Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2)

by Millie Thom

  It was early evening by the time Aethelred ordered the final halt of the day. As Alfred and his brother had planned, they had reached an expanse of meadow outside the ancient town of Salisbury. Their destination, the town of Wilton, lay four miles further west. A narrow stream at the meadow’s edge flowed south-west to join the River Avon, alongside of which Salisbury stood.

  The men set up their makeshift camp for a night and ate some of the dried food they carried in pouches fastened at their waists. Daylight would last for little more than an hour, and Alfred shared his brother’s impatience as they waited for the scouts they’d sent on ahead before daybreak to join them. It was imperative to know the enemy whereabouts before they moved on tomorrow.

  With great relief Alfred spotted the riders approaching their camp.

  ‘My lord,’ the tall spokesman said, sinking to one knee before Aethelred, ‘the Danes have stopped north of Wilton, almost twenty miles from here.’ He swallowed hard before relaying his next piece of news. ‘They’ve already plundered your estate at Meretun . . . and burnt it to the ground. Now they’re massed on the edge of a large plain next to it.’

  ‘You have our thanks, Ceneric,’ Aethelred replied, recovering quickly from the news of losing his Meretun estate. ‘You’ve done well to cover such distance in one day. Without this information we’d simply have headed straight for Wilton.’

  ‘So tomorrow we veer north-west for Meretun,’ Alfred clarified. ‘It seems the Danes are waiting for us close to Salisbury Plain.’

  Aethelred’s face was grim, and Alfred knew his brother shared his own thoughts. The Danes’ strike at the royal estate had been intended to goad the Saxons into action. But it also proved that Norse scouts were on constant lookout. Halfdan was well aware of the Wessex army’s position and had already selected the battle site.

  *****

  In the early afternoon of the following day the Wessex army reached the battlefield at Meretun. Less than half a mile away, the hall and outbuildings of what had been a peaceful estate had been reduced to charred remains, its inhabitants dead or else in hiding in nearby forest.

  Clearly alerted to their approach, the Danes were waiting, already drawn up into battle order. They were organised into two divisions as they had been at Ashdown, each company four lines deep, each line of around a hundred warriors. To their backs, the great expanse of Salisbury Plain stretched out as far as the eye could see. Their stance was overtly menacing, with swords and battleaxes wielded to intimidate their foe. But the proud men of Wessex returned the posturing with contemptuous glares and, having been prepared for such a possibility, moved easily into two comparable divisions.

  As they made their stand, twenty-five yards from the enemy, the jeering and hammering on shields began. Alfred took his place in the centre of his own front line, with the steadfast ealdormen Paega and Unwine at his sides. Aethelred’s company were to the left of his own. The king stood beside his standard bearer who proudly lofted the Wessex banner. To Aethelred’s right the imposing Bishop Heahmund stood glowering at his opponents, and beside the standard bearer was Brihtnoth of Wiltshire.

  Danish shields slammed to and the first volley of spears thwacked into the Saxons behind their own wall of shields. Better equipped than they had been at Ashdown, the Saxons retaliated with a dense volley of their own, and for several rounds matched the Danes in accuracy and force. The inevitable casualties fell, to be stepped over or trampled in the rush to fill the gaps.

  The missiles gradually ceased and the Norsemen resumed their thundering on shields and yelling of taunts. Their battle lust by now well roused, the Saxons returned in kind. Then Halfdan stepped forward from the company facing Aethelred.

  ‘This is not a battle you can win, Saxon!’ he yelled as the rumpus ceased. ‘Yield now and you could be treated well . . . perhaps rule this kingdom for us when we move on to better things.’

  ‘And be your puppet!’ Aethelred’s voice was clear and derisive. ‘Take your thieving swine back to their sties across the sea. There’s no room in Wessex for snorting pigs!’

  Halfdan let out a roar of mirth. ‘So you’ve found your voice at last, great king. Not hiding behind your men this time. Well, after this battle, it will be your army grovelling in the mud with the pigs!’

  ‘You’ll never take Wessex, pagan! This land is protected by the Almighty God. And we are God’s people. It is you who’ll be grovelling in the mud.’

