The Edge of Light (59 page)

The first choice he dismissed almost immediately. Ethandun was not well-enough-fortified to hold out under intense attack. Chippenham was better situated if Guthrum wanted to hold siege.

Name of the Raven, but he would not do it! He was sick unto death of being penned within walls while Alfred played captor from without. The time had come to meet these West Saxons on the battlefield.

The Dane’s long legs continued to pace as his brain mulled over his chances. One battle only had the West Saxons won from the Danes. The battle of Ashdown. In all the other engagements in which the two armies had fought, the honors had gone to the Danes.

Guthrum, who was usually honest with himself, if not always so scrupulous with others, forced himself to face the fact that in all the battles in which the West Saxons had been defeated, they had also been greatly outnumbered. The single battle they had fought with equal numbers had been Ashdown. And that battle the West Saxons had won.

No matter, he thought now grimly as he laid his plans for the morrow. The time had come for this struggle between himself and Alfred of Wessex to be decided. Like all his race, Guthrum was a fatalist, and he felt now that it was time for fate to take a hand. He would go out to do battle with the West Saxon king. The odds were nearly even, and what was fated to be would be.

Having made his decision, Guthrum threw back his yellow head, squared his big shoulders, and went off to give orders to his men.

The scouts Alfred had posted to keep watch on Ethandun returned to the king at Iley Oak with word that the Danes looked to be preparing for battle.

“Thanks be to God,” Alfred said fervently. Like Guthrum, he was sick of sieges. And he gave the order for his men to prepare to fight.

To the north of Iley Oak rose the steep chalk hills of the northwestern promontory of Salisbury Plain. There was a track Alfred knew well that ran across the plain to the hills and the ancient fort of Bratton. Cut into the turf of the hillside at Bratton was the figure of a chalky white horse. A symbol, folklore said, of the victory of one of Alfred’s ancestors hundreds of years before. The White Horse had been the emblem of the royal house of Wessex until Alfred’s grandfather, Egbert, had changed it to the Golden Dragon.

At dawn tomorrow, Alfred thought, he would make for Bratton Fort and there take up his battle stance. He would fight this, the ultimate battle for Wessex, under the symbols of both the White Horse and the Golden Dragon. And with God’s help, the West Saxons would triumph.

The men encamped at Iley Oak spent the evening in confession and in prayer. Alfred would not let them fast. They would need all their strength on the morrow, he told the priest who reprimanded him for issuing supper rations.

“The Lord will be your strength,” the priest who was attached to Osric of Hampshire’s household said with exemplary piety.

“The Lord will do his part but he expects us also to do ours,” Alfred replied bluntly. And his men ate.

At the first light of dawn, about five-thirty in the morning this time of year, the West Saxons broke camp. With the mounted men in the vanguard, they pushed on over the Wylye and up the old white track that led up the steep chalk ledge onto Salisbury plain. They halted on the down of Ethandun, which hill had given its name to the royal manor situated nearby. There, under the sun-bright symbol of the White Horse, they took up their battle position.

Erlend had come to Ethandun with Alfred’s army, but as the West Saxons began to form their shield wall, he separated himself, and, leaving his horse behind, climbed up the hillside, all the way to the figure of the white horse that had been cut into the chalk so many centuries before. From this vantage point, a wide vista of Wiltshire landscape lay spread out below him.

From the heights of his hill, Erlend could see northwest across the Vale of Pewsey all the way to the Marlborough Downs. The old West Saxons had fought many a battle on those Downs, mainly against the Britons whose country it had been before their coming. Erlend himself often sang
The Battle of Beranbyrg,
a tale of Alfred’s ancestors Cynric and Ceawlin. He would be able to see Beranbyrg from here, he thought now, if only he knew precisely where to look.

A movement to the north caught his eye, and Erlend looked in the direction of Ethandun manor and saw the advancing army of the Danes.

Their helmets and shields glittered in the morning sun. Nearly four thousand men on horseback, coming from the manor of Ethandun, swords and spears at the ready, to join in a battle whose victory prize would be the ownership of a country.

