Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (25 page)

‘But our fight is by no means over,’ Aethelred eventually resumed, his face now reflecting determination and steely grit. ‘We will
not
let these thieving pagans take our lands . . . our homes . . . our very birthright! What would Wessex become for our children, and our children’s children, if the Danes are allowed to rule . . . ?

‘I’ll tell you what Wessex would become,’ he growled in answer to his own question. The men were still and silent in the face of their king’s rising anger. ‘It would become a land in which no man, woman or child would ever feel safe again, inside or out of their own homes. It would be a Godless wilderness, where the pagans practised their barbaric rites . . .

‘So, my friends, while the blood still flows though our veins, we fight on!’

Aethelred suddenly swayed and he reached out to the edge of the cart to steady himself.

‘My lord, we must all rest now,’ Alfred murmured to his brother. ‘Including you. But first, I need your permission to address the men.’

Aethelred nodded and all attention focused on Alfred as he began to speak. ‘Words cannot convey our gratitude for your selfless actions today,’ he said, his arm sweeping round to encompass them all. ‘Every one of you has made us both proud and humbled by your loyalty to your king and your kingdom. Yes, our losses were high – likely well over half our number – and many of you will be sorely grieving for fallen friends. And amongst those we count the wise and noble Ealdorman Aethelwulf.’

Aethelred groaned and Alfred realised he must not have known. ‘I have only now been informed that the ealdorman died within a few miles of reaching Windsor . . . So very close to safety!’ Alfred went on, shaking his head at the injustice of that. ‘Over twenty years ago, Ealdorman Aethelwulf made a request to our father to be buried in the Mercian town of Derby – should the circumstances of his death permit. I saw how close to death he was as we fled from Reading, and I cannot give praise enough to his loyal men who put their own lives at great risk by carrying him from the battlefield. Tomorrow, those same brave men will convey Aethelwulf’s body north to Derby.’

Alfred glanced around at the citizens of the town who had gathered to investigate the commotion. ‘I’m sure the good people of Windsor can spare a wagon to convey the body of so loyal an ealdorman to his final resting place . . . ?’

He acknowledged the ready offers with a nod then opened his arms to the men. ‘But now it’s rest you need. You are all exhausted and close to collapse – and some amongst you have wounds that must be tended before you sleep. Tomorrow your king and I will confer with our ealdormen and thegns regarding our next move. By mid morning you will all know of our decision.’

*****

After a few hours of fitful sleep, Aethelred summoned his remaining nobles into the Windsor hall to divulge the battle plans he and Alfred had discussed before retiring. The hall was the home of Eglaf, a Berkshire thegn, who had already sent out his warriors to call the local fyrd.

‘The one thing of which I’m certain is that the Danes will recognise their need to bring our armies to battle again as soon as possible,’ Aethelred began, glancing round at the listening men, knowing he wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already realise themselves. ‘A decisive victory for them now would avoid the possibility of a long siege at Reading and give them the freedom to pillage around Wessex and forage for food for the rest of the winter.

‘We cannot afford to give them that victory!

‘It will likely take a couple of days for Eglaf’s men to assemble the fyrd. Then we move.’

No one voiced the obvious question, but waited silently for the king to unfold his plans. Alfred glanced at his brother, who gave a curt nod, and took up his cue.

‘My lords, after giving much thought to this, King Aethelred and I have come to the conclusion that the Danes’ most likely move will be towards the rich lands north and west of Reading. There are monasteries and estates in that direction that would yield abundant plunder, including food supplies. Their leaders will surmise that we will have stayed within a few hours’ march away to make our plans for retaliation once we’ve replenished our losses. And in heading for those lands, they will be well aware that we will not sit by and watch.’

He paused, just long enough to order the thoughts he would now put into words. ‘No, my lords, whatever moves they make will be carefully calculated to draw us to them, thus provoking another battle, well away from Reading.’ He held out his upturned hands. ‘We simply need to discover their chosen route . . .

‘We intend to send out a number of scouts, and for that we require volunteers from amongst our remaining fyrd.’ He allowed his gaze to sweep the seated men. ‘My lords, I must ask that some of you seek out volunteers for this task.’ A number of fingers were raised and Alfred nodded. ‘Those men must be mounted, since their roles will be to follow enemy movements out of Reading and get word to us regarding the direction in which they head. Such knowledge will enable us to determine the best site for us to engage them in battle.’

