any rations he may desire, if he should need to depart.”
The man looked back over at the ridgeline, where a good number of men idled along the course of the shield wall. They were looking out with shields and lances within easy reach, awaiting the expected return of the enemy.
His eyes swiveled back to Aethelstan. “Thane Aethelstan, great thane of Bergton, I can speak for myself, but not for my steed. My horse has been driven hard, and I will not begrudge him some much earned rest, but I would like to rejoin those of my home village on the line, if you will allow me to.”
Aethelstan regarded the exhausted man for a moment, before nodding. “If that is what you wish.”
“I cannot rest, as long as the day has not been decided,” he said, as he swung his back leg around, and dismounted the horse. “Can you have one of your men guide me to the place where the men from Oak Crossing are gathered?”
“I will take him, Thane Aethelstan,” Cenferth volunteered immediately. “I know that the men from Oak Crossing were placed on the left flank. Come with me.”
Cenferth beckoned to the rider, and the man started to go with him, as another Saxan took control of his horse and led it away. Before the man had gone more than a stride, Aethelstan took a sudden step forward and put a hand upon the man’s shoulder, halting him momentarily. “Before you go, I must have your name.”
The man replied, “Ceolfrid, a ceorl that has served in the garrison in the Burh at Sudborton, to the east.”
“Sudborton … there is excellent boar hunting around there, I am told,” Aethelstan said with a wistful grin, thinking of better times and pursuits.
The rider’s mouth turned up into a slight grin. It was a welcome relief to see the trace of levity dawn upon his forlorn, exhausted face. “Yes, Thane Aethelstan. It is indeed exceptional hunting there.”
“If we should live to see other days, and better ones at that, then I should like to come and hunt with you there. I will also make certain that you have at least five hides of land bestowed upon you,” Aethelstan said, with a smile of his own. “You have the blood of a worthy thane flowing in you. Fight well, Ceolfrid, and let us see better days together.”
“Thank you, Thane Aethelstan,” Ceolfrid replied in a low voice, nodding, with a look of surprise reflected in his eyes. The Saxan was hesitant, tongue-tied at the sudden bequest by Aethelstan.