  Again Halfdan’s laughter rang out. ‘Your Christ-God is a lying bastard! He promised to protect the Anglians, too – and just look what happened to poor Edmund!’ Jeers and hoots erupted from the Danish lines. Halfdan raised a hand and the laughing abruptly ceased. He stepped back into his front line and lofted his sword arm. Alfred held his breath, ready to move.

  ‘Attack!’ Halfdan’s voice was instantly buried by the roaring charge of Danes.

  ‘Shield wall!’ Alfred yelled as his own force careered to counter the strike.

  The almighty clash rang out as the two forces met, either side heaving and shoving whilst swords and stabbing spears sought out vulnerable body parts to disable. Alfred fought with calculated determination to win the day. His skill with the sword had greatly improved since Ashdown and he made contact with exposed flesh with greater precision. Beside him, Brihtnoth went down and another warrior took his place.

  More men were falling now, Saxons and Danes alike, but as afternoon wore on the battle continued to rage. It seemed that neither side would dominate the field that day.

  Then Alfred realised that the Danes were gradually being driven back. The Saxons had the upper hand. The thrill of pending success spurred him on, and as his sword thrust into a leering warrior’s belly he felt a sudden easing of pressure. The Danes were suddenly turning tail and fleeing out to the Plain. Saxon jeers were loud and shrill and only Aethelred’s quick thinking in addressing them prevented a mass outpouring after the retreating foe.

  ‘The day is ours,’ Aethelred yelled, blatant elation in his voice. Alfred stood aside with Bishop Heahmund as the cheers rang out for the king. Aethelred lifted his arms for silence. ‘Darkness will soon envelop us and to pursue our enemy would serve us no purpose. We stay and move our dead from the field ready for morning burial. Our thegns will organise the night watch. My heartfelt thanks to you all for the service you have done for Wessex this day.’

  Dispersed and focused on the miserable task of retrieving their dead, the return of the Danes hit the Saxons with the strength of a raging gale. Panicked, they hastily reformed into some kind of barrier against the impenetrable shieldwall that crashed into them. But their new wall was weak, and under the force of the great onrush of Danes, it soon began to crumble. Alfred fought desperately to gain some kind of order as men around him fell, unable to counter the might of the organised Danes. Daylight was almost gone when he saw the first of the Saxons take flight. Then the whole Wessex army fled the field.

  The Danes gave pursuit in a frenzy of stabbing and slashing. Men on both sides continued to fall, but not until the Saxons reached the forest did Alfred realise their pursuers were eventually turning back. Bitterness burned his throat as he thought of the funeral pyres they would build for their fallen comrades. For their own dead, they could do nothing.

  Retrieving their mounts from the forest’s edge, Alfred and Aethelred set off on the twenty-mile trek back to Salisbury. Defeated and demoralised, and many gravely wounded, the fyrd straggled out for some distance behind. In the darkness it was impossible to know how many had survived, but Alfred guessed they had lost over half their men. His heart ached for a victory so quickly stolen from them. So keen to believe they had out-fought the Danes, no watch had been kept on the darkening Plain.

  They’d been played for fools – yet again.

  *****

  Alfred soon realised they would not reach Salisbury that night. The number of wounded was high, and men with leg wounds relied on comrades to help them along. Progress was desperately slow. Some of the uninjured
thegns offered their horses to men who could barely walk, but there were many others who could not be helped.

  Two things became apparent to Alfred as they rode. The first was that Bishop Heahmund was not amongst them. The second was that Aethelred was also wounded.

  It was impossible to determine the severity of Aethelred’s wound in the dark. Although it bled profusely, the spear thrust he had taken to his shoulder did not seem particularly deep. Alfred cut a strip of cloth from the bottom of his tunic and folded it into a pad, pressing it against the gaping wound to stem the flow. Aethelred said little, other than to assure his brother he’d be well enough once the bleeding stopped.

