The Great Heathen Army

by H A CULLEY

  We saddled up and rode out of the stables. Thankfully no one had yet noticed that the compound’s gates were open and we cantered through them before anyone could stop us. We rode across the timber bridge over the river at a fast canter then slowed to a trot after a short while, but we didn’t stop for two hours, by which time we were at least fifteen miles away from the tavern. Our horses were blown and we were shattered; after all we had only managed to grab a few hours’ sleep in the past two nights.

  The moon had long since disappeared behind clouds and now a fine drizzle was falling, soaking us and the horses. We had stayed on Watling Street and shortly after we recommenced our journey we could see the lights of what looked like a large settlement ahead of us. It was hardly a good idea to arrive in the early hours of the morning so we left the old Roman road and followed a track to a farmstead. There was a barn which was unlocked and so we rubbed the horses down with straw and lay down for a couple of hours sleep.

  Luckily no one came near the barn at daybreak, although we could hear sounds coming from the hut a hundred yards away. We saddled the horses and led them until we were out of sight. Then we rode a little way down the track until we found a stream. We let the horses drink and eat some grass whilst we dined on yet more stale bread and hard cheese. It was a wonder that neither of us broke a tooth.

  We rode into the place we had seen the night before, which turned out to be called Tarentefort, a crossing place over a small river which ran into the Temes close by. Because it had been raided countless times by Vikings sailing up the Temes it sat behind a thorny hedge and the one set of wooden gates was guarded by two bored looking sentries. Thankfully they took little interest in us amongst the carts and other people entering the settlement, mainly on foot, but a few were mounted like us.

  The good Lord must have been with us because we had arrived on the monthly market day. Not many stalls had been set up as yet so I bought two meat pies from a baker and Cei and I ate them ravenously whilst we waited. During the morning more and more stalls appeared and I was able to buy less distinctive clothing for both of us. Cei had never worn trousers or leather shoes and was dubious about putting them on, but I told him that he would soon get used to them; being barelegged and barefoot marked him out as a slave or a member of a very poor family. Such folk didn’t ride expensive horses. I also bought him a warm woollen cloak with a hood. It was impregnated with lanolin so it would keep out the rain as well as being warm.

  Next I bought sheepskin covers for our saddles; they would be much kinder to our skin. I also managed to find a small leather tent to sleep in as we would be avoiding taverns from now on. We stocked up on fresh provisions and then made for the gates. That was when we ran into trouble.

  Few others were leaving so early in the day so we stood out. In our new clothes both Cei and I looked like the sons of poor ceorls but something must have aroused their suspicions.

  ‘Hold on boys, who are you and where are you going?’

  ‘Back to our farm,’ I replied on impulse, hoping that the nervousness I felt didn’t show on my face.

  As soon as I had spoken I realised that it would have seemed odd for the younger one of us to have answered.

  ‘Cat got the other boy’s tongue then?’

  ‘He’s a mute,’ I replied, feeling that I was digging a bigger and bigger hole.

  ‘Oh, poor lad,’ he said insincerely. ‘Those are fine horses for farmer’s sons to be riding.’

  ‘Yes, my father doesn’t normally allow us to ride his best horses but he let us do so today. He breeds them you see.’

  ‘Ah! That explains it,’ he said giving our animals an envious look. ‘Go on, on your way then.’

  I nodded my thanks and we rode out of the gates, breathing a collective sigh of relief once we were well away from him.

  ‘I thought he was going to detain us,’ Cei said with a broad grin. ‘You were great. I don’t know how you remained so calm.’

  Then his face fell.

  ‘I’m sorry master; I was too familiar and I misspoke.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, Cei. We’re in this together and we’re taking equal risks. No more master and slave. Call me Jørren from now on.’

  ‘Yes master.’

  We broke into laughter and grinned at each other.

  ‘Yes Jørren,’ he corrected himself.

