Conqueror

by Stephen Baxter

  Cynewulf was all but holding his breath. ‘I don’t believe so, lord.’

  ‘I ought to ask a bishop. I have enough of them in my pocket. “Even the dragon must lie/at the foot of the Cross ...” Ambiguous as it is, perhaps this message from the future, or the past, does harden my resolve. Pilgrimages can wait until my old age. And if all I win from the Danes must one day be taken back by them - well, then, it is up to us to act as if it were not so. Do you agree with that much, Cynewulf?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Cynewulf said, relieved.

  A priest murmured in Alfred’s ear. Time for prayers. He dismissed Cynewulf’s party.

  Aebbe, still standing on the spot where she had recited the Menologium to a king, had watched all this, her eyes grave, judgmental.

  XIII

  As the days lengthened and the weather warmed, it was as if the world’s blood was stirring. The punts brought weapons, armour, and scrap metal which, to a ringing of hammers day and night, was turned into spears, arrow-heads and coats of mail.

  Arngrim had his favourite horse brought close by, a handsome beast he called Strong-and-Fleet. And he sharpened and polished his battle sword, which he loved more than the horse, Cynewulf thought, and which he had named too, after the manner of pagan warriors. A gift from his father, it was a hardened blade with an ornate wooden hilt; he called it Ironsides.

  Campaigning season was coming, the long warm months of war. Even Cynewulf felt his sap rising. But he prayed that this martial excitement could be banished from his own blood, for in the country there was misery.

  The Danes, bottled up by Alfred, stole seedcorn and slaughtered pregnant ewes and cows. All farmers lived close to the edge of survival, even in the best of times, and this spring famine made eyes hollow. The priests excused the folk their tithes, and at the Easter feast, the one occasion when the parishioners were allowed to share in the priests’ communion bread and wine, hunger was more evident than faith. And supplicants came from across the country to Aethelingaig, starving farmers who knelt to place their heads in their lords’ hands, giving themselves up as bondsmen in return for a little food.

  But despite the tension, despite the misery, it was a beautiful season. The colours of the new marsh flowers, the croaking of the mating frogs, the songs of the nesting birds all seemed more vivid than before to Cynewulf. For if the war went badly this year, it was almost certain that he, Cynewulf, the centre of the whole universe, would never see spring again.

  As the season advanced, the logic of the war unfolded relentlessly. Unexpected news came that ealdorman Odda had scattered the second Danish Force. Their leader, Ubba, had been killed, along with eight hundred of his men, and the rest had fled back to their ships. For the English it was the first real piece of good news since the rout of the Twelve Days.

  But Alfred still had to face Guthrum.

  And now the dragon stirred. Guthrum’s Force left its captured fortress at Cippanhamm. Unopposed, watched fearfully by the farmers of Wessex, the Force worked its lawless way across the country, taking food, horses, slaves and women as it chose. After some weeks the Force settled again at a place called Ethandune.

  Cynewulf, restless himself, accompanied Arngrim on a spying trip ordered by Alfred. Arngrim knew the land from hunting trips as a young man, and he led Cynewulf confidently along tracks over high moorland. As they climbed the views opened up, revealing rolling wooded country stretching towards Cippanhamm.

  The Dane camp was at the foot of a sharp ridge. It was this ridge that gave the place its name - Ethandune, the ‘waste down’. There were relics of long occupation here, Cynewulf saw: the furrowed ditches of an abandoned camp, perhaps centuries old, and the emblem of a horse cut raggedly into a hillside.

  And, crouching for cover in the gorse, they could clearly see the settlement which the Danes had taken. It was another royal enclosure, smaller than Cippanhamm, but with earth fortifications and a hall. The fires of the Force sent threads of smoke into the air, and the horses, every last one of them stolen from the English, were corralled in a large paddock.

  Like the English, the Danes were preparing for war. Cynewulf saw men wrestling and mock-fighting with swords and shields. And he heard laughter, songs. There was none of the nervous energy, the determined tension of Alfred’s camp. To the English everything was at stake - their homes, their families, their faith, their lives. But to the Danes this was an adventure, a bloody game - the best game in the world.

