It was one evening in the late autumn that the awful thing happened. He was alone in the kitchen, preparing the monks’ food. In the corner was a roaring fire, and because of the noise of the wood crackling in the grate, he did not hear Aelfwine come into the room. When he turned, he found the young man close beside him. They had spoken a few words, he could hardly remember what, and then suddenly Aelfwine had come much closer. His face was flushed – he supposed it was because of the fire; on his forehead he noticed little beads of sweat. And the young man’s eyes were shining, staring down at him meaningfully, but conveying a message he did not understand. Then, before the boy knew what had happeneed. Aelfwine’s arms were round him, pressing him closely; and as he turned up his face, his mouth open, his large eyes wide with shock, the thane’s son had kissed him.
He did not know what was happening; he was terrified. He struggled, but against the strength of Aelfwine, it was useless.
At last, the thane’s son let him go.
“Remember, Osric, I am your friend.”
And moments later, scarlet and panting, the boy found he was alone again.
What did it mean? Were such things done? He did not know what to think, but he felt as if he had been defiled.
From that evening, his life had been miserable. It seemed to him that wherever he went, Aelfwine was watching him, looking for a chance to come close to him. In the chapel, about his work, in the kitchen, or even in his lonely walks, he would suddenly and unexpectedly find him there, always smiling, putting his arm round him, stroking his arm or running his hand through his brown hair. His life became a series of calculations on how he could avoid him. And although Aelfwine had not tried to kiss him again, Osric knew that he was powerless to stop him if he did.
He had been afraid to say anything; and there was no one whose advice he could ask. The other monks, he knew, were a little afraid of Aelfwine and unlikely to say anything to offend him. Aelfwine was in charge of the monastery, the son of a great thane. What could he do – he was only a poor carpenter’s son? And on his visit to Avonsford, when the thane and his father questioned him, he had been reluctant to speak: with the thane he had felt embarrassment, and with his father, a sense of shame.
Then the unbelievable had happened: Aelfwald had said he would send him to Canterbury. Which was why, each morning now, he whispered to himself: “Six months. Only six more months.”
There was a mist that morning. It lay in wreaths over the marsh and hid the settlement of Twyneham from sight. But Osric knew the ground so well that in the mid-morning interval, he did not hesitate to move swiftly away from the clearing and make his way across the marsh towards the harbour. Every patch of shrub, every clump of rushes was a friend to him now as he walked over the ground – half stiff with frost and half boggy underfoot. The mist swirled around him.
At least he won’t try and follow me today, the boy thought, and for a while he felt his spirits lift. But half way across the marsh he stopped. It seemed to him that he could hear something. Was it breathing? Was it some other sound? And was it behind or in front of him? He listened, then shook his head and went forward. A few moments later he paused again. Had he heard footsteps? Carefully, still listening, he proceeded to the water’s edge. He thought he heard a heron’s call.
And then he saw it.
The ship was forty yards in front of him; it was moving towards Twyneham slowly and furtively through the mist. Its eighteen pairs of oars were stroking the surface gently, its high prow slipped through the water, silent as a swan. The round, black and yellow shields that hung on the longboat’s sides told him what it must be.
“Vikings,” he breathed.
He turned and ran. The mist now seemed like a cloud, enveloping him. The rustle of his feet on the ground seemed like a pounding drum; he ran across the empty marsh, almost blind with fear. And in the middle of the marsh, with a gasp of terror, he ran into a tall figure, who held him in his arms. They fell to the ground together.
It was Aelfwine.
The thane’s son smiled as he held Osric tightly. The mist was damp on the woollen habit he wore, and on his thick yellow hair.
“No one can see us,” he breathed.
“Vikings.” Osric struggled to get free but made no headway. “In the harbour. Let me go.”
Still it had no effect. Aelfwine grinned and shook his head. His face came closer.
There was only one thing to do. Osric let his body go limp. He let Aelfwine kiss him; and after a moment he felt the grip on him loosen.
Aelfwine drew back, smiling.
“That’s better,” he murmured, gazing at the boy affectionately.
Then Osric kicked, as hard as he could, and as Aelfwine doubled up in agony, he scrambled up and ran towards the monastery. Almost at once, he could hear Aelfwine following, cursing behind him. But Osric knew the tracks better; he sped through the frozen marshes. And in his mind there was a single thought: he must warn the people in the settlement.
Almost out of breath, he raced into the little courtyard, only to find it empty. In a state of near panic, he looked about. How could he warn those people across the river at Twyneham? He saw the bell.
A minute later all six monks were standing in the little courtyard gazing with astonishment as the boy Osric frantically rang the chapel bell: not with its normal, steady toll, but with a desperate clanging that echoed through the mist. And while this was going on, Aelfwine, white with anger, hobbled towards him.
“Vikings!” Osric was shouting. “Vikings!”
The monks looked at one another. What was the boy talking about? Everyone knew that the Vikings never appeared in the winter months. But when one of them tried to restrain him Osric shook him off furiously.
It was Aelfwine who first realised the truth. With a few quick steps he came to Osric’s side and seized his arms.
“Don’t touch me!” the boy screamed.
But Aelfwine, with a single wrench tore Osric away from the rope and clapped his hands over his mouth.
“Silence,” he ordered. He stared at Osric and the boy saw that his eyes had lost the shining look of lust that they had had minutes before and that now they were grave. “You saw Vikings? A boat?” Osric nodded. “Then you should not have rung the bell.” He let him go.
Now, as he looked about him, Osric understood what the thane’s son meant. For the mist was growing thicker. In their clearing at the edge of the wood, the monastery’s buildings were now invisible, not only from the river but even from twenty yards. And as he saw the terrified faces of the monks, he realised with a terrible sense of shame what he had done: he had told the Vikings where they were.