  Ϯϯϯ

  Just after midday we clattered across the timber bridge that spanned the Temes and entered Lundenwic. I had been to Cantwareburh a few times and I had thought that it was big. It may have been – it had nearly a thousand residents – but it was no way near the size of Lundenwic. It sat on the north bank of the River Temes to the west of the ruins of the old Roman city. The latter was mainly uninhabited because it was full of ghosts and evil spirits, or so I had heard.

  Someone told me later that some ten thousand people lived in the narrow streets to the west of the old city. It certainly smelt like it. As we rode though the hovels that had sprung up outside the timber palisade that surrounded the original burh of Lundenwic our noses were assailed by a mixture of rotting garbage, faeces, urine and smoke.

  Once into the narrow streets on the far side of the bridge the stench got worse. The place reeked so much that I thought I was going to vomit. Dead animals lay where they’d died and naked children played in the filth. I pressed on hoping for inspiration. I had hoped that we might get some news about the Danes there as it was the capital of Mercia and a major trading port. However, I had no idea where to go to obtain that sort of information.

  I was on the point of turning around when we reached the waterfront. Here at least there was a wind blowing downriver to clear the air somewhat, although the river resembled a cesspool. It carried the detritus of the settlement eastwards with the current, but then the incoming tide brought it back again.

  In my innocence I thought the best thing to do was to ask one of the port labourers if he knew where the Danes had gone. The man I asked spat at me and said that he didn’t know, didn’t care and then indicated that I should return whence I’d come, although he put it in much more colourful terms.

  I was wary of staying at a tavern again but we could hardly sleep in our tent, so I asked the way to a monastery. This time we were given a more helpful answer and we rode out of the settlement to Saint Peter’s Monastery on the banks of the river a mile upstream.

  Most religious houses offered accommodation to travellers and by convention expected to receive a donation in accordance with the traveller’s means. Saint Peter’s was the exception. I suppose it was reasonable as, being so close to the largest settlement in Mercia and a major port, it would otherwise be swamped by visitors looking for a cheap bed. I was happy to pay as monks were notorious gossips and I anticipated obtaining some useful information as well as a bed. I was not disappointed.

  Because of our age we were shown to the novices’ dormitory instead of the men’s guest hall. The young monk who escorted us could not have been more than eleven. He was a talkative lad and told us that he had been given to the monastery at the age of eight because his elderly father thought that, by so doing, he would increase his chances of entering heaven.

  When I asked about the Danes he didn’t seem to think my question was a strange one. He unthinkingly replied that a vast fleet had been seen heading north past the entrance to the Temes estuary a week previously. Various rumours abounded as to their destination. Some thought that they were headed back to their home in Danmǫrk whilst others maintained that they planned to raid the coast of East Anglia.

  I hoped it was the latter as I had absolutely no chance of finding my brother in Danmǫrk; even to try would inevitably mean that Cei and I would end up as thralls like him, or more likely dead.

  As he went to leave he asked us where were travelling to and I told him I was going to stay with my uncle at Wintanceaster as he was poorly and not likely to last the winter. He seemed satisfied and left.

  As guests we were expected to eat with the mo
nks in the main hall and to attend services in the small timber church. I discovered that this was one of the drawbacks of staying in a monastery as their wretched bell seemed to wake you up every time you managed to get to sleep. We staggered out of bed several times to endure yet another lengthy session of prayers and homilies in their cold and dank church.

  After morning mass the sub-prior sidled up to me as we made our way to the hall to break our fast and asked about my uncle.

  ‘Who is he? I was a monk at Wintanceaster before coming here as sub-prior,’ he said with a false smile.

  Evidently our friendly novice had spoken to the inquisitive monk and that placed me in a difficult position. I could hardly admit to lying but I knew no one in the main part of Wessex, let alone in its capital.

  ‘Edgar the goldsmith,’ I blurted out, that being the first name that came into my head.

