Ceridwen was in the kitchen yard with Gunnvor. Their serving woman, Helga, was back with Eirian and Yrling, and when they saw Tindr they ran to him, asking him to help them saddle their ponies. The Mistress of Tyrsborg saw Tindr had come back, and went to look for her husband.
She found him in the treasure room. He stood in the middle of the room, a sharp shaft of afternoon Sun striking the floorboards before him. It was the only window, and the corners of the room were dim, save for near the door, opened to the hall. She could not tell what he was looking at.
She moved a little deeper into the room, and he turned to her.
“Guthrum is dead. Many Danes have landed in Angle-land. They have come from Frankland, given up on taking more from there. Haesten will lead them.”
Her lips opened, but she did not speak. The gravity of his tone said far more than those few words.
“Landed where?” she was finally able to ask.
“I do not know. In the South, most likely; somewhere in Wessex. Ælfred is cautious. There is less risk in landing in his kingdom than in any of the Danelaw.”
“What…what will happen?”
“Haesten will count on the Danes already in Anglia and Mercia to join him.”
He watched his wife put her hand to her mouth.
“Join him against Ælfred and Wessex?”
She answered herself a moment later. “With Guthrum dead, the Peace no longer need be honoured.”
He nodded.
Her brain swam, grasping the vastness of this threat. In her mind’s eye flashed Ælfwyn, gone to Danish lands before that Peace, and ever a part of it. Next she saw Ælfwyn and Sidroc’s son, Hrald, whom she loved, thrust into command before his years. The faces of his sisters rose before her.
Then with an awful-ness that clenched her throat, she thought of the response to this threat. Her son Ceric, old enough now to fight shield-to-shield with Ælfred’s troops. Her second son, Edwin, heir to all the richness that was Kilton…
“What – what of those Danish keeps which would honour the Peace – such as Four Stones?”
He took so long to answer that she was forced to speak.
“Will there be a choice for them?”
“War allows few choices.”
Chapter the Thirteenth: There Will Be War
ÆLFRED, ever on the move throughout his Kingdom of Wessex, was brought news of the invading Danes from one of his many fast-riding messengers. He was far in the West; had been in fact as far as Kilton. Apulder, named for its wealth of wild apple trees, was where the ships had landed, one of the Eastern-most points of Angle-land. The King had begun another of his many forts there, on the banks of the River Rother. The men so working were surprised by the sight of the multitude of dark ships oaring swiftly up the water. The Danes began to land, killing the men as they stood to defend their work, scattering the rest as more and more ships beached. Enough men lived to watch from a distance as the landing party took over what they had begun. They saw the intruders start in at once to enlarge the fortification.
The news was deeply disturbing, but no shock. Guthrum’s death had left the Danelaw without a strong hand to rule as over-King. At the same time Frankland, having been the repeated target of Danish attacks, was now resisting with a strength that the Danes had never met there. The channel waters were choppy and full of danger, but the greater gain now lay back in Angle-land. Ælfred saw that and planned to refute it. It was late Fall, the days cool and growing short, but clear and dry. This mass of Danes surely meant to over-Winter here in Wessex.
Then word came of a second force which had landed. His riders had spotted no less than four score war-ships now at Middeltun. The strange Danes had swiftly beached, killed the King’s men who had gone to meet them, and began digging themselves in. Though a third the number of the ships that had landed further South at Apulder, this fleet now at Middeltun gave Ælfred more concern.
Apulder was wild and open country, with little in the way of either folk or treasure. An enemy encampment at Middeltun was by far the greater threat, for it sat at the very mouth of the Thames. Up that vast river was easy sailing to the richness of the great trading centre of Lundenwic. And Lundenwic was under the command of Ælfred’s own son-in-law Æthelred of Mercia, the powerful ealdorman wed to the King’s capable daughter Æthelflaed.
His distance from both invading forces demanded time to go and meet them. Time was the King’s friend. Time granted the opportunity to think, and thinking was something Ælfred excelled at.
He would ride to Middeltun first, meet the war-lord who had been bold enough to draw his dragon ships up so near to his own family’s holdings.