Again Alfred paused as the men digested the information. ‘The scouts must leave directly after this meeting and ride with all haste. As soon as the new fyrd has been mustered, the rest of us will set out towards Reading, then up and across the Downs. The scouts will locate us easily once we reach the Vale of White Horse. Since we’ll be moving slowly with men on foot, they should have ample time to complete their task.’

Alfred said no more and Aethelred drew the meeting to its conclusion. ‘We realise that such a task will not be without risk to the men involved,’ he admitted. ‘There is always the possibility of being spotted and captured by Danish lookouts. Be certain that the volunteers are aware of this, and assure each one of them a goodly reward after we have confronted the enemy.

‘And when we do confront them, my lords, the Danes will face no unsuspecting or disordered army. We will be organised and strong, ready for battle. And this time, we will win!’

Twenty Three

By dusk the next day, Eglaf’s men had summoned the local fyrd, and at daybreak the following morning Aethelred ordered immediate departure from Windsor. Despite the addition of over a hundred fighting men their numbers were still dangerously low but, along their route, men emerged from the villages, steadily swelling their contingent. Most of the new recruits swore they’d rather die fighting than see the pagan Danes destroy their lands and ravage their womenfolk. Alfred was truly impressed by the loyalty of his countrymen, which did much to release Aethelred from the grief and shame that had seized him after their recent defeat.

They headed towards Reading, skirting the town a good five miles to the south and continuing west for a further fifteen before veering north into the rolling Berkshire Downs, some sections of which the local people called Ashdown. After a further five miles, Aethelred ordered a halt. The fyrd had marched over thirty miles and he could not push them further.

The damp cold of the January night seemed to seep through clothing and skin alike, rendering sleep well-nigh impossible, and with the first signs of a greying sky they were on the move again. By noon they were heading down the steeper, scarp slope towards the expansive lowlands of the Vale of White Horse.

Aethelred raised his arm for a halt. Below them Kingstone nestled at the foot of the escarpment, one of the many springline settlements. Five miles further east, and a couple of miles from the ridge, was Alfred’s beloved vill at Wantage.

‘You’re sure this is the place, Alfred? I can’t see anything of particular note.’

Alfred watched his brother glancing up and down the undulating slope, its crest at the Ridgeway path above them. Scores of Saxon warriors spread out in all directions, their faces as nonplussed as their king’s. No one but Alfred knew the reason for this route. The biting wind whistled around them, and many of the men were in dire need of warm food and sleep.

‘No, brother, we’re not quite there, yet. But this is definitely the right hill: I’ve been here many times and would probably recognise it in my sleep. Another couple of hundred yards or so further down and you’ll see it.’

‘See what, exactly?’

‘You’ll be able to answer that for yourself before long, my lord.’

A mere twenty-five yards from the base of the hill and the outlying buildings of settlement, Alfred signalled to Aethelred to stop. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Aethelred drew rein and looked about, then pointed at the only object to catch his eye, his face reflecting his bemusement. It stood close to the spring that gushed merrily out from the slope after its lengthy captivity in the belly of the escarpment.

‘Surely we haven’t stopped to look at a chunk of dirty old rock! It’s a peculiar-looking thing, I’ll grant you, but it’s still just a rock . . .’

Alfred nodded, dismounted and strolled over to the hefty stone as the men came to mass around.

‘I purposely requested our king should take this route across Ashdown in order to reach this very stone,’ he called out, raising his voice to reach as many of the men as possible. He gestured up the hill they had just descended. ‘Blowing Stone Hill is not so named for nothing. This great lump of sarsen stone, with these many cavities penetrating deep into its dark interior, is a thing of local legend . . .’

Alfred held out his arm to Aethelred. ‘It is said that only the breath of a king can persuade the stone to release the sound that will carry for many miles, asking all free men to come to his aid in a time of need. And I can think of no greater time of need for Wessex than now. Our army is still short of over a hundred warriors.

‘Would you like to try it out, my lord?’

Aethelred’s nose wrinkled. ‘No, Alfred, I would not. I’ll delegate that task to you. I’m surprised you haven’t already tried it yourself, since you know this area so well.’

Alfred moved to his brother’s side. ‘My lord, you are the king, not I,’ he whispered. ‘The men will think it strange if you leave me to do this.’

‘I have no intention of grovelling down there, huffing and puffing into a filthy rock like a demented boar for . . . well, for nothing! You can’t seriously think it will work?’

