Wolf of Wessex

by Matthew Harffy

  Sensing victory, Hunfrith pressed forward, swinging his sword down. Dunston threw his seax up with nothing but instinct to guide his hand. He parried the strike, and sparks flew. His hand throbbed at the force of the collision and his fingers grew numb. He could not survive more than a few heartbeats, but he could see no way of saving himself. He scrabbled back in the dirt, and Hunfrith came on, grinning at the sight of his foe lying prostrate before him.

  “Now you will die, cowering in the muck. Not so bold now, are you, old man? Who’s the pathetic bastard now?”

  Leering, he sliced his sword down at Dunston’s exposed legs. Dunston twisted away from the attack and his ribs screamed from the effort. Hunfrith’s blade bit into the earth. Dunston tried to regain his feet, but he was too slow; his old injured frame not as lithe as it had once been. Before he was able to rise, Hunfrith had recovered his balance and his wickedly fast sword flickered down again.

  Again Dunston managed to intercept the swing with his seax, but as the two blades clanged together, the weight of the heavier sword sent a wave of shock up his wrist, numbing his hand completely and Beornmod’s seax skittered out of his grasp. It fell in the grass a few paces away, but it might as well have been in Exanceaster, for all the help it would do him now.

  Hunfrith raised his sword. Dunston could only watch in dismay. He was not afraid of death, but to be killed by this treacherous cur rankled. By Christ’s bones, how he wished he had brought DeaÞangenga with him. No matter his promise to Eawynn, he had never truly believed he would die without a weapon in his hand.

  “Now you die, old man!” screamed Hunfrith.

  A flash of inspiration came to Dunston then, as Hunfrith’s blade glittered in the afternoon sun. With numb fingers, Dunston scrabbled at the leather-wrapped knife at his belt. He would yet die with a blade in his grasp.

  Hunfrith’s sword sang through the air as it sliced downward. Dunston roared and surged up, ramming Oswold’s unfinished blade into Hunfrith’s groin. The knife was unquenched and blunt, but it still had a point. Hunfrith’s eyes opened wide as hot blood drenched Dunston’s fist. With his left hand, Dunston grabbed Hunfrith’s quickly weakening sword arm.

  Aghast, Hunfrith stared down in confusion and disbelief as his blood pumped over Dunston’s arm.

  Dunston rose to his feet, grinding the bones in Hunfrith’s right wrist in his powerful left fist. He shoved the younger man away from him and Hunfrith staggered, but did not fall.

  “What?” said Hunfrith, stupidly. His eyes followed Dunston’s movements, but he seemed incapable of action.

  Dunston snatched up the fallen seax from the grass and advanced towards Hunfrith. At last, Hunfrith understood the threat and shook off his shock. He attempted to defend himself, to lift his sword. He stumbled back, away from Dunston. His face crumpled in agony; Oswold’s knife yet jutted from his body. Again, he tried to raise his sword, but once more the effort proved too much. His breath was coming in wheezing gasps now. Blood gushed down his legs soaking his breeches.

  Taking three quick steps forward, Dunston batted the sword away, slapping the flat of the blade with the palm of his left hand. His right fist punched forward and Hunfrith’s eyes widened in horror. Dunston twisted the seax blade. It snagged on one of Hunfrith’s ribs. The man juddered. Savagely, Dunston withdrew the steel from his flesh and then, without pause, drove it in again, probing with the point until it penetrated Hunfrith’s heart. The man’s stench filled his nostrils. Hunfrith let out a moaning, rattling breath, fetid with old mead and meat, and sagged against Dunston.

  Stepping back, Dunston let his foe slump to the earth. Blood pumped from his wounds, staining the grass and the clover. Dunston was breathing heavily. His ribs ached and his hands shook. Looking down at Hunfrith’s bleeding corpse, he thought absently how the grass would grow lush there, fed with the man’s lifeblood.

  The feeling slowly returned to his numbed right hand. His breathing came fast and ragged for a time and he slumped down in the grass, content to allow the afternoon breeze to cool the sweat on his brow. Eventually, his breathing slowed and he looked at the corpse in the grass. He could not tarry. Aedwen would be here soon. He had not been sure about letting her hunt alone, but in the end she had convinced him.