  For almost ten miles they kept going, their flight so piteously slow that Alfred feared they would still be within enemy reach by daybreak. But, without respite the wounded could travel no further and Alfred ordered a halt. For three hours they rested. Some men slept; others moaned in pain. During brief periods of moonlight from behind the heavy clouds, Alfred tended his brother’s shoulder and changed the cushioning pad. Like many of the men, Aethelred had lost a lot of blood, although now the heaviest bleeding was beginning to lessen. But more worryingly to Alfred was the fact that the king was growing increasingly weak.

  Once again they moved on towards Salisbury, a far different army to the one that had passed in the opposite direction less than one short day ago. Then, most of the men had been full of hope; others full of bluster, convinced that victory in the battle ahead was assured.

  What of the proud Wessex army now?

  Yet Alfred knew that the Saxons would rally to fight another day. Their losses were high, but Danish losses were equally so. Both sides needed time to recover and refortify their armies – although exactly how Saxon forces could be bolstered he simply did not yet know. All the Great Heathen Army needed was another fleet to arrive, and Alfred had no doubt that one would be spotted on the Thames very soon.

  The night sky was beginning to pale as they straggled into Salisbury. Aethelred was taken into the hall of an ageing thegn whose own two sons had fought at the battle. Only one of them had returned.

  ‘You have our deepest condolences, Lord Erwig,’ Alfred said once his brother was settled into the thegn’s own sleeping chamber. ‘Your son gave his life trying to keep our kingdom free.’ He gestured to the tall young man who had taken Brihtnoth’s place at Alfred’s side. ‘You have every right to be proud of both of your sons. Ceolric here fought like a wolf. His swordsmanship is commendable.’

  Erwig nodded, too grief-stricken to speak, and Alfred laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘We’ll speak again, my lord. But now I must leave Ceolric to give you comfort. Our king has need of me. I thank you for the use of your bedchamber and pray that a further rest will enable us all to head back to Winchester.’

  As Alfred entered the thegn’s bedchamber he sensed that Aethelred was sleeping. Propped up on several thick pillows, his brother’s eyes were closed and he looked at ease. A young woman, who quietly introduced herself as a midwife and nurse, ushered Alfred aside. ‘The king’s injury is deep, though the worst of the bleeding has now stopped,’ she said. ‘I have re-dressed the wound as a temporary measure.’ Alfred nodded, knowing the woman had not yet finished. ‘He has been given a cup of mead with a few drops of belladonna to kill the pain. It also helps to induce a deep sleep.’

  ‘I thank you, lady. Sleep is beneficial whilst the healing takes place.’

  The young nurse nodded. ‘It is indeed, my lord. But I fear the king’s painful wound will not permit him to sleep for long, despite the belladonna.’

  *****

  The Saxons remained in Salisbury for a further two days, during which time the wounded men were treated and bandaged. Some found accommodation in people’s homes, storage sheds and workshops; others relied on sheltered nooks between. Good fortune kept the rains at bay, and simple meals were provided by many of the townsfolk – supplemented by generous contributions from Thegn Erwig’s own kitchens.

  Alfred had kept a careful check on his brother since their arrival. Despite the painful wound, Aethelred seemed quite well, though he worried constantly about the delay in returning to Winchester to recruit new men to his army. Scouts had already delivered news of the Danes’ return to Reading.

  ‘But Aethelred, we can’t move far with men who still can’t walk,’ Alfred reasoned.’ And it’s evident you’re still in a lot of pain.’

  ‘Both of those things are true,’ Aethelred admitted with a sigh. ‘But we simply can’t afford to stay here for several more days. We’ve been here for two already and it’s vital we get back to Winchester.’

  There was no point in arguing. Aethelred was the king, and it was Alfred’s duty to obey him. Besides, he knew too well how imperative it was to reinforce their troops. April was less than a week away and Danish ships could arrive at any time. ‘I’ll speak to Erwig,’ he said. ‘We’ll need the use of several more horses in order to move out, and possibly a couple of carts. There are men with severe leg wounds . . .’ He let the thought hang, not wanting to distress his brother by describing the severity of some. ‘We’d best use the rest of today to get ourselves organised.’

  Aethelred nodded. ‘You haven’t asked me how Bishop Heahmund died.’