‘We’ll never know until we try,’ Alfred responded, returning to kneel by the hole-riddled rock. Locating a few of the more accessible cavities dotting its irregular sides, he started to blow, his cheeks bulging and turning crimson as he huffed. But to no avail. Behind him, Aethelred chortled, and the men close enough to see what he was doing soon joined in.

Alfred stood and scratched his head, refusing to give up. Along the top of the stone were a few wider openings, but in order to reach them, he’d need something to stand on. He gestured to a smaller boulder and two of the men rolled it over for him. Then, perched like a statue on a plinth, Alfred selected a particularly interesting-looking hole, and drew breath . . .

The sound was truly deafening, booming out across the Vale. Villagers streamed out from the settlement, watching in awe, hands on their ears, as Alfred repeated the process.

Aethelred stared at him, agog, then simply nodded and continued on to Kingstone, a group of village elders as his escort. Alfred now had no cause to explain the name of the village to the king, or his army.

Their scouts had been waiting for them at the village, as had been prearranged, and had been amongst those who had hastened out at the great boom of the king’s stone. Their news was as Alfred and Aethelred had anticipated. The Great Army was preparing to move out towards Wallingford with the next day’s dawn. Alfred knew that once they had access to the very heart of Wessex, the Danes would be almost impossible to stop.

The Saxon army had no other choice but to confront them before that happened.

*****

As afternoon wore on, men from Vale and Downland villages flocked to Kingstone, all swearing to return by daybreak tomorrow. Those whose homes were too distant stayed at Kingstone. Alfred counted almost two hundred heads and Aethelred was jubilant. Unless further reinforcements had joined the Danes at Reading, their own numbers would now surpass those of the Great Heathen Army.

With their ealdormen and thegns, Aethelred and Alfred were housed and fed in the hall of the most important of the village’s elders. Those of the fyrd who moved fast enough found shelter in the numerous barns and storage sheds of the substantial settlement. Others, not so quick-thinking, dived for sheltered nooks and crannies between buildings, keen to be out of the cruel wind, at least. Many of the householders provided pottage, bread and cheese, or whatever they could spare to supplement the scant rations they carried themselves. From the news their king had relayed, tomorrow the men would need all the strength they could muster.

*****

At first light, four days after their victory over the West Saxons at Reading, Halfdan and Bagsecg rallied their armies and set out in a north-westerly direction across the Berkshire Downs. They were heading in the direction of Wallingford and the rich monastic lands at Abingdon further on. The mounted men moved quickly, following the River Thames upstream and cursing the wind-swept drizzle that was doing its best to obscure their vision.

Halfdan smiled at the ingenuity of their plan. What could be a more provocative move for their Great Army to make than to head into the very heart of Wessex, towards one of its most important fords across the Thames and one of its wealthiest monasteries? The previous night, he and Bagsecg had devised battle plans with the jarls. Should the enemy come upon them suddenly, they had no intention of being caught unprepared, as the Saxons had been at Reading. They would split their forces into two, one led by Bagsecg and himself, the other by five of the most influential jarls. As they rode, they kept in that order: each force in constant readiness.

Bagsecg turned to face Halfdan riding at his side, and squinted through the driving rain. ‘The Saxon army’ll be closing in on us any time now.’

Halfdan stared at the self-acclaimed king. ‘How do you know that? We’ve had no sightings of them yet.’

Bagsecg shook his head, as though dealing with a particularly dim-witted child. ‘Who says we have to see them to know they’re there? It stands to reason the Saxons’ll attempt to put a halt to our little foray before long. They can’t afford to let us anywhere near that ford for a start.’ His arm swept out to indicate the expansive downland to their west. ‘Anyway, I’ve sent a few scouts out across this bloody wilderness. If there’s any kind of army on the move, they’ll soon hear of it. In the meantime, we keep moving . . .

‘But I wouldn’t be too concerned, if I were you. The Saxon army’ll be little more than a bunch of pissin’ farmers, armed with their pathetic hoes and flimsy shields.’

Halfdan smirked, savouring the thought of another resounding victory.

*****

The newest recruits to the West Saxon fyrd arrived with the dawn, armed with their round shields, spears and axes, as well as a variety of other sharp implements. After brief words of heartfelt thanks from the king, they set out from Kingstone. It was now Monday, January 8: three days since they’d left Windsor. Not the best time of year to do battle, Alfred mused, blinking into the cold, hazy mizzle.