  “Odin will protect me, won’t you, boy?” she’d said, stroking the hound’s ears.

  Gazing at Hunfrith’s crumpled form, Dunston felt a cold fear grip him. The forest was too dangerous for Aedwen alone, even with the dog. He would never allow such folly again. He stood with a groaning wince.

  Dunston knew what he should do, but for a moment, he was filled with unease and uncertainty. He was the reeve now. It was his duty to uphold the law. Should he not take Hunfrith’s body back to Briuuetone? Surely it was not right to merely leave him out here for the foxes, wolves and the woodland creatures to feast upon.

  Dunston looked at his old house and remembered the day, only weeks earlier when he had set out one morning to check his snares and had instead found a mutilated corpse in a glade. He thought of how taking Lytelman’s body to the village had sparked the dreadful events that followed. Of course, had he not found the man’s body and taken it to Briuuetone, Wessex might now be overrun by Norsemen and Wéalas.

  He sighed.

  If there was a doom in Godrum’s books forbidding what he meant to do, he did not know of it. Besides, Hunfrith was a wolf-head, his life forfeit. He would not be missed.

  Hunfrith was a large man, and Dunston’s ribs throbbed terribly as he dragged the corpse into the forest, far from the house.

  Later, when he returned to the glade, smoke drifted from the hut’s thatch and the smell of roasting game wafted to him on the warm summer breeze. As he drew near, he could hear Aedwen humming a tune to herself and relief flooded through him.

  She was safe.

  Her singing reminded him of Eawynn. Unbidden, tears filled his eyes. He stood there for some time, listening to her. The summer sun soaked into his skin and he closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine, just for a moment, that the years had not passed. That he was not now an old man. That Eawynn yet lived.

  Then, Odin barked and came bounding out of the hut. Dunston smiled at the hound and cuffed away the tears from his cheeks.

  Stepping into the smoky darkness of the hut, he said, “Is that partridge I smell? Let’s eat and then, let’s go home. We have hunted enough for one day.”

  Historical Note

  Novels often grow from the smallest seed of inspiration. So it was with Wolf of Wessex.

  I stumbled upon the account in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for 21 June in the year 838. On that day King Ecgberht of Wessex defeated a joint force of Cornish and Danish at a place called Hingston Down (Hengestdūn). This got me thinking. How did Ecgberht know the enemy forces had gathered deep within Cornwall with enough time to muster his troops and march them all the way to the Tamar, where it is assumed the Danes had landed and the battle is traditionally thought to have taken place? I can’t imagine the Cornish and Danish leaders would have amassed and then tarried for long enough to allow word of their impending attack to reach Wessex, so perhaps Ecgberht had been forewarned. We don’t know where the Danes that joined the Cornish had come from, but it is very likely they were based in Ireland, which was by this time a Norse stronghold. But wherever they came from, if this was a planned joint assault, there must have been some communication beforehand that could have been intercepted. Now, it could well be that all communication had been verbal, but what if some of the missives about the attack had been written down?

  And that was enough for me to start coming up with the plot of Wolf of Wessex.

  Most of the characters in the novel are fictitious, but they are placed within the tapestry of real events and places. The very late eighth and early ninth centuries were years of upheaval after a period of relative stability for Britain. Following the first account of Norsemen landing on the coast of Wessex in 787, over the subsequent decade there followed a series of brut
al raids all around the coastline of the British Isles. Infamously, the raiders, known now as Vikings (vikingr in the novel, the Old Norse word for people travelling to raid and seek adventure), sacked Christian monasteries such as Lindisfarne in Northumbria and Iona in the Hebrides. These Christian sites were situated in exposed locations, with access to the sea and no armed guards, and they also housed many rich artefacts which were ripe for the taking. These Scandinavian pirates were not Christian, so cared nothing for the supposed eternal damnation they might face for defiling the sanctity of monasteries and churches. And so it was that the Viking Age began. A time where the sleek dragon-prowed ships of the Norsemen were a constant threat to anyone living near the coast or navigable rivers in Britain and northern Europe.