  ‘I didn’t need to. Some of the men have already told me.’

  ‘Then you’ll know he died saving my life?’

  Alfred watched his brother’s face contort at the memory. ‘There were two men bearing down on me, just before the mass retreat. One was the young warrior with the spear.’ Aethelred’s hand inadvertently rose to touch the wadding on his left shoulder. ‘The other was a well-seasoned swordsman. If Heahmund had not deflected the sword wielder’s aim . . .’

  The rest of the thought seemed to lodge in Aethelred’s throat. ‘It was Heahmund’s left-handed dagger-thrust to the throat that killed the swordsman . . . but only to be cut down himself by another Dane. I killed the spearman myself.’

  Alfred studied Aethelred’s ashen face and sunken eyes, certain he was in more pain than he admitted. ‘If you’re sure you’ll be strong enough to ride tomorrow, brother, I’ll set a few of the thegns to organising the men. We’re unlikely to cover the thirty miles to Winchester in a single day, and if we have a cart or two, at least you could rest overnight in one of them.’

  *****

  For over two weeks after their return to Winchester, the campaign to recruit more men into the Wessex fyrd gave Alfred little time to be at his brother’s side. Aethelred’s injury dictated that he remain in his bedchamber where his physicians could minister to him. Alfred had had little choice other than to leave his brother in their capable hands and take control of the recruitment campaign. Messages had been sent out to the ealdormen of the shires that King Aethelred was in desperate need of warriors, with orders to stress the dire consequences should the Danes take control of Wessex.

  Yet still the initial response had been disappointing. Shires furthest away from the enemy’s Reading base were reluctant to rally when their own region was not under immediate threat. Alfred cursed the Saxon system yet again. He had no time to travel to these shires himself and order the mustering of the fyrds. Cornwall, in particular, would be hard to persuade. The Cornish were more likely to rebel to Wessex domination than rally to Aethelred’s aid. And Kent was so far away.

  After the first two weeks the numbers arriving started to pick up. Alfred welcomed them all heartily and the men set up a simple camp around the city to await the call to action. Ealdormen Oswine of Devon and Daegmund of Dorset had also now rallied forces, since the Danish fleet had been observed sailing around the Cornish peninsular and heading for the Welsh coast. Numbers continued to increase during the following week, including a sizeable army from Somerset. Alfred could only hope that the influx would continue. As yet there had been no reports of Danish ships approaching Reading. But he lived in dread of the day they did.

  During these weeks Aethelred’s condition gradually worsened.
He was considerably weakened by the initial loss of so much blood and the gaping shoulder wound simply would not heal. It had become an angry, red crater that gave its environs no respite. Grieved beyond words to see his brother in so much pain, Alfred permitted the physicians to dispense him a regular dosage of a few drops of belladonna. There seemed to be nothing else they could do.

  As Easter neared, Alfred began to fear the worst. Aethelred’s wound had begun to fester. The physicians diligently applied leeches to remove the reeking puss that now oozed from deep inside, but to little effect. Alfred sat at his brother’s bedside whenever he could, and during periods of lucid thought, Aethelred would reach out for his hand.

  ‘Are they here yet?’ he asked for the third time that morning. It was a fine, sunny April day, yet Alfred saw nothing but the black thunderclouds of his fears. Aethelred had been given just enough belladonna to ease his greater pain, but not enough to send him into the usual pain-free sleep. The party from Wedmore had been travelling for three days, and Aethelred had worried constantly for their safety.

  ‘They’ll be here before nightfall, brother, so we must be patient a little longer. You know I sent thirty men to escort them, so they’re well guarded. It’s over eighty miles to Wedmore – a long way with wagons to consider.

  ‘I know how far it is to Wedmore, Alfred.’ Aethelred’s lips turned up in an attempted smile, but dropped again just as quickly. ‘I must see my wife and sons again before I . . . before I become too ill to speak to them. Promise me you’ll bring them to me when they arrive; wake me up if you need to.’

  ‘You know I will.’ Alfred’s chest ached at the thought of losing the brother he’d loved so dearly all his life. How he’d cope without him he couldn’t bear to think.