by Millie Thom
‘Nothing,’ Egil replied with a sly grin. ‘We didn’t kill him.’
Bjorn stared at the man. ‘If you didn’t kill Beorhtwulf, then what did you do with him?’
Egil inhaled deeply, the pallor of his skin suggestive of rising nausea. ‘Two of my men took him to Thanet, and sailed for Ribe on the first of our ships to leave,’ he said, beginning to sway ominously on the bench. ‘Sold him at the Ribe market instead of going down to Hedeby.’ His eyes became little more than narrow slits and he lowered his head onto his arms circled on the table before him. ‘Moors bought him,’ he mumbled. ‘Paid good silver . . . be dead by now . . . too old to lift heavy stone.’
‘Where?’ Bjorn demanded. ‘Where did they take him to? The Moors conrol many lands around the Middle Sea and . . .’
‘Cordoba,’ Egil murmured. Then he vomited across the trestle.’
*****
The Sea Eagle veered south from the Limfjord and into the Kattegat Strait, a brisk north-easterly filling her sail and keeping her at a steady speed whilst his men sat easy at their oar ports. It was mid morning, and Bjorn calculated they’d be home well before daylight faded.
He stood at the helm, gazing south as they followed the Danish coast towards Aros. The wind was at his back and his red hair streamed out before him as he inhaled the sharp tang of salty air. The staggering revelations from the drunken Egil still dominated his thoughts, and he wondered why they bothered him so much. He hadn’t set eyes on Ulf for over five years.
He sighed, knowing that fond memories of the proud Mercian, his courage and endurance following the devastating events that irrevocably changed his life, would always be with him. If not for Ulf, both Bjorn and his young brother, Ubbi, would be dead. He recalled how contented Ulf had seemed in his new life back in Mercia, with his lovely wife and growing family, and wondered how he’d react if he should learn of Egil’s long-held secret. Perhaps such a secret should remain buried.
Yet, somehow, Bjorn felt he owed it to Ulf to let him know what he’d learned. What Ulf wanted to do about it was his own concern, but Bjorn had a feeling about that . . .
‘Father, Mother has asked if you are feeling well. She said you slept little last night.’
‘I’m absolutely fine, Hrolf, thank you,’ he said, ruffling his son’s dark hair as he turned to see his wife’s worried gaze fixed on him from the stern. He raised a hand in acknowledgement of her query. ‘Tell your mother I’ll be along to speak to her soon,’ he added, thinking how Hrolf was so like Kata. His jet black hair and dark eyes were so different to Bjorn’s other two children, whose colouring resembled his own.
The robust lad moved back to the stern like a natural seaman, reminding Bjorn of Ulf at that age. The speed with which Ulf had taken to the seas had surprised Bjorn’s crew, who had readily accepted him as one of their own. And Leif had taken him under his protective wing from the start, seeing the plucky nature of the lad and respecting him for it.
It had grieved them all when Ulf had fled so abruptly. Only Leif knew the truth . . . that Bjorn had arranged for it to happen. Bjorn had given Ulf his freedom.
He headed along the deck and squatted next to Kata. His wife had always loved the sea. Brought up on the Isle of Bornholm, Kata’s father, King Alfarin, had taken all of his many children out in his ships almost as soon as they could walk. Boy or girl made no difference to the island king.
Kata shuffled closer to him. ‘Have you made your mind up yet?’
Bjorn knew exactly what she was talking about; they’d sat up half the night discussing it. Kata would never dream of persuading him one way or the other, and Bjorn loved her all the more for it. She had simply listened as he’d relayed Egil’s tale in their bed last night and murmured the odd remark of understanding at his subsequent dilemma. By morning when the Sea Eagle had pushed away from Aalborg, Bjorn had been no closer to a decision.
But now, out at sea with his thoughts and memories engulfing him, he was certain.
‘Yes, Kata, I have,’ he replied, nodding. ‘I just need to talk to Leif about it.’