  For a time in the early ninth century, the number of attacks seems to have reduced, thanks in no small part to Frankish ships patrolling the English Channel. Like so many monarchs in the Anglo-Saxon period, Ecgberht had been exiled in his early life. He spent those years in the court of Charlemagne, the Frankish king, the greatest king of the age. There Ecgberht learnt much of how to be a statesman and how to govern a Christian country. This knowledge would serve him well and the alliance with the powerful Frankish royal family must certainly have aided him when he returned to claim his place as the king of Wessex.

  Under Ecgberht, and with Frankish support, Wessex quickly became the most powerful kingdom in Britain. While the Frankish navy kept the southern coast relatively safe from plundering Norsemen, Ecgberht focused on conquest and expansion. In 813 and then again in 825 he led campaigns against the “West Welsh”, conquering what is now known as Devon and subjugating Cornwall to the status of vassal state. Soon he had defeated the Mercians at the Battle of Ellandun (probably Wroughton in Wiltshire) and then swallowed up Kent, Essex, Surrey and Sussex. According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, he even took the oath of Eanred, king of the Northumbrians, leading Ecgberht to be called the ruler of all of the English.

  But as with all kingdoms, things didn’t run smoothly for long. Mercia, Wessex’s enemy number one, quickly regained independence in 830. And the Vikings posed an increasing threat along the coast of Wessex. This was due to a civil war breaking out in Frankia between the sons of Louis the Pious. As the bloody civil war raged, thoughts of protecting the Channel from Norse ships vanished, and the navy was disbanded.

  So, with his continental European allies otherwise engaged and removing their support, Ecgberht found himself having to fend for himself. In 836, a fleet of thirty-five Danish marauders landed at Carrum (Carhampton). Ecgberht summoned his levies and they attacked the Vikings. But the Danes defeated the men of Wessex and “had the place of slaughter”.

  Ecgberht was getting old by this time and the threat of attack by Vikings must have been an ever-present worry for him. There was always the possibility of treachery from within too, of course. Which brings us back to the planning of the joint attack in 838. If messages were being sent to arrange times and places, perhaps they would be written down. This would be much more likely if Ecclesiastics were involved. Perhaps they would be arrogant enough to think that so few people could read, their plots would not be found out.

  There are several instances of bishops conspiring against kings for their own personal gain. Bishop Wulfstan in the tenth century, for example, switched allegiances between the Northumbrians and the Vikings as was expedient at any given time. Another example is Wulfheard, Bishop of Hereford. He had some very public spats with King Offa and went as far as to forge land grants to gain riches and power.

  Ealhstan was the Bishop of Sherbourne in 838, but the only evidence for his duplicitous nature comes from Asser’s Life of King Alfred, where he states that Ealhstan was involved in a plot to prevent King Aethelwulf (Ecgberht’s son and Alfred’s father) from regaining his crown when he returned from his pilgrimage to Rome.

  As to nobles plotting against their kings for their own advancement, such a thing is all too commonplace. Even today the idea of powerful politicians betraying their nation for personal gain is met with resigned acceptance rather than outraged shock. One historic event that partly inspired Ealdorman Ælfgar and his bastard son, Hunfrith, is that of Huga (or Hugh), the Frenchman who had been made reeve of Exeter. In 1003 he betrayed the city to a great army of Danes led by Swein Forkbeard. The city was taken and destroyed and much of Wessex was invaded and plundered as a result.

  Dunston is all fiction, but I liked the idea of a warrior looking back at the life he had led, believing he has served his purpose, only to find he still has a role to play, and perhaps a reason to strive for more than simply existing.

  The location of his home, Sealhwudu (Selwood Forest), is real. In the ninth century the woodland covered the land between Chippenham in modern-day Wiltshire to Gillingham in Dorset. It was an important natural boundary between east and west Wessex. The name derives from Sallow Wood. Sallow is an archaic name for willow. A small part of this ancient forest remains to this day at Clanger Wood in Yarnbrook, Wiltshire.

  Briuuetone (Bruton) gets its name from the river that flows through the town. Briw means vigorous and describes the fast-flowing water of the River Brue in spate.

  The idea of a Christian of the ninth century having a dog named Odin, after the one-eyed father of the Norse gods, may seem far-fetched. However, the idea comes from my own family history. My paternal grandfather had a black Labrador called Satan, which I believe was named by my father (who incidentally went on to become a missionary and then a Baptist minister!). You can imagine the strange looks my grandfather would get in the 1960s and 1970s calling out for his dog.