  ‘Really? I didn’t know he had any siblings, let alone a nephew. I’m sorry to hear he’s ill. I will pray for his swift recovery.’

  I had hit upon the name of an actual person purely by chance. I breathed a sigh of relief as the man went on his way, apparently satisfied that I was who I said I was. I had to resist breaking out into a fit of the giggles, such was my relief. Later I recognised that I should have chosen someone more a little more obscure than a goldsmith. There must be thousands of people in Wintanceaster but everyone would know who the leading citizens were. I’d been a fool, but a lucky one.

  We left the next morning heading along the old Roman road called Ermine Street. It was only then that I realised that I knew absolutely nothing about East Anglia or its geography. Cei was of no help, of course. We had made it so far, more by luck than by good judgement, but now I was bereft of ideas.

  Chapter Two

  Autumn 865

  That night we camped by a stream in a wood well away from the road. We didn’t bother with the tent, but in the middle of the night it began to rain and we hurriedly put it up. The next morning we discovered that there was one problem with a tent. You get soaked rolling it up again. Luckily it had stopped raining by then so we risked lighting a fire to dry out by and to make a pottage from dried meat and barley.

  We returned to Ermine Street and two days later we reached Godmundcestre. We had passed several groups on the road, travelling in both directions, but thankfully no one seemed to take much interest in us. We were a long way from Cent but the theft of the horses and my brother’s hoard gave me a guilty conscience and I half expected the next person we saw to accuse me of the crimes.

  Killing the robbers at Hrofescӕster had affected me as well. Of course, they deserved to die; if Cei and I hadn’t killed them we would have ended up dead instead. Somehow that didn’t help ease my conscience though. I needed to make confession to a priest but for some reason I kept putting off doing so. Perhaps I didn’t altogether trust them.

  Although we had avoided any settlements since we left Lundenwic, I needed to find out where the Danes were. I therefore risked entering Godmundcestre and stopped the first person I saw.

  ‘Are there Danes anywhere near here?’ I asked the man, who looked to be poor ceorl from the way that he was dressed.

  He looked at the two of us suspiciously.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘So that we can avoid them,’ I replied. ‘My servant and I are travelling to Lindocolina to live with my uncle.’

  I prayed that the man wasn’t from there and asked who my uncle was. Thankfully he didn’t and he seemed satisfied with my answer.

  ‘All I know is that the priest says that they landed at some place called Hapesburc and marched inland, pillaging and murdering their way across the countryside towards Theodforda.’

  ‘Theodforda?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a large settlement of some two thousand people, or so I’m told. Mind you, there will probably be a lot less than that once the bloody heathens get there.’

  ‘And is it near here?’

  ‘Thank the Lord, no. It’s well the other side of Grantebrycge and that’s over a day’s walk away.’

  I thanked the man and we left the settlement. Now all I needed was someone to tell me the way to Grantebrycge.

  Ϯϯϯ

  The farmstead looked peaceful enough. Sheep were grazing on pasture that sloped down to the hut where the family presumably lived. There was a barn and another, smaller hut which was probably for the slaves. Judging by the squeals coming from a fenced off compound with a small outbuilding attached to it, they had pigs and several chickens pecked around the space between the huts and the barn. On the side of the farmstead away from the pasture there was a patch of ground where crops were evidently grown and another for root vegetables.

  As we watched a man appeared and went into the barn. He emerged a little while later with a pair of oxen in harness. Evidently he meant to plough the arable land now that the crops had been harvested, ready for next year’s sowing.

  Two boys came out of the house and made their way over to the midden heap where they proceeded to shovel manure into a cart ready for spreading so that it could be ploughed into the soil to fertilise it. It all reminded me of my old home near Cilleham, except that our farmstead had been much larger.

  A third boy appeared and went into the barn before bringing out a horse to hitch to the cart. Two little girls went down to the nearby stream with wooden buckets and filled them. I began to wonder how many lived on the farmstead when a family of five came out of the slave hut and set off to weed the area growing root vegetables. It didn’t seem a large enough a farm to support so many people.