Twenty Five
Wessex: January – March 871
After almost two weeks behind his defences at Reading, Halfdan began to pull himself together and consider his next move. For the first week following the demoralising defeat at Ashdown, he’d not wanted to show his face. The fact that he was the sole leader now that Bagsecg was dead did little to dispel the feeling that things had started to go very wrong. He struggled to understand how they hadn’t realised that only half of the West Saxons had made that initial stand. They’d been well and truly duped, lured into a trap to be left writhing like netted eels hauled up from the river, ready for gutting.
His heartbeat quickened as he thought about it. As the sole surviving leader, Halfdan had been the one the men blamed for their devastating defeat. For an entire week he’d been loath to look any of them in the eye, fearful of the anger and contempt he knew he’d find. And during that week he’d scarcely said a word to anyone. Their huge losses at Ashdown had destroyed all hope of subsequent engagement, and the subjugation of Wessex seemed destined to fail. Thor must have truly deserted them.
By the middle of the second week the need to forage for food for the men and fodder for their horses became a priority and Halfdan could lick his wounds no longer. He was further spurred into action by reports coming in from his scouts of a dozen Danish longships already in the Thames estuary. If all went well, they’d be in Reading by tomorrow.
In his wisdom, Thor had sent them reinforcements.
*****
Since the battle at Ashdown, the West Saxons had retreated to Winchester, some thirty-five miles to the south of Reading. Here there were adequate barns and storage sheds to house the fyrd, who would remain with their king until the threat of imminent action could be deemed unlikely. Food was in good supply and the men hunted and fished on a daily basis.
Alfred anticipated no further movement from the Danes for some weeks and prayed that he was right in this. It was midwinter and, although, as yet, they’d been spared the heavy snows, the icy conditions and oft-times driving winds demanded a respite until the spring. Besides, losses at Ashdown had been high on both sides, and neither army was in any position to face further conflict.
Yet still, he and Aethelred realised that nothing could ever be taken for granted with the Danes. Saxon scouts had been sent to monitor the region around Reading, and any sign of enemy movement would be promptly reported. And the fyrd, restless to go home or not, would remain on duty. Hopefully, by spring their depleted numbers would be replenished with men from the Hampshire and Dorset fyrds.
Before two weeks had passed, scouts brought news of Danish ships heading up the Thames towards Reading.
‘A dozen ships! That could mean anything between two and three hundred more Danes . . .’
Aethelred’s gaze swept his two ealdormen and seven thegns seated around the firepit of the Winchester hall, his statement unfinished, his expression grave. At his brother’s side, Alfred said nothing. He and Aethelred had already had this conversation.
‘The remnants of our own forces number a dozen or so fewer than five hundred,’ the Wessex king went on, glancing at Alfred, who nodded agreement with the figure. ‘And we estimate that the Danes lost over five hundred of their men at Ashdown. That should have left them with fewer than four hundred, a number we could effectively confront with a degree of confidence for further victory.’
Aethelred threw up his hands and shook his head, a gesture too close to hopelessness for Alfred’s liking. ‘But these new arrivals have tipped the balance in the Danes’ favour. Even two hundred additional Danes would put their numbers close to six, or perhaps seven hundred. My lords, we must pray to God that the Danes will stay behind their embankments at Reading until the spring, or–’
‘Or we fight them to the best of our ability, my lord,’ Alfred interjected, tired of his brother’s woebegone mood. Aethelred was overcome with despair since h
earing that enemy longships had been spotted yesterday, barely twenty miles from Reading. ‘Our men are well fed and generally rested since Ashdown. The Danes, although they may be well rested, will not be so well fed. Our scouts have reported little foraging outside of Reading’s defences, and I’ll warrant supplies inside are negligible by now.’
Ealdorman Unwine raised a hand. ‘I agree, Lord Alfred. ‘And now that reinforcements have joined them, Halfdan is even more likely to move his men out to forage and loot. An army that size has to eat and their horses need fodder. So, what do you propose we do?’
Alfred turned to his brother, offering the question to him. He had not intended to freeze Aethelred out of the conversation, but his own intolerance of indecision and despair had momentarily got the better of him.
