Silver Hammer, Golden Cross

by Octavia Randolph

  He saw Raedwulf and the other King’s counsellors and picked men flanking Ælfred, and also a cluster of women. Ælfred’s wife was pointed out to him, a woman with clasped hands, looking upon her eldest as he led a host of other warriors to battle. Ceric knew that as a young mother she had once need to flee for her life with the rest of her household, a child in her arms, when their hall was beset by Danes at Twelfth Night. King’s wife or no, there were ways in which her life had been one of great hardship.

  Chapter the Twenty-first: Golden Cross

  THEY were two days on the road. As they approached Middeltun Ceric remembered Raedwulf’s words when Ælfred rode to meet Haesten: that they would come here again. Now Ceric and Worr and fifty good men of Kilton had indeed come, joined by three hundred more, all under Eadward’s command. It would be here that Eadward would divide his troops, some to take to ships awaiting them further down the coast, others to the brow of that same hill from which Ceric had watched Raedwulf and Ælfred ride unafraid to face the newly landed Danes.

  They made camp, took their meal over numberless small cook fires. Then, when there was still light in the sky, Eadward addressed them. He was on his horse, a dusky grey stallion, to be better seen and heard. Just after dawn this new-formed army would part ways.

  “On land,” he said, “the men of Meretun, and Wedmore, and Winburn, and Kilton…”

  The name of his home filled Ceric’s ears. He would not fight at sea, on the deck of a pitching ship; he would fight on land. He let out the breath he had been holding, even turned with the ghost of a grin to Worr.

  He heard Eadward naming the burhs whose men would leave to take ship. The ships that awaited them were an hour’s ride off. There they would set off to form the blockade to try to halt the Danes who attempted flight by sea. Cuthred, a trusted captain of the King, would take command of those afloat, and Eadward detailed that they had enough ships to take the shape of the splayed tines of a comb, one whose teeth the Danes would find deadly to near.

  The attack led by Eadward would come by land, calling out the enemy to fight before their stolen fortress. It was early Spring and food stores scarce; the fort at Middeltun could not withstand a siege. The forces of Wessex would seem to have the advantage. It was not known if Haesten was even at Middeltun now; if he were not, so much the better, as the men there were not likely to fight as hard under any second in command as they would for their famed war-lord.

  They had camped an hour’s fast march from the hill overlooking Haesten’s fort at Middeltun, far enough to elude discovery and lend some ease to their final night. Watchmen were set, patrolling the edges of their encampment, and trusted men sent ahead to secretly observe the fort on which they would march in the morning.

  It was still dark and Ceric asleep when he jolted upright at the winding of a horn. He heard the running of men, and one cry, “Up and onward! The Danes are roused and taking to ship!”

  He and Worr scrambled to their feet, seeing the flickers of torches carried by those crying out to wake them. They had slept half-clad, and plucked at their clothing. They emerged from their low tent. Men all about them were doing the same, some calling out to others. Ceric gaped at the sky as he sat on the damp ground, fastening his boots. The Moon was just setting, and night growing darker for it. Startled awake as he was he felt completely alert. Despite the darkness he felt rested enough that dawn must be nigh.

  “We were discovered,” Worr was saying, as he leant through the tent flap and pulled out his weapons. “We were not alone in setting watch.”

  All the orderly plan had been disrupted. As the two stood, arming themselves, pulling on ring-shirts, buckling on seaxes and swords, grasping helmets, Eadward appeared on horseback, flanked by two other riders, each bearing torches.

  “Those to sea, to the left,” he called. He was fully armed himself, and even in the torchlight his eyes flashed from the eye openings of his steel helmet. There was no alarm in his voice, though his hand had been forced by Haesten. He rode on through the camp, making himself seen, crying out orders, marshalling his men.

  A man of Kilton ran up to Ceric, one of the drovers, carrying with him a flask of hot broth and some cheese-stuffed loaves, which he thrust upon Ceric and Worr before retreating to his waggon. Ceric could not take more than a single bite of the bread, but the meat broth warmed him, and soothed his constricted throat. The faint greyish glow of dawn was spreading in the East, slowly lightening what looked to be another fair morning.