He arrived at that encampment with a considerable force, one hundred fifty men, all mounted. For speed’s sake only thegns on their horses stood with him; the spearmen and archers and sling-men – foot-men all – who made up the bulk of his true army were left behind. He did not mean to engage, only to impress.
He halted his men on a shallow rise above the growing fortress. Beyond that were the broad waters leading into the Thames, swelling now at the sea-tide. If the Danes swarming below at their work, digging ditches, hauling tree trunks, sawing timber, paused in their labours and happened to look their way, they saw a blank grass-covered field. Seemingly a moment later the sky above that field was punctured by the silhouettes of a mounted army.
Ælfred held his men steady, knowing that below the frantic activity of building had been replaced by the frantic activity of arming. He could make out the scrambling figures, hear the winding of a horn. He held his men.
His line of thegns was made the more impressive by the banners they carried. Every twentieth man had a pole attached upright from his saddle cantle, and every pole held a pennon bearing the golden dragon of Wessex, Ælfred’s standard. It was a display for a great festival day, or one of thanksgiving; in battle one banner was consecrated and kept close to the King at all times as he directed the action behind the shield-wall. If that shield wall should be broken the banner stayed with him, held by a young man, waving it in both hands to mark the King still lived, even though the King himself be thrusting with sword or spear against the foe he found himself face-to-face with.
Other banners were there in the line of mounted men. Ælfred was flanked by large white pennons, marked with a red cross made of strips of coloured fabric; the cross Christ was crucified on. These sprang from the saddles of the two priests, each mounted on an ass, that rode on either side of the King.
The King held his line long enough to judge that all below were now staring up at him. It was time to go and meet whoever led them.
He gave a word, and five moved forward. Ælfred touched his heels to the flank of his chestnut stallion, a beast as golden as the dragon which was his symbol. The two priests on their dusky asses ambled forward, the beasts unperturbed by the fluttering white flags bearing Christ’s cross. One warrior rode next, fully armed and clad in a ring-tunic, whose saddle held a dragon pennon. The fifth was the King’s serving-man. These last two each led another horse, laden with treasure.
The five, detached from the force behind them, walked forward at a steady pace, riding with a composed confidence that made the men they approached narrow their eyes. Chief amongst those watching was Haesten. He had enough time to send his wife and two young sons onto one of the ships that bobbed gently on the incoming tide. Not all his fleet had been beached; a few were always kept in water, a prudent provision in the past.
He was not surprised that a few days after his landing Ælfred already knew of his arrival. What narrowed his eyes was the King himself riding, with no more than four men, right into the heart of his building-works. The King of Wessex, riding almost alone. The Danish war-lord appreciated this boldness. It showed him too, a certain respect being paid; that once Ælfred saw who he dealt with, he would be acknowledged as a King in his own right.
Before the five left the long line of thegns, the elder of the tw
o priests blessed Ælfred, stamping with his thumb a drop of holy oil on the King’s brow, mouthing a hushed and fervent prayer that if he were soon to meet death, God would take mercy on the soul of the monarch. The younger priest did the same with the chosen warrior, and the King’s man-servant. Then the two priests exchanged blessings. The warrior was older, hardened, but not indifferent to death. His name was Raedwulf, and he was bailiff of Defenas. He had before been at Ælfred’s side in moves as brash as this one. If one day the King miscalculated, he would sell his own life dear protecting that of Ælfred. The priests, completely unarmed, calmed themselves with the knowledge that an end at the hands of the heathen horde was a martyr’s death. Only the man-servant, young and with toddling children back at Witanceaster, trembled.
Standing before the ditch being dug, Haesten made his decision. He would ride out and meet Ælfred, five men to five men. He called for his two eldest sons, and two able warriors. They swung into their saddles and started. A group of disbelieving Danes who had been stopped in their digging-work began calling and hooting after him, urging a reception at the end of a spear. Haesten turned his head back to the unruly and with his look quelled their racket.
