by Stuart Hill
Most of the few people we met melted away into the wide reed beds as soon as we appeared. We numbered more than thirty and all of us were on horses, in one way or another. Many of us were armed and, in that empty place of wide skies and water, where it was possible to live from one day to the next without seeing another human being, our numbers must have looked like an army on the march.
The villages were different. At least they couldn’t disappear as we drew near. They occupied the few islands of ground that rose above the level of the water, and though some could only be reached by boat, most were connected by a spider’s web of narrow roadways that wound through the reeds. The people were quiet and suspicious of us at first, but when they realised we weren’t going to kill or steal, they were friendly enough.
They were more in awe of Ara and her ravens than anyone else, even when they’d been told that Father was a king. And I noticed that it was our old nurse they spoke to first, calling her Wise One and bobbing their heads to her.
After a few days we came to a village that was bigger than most. It stood on a low island of dry land that rose out of the surrounding marshes. But the houses spilled over the edges of the dry area, and some of them stood out on the water itself on long poles that raised them above the mud and reed beds like the legs of herons.
As we approached the first houses, it was obvious that the people had known for some time that we were coming. The streets were full of small, dark men and women and all of them had some weapon to hand: short hunting bows, fishing spears and gutting knives that were used for cleaning the catch of the day, but which I guessed would be equally useful against people.
They parted to let us through as we rode towards what we guessed would be the centre of the village and then closed behind us and followed.
When we reached the centre an old woman was waiting for us, sitting under a huge willow tree, the only green growing thing that wasn’t a reed for as far as the eye could see.
We walked the horses slowly forward and then stopped a few paces away from where the woman sat. For a moment there was silence and she stared at my father. Then Cerdic, obviously feeling that she was showing a lack of respect, suddenly barked, “Bow down before your king and queen, old woman!”
She turned her head to look at the soldier. “I’m sitting, which makes bowing difficult, but I give them their due even if you can’t see it.”
Father raised a calming hand at Cerdic and then nodded at the woman. “We’ve come to ask for your help ... ”
“Against the Danes who’ve burned your towns and killed your soldiers, I know,” said the old woman, reminding me strongly of Ara. “What can we do with our fishing spears and the slingshots we use on birds?”
“More than you know,” Father answered with equal bluntness. “Your hunters and fishermen can keep watch on the enemy’s movements and stop them coming into the marsh, and they can also bring information to me.”
“And where will they find you, Alfred of Wessex?”
“At Athelney, deep in the reed beds.”
“We know it, and we also know the safe ways to it,” the old woman said. “You’ll want guides and supplies.”
“Yes, both,” Father agreed. “And if your people find any loyal Saxon fighters hiding in the marshes, send them to me. It’s time to start rebuilding the army.”
“And how will you pay for all of this when the Danes have your gold, and live in your towns, and eat the flesh of your beasts and the grain of your land?”
Cerdic leapt from his horse and I think he would have done something that would have ended any hope we had of help from the marsh people. But Ara placed her hand on his shoulder as he passed her. It rested gently in the place just above where a bronze pin secured his cloak, but he spun round as though he’d been struck by a Danish war hammer.
“Peace, Cerdic Guthweinson, and listen to what our allies and your king have to say,” Ara said with quiet force, then she nodded at the elder of the village. The woman returned her nod and the air seemed almost to crackle as though an unsaid greeting had passed between the two old women. It was then that I suddenly realised they were so similar in their language and looks they might have been sisters, though they obviously weren’t related. Then I remembered Ara telling us long ago that the marshlands were a stronghold of the old religion. That was the link between the two ... that and the fact that they both had the power of the wise woman.
Father then went on as though nothing had happened. “When the Danes have been driven out and smashed in battle and I sit on my throne again, I will not forget the people of the marshes.”
The old woman raised her head and held my father’s gaze. “You would have had our help anyway, Alfred of Wessex, but when the wealth of kings is yours once again, we’ll be happy to be remembered.”
Edward leant across from where he sat on Cerdic’s horse and whispered, “Why do they have to talk like they’re living in a poem?”
I shrugged and whispered back, “They’re grown-ups – it’s what they do, especially when they’re talking about important stuff that everyone knows’ll be remembered.”
“Well that’s great, but I’m hungry. D’you think they’ll feed us soon?”
“Hope so. But who knows?”
“Wonderful!” said Edward miserably.
Not long after that the talking ended and we were taken to a longhouse where we were given some food. I glanced secretly at Cerdic, and noticed that he carried his arm where Ara had grabbed him with care. I winced at the thought of the bruise he probably had. Our old nurse had always had power, but since Chippenham and Wessex had fallen to the Danes it was almost as though she’d decided to reveal her true nature.
I must admit I’d been surprised by how hot-headed Cerdic had been with the woman elder. Usually he was cool and careful in everything he did, but I suppose even the most experienced campaigner and soldier can make mistakes.
III
We stayed the night in the village, and the next morning we set out with a party of five guides who’d also use their hunting skills to keep us supplied during the journey.