‘I don’t think we need to concern ourselves with local foraging,’ Aethelred said, not seeming in the least put out by Alfred’s curt interruption, ‘although God knows how many innocent villagers could die in the process. The Danes not only take all the food and fodder they find, but people’s lives as well.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Nevertheless, foraging activities must be dealt with by those concerned, under the leadership of thegns and their attendants who were unable to join our army. I’m informed that one or two were either too old or otherwise incapacitated . . .’
Aethelred abandoned that point and moved on. ‘What we must prepare for is any full-scale movement of enemy forces towards a major Wessex centre – whether city, royal vill, monastery or abbey. We cannot allow them to gain a foothold elsewhere in our kingdom.’ Alfred nodded, pleased to see his brother’s fighting spirit had returned. ‘So the information we need as soon as it becomes available,’ Aethelred continued, ‘relates to the direction in which the Danes move out – just the same as it did before we left Windsor for Ashdown.’
There seemed little more to say on the matter and the men resumed their usual, muted conversations and drank their ale, whilst around them, servants prepared the evening meal. Aethelred rose and headed for the door, ready to make his rounds of the fyrd with his brother in the pouring rain. Dusk had fallen early and the men would be back from their hunting and fishing by now.
But Alfred was deep in thought, his eyes absently following the spirals of smoke rising from the hearthfire to the rafters high above. He trusted the scouts to be vigilant, but he was concerned with the problem of their own distance from Reading, and would feel easier if they were based somewhere closer to the enemy. Should the Danes head north again, the Saxon army would have some miles to cover before they could catch them up, especially since news of Danish movement could take over a day to reach them in the first place.
On the increased number of Danes they could face, Alfred preferred not to dwell.
*****
It was not until after the meal later that evening that Alfred had the opportunity to voice his thoughts. What he was about to propose seemed to him to be the most sensible course of action for the Saxon army to follow.
‘We need to move our army closer to Reading,’ he said without preamble, then waited until the murmurings ceased before explaining. ‘If anything should occur at Reading, we’re too far away at Winchester to counter it quickly enough. The Danes could be half way across Wessex before we even learn they’ve moved out anywhere. Our scouts may not get prior knowledge of any Danish plans as they did before.
Aethelred nodded slowly. ‘I can see the sense in doing that, Alfred, but it will need to be somewhere large enough to accommodate our army. Have you anywhere in mind?’
‘Your own royal vill at Basing, my lord,’ Alfred replied, not needing to consider his answer. ‘It would halve our distance from Reading. It’s big enough and should be well stocked with provisions, for a while, at least. In any case, the men are used to hunting and generally foraging for food; they do so here, every day.’
‘When do you propose we should make this move?’ Unwine asked.
Alfred’s answer was ready. ‘Tomorrow. Why wait any longer?’
‘Then, my lords,’ Alfred said at Aethelred’s consenting nod, ‘I’ll need a few volunteers from amongst you to take our intentions out to the men. We don’t want to rise in the morning to find that half of them have gone hunting, do we?’
*****
On the morning of January 22, with a stinging north-easterly slanting an icy sleet across their path, the Great Army headed south from Reading and into southern Berkshire. Now swelled by the addition of three hundred fresh warriors, they headed for the royal vill at Basing, some sixteen miles away. If the place was anywhere near as well stocked as Reading had been on their arrival, it would provide them with food and fodder for at least a few weeks.
Halfdan was pleased with the plan he’d devised the previous night with his remaining warlords and three chieftains from the new arrivals. To head for Basing was an excellent idea. Basing was only half a day’s ride from Winchester, the West Saxon town Halfdan coveted the most. If his army could take the most important of the Saxon towns, Wessex would be theirs.
Once settled in Basing, the men could simply enjoy the place and prepare to move out and take Winchester in the spring. The Saxons would be unlikely to offer combat in mid-winter. And if things really went their way, still more Danish ships would arrive in the spring and further strengthen their chances of victory.
Halfdan’s thanks to Thor had poured forth for most of the previous night. The Thunder God had smiled upon him as the true leader of his army. His confidence soared, along with his arrogance. Bagsecg was never meant to lead. The ugly Norwegian could certainly make all the right noises, cajole the men into trusting him simply by the tone of his voice. But when it came to the fight, he was too slow by far. And now he’d paid for it.