He moved steadily towards the King’s party, his horse tossing his head up and down as if to acknowledge their guests. He and his sons and his two picked warriors had donned ring-shirts, had shields on their backs, helmets on their heads, and spears in hand. Haesten grew close enough to see Ælfred bore none of that. The King was garbed as if for a feast. His tunic was of golden hued wool, from which glinted threads of true gold at hem and sleeves. His mantle of deep blue was lined with fur of such thickness that it must be mink from the furthest Northern climes. On his brow lay a broad golden circlet, mark of Kingship. And other than a sword of magnificence he wore no weapons.
Haesten let a low oath escape his lips. He had been bested in this first contest.
They were only two horse-lengths away when they all halted.
“I am Ælfred, King of Wessex,” the King told the Danes.
Haesten pulled off his helmet. The King spent a moment staring at the man’s face. The hair was grey, as was the short beard. But he had little doubt who it was.
“I am Haesten,” said he.
The King spent the next two days within the nascent fort. He began by presenting Haesten with a footed silver goblet studded with lapis stones. The Dane, in his rough encampment, found himself ordering food and drink, calling for another tent to be raised, changing his leggings for a pair less soiled. Ælfred learnt that Haesten had brought his newest wife and young boys with him, unspoken proof of the war-chief’s intention to stay. It gave him pause. Yet he could build on this, Ælfred knew.
First he must discuss a point of justice. He did so after his small party had dined with the Dane and a few of his chief men. The King had brought several jugs of choice wine in his baggage, which had supplemented the modest fare Haesten could provide. After their repast the King and Haesten sat alone within the tent which had been pulled up for him.
“You have killed my men,” Ælfred noted, referring to those who had fallen when Haesten’s ships had beached. “Under the laws which Guthrum and I approved, the wergild of Saxons and Danes is the same. These were King’s men, so their wergild is doubled. They leave wives and children.”
Haesten considered. The audacity of the King in coming essentially alone and unarmed still played in his head; this man fascinated him. It was like gaming with a man in rags who nonetheless pulled from his belt a nugget of gold.
“I will give you silver,” the Dane conceded.
It was a small triumph to Ælfred, but a triumph nonetheless. Haesten was recognising and adhering to the law.
More than once during their first hours together the Dane had been seized with the desire to lay hands upon the King. His ransom would be treasure unimaginable, and his killing throw all of Wessex into disorder. But Haesten had planned his moves with care, and had reason for measured action. To be repulsed now would be disaster. He and his army were newly landed, in the act of throwing up their long houses, had as yet secured no additional lands. The supplies they had carried with them were carefully rationed. Wessex was too rich and powerful to allow an outrage committed upon its King. Ælfred was beloved and the thirst for revenge would only be quenched in his own blood. A return to Frankland was no option, and his line of enemies ran deep and broad in his Danish homeland. He must make his mark here or not at all.
On the second day came the greater concession. Early in the day the King sent his serving man to invite Haesten to break his fast with Ælfred in his tent. The Dane thus found himself a guest in his own encampment. Also present were the two gowned priests, and Ælfred’s lone warrior. The serving man drew forth a series of delicacies and laid them before the five men. Tiny roast fowl were there, brined in sharp and flavourful verjuice. He added to this pots of goats’ cheese which had been pounded with herbs, unknown to the Dane and delicious; and boiled goose eggs pickled in some liquid unto mead, both sweet and savoury. The tiny fowl, the huge eggs, the cheese rendered green by the cress and purslane – all added an unexpected, even unworldly touch to the meal, one which Haesten, accustomed to the traveller’s fare of salted fish and stale loaves could not but be affected by.
The small fowl required a restrained touch; Haesten found himself watching the King eat his. Ælfred was quietly aware of this. Once the Peace had been made with Guthrum, that Dane began patterning his reign after that of the King of Wessex, even to coining silver pieces with Guthrum’s image on them, modeled after those of Ælfred. Such coinage was unheard of amongst the Danes, to whom silver coins meant no more than hack-silver. Ælfred had seen first-hand the power of imitation.