They were all silent, listening intently. There was no sound. Then Aelfwine spoke, and his voice had a quiet command.
“It will be safer if we go into the woods.”
This was clearly right. They could keep moving inland; and if the Vikings found the little monastery empty, they might set fire to it, but they were not likely to bother to search for a few monks. Very quietly, the six men and the boy moved together past the chapel and out towards the cover of the trees.
Then they heard it: a deep cough, followed by a low call, some distance away on the left towards the river. The Vikings were already searching for the bell.
Quickly the little party moved forward. The edge of the woods was only twenty yards away.
There was a whistle. This time it came from in front of them. Aelfwine cursed. The Vikings were obviously in the woods as well. The first call was directly ahead of them; but seconds later there was another, this time to the right. How was it possible, Osric wondered, that they could have moved so fast? It was a question that neither the Saxons nor any of the other people who encountered them had ever been able to answer; but it was known that the Vikings moved more swiftly than ordinary men. The monks looked at Aelfwine, uncertain what to do. If the invaders had formed a line to sweep the woods, they would have to turn back.
“I know the marsh,” Osric whispered. “We could hide there.”
Aelfwine looked at him. His face was calm and thoughtful – it was as if the incident between them there had never taken place. He nodded. “It’s a chance.”
The little body of monks silently retraced their steps, past the cluster of wooden buildings and towards the harbour. But a hundred yards further they had to stop once more. For ahead of them from the direction of the water, they heard shouts in the mist; and this time Aelfwine shook his head. “No good,” he said. “Follow me.”
The little group, huddled together, and scarcely able to look at each other, let him lead them back to the chapel, into which he ushered them, closing the door.
“Pray,” he ordered.
He was right. There was no further use in trying to dodge the raiding party who seemed to be all over the open ground. The best remaining hope was that they might either miss the little group of buildings in the mist, or become bored with searching for them. With what sounded like a single sigh, the six monks sank to their knees.
Inside the chapel now there was no sound. Osric was kneeling to one side of the rest, but he was so conscious of his heart pounding that it seemed to him the Vikings must heart it. Minutes passed and the silence continued. Osric tried to pray, closing his eyes, fighting for concentration; but though his lips silently formed the words, his ears were listening, intently, for every sound.
It seemed to him that a long time passed, and even his breathing began to steady. Perhaps, after all, their prayers had been answered.
“Let us be invisible, Lord,” he prayed. “Hide us in this mist.” As the silence continued, and he came to think that they were safe after all, a warm glow of hope, then of indescribable joy seemed to flow through his body. He glanced at Aelfwine, who knelt with his head bowed before the altar. “I forgive him,” he whispered.
When the door of the chapel opened, it did so briskly. The Vikings who strode in wore huge metal helmets and light chain mail; they carried shields and the fearsome iron axes that had made them dreaded all over northern Europe. They did not hesitate.
What Osric saw next seemed to happen in a way that was so simple, so matter of fact, that to his own amazement, he was not even afraid.
As the helpless monks turned and rose to their feet, the Vikings – he counted eight of them – cut them down with a few quick blows. He saw the head of one young man bump, several feet from where his body was standing, on the wooden floor. As they fell, one after the other, for some reason he could not explain, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.
But Aelfwine did not fall. Not for nothing was he the son of Aelfwald the thane. As the massacre began, he ran to the altar and seized the heavy wooden cross that stood upon it. Then, rushing at the intruders, he dealt them tremendous blows, hacking right and left, and catching one of the Vikings in the eye so that he howled with pain. There was a roar of rage as they turned on him, striking at the heavy cross until it was shattered and driving him back upon the altar.
It was then that one of them shouted something Osric did not understand, but he noticed that the others, with a laugh, allowed him to step forward.
The Viking did not strike at once. He seemed to be measuring the young man before him carefully. Then he grinned. Aelfwine, pinned with his back against the altar table, and with only the stump of his wooden cross left in his hand, faced him calmly. Then the Viking swung his axe.
The blow was an unusual one; but it was perfectly calculated. It smashed against the breast-bone, bursting Aelfwine’s chest open as though it were splitting a sack, and tossing his body on its back on the floor. The Viking stepped forward. Wrenching his embedded axe to right and to left, he shoved aside the rib cages and reached into Aelfwine’s chest with his hand. While the body was still shaking in its death throes, he raised it to its knees, pulled out first one lung, and then the other, and deftly dragged them over each shoulder, where they rested like two folded wings. The body of Aelfwine, his mouth wide open and full of blood, his chest a ghastly palpitating mess, framed by the jagged ends of his opened rib cages, jerked and pitched forward.
This was the famous blood-eagle – an arrangement of death that the Vikings thought amusing.
Osric was numb. He did not even feel the horror. Then they noticed him.
He walked slowly towards them. They did not move. It occurred to him that since he was a child, perhaps they would not hurt him. As he reached the centre of the little nave, he saw that on his left, the door was open and that, through the clearing mist, the sun was shining. He stepped towards it.
Almost lazily, one of the Vikings swung his axe.
The news of the death of Aelfwine and Osric did not reach the thane for some time.
For on the same day, an event of much greater significance was taking place at Sarum – an event that nearly changed the history of the island for ever.
The sudden attack of the Danes upon the kingdom of Wessex in January 878 took the Saxons completely by surprise. Never before had the marauders broken their camp at midwinter. But in 878, a few weeks after Christmas, part of the Mercian force led by the Danish King Guthrum, suddenly left their encampment in Mercian Gloucester and moved with lightning speed into Wessex, taking the fortified settlement of Chippenham at once. From there, huge raiding parties swept southward over the ridges and down the valley of the river Avon. There was no army to oppose them.