  Arngrim murmured, ‘They are smug. That’s a convenient camp, but it has the disadvantage of the low ground. And Alfred’s strategy has paid off. We have kept them bottled up all winter, and they are short of reinforcements and weapons and provisions.’

  ‘Yet they laugh.’

  ‘Yet they laugh. They think they will beat us come what may.’ Arngrim was a slab of anger, of clenched muscle, as he looked down on this scene. ‘I know this land. I have hunted here, with the athelings. This is our land, won from the British with twenty generations of blood and toil. You know, I’ve had enough of these Danes.’

  In Alfred’s court there were many who agreed it was time to take the fight to the Danes. But there was intense debate about the timing of any action. Arngrim was among those who urged Alfred to move against the Danes as early as possible. The summer would bring more Danes across the ocean, and even before then the Force could retire to Mercia to graze its horses on the spring grass. The earlier Alfred struck the better.

  But, defying these counsels, Alfred waited in Aethelingaig as April’s warmth settled. The weapon-makers were glad of the extra time, but the warriors grew increasingly restless.

  Cynewulf reflected that the crucial sixth stanza of the Menologium had referred to a war in the month of May. Perhaps Alfred was paying respect to its prophesying. But Cynewulf believed that the Menologium was only one of the strands that made up the web of decision-making in the head of this clever, deep-thinking ruler.

  It was on Whit Sunday, in mid-May, that Alfred at last rode out of Aethelingaig with a score of his thegns and their followers. Cynewulf rode with the other priests. Arngrim rode Strong-and-Fleet, and wore Ironsides on his back, with his short stabbing sword and his axe at his belt.

  Alfred established a new overnight camp, only a few hours’ ride from the Danes’ position. The camp was centred on a great old oak tree, under whose spreading branches the King set up his giving-throne. He might be a Christian King, but Alfred knew the deep old symbolism of his people, and through the day Cynewulf saw warriors pat the tree for luck, murmuring prayers to antique deities.

  It was on the evening of Whit Sunday that Alfred at last summoned the ealdormen, the great landowners, from north, south, east and west, to come to him with their fyrd levies. The next morning he sat under the oak tree, with the dragon banner of Wessex fluttering over his head, and waited.

  Cynewulf knew that the whole future depended on the response of the lords and the people to Alfred’s call. Alfred had to face the Danes this year, come what may; even if he survived another winter his credibility as a war leader would not. But many English kings had fallen to the Northmen before. If the fyrd did not respond to his summons when he made it, if the farmers did not turn out to fight for this last scrap of England, it could surely never be summoned again.

  As the morning wore on and the horizon remained empty, the tension in Alfred’s camp rose inexorably, until even Cynewulf could bear it no more. But the King himself sat on his throne, and consulted with his advisors, prayed with his priests, and read his precious books.

  It was after midday when the first cries went up from the sentries. ‘They come! They come!’

  Cynewulf rushed to see for himself. These were no Roman legions. This was the fyrd, an army of farmers, and they came in parties of three, four or five, straggling across the countryside as if showing up for a spring fair. They were armed with rusty weapons handed down since their grandfathers’ time, and some carried nothing more than pitchforks and clubs. Many of the men were gaunt,
half-starved, even the nobles. And yet they came, responding to the King’s call, from north, south and west, from Sumorsaete, Wiltunscir, Hamptonscir - only the east did not respond, where the Danes’ control was too tight.

  Alfred waited on his giving-throne, the expression on his long face as calm as it had always been.

  In the end, more than a thousand responded to his call.

  Alfred climbed up on the seat of his throne so they could all see him and his glittering crown. The farmers before him fell silent, rows of them in their grimy earth-coloured clothes, their faces turned to him like flowers towards the sun.

  Alfred spoke loudly enough for the furthest man to hear. He said simply: ‘It ends here.’

  He was answered by a roar.