The woman elder promised Father that she’d send out her people to look for any Saxon fighters that might be hiding in the reed beds and also to watch the enemy and keep them from entering the marshlands. The Danes might have the mightiest army that had walked the land since the time of the Romans, but in the wetlands the marsh people ruled and, if necessary, their spears and arrows would hunt Norsemen rather than birds and fish.
Within two days we reached a small settlement hidden in the deep reed beds, called Lyng. I don’t think any of us could have found the place without the guides; we’d travelled over what they called ‘safe causeways’ and along tracks that only they were able to see. To the rest of us it seemed we were walking along ways that had been trampled moments before by otters or water voles. Once we even had to swim the horses across a wide stretch of stagnant water. But at last we spied the first huts of the village and the guides led us in.
By this point Father claimed he knew exactly where he was, but I’m not so sure. He hadn’t been to Athelney since he was a boy and one reed bed and muddy village looked much the same as all the rest. Even so he said it with such confidence everyone believed him. This was something that I decided to remember. It seems that leadership is often just a matter of confidence. If you look and act as if you know what you’re doing, then people will believe that you do.
We stayed less than half a day in Lyng, during which time Father and Mother met the elders. Then at last we set off on the final stage of the journey to Athelney. But in fact you could hardly call it a stage, because within less time than it used to take me to get out of bed and get dressed (when I had such a thing as a bed), we arrived at a set of embankments and earthworks that rose out of the surrounding marshes. These defended the beginning of a solid causeway that led to the island that would be our fortress and haven for the next few months.
“Looks like another marsh frog’
s hovel to me,” said Edward when we’d all dismounted and gathered together in front of the gateway in the embankments.
“Well if it means we can stop tramping through all this mud for a while, then I’m happy to be a marsh frog,” I answered.
Aethelgifu walked up to join us. “Everything and everywhere is part of God’s creation, from the poorest hovel to the richest palace,” she said piously.
“Well I’ve had enough of the ‘poorest hovel’ bit,” said Edward. “How about putting in a good prayer for us, Aethelgifu, and getting us back into one of the ‘richest palaces’? It doesn’t have to be particularly big, just dry and warm, and full of stuff like good food and comfy beds ... oh, and servants to bring me whatever I want whenever I want it.”
“I’ve already told you, I believe all of this has been sent by God to test our faith. I think it’ll be a long time before any of us set foot inside a palace ... in fact, we may never live that sort of life again.”
“Wonderful,” said Edward moodily. “Hasn’t God got anything better to do other than making our lives a misery – you know, like running the universe or something?”
Aethelgifu managed to look down her nose at him snootily, even though she was at least a head shorter. “We will receive our reward in heaven,” she said with dignity.
“Well I agree with Edward,” I said, making my brother look at me in surprise.
“You do?” he said suspiciously, remembering our usual rivalry. “Why?”
“Because I think God has tested us enough. And as for rewards in heaven, I wouldn’t mind having some of the rewards here and now on earth, just to make things a bit easier.”
“We cannot make demands of God,” Aethelgifu replied sternly. “Only He knows the outcome of any divine plan.”
Before the discussion could go any further, the adults called us together to stand before the earthworks that defended the causeway to Athelney. Despite the fact that I’d always thought both Father and Mother disapproved of Ara’s scinncraeft, or magic, they both seemed quite happy now as our old nurse obviously got herself ready to carry out a ceremony of some sort.
Both her ravens were with her. They sat on her shoulders, their eyes like midnight and their feathers gleaming darkly in the bright sunlight.
We made quite an impressive company once everyone was gathered together. In the short time since the marsh people had been actively looking for Saxon fighters who’d taken refuge from the Danes in the reed beds, our numbers had increased to over fifty – and more than thirty of those were trained housecarles.
Ara raised her hands above her head and the ravens leapt into flight where they circled tightly around us, their harsh voices echoing over the silence of the wetlands. The fierce winter weather hadn’t gained such a strong hold on the marshes as it had on Wessex, but as our old nurse and wise woman began to call in a loud, deep voice that mingled perfectly with the cries of her ravens, a freezing-cold wind started to blow, as though answering the strange words.
None of us understood the incantations that rose up into the air with the same sort of winged power as the dark birds that circled above us. But, as more and more words poured out, clouds began to gather on the horizon and then race over the sky towards us, driven by the icy wind.
Soon the cold blue of the heavens was swallowed up by the clouds and a shadow settled over the wetlands. The wind blew more and more strongly, making the reeds hiss like an army of snakes, and mingled with it were voices, faint and fierce and somehow not quite human. They sounded like someone had taught the feelings of hatred and anger and fear to speak, and what they said had nothing to do with calm and happy things.
Ara’s ragged cloak and grey hair streamed in the icy wind, making her look as though she was flying, and her eyes stared unblinkingly as the incantation continued to pour out of her mouth.
