Sarum (68 page)
Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
Wessex, after all, was still minting new silver coins for its king: the Vikings had not done with it yet.
At the thane’s farmstead at Avonsford, the evacuation was completed with speed. The messenger had arrived at the gallop from Earldorman Wulfhere with orders for the thane and his men to meet him at the dunes at Searobyrg at once.
Immediately Aelfwald sent his men scurrying about loading stores and valuables into wagons making sure that everything they could not carry had been well concealed. He despatched his two sons to supervise the evacuation of the village.
“And Port, has he been warned?” he demanded.
“He has already been told,” the messenger shouted. “Hurry your men.” And he turned his horse back towards the dune.
Within an hour, the entire settlement was on the move, riding or walking beside the four wagons from the farm and the village, which had been piled high. Two more carts followed, filled with armour and weaponry.
Earldorman Wulfhere was waiting with a group of horsemen at the dune. His big, blotched face surveyed the approaching carts with disgust, and he greeted Aelfwald with a curt nod.
“I didn’t say bring your whole village with you,” he said grumpily.
“Should I have left them to the Vikings?” the thane asked, to which Wulfhere only shrugged in reply. Other trails of carts were approaching from nearby hamlets.
Both men stared at the old earthwork fortress that was meant to defend the place.
“We can’t fight here,” the earldorman stated flatly. “No gate and the fortifications need repair.”
“We could improvise a gate,” Aelfwald suggested, but Wulfhere shook his head.
“The king’s ordered a general withdrawal anyway,” he said. “Back to the homelands west of Selwood.”
Even now, though the kingdom of Wessex stretched as far as London, it was the hinterland to the west of the huge barrier of Selwood forest, the original power base of the early west Saxon tribal group, which was still sometimes thought of as the homeland. There, west of the sweeping open ridges and broad valleys of Sarum, lay the remote fastnesses of marsh and woodland which the Vikings did not often try to penetrate.
Aelfwald was appalled.
“We’re deserting the whole south? Wilton too?”
Wulfhere looked at him a little strangely, then shrugged.
“The Vikings will be here at any time. We aren’t ready for them. Look at this.”
The straggling wagons full of villagers who had not even had time properly to arm themselves, and the empty unfinished fort certainly did not promise an organised defence. “They’ll pause at Wilton and loot it,” the earldorman said calmly. “Meanwhile these people,” he looked at them with contempt, “can get away.”
It seemed to Aelfwald that Wulfhere showed no great eagerness to fight, but he had to admit the truth of what he said. The earldorman was in no mood to argue anyway.
“Move your people along,” he ordered gruffly, and turned away.
As he looked at the untidy procession of carts, loaded with possessions, making their disorderly way along the muddy lane that led along the valley to Wilton, Aelfwald felt discouraged. Wulfhere had not attempted to organise them; soon, as others joined them, the little cavalcade would become unwieldy. A broken wheel here, an overturned cart there – he could just see them, a few miles down the road, strung out helplessly while the Vikings swooped down upon them.
If they could manage with fewer carts, he thought. And then he had an idea.
On the west side of the bowl of the land below Searobyrg there lay two tiny hamlets with Saxon names. One, beside a marsh, was occupied by the family who traditionally played the trumpets or
bemer
at festivals, and which had therefore acquired the name Bemerton; the other, on the river, he owned himself; and this was inhabited by the extended family of Tostig the slave, which had, since time out of mind, supplied the best fishermen at Sarum – for which reason the place had long been popularly known as Fisherton. There, on the banks by the little cluster of thatched huts, lay six fine long boats.
bemer
at festivals, and which had therefore acquired the name Bemerton; the other, on the river, he owned himself; and this was inhabited by the extended family of Tostig the slave, which had, since time out of mind, supplied the best fishermen at Sarum – for which reason the place had long been popularly known as Fisherton. There, on the banks by the little cluster of thatched huts, lay six fine long boats.
“Tell Tostig to bring all his boats to Wilton,” the thane ordered. “Perhaps we can load them instead of using more carts.”
When he reached Wilton, the wisdom of this decision was immediately clear.
The little town was in utter confusion. The evacuation was taking place without any direction and the main street was already blocked by carts. Worst of all, no one had thought of removing the valuables from the royal palace or the nunnery. Wulfhere had not arrived. Quickly therefore, the thane took charge and soon established order, and when Tostig arrived with his six boats at the jetty south of the nunnery, the thane had no doubt how he should use them. Directing his men to the palace and the church, he saw to it that all the gold and ornaments from both buildings were carried to the water’s edge and stowed in the boats until all six were full.
“Upstream,” the thane commanded, “as far as you can.” And he told his eldest son Aelfric to accompany them. Slowly Tostig and his helpers edged the six boats out into the stream and paddled away through the cold waters.
While the procession of carts was being organised, Aelfwald detailed his younger son to arm twenty men who would ride as an escort for the convoy. Then, satisfied that he had done all he could in the time, he started them up.
The armed escort had one addition that he had not foreseen.
As soon as Aelfgifu had seen what was happening, she had slipped away to where the men were arming. In moments she had found all that she needed and vanished into one of the empty houses by the market place. Carefully winding her long hair tightly round her head, and stripping to her shirt, she had prepared herself. Soon afterwards a tall, handsome figure in a coat of chain mail stepped into the open. On her head she wore a Saxon helmet crowned with the customary figure of a crouching boar on whose front was blazoned a silver cross. From her belt hung a short single-edged sword, and in her hand was a spear. With her splendid bearing, she looked every inch a Saxon warrior, and none of the men hurrying to their rendezvous on the western side of the town paid her any particular attention.