There was a tightness in Erlend’s chest as he saw them come, the Raven banner flying bravely, the colored banners of the jarls fluttering in the early-morning breeze. There were good men in Guthrum’s army; men he knew well; men he had counted as friends. Slowly then he let his eyes move to the army positioned directly below him.

Alfred’s hair gleamed as brightly as any Viking helmet as he went among his men inspecting their shield wall, giving encouragement and advice.

It was spring. Wildflowers colored the turf and chaffinches sang in the trees. Pewits flew through in the air, crying and wheeling, crying and wheeling. Then the two armies saw each other, and the sound of the birds was drowned in their screams of defiance.

The traditional beginning of every battle was now under way. Swords clashed on shields. Insults were shouted, each side trying to intimidate the other by its warlike posture. Nearly eight thousand throats set up a roar that frightened the birds and sent them wheeling off to the safety of the plain.

Erlend stood, a solitary figure silhouetted against the white chalk of the horse, and watched as the Danes dismounted to take up their positions. Without consciously realizing what he was doing, he began to compose a song in his head. “At break of dawn,” he improvised, “the shields rang, resounded loudly. The lean wolf in the wood rejoiced, and the dark raven, greedy for slaughter …”

The shouts were becoming more threatening and now the West Saxon archers were coming to the fore of their lines. From his post high up on the hill Erlend could see the deadly shower begin to fly toward the Danish lines.

“Then keenly they shot forth showers of arrows, adders of war, from their bows of horn.” Erlend could hear the words in his mind as clearly as if he were saying them out loud. Then his breath caught and the poetry stopped forming in his brain. A slender golden-haired man had stepped forward from the West Saxon lines, sword raised. Then he began to run forward. With a deafening shout, the fyrds of Wessex poured after their king.

There was an answering shower of arrows from the Danish ranks; then the Danes too were advancing, shield and sword and spear at the ready. Erlend thought he could see his uncle standing under the banner of the Raven. Then, with a noise greater than all that had gone before, the two armies came together with a resounding crash.

The carefully formed shield walls did not hold for long. Within minutes it seemed that the whole field had become a heaving sea of man-to-man combat. Erlend watched, transfixed, all poetry vanished from his mind.

For a very long time neither side had the advantage. Erlend tried to keep watch on the two great banners of the leaders, but it was impossible to single out individuals among the shifting mass of men who milled around them. The sky shone a brilliant blue and the taunting cries of prebattle bravado were replaced by the bloodcurdling screams of the wounded.

For over two hours the armies remained locked together in bitter combat. From his vantage point above the action, Erlend could see how the turf underfoot was trampled and stained with blood. Men climbed over the wounded and dead to get at each other. Then, as Erlend watched, the banner of the Golden Dragon faltered as the thane holding it aloft slowly crumpled to his knees.

Edgar!
Erlend spoke the name aloud, even took two steps down the hill, as if to go to his friend’s assistance.

Then someone else had lifted the banner. Erlend could not see who it was, but all at once, in the circle of men around the fallen standard-bearer, he could see the king. Alfred had been bending over the man crumpled on the ground, and now he straightened, stepped away, cut through the protective ring of his men, and engaged the enemy, his sword slicing through the Danes swarming over him, his shield raised to catch the ax blows that were aimed at his vulnerable, unhelmeted head. The men of Alfred’s hearthband abandoned their fallen comrade and surged after their king.

The battle raged on. Slowly at first, then with ever-increasing urgency, the Danes began to give ground. Back and back and back they were driven. Erlend’s eyes sought the Raven banner and his uncle.

Guthrum was fighting like a madman. The Raven banner was in the fore of the Danish lines, and now the West Saxons were beginning to surround it. Foremost in the West Saxon van was the banner of the Golden Dragon, symbol of the presence of Alfred, the king.

It happened a little at a time, not all at once as in the past. The Danes began to break ranks, turn, and flee from the field toward the horses picketed in their rear.

Erlend knew instantly that this was not a false retreat designed to lure the enemy into pursuit. This was the real thing. Danes were flinging themselves onto horseback and heading toward the road north, the road that would take them back to Ethandun manor, or, thirteen miles beyond, to Chippenham.

