by M J Porter
Relieved to have both of his cousins returned to him, Ælfgar turned to Wulfstan.
“Did you see more Mercians?” His voice was rough with hope. There were too many questions he didn’t want to ask, and yet needed to all the same.
“I heard more following me,” Wulfstan said confidently, joining the other men behind their small shield wall. And indeed, in the distance, they could hear the thunder of other hooves, as they all readied themselves.
By now, the valley was wholly shadowed, and no amount of squinting into the gloom could show them the face of the riders of the two horses who followed each other.
“The name of Lady Ealdgyth’s firstborn?” The shout went up, and the reply of “Brother Leofric,” was quickly received from the first rider, his deep voice rumbling with pride, and Ælfgar knew it was Orkning who rode toward them. But he hesitated to open the shield wall.
“And the second born?” he hollered, hoping that Orkning would hold his tongue.
“Æthelflæd, for her grandmother,” was the reply, and Ælfgar ordered the men to stand aside.
His male cousins were well known to many, but others would have struggled to remember that he even had an aunt, let alone a female cousin.
Orkning and his fellow warrior, Winhus, were warmly welcomed into their enclosure, and a small flame was quickly coaxed to life, hidden behind two of the surviving shields so that it didn’t illuminate their location for the enemy.
“There’ll be more men, but I heard a commotion, and I know some turned back to block the trackway. We should rest, but briefly, allow the horses to recover, and then we should be off. The Welsh know these hills far better than we do. No doubt they’ll already be trying to cut off our retreat.” Orkning’s voice was both a comfort and a warning.
Throughout the long night, a handful more men made it to their side, and with the grey light of dawn, another man staggered through their shield wall. He was wounded, but not grievously. Godwulf’s horse had been killed in the attempt to stop the Welsh from following them down the trackway, and he’d been forced to walk all night long.
“Are there no others?” Ælfgar asked, hope fading in his voice.
Haunted eyes looked his way.
“No, My Lord. I didn’t fight alone, but no others survived. Not that any of the Welsh did either.”Godwulf spoke with the exhaustion of a man who’d not slept, and yet he didn’t sit either. All of the men were making ready to ride on. He would have to join them.
“Come, ride with me,” Ælfgar ordered Godwulf. “My horse is a brute. He can take the weight, and if you need to sleep, you can.”
Godwulf nodded, no relief on his face, but acceptance that his ordeal was far from over.
“Mount up men.” Orkning took nominal command of the thirteen surviving warriors. “We ride, and once out of the hills, we’ll make a decision as to the best way from there. Ride alert, and ready for an attack.”
None of the men grumbled, either about the conditions they were in, or the lack of a good meal, and Ælfgar struggled into his saddle. It wasn’t comfortable with Godwulf already there, and his own aches and pains from his encounter with the giant, but his horse waited patiently, and then they rode off. A brute he might be, but Ælfgar trusted his horse to take them wherever they needed to go, without argument or hesitation.
In the early morning, shadows obscured much of the way. The horses, exhausted from the day before, picked their way carefully, while two men rode front and back, shields in one hand, and swords in the other. They guided their tired animals by their knees, knowing they were unlikely to bolt.
The remaining warriors took their turns at the onerous task, and by midday, they’d cleared the valley side, and gathered round in a small huddle.
“We must have missed the track we originally followed,” Ælfgar sighed unhappily, squinting into shadows. “Does anyone know where we are?”
Ælfgar wasn’t alone in surveying the land around them. All of the men peered hopefully around. They were on a brief patch of open land. All around them, hills stretched higher and higher into the sky, some almost obscured by the low-lying clouds.
“No,” Wulfstan agreed, “but look, there’s a track that way.”
All eyes followed where he pointed and fastened on a visible trackway leading into the hills.
“That’ll take us deeper into this kingdom,” Orkning commented, not dismissing it, but rather stating the truth. “Or at least, it looks like it will.”
Ælfgar considered the options available to them.
“We go back the way we came, or we try this route. I can’t imagine the Welsh will expect us to head deeper into their territory. Surely, they’ll expect us to make a run for the English border as soon as we can.”