But as Halfdan’s army neared Basing, his hopes for an unchallenged arrival died. Wessex forces were waiting.
He cursed. How in the name of Odin had the Saxons learned of their movements so soon? His scouts had informed him of their retreat to Winchester following Ashdown, and that was some eighteen miles further south than Basing. To find the Saxons now here, prepared to do battle, seemed impossible . . . Unless they’d moved to Basing some time before, unnoticed by Danish scouts, too preoccupied with the arrival of the new ships.
But it was too late for deliberation. Despite the sleety haze, at two hundred yards Halfdan could see that the Saxons were already in battle formation.
Dismounting and leaving their mounts along the edge of leafless woodland, on Halfdan’s signal Norse warriors steadily moved towards the enemy. Wary as cats they advanced, their rhythmic beating of weapons on shields mingling with the howling of the relentless wind.
As they drew close to the vill, it became clear to Halfdan that the Saxon army was far inferior to his own. The Great Army was now nigh on seven hundred – and the new arrivals were eager for combat. After two, dreary winter months on Thanet, just waiting for the spring and easier sailing, the news of their comrades’ defeat at Ashdown had given them the excuse they’d needed to come to their aid. Halfdan grinned at the fortuity of that. These Saxon curs would be given a glimpse of Danish accord. The Great Army would never stay depleted for long. As men fell, others simply arrived to take their place.
At twenty-five yards he could distinguish five Saxon lines, each fewer than a hundred men. Unless this was another Saxon trick, and a section of their army was lying in wait, on this occasion, great Thor would make the victory theirs.
Halfdan drew up his forces into five lines, each nearing a hundred and thirty men. At the ends of each line, the sixteen or so extra men would circle out and attack enemy flanks as soon as close combat began. He glowered at the Saxon king and his brother in the centre of their front line, the standard bearer between them hoisting what must be the Wessex flag – a white dragon against a backdrop of red. Halfdan couldn’t resist a smug smile. Soon that pretty flag would be thick with Saxon gore.
‘Shield wall!’ he yelled.
Danish spears smacked into the Sax
on lines, some finding their fleshy targets, others piercing shields and holding fast, rendering them useless for the imminent clash. Saxon retaliation was as paltry as it had been at Ashdown, and Halfdan knew the charge must be now, before the enemy had time to ready their weapons or tug spears from their shields.
His order rang out as the last volley of spears flew from his warriors’ hands. Saxon retaliation came moments later, the almighty crash as they rammed into each other as misplaced on the winter landscape as a blizzard in June. Warriors roared and pushed, ashen spears striking out and thrusting between shields. Swords and battle axes swung at heads, limbs and torsos and slammed into shields. Others found human flesh; men fell to the earth, stone dead, or writhing in their death throes.
Outnumbered and assailed from three sides, Saxon defences were gradually broken down and the men began to flee in the direction of Winchester. He had no intention of chasing after them. Although most of the mangled corpses were Saxon, his own army had lost too many men today. The Saxons had put up a good fight and once back at Winchester, Halfdan had no idea of how many more men they could summon. And he did not relish the idea of a siege at this time of year. No, Winchester would have to wait for some time yet.
*****
After their crushing defeat at Basing, the Saxon army returned to Winchester. This time it was they who must lick their wounds and face the truth of the victory at Ashdown: that it was no more than a fleeting success in what would be a long and ugly struggle. Basing had been the fourth battle in less than a month and it seemed that, for now, things had ground to a halt. Mid-winter was not the time for major battles and Alfred and Aethelred decided that the only sensible course of action was to withdraw and plan their spring campaign.
Released from their duties, the fyrd returned to their homes until recalled by the king. Though downhearted and still fearful of Danish raids on their homes, the men accepted that nothing more could be done to rid Wessex of the pagan presence for a while. Alfred knew the Danes wouldn’t simply sit and rest at Basing: they’d soon need to be out raiding and foraging. Then, likely as not, after a week or two they’d return to their base at Reading to prepare for further conflict in the spring.