Guthrum was one of the last Danes to leave the field. The West Saxons were already running for their own horses to ride in pursuit when Guthrum finally gave way and, leaving a shield wall of his personal retainers to hold back the intense press of Alfred’s attack, found his own horse and galloped away to the north.

Those West Saxons who had come to the field of Ethandun mounted rode swiftly in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. Those who had not been mounted sought the horses that had belonged to the Danes now lying dead or wounded on the battlefield. Within minutes the field of Ethandun was deserted, save for the parties of men Alfred had left behind to tend to the wounded and to collect the dead.

Slowly Erlend descended from his hill, to lend a hand with the gory work of separating the injured from the slain. He had marked carefully the place where he had seen Edgar fall, and it was to that part of the battlefield that he went first.

He saw immediately that Edgar was dead. A spear had penetrated his ringed mail byrnie right in the place where his heart was. It must have been a ferocious blow, Erlend thought. But then, the mail had probably been damaged by earlier blows. The king’s standard-bearer was always a prime target for the enemy, but Edgar would never hear of relinquishing his post to any other.

Gently Erlend closed the blue eyes that were staring sightlessly up at the beautiful spring sky. Edgar was not yet stiff, and Erlend managed to lift the weight of the dead thane in his arms and stagger with him off the reeking field. Alfred would not want Edgar thrown in a common grave with the rest of the West Saxon dead.

As he lowered to the ground the body of one of the kindest men he had ever known, Erlend thought of the song he had started to compose as he watched the beginning of the battle from the top of his hill that morning. Edgar is gone, he thought, his hand lightly smoothing the rumpled hair of the dead man away from his forehead, but in going, he has won glory for himself in battle.

The traditional comfort of his people came into Erlend’s mind, the watchword of the Viking warrior. “One thing will never die, the reputation we each leave behind at our death.”

Erlend would do that for his friend. He would write a song about Edgar and the battle of Ethandun, would see to it that the reputation of Edgar the Saxon would be honored for as long as harpers sang.

Somehow, the thought did not bring the comfort he needed.

Alfred would say that Edgar had gone to God. As Erlend looked down at the still face of his friend, he found himself hoping that Alfred was right.

The Danes bypassed Ethandun and galloped for the more strongly fortified Chippenham, with the West Saxons hard on their heels. As soon as Guthrum was within its walls, the Danes closed the gates of Chippenham, leaving those of their number still without to the mercy of the enemy.

Alfred was in no mood to show mercy. He knew well he had to strike a killing blow in order to win back Wessex, and without hesitation he gave the order that all Danes caught outside the gates of Chippenham were to be killed. The West Saxons fell to with a vengeance and soon the earth was running red with Danish blood.

Once the Danes were dispatched, Alfred next gave orders that all the cattle and sheep that were in the pastures at Chippenham be taken to Ethandun. “I do not want to leave any hope in Guthrum’s heart that he might be able to mount a quick raid for food,” the king said to Brand when he gave the order about the animals.

“Yes, my lord,” Brand replied, and promptly went to collect a party of men to do as Alfred commanded.

Alfred next ordered his men to pitch camp on the fields of Chippenham, far enough from the walls to be out of the range of arrowshot. Then he settled down to starve Guthrum out.

Guthrum stood on the walls of Chippenham and watched the West Saxons digging a huge trench wherein to bury the Danish dead.

He could scarcely believe what had happened to him. But two weeks ago Alfred had been a landless fugitive skulking in the marshes of Somerset in fear of his life. Today he sat with his army outside the gates of Chippenham, the conqueror. And Guthrum, trapped within, was the conquered.

Name of the Raven! How had it happened? How had Alfred managed to gather the fyrds of Wessex under Guthrum’s very nose? Not only had he gathered them, he had hurled them into battle. And they had won!

The West Saxons had finished digging the trench. It was very deep and they had put a rope ladder down to the bottom of it in order to climb out. Guthrum looked broodingly at the scene before him, his brow furrowed in thought.

He had strong magic, this Alfred of Wessex. He was a fine battle leader, true; but so too was Guthrum. The difference between them lay somewhere else.