  A good day to fight, he thought, as he slung his blue and yellow shield upon his back. No rain nor mud to combat, only the enemy. He wished he could say the same aloud to Worr, say it with a lightness he did not feel. Worr’s own brow was slightly furrowed as he adjusted his leg wrappings, tightened his seax belt. Worr straightened up, caught Ceric looking at him. The familiar grin flashed on Worr’s square-jawed face. “I am on your right, Ceric,” he told him, a simple reminder of his steadfast service.

  They did not yet know which rank of the shield-wall they would stand in, that first line of warriors pressing almost shoulder to shoulder together as they advanced, or in the second, placed before the line of Eadward’s own body-guard. Whichever it was, Ceric would have Worr at his right hand, Worr’s strong left hand holding his shield as they moved forward.

  Ceric grinned too, and answered, “And I am on your left.” They would fight shield-to-shield, and if the shield wall broke, back-to-back.

  They must go now, find their horses, and form up before Eadward. They picked their way through the thegns doing the same, skirting a number of ceorls who stood blinking in the growing light. Their round and painted shields lay about at their feet. Few of them had tents, and had slept under the shelter of hides which formed the greater part of their kit. Ceric regarded them as he passed, nodding as he went, returning the looks of those whose eyes fell on the brilliance of his own war-kit. The archers amongst them were checking bowstrings, and not a few of the youths who would wield slings were palming a round stone, soon to be launched from the whipping leather they would swing above their heads. Those armed with throwing spears were the largest and strongest amongst them, men with good arms and two or three light spears each to bring to bear against the Danes.

  Bread, cheese, and ale had been passed amongst the men, and hastily consumed, but Ceric was not alone in being unable to swallow more than a bite. Men were warned to refill their water flasks; there might be little chance, once upon the field of battle, to seek out a barrel from the supply waggons.

  Ceric’s two horses had been saddled, and as Worr attended to his own Ceric mounted and rode amongst Kilton’s fifty thegns as they readied their mounts. The men looked up at him, calling out his name as they lifted their hands in salute. Some voiced the name “Kilton” as if it were a vow. Looking down at them as they paused in fastening saddle bags or tightening girths filled him with a deep and spreading pride. He would be led by Eadward, Prince; but he led these men of Kilton, his own pledged thegns, and the thirty of his brother Edwin who had been sent to fight in his name.

  When all from Kilton were horsed, they moved forward. They took the same positions they had the previous night when Eadward had divided them for land and sea. Facing them was Eadward and ten of his body-guard, those that would surround him as he stood behind the shield-wall, shouting orders and encouragement, and who, when the wall was breached, would fight to the death that Eadward might live.

  Eadward’s grey horse pranced beneath him, tossing its arched neck, the light mane shaking, nostrils on the fine muzzle flaring. The Sun had not yet crested the hill behind them, but a few beams of golden light pierced through the tree boughs. The air was fresh, the sky pale blue. As Ceric stood his horse next to Worr, he heard a bird call out from one of those trees, a bird to whom this morning was no more nor less than another day.

  “Those to sea,” Eadward was saying. “Riders have been sent ahead to our ships to warn them of your early coming. Cuthred commands you.
You fight for Wessex, and for Wessex you shall win.” Here he looked to Cuthred, who touched his horse’s barrel and went to front the waiting men.

  “Those on land,” Eadward went on, walking his restless horse before the ranks of men. His voice rang out, bell-clear and strong. Like his father, he had a gaze that caught each man in turn as his eye swept over them. “We march in haste to Middeltun’s walls. There will be no offer of peace made, no demand of tribute accepted. We march to fight.” He raised his voice, moved his eyes to include both groups. “For Ælfred – Wessex – for home and hearth!”