A heavy silence fell amongst the small group. They all thought the same. Either option was a risk. They didn’t want to have lived through the initial attack, just to lose their lives elsewhere.
“If we go further west, we’ll encounter more hills. You know what the hill people can be like.”
Ælfgar turned to the man who spoke with slightly raised eyebrows. He wasn’t surprised by Eadsige’s words. The Mercians had been fighting the Welsh kingdoms for decades, if not centuries, and the Welsh were well known for their tactics that employed their harsh landscape to their advantage.
“We shouldn’t stand around, trying to make a decision,” Ælfwine whispered ominously, and all eyes shot to possible viewpoints around them.
“No, we need to do one thing or the other. I don’t think we should head further west here, nor do I think we should go back the way we came. That only leaves us with the trackway over there.” Wulfstan spoke carefully. He wasn’t known for his reasoned thinking, but Ælfgar believed he spoke the truth now.
“I agree. We go along the trackway and pray it takes us to Mercia and not to another attack.”
The group mumbled an agreement, not exactly a happy one, but Ælfgar knew it was important for all the men to agree to their next movements. That way there would be no recriminations.
“I’ll go first,” Wulfstan offered a cheeky grin back on his face. “That way, if we’ve been scouted out, I’ll be the first to suffer.”
Without waiting for an answer from Ælfgar or Orkning, he rode off, his horse responsive to his requests, while Ælfgar followed him with his eyes. He wished to share his cousin’s humour, but his thoughts kept returning to his mother and father, and even worse, to the fate of Uncle Eadwine.
Ælfgar couldn’t face the prospect of also having to inform Lady Mildryth that her son had died. It would be too cruel for a woman whose husband had been branded a traitor and murdered when he was younger than all three of them were now.
Fingering his seax on his war belt, Ælfgar spurred his horse onwards, Godwulf already nodding off to sleep now the decision was made. They would make it back to Mercia, or so he vowed. And there would be no more deaths. And then, well then he could face his father knowing his Uncle’s death had been opportunistic, nothing else, and that Eadwine’s death had protected the future of the House of Leofwine, as he’d wanted it to.
But, Ælfgar feared for the safety of the Welsh borderlands. His father would not take the news of his brother’s death well, and neither would a great many of the border lords.
Chapter Eighteen
AD1039 Hereford Ælfgar
Riding into Hereford felt like a dream for Ælfgar.
Not that they’d been lost in the Welsh kingdoms for months and months, but their time in Wales had been fraught with difficulty. The constant worry had gnawed at all of their resolves. Wulfstan and Ælfwine could currently say nothing civil to each other, and in the interests of the rest of the small warband, Orkning had banished one cousin to the front of their group and the other to the rear. It was the only way to stop the constant bickering and snide remarks.
But, and Ælfgar turned to Orkning with a triumphant, if tired smile, they’d made it. The welcome sight of Hereford cheered him until he remembere
d that here the confirmation of his Uncle’s slaying in battle would be received. That recollection robbed him of what little strength he had left.
For nearly a month, they’d been lost or hiding in the Welsh kingdom of Powys. They’d worked hard to stay out of view of any who might report their presence to a local lord, but it had meant nights hovering in dark caves, and even days as well, all to avoid detection and return to Mercia, by the only route available to them. A circuitous one that had led them to Hereford, far from where they’d first crossed into Powys.
Food had been scarce, the horses fed almost exclusively on the grassy meadows they’d ridden through. None of them looked the hale and hearty warriors they’d been when they’d ridden into Powys, filled with good humour.
Blearily, Ælfgar considered how events on the Northumbrian border had gone, but his mind was too tired. He needed to sleep, desperately, but first, he must find his father, or any of authority within Hereford and discover what was known.
By chance, a market was in full flow in Hereford, as the exhausted warriors made their way into Hereford through the guarded gateway that looked out onto the Welsh border. Fearful eyes looked their way, as the crowd fell silent, perhaps fearing a Welsh warlord was in their midst.