  We normally steered clear of places like this but I needed information; in particular I wanted to know if I was on the right road for Grantebrycge. I thought it probably was as it was evidently an old Roman road, albeit a minor one, but it was in poor repair and long stretches of it were no more than muddy tracks. Presumably the cobbles used to pave the road had been taken over the centuries and reutilised elsewhere.

  I left Cei looking after the horses and walked across to the larger of the two huts. One of the boys loading muck onto the cart came across to see what I wanted. He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen and had shed his tunic to carry out the filthy task. He had a broad shoulders and powerful arms. I suspected he might be an archer by the look of him.

  ‘What do you want, boy?’ he asked me gruffly.

  ‘A little information for which I’m willing to pay,’ I replied with a smile.

  His frown disappeared and he looked relieved.

  ‘You’re a Saxon,’ he said in relief. ‘We’ve heard tales that there are Danes not that far away.’

  ‘I’m a Jute from Cent,’ I replied, ‘but near enough as we’re now part of Wessex.’

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ he commented as he washed in the horse trough and pulled his rough woollen tunic over his head.

  I saw no reason to lie to this boy and so I told him the truth.

  ‘My brother was captured by the Danes and I’m on a quest to find him and free him.’

  ‘What!’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘Just you? What are you; thirteen or fourteen? I’m surprised you got this far.’

  ‘You know where Cent is then?’ it was my turn to be surprised.

  ‘I was a novice with the monks of Ely for six years. My father said he couldn’t afford to feed all of us and so he gave me to the monastery when I was eight.’

  ‘So why are you back at home?’

  ‘I ran away when I was fourteen, just before I was due to take my vows as a monk. I couldn’t stand the boredom anymore. In any case I wanted to be a warrior, not a churchman.’

  ‘So you’ve been training as an archer?’

  ‘Ever since I returned,’ he said, nodding. ‘I was hoping that King Edmund would muster the fyrd but instead the coward has given the Danes hundreds of horses and allowed them to stay for the winter in return for keeping his throne,’ he said, spitting in the dirt to express his disgust.

  ‘What’s goi
ng on? Why have you stopped working? It’s difficult enough to feed you all without you shirking?’ the man who was presumably the boy’s father demanded angrily.

  Then he spotted me.

  ‘Who’s this? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m looking for a guide to lead me and my companion to Theodforda.’

  ‘Theodforda? Why?’ He looked at me suspiciously. ‘That’s where the Danes are rumoured to have set up camp for the winter.’

  ‘They have my brother and I intend to rescue him.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool. There’s thousands of the pagan swine by all accounts. Are you that eager to die?’

  ‘I’m a good hunter and tracker,’ I boasted. ‘They won’t know I’m there.’

  He studied me for a long moment.

  ‘You’ll never get there on foot.’

  I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled. Seconds later Cei appeared from the trees leading our two horses.

  ‘We’ve been travelling for weeks,’ I told him. ‘I am told that Theodforda is only two days ride from Grantebrycge so I think our horses can make it, don’t you?’

  He glared at me and I instantly regretted my impudent remark.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said contritely. ‘That was crass and rude.’

  His face softened and he looked at his eldest son.

  ‘Well, Redwald, you wanted adventure. If your mother was still alive she would never let you go off on such a dangerous and foolhardy undertaking, but she isn’t, God rest her soul. If you want to go with these two, I won’t stop you.’

  My opinion of the man sank. He was evidently only too glad to get rid of his son and didn’t care that he was probably sending him to his death. However, Redwald didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Wait here,’ he called as he dashed off towards the hut. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  Half an hour later he was mounted behind Cei whilst my horse was loaded with the tent and our other possessions. I was now feeling more optimistic as we rode away from the farmstead and headed for Grantebrycge.