  XIV

  The rest of the day was spent in preparations for the battle to come.

  The only professional warriors under Alfred’s command were his thegns, including Arngrim, and the farmers’ only experience of Danes was to run away from them. So the thegns coached the fyrdmen in how to fight the English way, in the shield wall. Arngrim worked hard at this, picking out the younger, stronger and the braver-looking of the farmers and equipping them with shields, mail and decent swords. But there weren’t enough weapons to go round.

  While Arngrim worked on the farmers’ martial skills, Cynewulf tended to their souls. As the day wore on he baptised one scared farmer after another, hastily splashing their heads with water from wooden cups, and sprinkling holy water on their shields. Evidently not all the population of this part of Wessex was as Christian as he might have imagined. But even if they hadn’t lived in Christ these farmer-warriors would fight and die as Christians.

  At the end of the day Alfred’s priests led a long evening of fasting, praying and the singing of hymns and psalms. The camp became an open-air cathedral of Christian piety. Alfred himself was at the centre of this, as tireless in his worship as he had been in preparation for the battle. He was the first to dedicate his life and his victory to God, swearing oaths on a Bible and on the holy sacrament, and he sang until his voice was scratchy with fatigue.

  But these final services were conducted under high gibbets on which dangled the corpses of Danes, captured, drained of their useful information, and then summarily hanged. Alfred was pious, but he was a warrior-king.

  Not all Alfred’s thegns were Christian. Arngrim was nowhere to be seen during these services. With others, he crept off to a bonfire away from the Christian celebrations.

  At about midnight, with a couple of his hearth-companions at his side, Alfred left his camp and made for the pagans’ bonfire. Cynewulf was worn out with praying, and yet he was too excited to sleep, and he followed the King.

  By the light of their bonfire the pagan thegns with their followers stood around a pit. Arngrim was here, and Cynewulf saw Ibn Zuhr tending Arngrim’s horse, nearly invisible in the dark. As Cynewulf watched, a pig was dragged squealing to the edge of the pit. A brisk sword-stroke slit open the pig’s belly. As grey ropy guts tumbled out of the screaming animal, the thegns took turns to stab it; Arngrim stepped up in his turn and thrust Ironsides into the bloody mess. Then the pig was hurled into the pit. The warriors raised their dripping swords over the hole in the earth and bellowed an oath in a tongue that had come across on Cerdic’s boats: ‘To Woden! To victory! To death!’

  As the warriors prepared to drag forward another animal, a goat this time, the King walked forward. The thegns turned to him respectfully.

  ‘A waste of good pork, that.’

  Arngrim smiled. ‘We who fall will enjoy it in the Upperworld with Woden.’

  Alfred took his shoulder. ‘If you were Christian you would be my hearth-companion. You know that.’

  ‘That and if I could read.’

  ‘Well, that too. Do you understand that I will build my kingdom on Christ and on literacy? For Christianity is the root of the morality that underpins the law, and if a law is written down all men may understand it and see that it is fair.’

  Cynewulf was struck by the vision of this man who dreamed of law codes even as he prepared for the battle of his life.

  Arngrim said, ‘But it’s not for me, my lord. I’m no monk.’

  ‘No. But tomorrow is for you, Arngrim. I dream of a civilised time when we no longer name our swords. But tomorrow I need warriors.

  ‘I have pondered what was said to me that night, when the damaged girl-child recited her prophetic calendar for me. The prophecy made me aware of our place in history - for these are days that men will talk of for ever, Arngrim, whatever becomes of us. What are we, we English? Four centuries ago we were as these Northmen are now. We gazed with incomprehension on the Romans’ mighty ruins. Now these Northmen erupt in our lives, illiterate pagan savages, who are as we were. The priests say that pagans remember hell. Well, the Northmen are our own deep lost memory of hell. And to fight them we will have to reach back for our own true selves, our hell-souls.’ He squeezed Arngrim’s shoulder tighter. ‘And so I reach to you. I need you in the shield wall, Arngrim, at its very centre.’

  ‘You will have me there, lord.’