  Eadward did not ride with a priest or monk; there was no blessing given, save that made by those men who lifted their fingertips to their brows and crossed themselves. Some breathed prayers, or touched, as Ceric did, his chest, where his golden cross lay resting against his skin. His mind went back to the departure blessing at Kilton, that solemnity with which Dunnere had stamped his brow with holy oil, marking him and the other men who would ride. He thought he felt the oil anew, smeared by the priest’s thumb upon his forehead.

  “Onward,” called Eadward, and was met with an answering cheer from every throat.

  The army would march together a short distance until those under Cuthred’s command broke off. Eadward touched his heels to his stallion’s flank, and his bodyguard closed up behind him. They moved forward as one.

  Ceric looked about him. The spear points of the men, held upright, caught the glancing rays of the rising Sun. The sheer number of mounted thegns, the fineness of their horses, the golden dragon banners lifting above them, the line of foremost men splendid in their glittering war-kit, it all held a kind of majesty, fresh, new, and stirring. If he had felt alert before, he felt the heightening of his senses now, aware of the coolness of the breeze upon his face, the animal muscle of the stallion his legs closed upon, the sombre weight of his ring-shirt and helmet, the racing lightness of his breath. He found himself centred in a kind of heart-pounding and unexpected beauty, the glory of men marching to battle.

  He thought of the scop, Garrulf, at Kilton. He pictured his dark eyes gleaning all before him, and making of it a stirring and worthy song which told the truth of what Ceric was now feeling. Men, horses, weapons, moving forward as one.

  Ceric responded to the beauty of the battle march, though he understood it was an awe-ful beauty: the lines of men with their round and brightly painted shields, the burnished metal, polished again just last night, the great wrought allure of the tools of killing – the blue-bladed swords, over which a weapon-smith had labored for weeks or even months, so that scops saw the scales of dragons dancing as the blade was swung. The glittering seaxes and honed war-axes and spear points incised with delicate tracery, meant to be sunk deeply into another man’s body.

  All this caught and filled his eyes. The men who bore those weapons became vessels of a rare and manly beauty, thegns in their linked ring-tunics and glinting helmets, and those more humble fighters on foot from whose hands spears bristled and punctured the sky. It all possessed a kind of primitive splendour. There were tales of ancient armies, of conflict brave and bloody, in the Holy Book; warriors led by stern patriarchs battling for more than life. There was grandeur there, and something beyond earthly glory, and Ceric thought there must be a distinct and special beauty to such glory. It had to do with manliness, and perhaps no woman could truly understand it. Men pledged to each other to reach here, thegn to Lord, Lord to King; but the greatest vow was Man to God.

  Ashild’s face and her stormy eyes flashed in his mind. Perhaps she, amongst all women, would be one to understand.

  He felt of a sudden fear-less. Any dread of death, of being hacked down, of his young blood soaking into the warming Spring soil, left him. He rode on in the line of warriors, supported by more than his horse. High-careless, valiant-hearted, strong in faith and surety; that was all he knew. He was part of this vast number of like-minded men, moving forward with dedication to the goal, for Christ, for King, for one’s own dear folk and lands.

  Those riders headed to sea broke off; Eadward and the larger force went on. Ceric watched the ninety or so men ride away, without feeling their loss, or any diminishment to his own numbers. They would prevail, as would Eadward’s contingent, of which he was so fully a part.

  The Sun breached the line of trees, trees now giving way to marsh. They reached the swelling rise of land from which they could see their destination, and climbed it. They crowded the rise, an even greater and more impressive troop than that which Ælfred had earlier defined against this sky.

  The horses stood, nodding their heads at what lay below, their riders narrowing their eyes above their horse’s manes. The foot-men caught up, stood staring down through the morning light at the fortress of Middeltun. The rise gave a vantage, from which could be seen a steady stream of men issuing out from the back of the encircling palisade. Those Danes were headed North, to where lay their ships, beached on the soft banks of the Thames estuary.

  Some would flee that way, but half at least would be forced to stay to defend the fortress they had built. Just as Eadward had divided his troops, so must Haesten, and in both places would the Danes be met.