Only Aelfstan spotted her as she took her place at the rear of the escort, and he grinned. He had never known Aelfgifu allow herself to be left out of anything her brothers did, and this latest prank came as no surprise. He quietly moved into a position beside her.
“Better not let father catch you,” he whispered, then pulled his horse away; and moments later when the thane looked about and asked where the girl was he could answer with perfect truth:
“She’s here, father. I saw her a moment ago.”
Despite the confusion, the town was evacuated; and as they went along the valley, Aelfwald was relieved to see Wulfhere and his men moving slowly along the ridge above them, keeping watch over the high ground on their northern flank.
It was when the procession was over a mile away from Wilton that the first mishap occurred, when the abbess suddenly noticed that Edith had disappeared, and learned that a little while before the nun had been seen hurrying towards the back of the line, although for what reason, no one knew. After a search, she was nowhere to be found and so the abbess came to report the matter to Aelfwald.
The thane turned in his saddle irritably. This was the kind of time-wasting he had hoped to avoid, but since it was a nun, he called for someone in the escort to ride back to check the town; and it was then, needing no second bidding, that one of the escorts wheeled about and cantered back along the muddy road.
The town of Wilton was empty and silent; there was no sign of the Vikings yet as Aelfgifu clattered down the main street and she was almost at the palace when she saw Edith.
The nun was staggering along the street. In her eyes there was a wild stare of determination and triumph, and in her arms was clasped tightly the huge leather bound volume of Gospels. In the confusion they had somehow been left behind, and as soon as she realised it, forgetting everything else, she had run back alone to the empty nunnery. She was almost collapsing under its weight. She stared uncertainly at the rider, whom she did not recognise, bearing down on her.
With a single, easy movement, Aelfgifu reached down and scooped Edith up, sitting her in front of her astride the horse, which she kicked into a smart canter. Edith was so taken by surprise, that she let go of the heavy book which crashed with a thud in the middle of the street behind them. She gave a high pitched scream.
“The Gospels! The Gospels!”
Aelfgifu took no notice.
“Stop. Stop your horse, foolish man.” She struggled wildly, her face a picture of woe. But it was nothing to the look of horror and astonishment which crossed her face when she heard the familiar voice of the thane’s daughter laughing in her ear.
“Can’t stop, Edith. It’s only a book.”
The Gospels were not found again.
In the meantime, a far more serious discovery had been made: Port’s wife and children had never joined the party at all.
It was the messenger’s fault. Before he left Wilton, he had encountered the sheep farmer, who had come riding there on business that morning and shouted to him that he was riding to warn the thane. Naturally Port had assumed that Aelfwald would bring his wife and children too; and the thane would have done so if the messenger had not told him that Port had already been warned. It was only now, as he came back along the line of carts to greet the thane, that the astonished Port found his family was missing.
“I must go back,” he cried, almost beside himself.
Aelfwald looked grimly up at the sun. It was well past noon. If the Vikings had not already reached the farmstead at Sarum, they might be very close. Even so, there was a chance that they would not bother to search for the isolated sheep farm on the high ground, when the rich farmstead and the village of Avonsford lay so invitingly in the valley below. He knew he should not do anything to weaken the protection of the wagons, but after one look at the distracted sheep farmer, he did not hesitate.
“Aelfstan,” he called his youngest son. “Take six men and four spare horses to Port’s farm. Go now!”
But as the men began to peel away from the cortege, he laid a restraining arm on Port.
“I forbid you,” he said. The sheep farmer with his single hand was not even armed. He would be of little use if the rescue party met any of the marauders.
Port looked at him beseechingly, but the thane shook his head. The riders were already vanishing down the road.
Aelfgifu had just reached the tail end of the line when she saw her brother and his men streaming by, and though she did not know the reason, she wasted no time in hauling Edith from the horse and unceremoniously dumping her in the road; then she turned her horse’s head.
She caught up with them just as they climbed the steep path that led to the dune of Searobyrg. She saw Aelfstan waving at her angrily, heard him shouting at her to go back. But since she took no notice, there was nothing that he could do. “I’m coming anyway,” she cried, as her horse drew level with his; and so, serious this time, he told her their quest, as together they rode on swiftly over the ridges.
As they went, they kept their eyes peeled for signs of rising smoke that might signal the Vikings’ presence but there was none; and as they drew level with the thane’s farmstead below, Aelfgifu allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. It seemed that they were in time.
They were not.
The party of Vikings had made their way at a leisurely pace up the path from the farmstead where the main force had briefly paused on its way towards Wilton. Finding no opposition, they had not troubled to set fire to the place, and had sent scouting parties to the ridge above to see if there was anything there to plunder.
It was one of these which, just as they reached the crest, saw the Saxons coming towards them.
Aelfstan’s reactions were instant. Turning to his sister he cried:
“Ride to Port’s with the spare horses,” and he motioned two of the men to go with her. As Aelfgifu wheeled away across the open ground, he rode down upon the Vikings to cut them off.
There were ten of them, dark, swarthy men; three carried swords, the rest axes, and they rode small, sturdy ponies. By his quick action Aelfstan had caught them before they could give chase to the rescue party, and as they were still mounting the crest, he had them at a disadvantage.
The skirmish was brief. At the first rush the Saxons knocked half of them off their horses, and sweeping down on them again, with loud whoops, they stampeded the riderless ponies and cut down three of the Vikings where they stood. The third charge brought them to stern, hand to hand fighting, but although still outnumbered, Aelfstan and his men still had the advantage of the higher ground. They killed two Vikings and wounded three more before the rest of the invaders, thinking this was an unprofitable battle, turned their ponies and made their way down the track. With a shout of triumph, the Saxons wheeled about and went to look for Aelfgifu.
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