They headed east through the Vale, following the foot of the scarp slope of the Downs. The fyrd were fresh and walked speedily, not wanting to disappoint their king, and before mid morning they had covered almost thirteen miles. Once past a tiny hamlet perched beside another spring that oozed from the chalky ridge, they veered along a well-used path to make the gradual, winding ascent up to the Ridgeway.

Alfred calculated that from here it would take them at least another two hours to reach Streatley, a substantial village alongside the Thames, through which the Great Army would pass. It was Aethelred’s intention to stop the Danes before they could move on from there. Alfred frowned as he considered the likelihood of that. It would be noon by the time their own army reached the village and, if the Danes had set out at dawn, they could easily be approaching Wallingford by then . . .

But what if Wallingford was not their true destination?

He stared down at Caesar’s twitching ears as he mulled things over. For a start, it stood to reason that the enemy would have their spies out, and would soon get wind of their approach – if they hadn’t done so already. Both he and Aethelred felt certain that to provoke the Saxons into another battle was the sole purpose of their move into the heart of Wessex. The Danes would believe them to still be weak, undermanned, ill-equipped and too demoralised to fare well in another engagement. So it was quite possible that the Great Army would
not
move on, but simply wait at Streatley. Or, more likely still, turn onto the Ridgeway to meet the Saxons head on . . .

‘You think that’s likely?’ Aethelred responded when Alfred voiced his thoughts as their horses picked their way along the chalky, flint-riddled path. He dipped his helmeted head against the stinging wind that blew across the exposed slopes of Ashdown, driving the icy rain into men’s faces and reddening their cheeks.

‘I do, brother. That’s what I’d do in their shoes. You and I both believe that reaching the ford at Wallingford is not the motive for their move. And there are a number of places along this route where they could make a stand.’

Alfred turned his thoughts to the inevitable conflict. Their own numbers were now impressive – over nine hundred men – and likely to be well over a hundred more than those of the Danes. Nonetheless, he knew that many of the new fyrd were untried warriors, and would never have stood in a shield wall. Success today would lie in the men’s ability to obey orders and learn quickly how the battle lines were organised. Alfred could not deny the men’s courage and determination to fight for their homes and families, nor could he question the physical strength of most. They were men of the land, after all, used to hard physical work.

But their battle skills remained to be seen.

*****

The Great Army reached Streatley by mid morning. The deserted village sloped gently down to the Thames, the absence of small boats along its jetty revealing the means by which the inhabitants had fled; the village on the opposite bank, their most likely destination. It was clear they’d left the place divested of all foodstuffs and objects of worth. Halfdan grunted. No matter; his army was after more important game.

Once beyond the village, they would follow the Ridgeway as it curved north from over the Downs and continue on to Wallingford. It seemed to Halfdan that the Saxons were running out of time. It was little over six miles to the ford from Streatley, and then they’d be into the very heart of Wessex. So where was the blasted Saxon army?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

The scouts Bagsecg had sent out returned with the news that the Saxons were moving slowly up from the lowlands towards the Ridgeway. They would be nine or ten miles away by now.

‘Then we’ll give the swine a surprise that’ll really make them jump,’ Bagsecg yelled, to the cheers of the men around him. ‘They’ll find our warriors heading right into their bloody faces.’

Not to be outdone, Halfdan flung out his arms. ‘Stay with the company to which you were assigned,’ he bellowed. ‘You all know who your leaders are, so listen for their orders. Fight hard and fight well. And if need be, die well! Remember that to die in battle today is to feast in Valhalla tomorrow!’

The roars of approval rang out as they veered west across the chalky downland.

*****

The West Saxons were still some six hundred yards from the top of the slope when the Danes loomed into view. The men at the front stopped dead in their tracks, many of those behind, who had not yet crested the steep rise in the hillside and were unable to see the ridge, murmuring at the abrupt halt. Alfred squinted up at the foe, strung out across the crest of the ridge, drawn up into two distinct divisions, several warriors deep with a fifty-yard gap between.

‘We have no other choice than to confront them here,’ Aethelred said, surveying his own large army, four-abreast along the pathway behind. The men were silent and Alfred knew that many would be wondering whether they’d still be alive by tonight. His own heart thudded and he fought to control Caesar’s sidling, the stallion unnerved by the anxiety he sensed in his rider.