  With a few words Eadward again divided his men, one portion to skirt the encampment and stem the flow of Danes from the rear, the other to remain with him and make the frontal assault.

  Eadward turned, his back to the enemy, facing his men as he signaled which would ride to stop more Danes escaping to their ships. Ceric’s green eyes were fixed upon him, willing the Prince to order Kilton’s thegns to remain.

  “Ceric of Kilton, you are with me,” he heard Eadward call.

  Those chosen to ride to the back of the fort had just started off when all heard a blast from a horn, a distant but prolonged sounding. One of the Danish watchmen within the palisade, likely distracted with other tasks, had spotted the army on the hill rise above, and given warning.

  “Forward,” called Eadward.

  They walked down from the rise, the body of them, at a fast walk. The Prince would go so far, determine where to stop, and there, of his troops, form his war-hedge. The horsemen who had been just behind Eadward at the rise of the hill had fanned out, and Ceric and Worr and his fifty men of Kilton found himself in the front rank, just to the left of Eadward. They walked over grassland of tender green growth, flushing not a few ground birds as they went. One fluttered, complaining, before Ceric’s horse, and Ceric found himself smiling at it. He was aware of Worr at his right, and his thegn Wistan on his left, a man with as many years and as much experience as Worr, a man who had also fought with Godwin. Most of his other pledged men were closer in age to he himself. Now they would have a chance to prove themselves, as he would.

  There were Danes on the ramparts on the palisade before them, and the horn that had sounded had scarcely stopped in its winding. All within knew of the approaching threat, and could see as well the second part of Eadward’s forces as they cantered, rounding the arc of the fortress to close up the path to escape. The numbers of men on the ramparts grew, as more and more Danes craned their heads at them. Ceric scanned the line of small figures, wondering if Haesten himself be amongst them.

  Eadward grew closer. There was still a small rise on which they stood, and he would claim that advantage, forcing Haesten to rush upwards on the slight grade to reach them. Closer to the fortress, the land sloped gently downwards to the closed palisade gates. Eadward turned to his men to ready them for when those gates should open.

  He gestured them off their horses, but kept his to be better seen and heard. “First rank,” he called, naming those who would form the initial shield-wall, that which would take the brunt of first contact. “My own men in centre. Wedmore, to the right of them. Meretun, to the left.”

  “Second rank, and third ranks. Kilton, behind my own men. Winburn, to the right of Kilton. Englafeld, to the left.” He looked at Ceric, and at the two lords of Winburn and Englafeld. “Split your men in two ran
ks. Behind the second of them will be me, and my bodyguard.

  “Wait for my battle cry,” he went on. The power in his voice matched the look in his eyes as he scanned the faces of the men before him. “Do not forsake the shield-wall. Do not break rank unless you hear the horn sound thrice. Do not run after any Dane. Do not stop to strip for booty, or to aid any injured of our own, until I signal.

  “Archers, sling-men, and spear-men,” he now called, addressing that throng. “You will stand behind the foremost rank. When the enemy is within range, let fly at my command, three volleys of missiles, as quickly as you can discharge them. Then clear that rank, at a run, heading to the rear. Make ready there to come forward and fire more at my command.”

  These were the orders, clear, direct, given once. Every pair of eyes was set upon Eadward’s face as he looked down upon his troops. A moment’s pause, as his own swept over men and boys. Then came a single nod of his head in affirmation.

  “Horses to the rear,” he called last.

  He swung off his own. Ceric and all the rest led their horses to where the supply waggons rolled in. Here the drovers, and those men brought to keep and guard horses and supplies took charge of them. No one spoke; it was all done almost soundlessly, save for the snorting of the horses. Ceric gave his stallion a pat on the glossy neck, as if he had just come in from a morning’s ride. He watched other men do the same to their mounts. He checked his war-kit one more time. He heard Sidroc’s voice in his head, telling him and Hrald to secure their clothing, check their leg wrappings, and he did so, as he had when he was but a lad with Hrald.