“I’m Lord Ælfgar, son of Leofric of Mercia. You’ve nothing to be scared off,” Ælfgar called, his words greeted by a bubble of raised conversation, filled with relief, even from the gate wardens who now allowed them free passage into Hereford itself.
“My Lord,” looking down, Ælfgar saw a concerned face watching him. “I’m Reeve Beorhtric. It’s good to see you. Come, I’ll escort you to Earl Hrani. He’ll be delighted to know you yet live.”
Before the Reeve could move away, Ælfgar stopped him, sliding from his horse, even though it was an effort.
“Tell me, good sir. Are there no other survivors? What of my Uncle?”
The Reeve’s face, creased with worry, observed Ælfgar before deciding to speak.
“My Lord, the news we have is that all perished in the attack, Lord Eadwine, as well as Lords Thurkill and Ælfgeat, Leofgar and Eadbald. It’s also said that you and your cousins are dead, but I see them with you, so that can’t be true.” The Reeve spoke with the hint of possibility, but Ælfgar doubted any others would suddenly return alive. Certainly, they’d come across no one else on their travels.
“Good God,” Ælfgar swore. “My father must be.” Words failed him as he tried to think of what his father, mother, and wife must be going through. Not to mention his Aunt Mildryth.
“Yes, My Lord. Earl Hrani has returned to Hereford to raise the fighting men and descend on Powys and Gwynedd in retaliation for what’s happened. But come, come. The sooner we reach him, the quicker he can send riders to your father and family, the king as well.” Ælfgar almost smirked at the oversight of Harald.
Ælfgar nodded. He felt numb inside. While he’d almost reconciled himself to his Uncle’s death, to know that it was actually true tore at his heart. He should have fought to the end with his Uncle Eadwine. He should have remained with him, and not followed his orders. Perhaps then. His thoughts trailed away again.
He felt woozy on his feet, leaning on his tired horse for support, the animal only transporting Godwulf, as he followed Reeve Beorhtric.
The frenzy of the market had quickly resumed, once all understood the warriors amongst them were friends, not enemies, and Ælfgar wished he could forget all that had befallen him and his men quite as quickly.
But he was jarred from his thoughts by the arrival of Earl Hrani as they walked the less congested roadways of Hereford. Some enterprising youth had run on to warn their lord of what was happening.
“My Lord Ælfgar,” the voice was so familiar to Ælfgar that his knees almost buckled there and then in the street, but he held himself upright as he took in the amazed expression on Hrani’s face.
“Good God,” the Danish earl exclaimed, stepping closer and closer, as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “It’s good to see you well,” Hrani cried, enveloping Ælfgar in a huge embrace, and constantly slapping him on the back.
Ælfgar sagged into the embrace, too tired to do anything but consider the lack of hair on top of the old earl’s head.
Hrani was as pleased to see them, as Ælfgar was to see him. That much was evident even before he stepped back and continued speaking.
“Your father must know. Even now he masses on the border with Powys. I’ll send word. Who’s with you?”
As Hrani spoke, glancing behind Ælfgar’s shoulder, his household troop rushed to help the exhausted men. Horses were taken away to be fed and groomed by eager hands, servants appeared with hastily prepared ale and wine, as the aroma of roasting meat caused Ælfgar’s stomach to rumble.
“My men, my cousins, Orkning as well. Fourteen of us in all. But sadly, not Uncle Eadwine.”
Hrani’s good cheer sobered at the news, as he stood still for a moment, meeting Ælfgar’s eyes.
“The bastard,” Hrani muttered angrily. “Bloody Gruffydd had no right to be in Powys. He’s the king of sodding Gwynedd, not Powys.” This was the first confirmation that Ælfgar had heard of who had attacked them, although he’d long suspected it.
“Come, come, into the house, I’m preparing water for bathing, and you must tell me everything, and I’ll tell you everything, but first, I must send riders to your father. Excuse me.”
Flustered, Hrani forced his way through the crowd of his own making, as Ælfgar watched him go.