  The partial lunar eclipse of the full moon on the night of 11 June 838 was something I discovered while writing and seemed like a detail I had to include in the story.

  The land of Wessex has been populated for millennia and is the home to Stonehenge and the larger stone circle of Avebury. It is also dotted with ancient burial mounds and barrows. The barrow where Dunston and Aedwen spend the night is loosely based on Stoney Littleton Long Barrow, which is maintained by English Heritage and open to the public. It can be entered free of charge.

  Much of Dunston and Aedwen’s story centres around the legal concepts of Anglo-Saxon Wessex. I have taken a rather loose approach to the legal system of the first half of the ninth century, incorporating elements that were not documented until later. However, I believe this leads to an authentic feeling of the legal process of the time, and does not detract from the novel or stray too far from the reality of what would have been.

  The kingdom was broken down into areas called hundreds. These hundreds were probably comprised of a hundred hides of land. Each hundred was further broken down into tithings of ten hides each. The terms, hundreds and tithings, were first recorded in the laws of Edmund I in the tenth century, but they may well have been in use for much longer and I think they give a good framework of understanding for how the law worked.

  Each hundred held a monthly hundred court (or moot) where legal disputes would be heard. Any case that could not be settled could be taken to the shire court. The reeve of each hundred was a powerful man and responsible for the administration of the law and keeping of the peace. When a miscreant fled justice, or someone was accused of a violent crime and needed to be apprehended, the men of the tithing where the criminal resided were responsible for bringing him in to face justice.

  Above the hundred was the shire, and difficult cases could be taken to the shire reeve (where we get the word sheriff). The shire court was held less frequently, perhaps every six months. The highest court of the land was the King’s court, where the king himself dispensed justice.

  The Church had its own Ecclesiastical courts where cases against the clergy were heard.

  The trial system was based on oaths being made. If a defendant could find enough people to swear oaths to their innocence, they would be exonerated. If found guilty, the accused could seek to face trial by ordeal to prove their innocence by divine providence. H
owever, this must always have been a last resort, due to the grisly, painful and sometimes deadly nature of the ordeals!

  Most crimes had a price, or weregild, that needed to be paid to the aggrieved party and sometimes the reeve and king too. These penalties were set down in lists of laws, or dooms. Alfred the Great of Wessex, Ecgberht’s grandson, codified the laws of Wessex into a single book. The Doom Book or Code of Alfred compiled three previous lists of dooms – those of Athelberht of Kent, Ine of Wessex and Offa of Mercia. For the weregild in this novel, I have used the dooms of Ine of Wessex.

  The concept of the wulfeshéafod, or wolf’s head, or wolf-head (caput lupinum in Latin) referred to a person being outside the law, and, like a lone wolf, they were open to attack by anyone. A wolf-head had lost all rights and so could be harmed by anyone with impunity. Such outlaws must have been truly desperate individuals, as they could expect no quarter if captured.

  Dunston’s axe is inspired by the axe found in Mammen, near Viborg in Denmark. The head of the Mammen axe is iron with intricate patterns of silver thread inlaid. It is not as large as DeaÞangenga, and it is not known whether it was used in battle or merely for ceremonial purposes. DeaÞangenga means Deathwalker in Old English, and seemed a very apt name for Dunston’s huge axe with which he has sent so many men to their deaths.

  The crossing of the River Exe by the warriors on their return from Hingston Down may have surprised readers familiar with the area. There had been a Roman timber bridge over the Exe, but that would have decayed and washed away by the ninth century. However, before the later stone bridge over the river was built in the thirteenth century, there are accounts that the Exe could be forded at low tide.

  The generally accepted location of the battle of Hingston Down is near the Tamar River, in Cornwall. However, there is another Hingston Down, in Devon. It seemed more likely to me that, rather than striking deep into hostile territory, Ecgberht would gather his troops and waylay the approaching host of Vikings and Cornish. The Devon Hingston Down is near Moretonhampstead and on the route from the Tamar, where the Vikings landed, to Exeter, so it seems like a perfect location for an ambush.