  ‘But, Arngrim, remember this—you must think. For it is by thinking that we will prevail.’ Alfred held his gaze a moment longer, then released him, and moved on to the next man.

  The pagan ceremony went on. The goat was dragged forward, butchered in its turn, and its blood stained a dozen swords before its carcass was thrown after the pig’s into the pit.

  Arngrim, his brow streaked with blood, grinned at Cynewulf. ‘A bit more exciting than your chanting monks, isn’t it, priest?’

  ‘Goading me is unworthy at such a time, cousin.’

  ‘Well, perhaps. We all have our own ways of preparing to die.’ Arngrim held up his sword and kissed its bloody blade. ‘I have sworn to Woden that if he spares my life tomorrow I will give him Ironsides - I will break his blade and hurl him into the river myself. And tonight I must make a greater sacrifice.’ He gestured at the pit. ‘A goose, a dog, a sheep and a goat, a pig, a boar, a bull, a stallion - and a man. That’s what is required of us tonight, to feed the pit. And so it falls on me to supply the horse.’

  He turned. Ibn Zuhr, standing nearby, stroked the neck of Strong-and-Fleet. The horse pawed the ground and shook his head, disturbed by the stink of blood and fire.

  Cynewulf gasped. ‘You can’t be serious. You love that horse.’

  ‘Better than most of my family. But he has already done his job, in carrying me here; I will have no need of him tomorrow. Or,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I could discharge my obligation to Woden by giving him a man.’ And he flashed his sword at Ibn Zuhr, pressing the tip of its blade under the Moor’s chin. ‘We kept a Dane alive for the purpose, but a Moor will do just as well. That way I get to keep my horse, and rid myself of a mouth that flaps before kings. What do you think, cousin?’

  Cynewulf dared say nothing. With astonishing calm Ibn Zuhr continued to stroke the restless horse. Arngrim turned away with a laugh, lowered the sword, and the moment was broken.

  Arngrim took the horse’s reins from Ibn Zuhr, ignoring the Moor. He patted Strong-and-Fleet on the muzzle, and the fine old horse ducked his head. ‘Come on, Fleet. You’ve one last service to perform for me ...’ He led the horse towards the pit. Cynewulf saw a Dane being dragged forward by two burly English, cowed and beaten.

  Through all this Ibn Zuhr had said not a word. But, Cynewulf saw, his eyes burned.

  XV

  In the cold light of dawn, under a sky empty of cloud, the army of Wessex marched to the head of the ridge over Ethandune. The Danes, as confident as Arngrim had said, did not bother trying to stop the English taking the higher ground.

  Once they were on the ridge the English sorted themselves out, with the King and his hearth-companions to the rear under the fluttering dragon banner of Wessex, then the reserve troops - and then the front line, who would make the shield wall when the battle came.

  Arngrim pushed through to the front of
the English line, in the very centre, as Alfred had ordered. He looked down on the Danes from his height on the ridge. The lines of the Force were orderly, wooden shields shining and mail gleaming in the misty light. They watched the English with an ominous stillness.

  Like the men around him Arngrim had his sword in its scabbard on his back, and his axe and his stabbing sword to hand. He wore his shirt of chain-mail, on his arm was his shield, wooden with an iron frame, and on his head was his pointed iron helmet. A strip of iron came down before his face to protect his nose, so that he saw the world framed by straight edges. He was already hot, encased in heavy iron. But he was ready.

  The men around him formed into rough ranks. There was some jostling as the men tried to find a place in the front rank - or to squeeze back out of it, depending on their courage - and there was a clatter of shield on shield as they practised forming the wall. These fellows close to the front were thegns or the sons of thegns, and some of the healthier and braver of the fyrd; they were Alfred’s best soldiers, with the best equipment. Looking around, Arngrim was dismayed to see how much younger than him most of them were. At his right hand side, for instance, was Ordgar, Aethelnoth’s man, who had stopped him on his return from Eoforwic. He must have been a good ten years Arngrim’s junior.