The dream of being back in England had been so overriding since the battle that he’d not fully considered the implications of all that had happened. Now, back on English soil, the import of everything hit him, and he swayed. Only the ever-alert Orkning at his side prevented him from falling now that his horse was gone to be groomed for the first time in a month.
“Come lad. It must be endured,” Orkning reasoned, his voice filled with understanding despite his harsh words.
“It must yes, for the honour of my Uncle,” Ælfgar agreed, trying to tighten all of his muscles so that he could stand taller and take the final few steps into Hrani’s welcoming hall.
The thought of food and rest eventually won, rather than the need to know all that had happened in England in his absence. Together, he and Orkning walked into Hrani’s hall, finding welcoming seats before the hearth. Wulfstan and Ælfwine quickly joined them, as did the other men of their party, Godwulf, Winhus and Eadsige amongst them. All who had survived the battle had returned to England. It was, Ælfgar thought, a miracle.
Surrounded as they were by Hrani’s household troop, keen to help and learn all they could, Ælfgar was struck by just how small their band of survivors was. They’d ridden into Powys with near enough eighty men, but only the fourteen of them had survived. The thought was chilling, even though the fire had been heaped high at his back, as he shivered.
A bowl of pottage was pressed into his pliant hands, and Ælfgar smiled a thank you to the young squire who gave it to him. The lad looked awestruck, and intrigued, all at the same time, but Ælfgar was too tired to offer him any conversation.
It was Orkning who spoke with Earl Hrani’s men, in the absence of their lord, as it was he who seemed to recognise more of them.
“King Harald has ordered all of the border earls to ride out and quell any unrest this victory has caused amongst the Welsh. He’s talking about going to war with Gwynedd and Powys. Earl Hrani was in two minds as to what to do.” The commander of Hrani’s household troop spoke.
“So news of what happened has spread quickly then?” Orkning questioned, and his counterpart nodded. Ælfgar couldn’t catch the man’s name.
“The Welsh bastards didn’t treat the bodies of the dead lords well, rather sending them back decapitated. Their treatment of the dead, perhaps even more than the death’s themselves, has stirred resentment.”
Ælfgar swallowed heavily at the news, the warmth of the welcome pottage suddenly sitting too heavily on his
previously empty stomach.
Orkning watched him from his place beside the fire. Orkning’s eyes blazed with fury, and yet he ate as he listened, beckoning furiously for Ælfgar to do the same.
“The king is riding for Northampton. He wishes to be closer to what’s happening than his residence in London allows.”
“Will news of our return force the king to reconsider his retribution?”
“I can’t speak for the king,” the commander, Eoppa, said, with a creased forehead. Ælfgar had heard one of the squires muttering his name as he passed him ale. “If I had my way, all of Wales would burn, and England would be safer for it.”
“What of events in the North?” Orkning pressed, but Eoppa shook his head.
“No news, none at all. All eyes look this way. Lord Hrani’s been ordered to Hereford, and the men and I’ve been waiting for the call to arms, to ride into Powys.”
At that moment, Hrani returned. His eyes glittered with renewed purpose as he wound his way to Ælfgar’s side.
“Two messengers gone, one to the king at Northampton, and one to your father. I believe he’s in Worcester, but the man knows to find him, no matter where he is.”
“Eoppa says the king plans war against the Welsh.”
Hrani nodded his head, as he settled beside Ælfgar and Orkning, only a slight wrinkle to his nose. Ælfgar knew they carried the stink of battle and hard days on the road, but as of yet, he couldn’t force himself to care.
“The king believes it to be the work of Harthacnut. Officially, the word is that we’re to harry the Welsh, unofficial word is that King Harald looks to blame your father for not championing him when he wanted to support Magnus of Norway. King Harald has no sympathy for your father’s losses, not even you, My Lord Ælfgar.” He spoke with a sympathetic nod. All knew the foster-brothers shared a problematic relationship.
“Harald calls for the Witan to agree to his demands, in light of this attack, which he thinks is the work of Harthacnut, but even Earl Godwine calls for calm. He doesn’t see how Harthacnut could have enticed a Welsh king to attack the English. Harald says the same about the border with the land of the Scots.”