Then suddenly her voice became less deep and we could understand the words she used as she turned to my father. Ara waited while my mother took his hand and led him to stand before her. Obviously my mother had a part to play in the strange ceremony and was giving her consent to whatever was about to happen.
“Behold the king wed to this land in the ancient rite I now perform,” Ara called loudly. And as we watched she scooped mud from the causeway and smeared it on my father’s forehead just as I’m told the Christian priests smear holy oil on the king during their coronation ceremonies. Then Ara placed mud on the palms of his hands and folded his fingers over it, and even smeared mud from her own fingers in his mouth. The amazing thing was that Father didn’t spit it out, but stood quietly as our wise woman continued to anoint him with mud.
When she was done Ara raised her arms again. Ranhald and Raarken settled back on her shoulders and stood blinking their shining black eyes as their mistress began to speak again.
“Behold your king, beloved of the gods and now consort of the land. The rite is performed; the contract is sealed.” She turned to the earthworks that stood before the causeway that led to Athelney.
“And behold his fortress from where he will lead his army in revenge on those who have defiled this kingdom!”
Then once more her voice fell into tones far deeper than normal as she chanted:
“No enemy may find this place;
we hide it in mist and shadow.
No sword may pierce this place;
we shield it with fear and power.
No army may march on this place;
we defend it with iron and blood.”
Ara drew a dagger from somewhere in the black rags that billowed around her, and stabbed its razor-sharp point into the flesh of her forearm. She held the wound over the land at her feet, and after several large drops had splashed heavily into the mud, she drove the dagger into the edge of the path where earth met the water of the marshes.
At this, the icy wind suddenly dropped and, into the silence, snow began to fall.
“It is done,” Ara said in a quiet voice.
The island of Athelney rose from the surrounding marshlands like a green fortress. Its shores were defended by a palisade, or high wooden wall, and its gates were protected by earthworks, just like the entrance to the causeway that led to it.
In the very centre of the space, on the highest ground, stood a royal hall that we immediately called the ‘Little Palace’, and with it were the other buildings that support such a place, such as the kitchens, storehouses and even a blacksmith’s forge. These were structures of the old hunting lodge that had been used by my family for generations. They were much smaller than the palace buildings we were used to, in fact they were little more than a large house, and they needed a lot of cleaning and repairing to make them fit to live in, but they were the closest we’d come to a home since we’d been driven out of Chippenham.
This was my mother’s domain and she immediately marshalled the few chamberlains and servants that were to be found amongst those who’d fled the Danes. My father may have been in charge of rebuilding the army and defending the land, but in effect my mother was the commander who ensured the smooth running of the entire fortress island, which was all that remained of free Wessex. And she wielded her power with a cold precision.
Our time in Athelney was spent in preparation. The marsh people led more and more fighters to our fortress and soon temporary shelters surrounded the Little Palace on top of its hill. Cerdic Guthweinson was soon busy retraining soldiers, whose numbers were small but growing by the day.
We children were allowed the freedom of the entire island of Athelney and also the surrounding wetlands. We spent hours investigating the mysterious routes and ways through the marshes, gaining a knowledge of our new home that one day might be useful. I think Father thought it was ‘character building’ that we learn independence by exploring in this way. Besides, we knew that Ara kept her eye on us at all times whether we could see her or not, and the marsh people also quietly made sure we didn’t get lost or into difficulties of any sort.
One day Edward, Aethelgifu and
I decided to explore the pools and winding causeways that led south into the deepest and most isolated parts of the wetlands. We didn’t intend to go far, but as often happened we were drawn deeper and deeper into the strange watery wilderness that had become our home and refuge. But it wasn’t until we noticed that the sun was beyond the point of midday that we realised how long we’d been away from Athelney.
“We’d better turn back now,” Aethelgifu said. “We don’t want to be making our way home in the dark.”
“The sun doesn’t go down for hours yet,” Edward said. “But perhaps you’re right – we might miss supper if we don’t go back soon.”
“Let’s just go a bit further,” I put in. “I want to see where this path leads.”
“I can tell you exactly where it leads,” said Edward with a snort. “To reeds and water and marshland, and then on to other paths that’ll lead us to even more reeds and water and marshland.”
“No, there’s something else ...” I shuddered as though something strange was about to happen and looked around expecting to see Ara and her ravens, but we were still alone. “Just a bit further, and then we’ll go back.”
Eventually Edward and Aethelgifu agreed and we went on. It was surprisingly warm amongst the reed beds considering that it was still only January, so at least we didn’t have to worry about getting cold and catching the horrible marsh fevers Ara was always warning us about.
Surprisingly Aethelgifu seemed happier than Edward about going further and spent her time pointing out the many different birds that waded through the pools on long spindly legs or scurried up and down the reeds like mice. “Look at the wealth of the world,” she said happily. “Every creature knitted and stitched, every wing embroidered and embellished by the Lord himself.”
“Yeah? Well don’t forget, if he knitted and stitched the pretty birdies, he must also have knitted and stitched the snakes, marsh fevers and the leeches that live in the pools,” Edward pointed out.