Raedwulf, sitting at the end of the table, took it all in, his eyes steady, his movements slow and controlled. The Danish war-lord had taken his measure when they all sat at meat the prior night. Haesten’s eyes had raked over him, gauging the brawn of his shoulders, noting the value of the seax spanning his belly, seeing too the strands of grey in Raedwulf’s hair. Haesten’s own was wholly grey, and the bailiff of Defenas knew that the Dane understood he had been chosen to ride with the King not only for his prowess but his hard-won experience.
After they had supped the King drew forth a golden neck-chain, and set it upon the table before his guest.
“No metal is purer than gold, and no word greater than the Word of God,” he said.
Ælfred began explaining, then expounding, the Christian faith. All that I have has come from God, he stressed, but far greater than any Kingdom will be the Kingdom of God.
Haesten knew much of Christians, and had killed not a few monks; their temples held treasure. He knew Guthrum had submitted to baptism as part of the Peace. He knew he would do no such thing.
But Ælfred surprised him yet again, by proposing baptism not for him, but for his two young boys. Ælfred himself would stand as sponsor to the older boy. Beyond this he offered, by proxy, his son-in-law Æthelred of Mercia, he who governed Lundenwic, as sponsor for the younger son.
Haesten suddenly had the prospect of the two richest men in Wessex acting on behalf of his youngest sons. To hide his interest he sat as still as he could, elbow upon the table, stroking his beard. He gave, at last, the smallest nod of his chin. The King turned to the priests, the elder of which, round-faced and jovial by nature, chimed in with a homily on the favour to be won and succour to be enjoyed as a Follower of Christ.
Haesten had kept his eyes from resting on the chain of braided gold, yet it was always there. If the King was profligate with his gold Haesten would be there to accept it. The children were brought, without their mother, boys of six and seven years. While they waited the priests had been busy readying basin and a crisp linen towel. The dutiful children were kindly received, then sprinkled from a flask of holy water drawn from the sacred well at Witanceaster, and blessed and anointed. The neck-chain, having fulfilled its purpose, left in the h
ands of the boys’ father.
“There is a bond between us now,” the King told Haesten before he rode off. “I have sworn in the eyes of God to take interest in your sons. Of your doings in Anglia I can make no demands, but of my own Kingdom I do. And that is that Wessex is left unmolested.”
Haesten’s fingers stroked his beard. He nodded. The chiefs of Angle-land valued the lives of men. He offered six as hostages to prove Wessex would be left alone, two of which he stressed to the King were young cousins, and thus his own kin. Ælfred accepted them, swore they would be well treated, and returned when appropriate.
At no time during his stay did the King inquire as to Haesten’s intentions. He would not be served in prompting the man to lie, and besides, he felt that at this early date the Dane himself did not truly know. His choices were limited enough. Ælfred could imagine Haesten’s best men fanning out throughout the countryside, announcing their chief’s arrival, taking the measure of each Danish chieftain as they came upon them. Later Haesten himself would ride out, bidding them join him. Even those long-settled and content might be tempted. Young hot-heads who had missed the carving up of Mercia and Anglia would be spoiling for their share.
Ælfred had made his point, demonstrating to Haesten a few of the benefits to be enjoyed by accepting the King’s boon. Friendship with the King of Wessex and with Æthelred of Mercia offered protections to the former, and gain to Haesten.
By the time Ælfred and his party rode back to his waiting men he felt he had gained much. Foremost was a glimpse into the nature of his new opponent. He had known but few facts about Haesten prior to this meeting. Now he added what he had directly experienced to what he had heard. This was a man of great prowess who found himself in a shrinking world. All knew Haesten had killed Rutpert, one of the most celebrated warriors in Frankland. That Rutpert’s son had gone on to become King of the Franks had not made Haesten more welcome in that land. Haesten had no kingly blood; he was not kin to Guthrum. But he had ranged all along the coasts beyond the vast holdings of Cordoba, pillaging as he went, as far South and East as Pisa. All he had won had been grasped by his strong hand. And he was one who in battle the bear-spirit could enter, could fight almost out of his head with berserk fury, driving himself to extreme acts of ferocity.
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