Sarum (71 page)
Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
It was almost with a shout of delight that, as they finally drew close, he saw a noble army gathered to greet them. They had rallied to their king, who was also their last chance to keep their independence. Together the Anglo-Saxon fyrd moved north to confront the Viking invaders.
It was the next day, fifteen miles south of Chippenham, that they saw the long lines of helmets glittering in the sun. Guthrum was waiting for them.
As the Saxons drew up into battle line, Aelfwald stood a little to the right of the centre. He was flanked by his children: Aelfric on his right, Aelfstan and Aelfgifu on his left. Immediately behind him was Port. To all of them he said:
“This is to be the last battle. We win or die.”
It was a well-chosen site – a broad piece of open ground, and fairly dry. As he looked to the right, Aelfwald noticed that there was a huge, untended field, over whose brown furrows the crows were sweeping, unconcerned by the lives of the warriors nearby; and in his heart he knew, at that moment, that they would win. The Anglo-Saxon fyrd was going to defend its fields.
It was a long battle. The Vikings fought furiously; but the Saxons were fighting for their existence. As each Saxon advance was checked by the terrible battle axes, it fell back like a retreating tide, reformed and crashed forward again.
“They’re like the waves of the sea,” Aelfwald thought. And indeed it seemed that no matter how many blows the Vikings dealt, the waves of Saxon warriors continued to pound upon them endlessly. Inspired by the slight figure of their king who fought with such determination amongst them, the Saxons were unstoppable.
Aelfstan and his sister fought together, side by side, and they made such a fearsome combination that few who came up against them escaped.
All the time, however, Aelfstan had a particular object in the back of his mind, and it was at one crucial point, when the Saxons broke through the Viking line, that he saw what he had been searching for. He motioned to his sister and they began to make their way towards it. For fifteen yards away, he had caught sight of a tall figure with a pock-marked face. It was the man who had raped Port’s wife. His face was imprinted on Aelfstan’s memory.
Fighting their way through the mêlée, it took them some time to draw close, but as they did so, some of the Viking’s companions in turn recognised them, and a cry went up: “It’s the Saxon woman!” From all sides, it seemed, warriors were suddenly turning on them, for the pleasure of striking the impudent woman down.
Before they knew what had happened though, they had been transformed into a little rallying point. Saxons were rushing to their defence. A cry went up in the middle of their part of the battle: “Aelfgifu!” and seconds later they saw another group, led by Aelfric, surging towards them.
For several minutes, they became the focal point of the line; the fighting was desperate; but all the time, Aelfstan was conscious that they were drawing gradually closer to their chosen object, and now, only five yards away, he guessed that the tall, pock-marked Viking had sensed that he was their quarry. Pressing forward, at the front of the fighting, they came up with him at last.
He stared at them with scorn; swivelling round, he raised his axe to smash the young woman who was glaring at him so defiantly; but not quickly enough. Before he could strike, Aelfstan made an upward swing with his sword, so quick that the Viking never saw it, and which split him open from stem to stern.
The rape at the sheep farm had been avenged.
Meanwhile, none had fought more bravely than Port. He had prepared himself for battle by strapping a small round shield of the Viking type to his right arm while in his good left hand he wielded a short, light sword with which he showed a surprising dexterity.
“You fight better with your left hand than you did with your right,” the thane called to him. Certainly he was glad of Port’s presence. Each time Aelfwald turned in the thick of the fray, the solemn sheep farmer was always there, either just behind him, guarding his back, or on his left side, acting like a second shield.
But it was at the turning point of the battle, when the Vikings after seeming the first time to waver, were launching a furious counter attack, that Port performed his most noble service.
Aelfwald and the sheep farmer had found themselves unguarded for a moment, just as two huge Vikings had borne down upon them, one from each side. As ill luck would have it, the ground on which they were standing was muddy and slippery, so that when the thane despatched one with a magnificent thrust from his sword, he slipped and fell, while at his side, Port was knocked to the ground by the other with a mighty blow that completely shattered his shield. As he struggled to get up, he saw the Viking’s axe raised above Aelfwald.
He knew what he must do. With a calm gesture, he raised his good arm to take the blow that was meant for his lord. While the heavy blade, deflected, bit past the bone, Aelfwald had just time to recover, raise himself on one knee and plunge his sword into the surprised Viking’s heart. Then he seized his loyal retainer and dragged him from the fight.
Port lived; but his remaining hand, and most of the forearm, was gone.
Soon afterwards, the Viking retreat began; within the hour, Alfred was master of the field, and as night fell, Guthrum and the tattered remains of his horde limped into Chippenham. The Saxons camped outside.
Aelfwald himself dressed Port’s terrible wound and his sons made a rough stretcher with their spears, on which they carried him. It was not long before the report of his gesture was common knowledge throughout the fyrd.
“Port swore to fight for me in my hall,” the thane announced. “Never was any Saxon’s vow better kept.”
And the other thanes agreed:
“The sheep farmer fought like a noble today.”
Port, weak though he was, felt a glow of pride. But at the back of his mind he could not help wondering: “With both my hands gone, what shall I do?”
As the Saxon force hurried after the retreating Vikings, one figure remained behind. The thane’s youngest son did not leave the field of battle.
For Aelfstan still had one more duty to perform.
Alone, as the sun sank, he searched among the fallen bodies for the pock-marked Viking. It did not take him long and when he found him, he knelt on the ground. Silently and skilfully he worked with his knife for half an hour, cutting and peeling, until he had carefully separated the man’s skin from his body. Then, rolling the dripping skin up, he slung it over his back and mounted his horse to ride after the others.
At dawn the next morning he found a small wooden chapel just under the walls of Chippenham, and there he nailed the flayed skin on to the door.
It was a pagan custom, but one of which, in the circumstances, none of the Saxons could disapprove.
Guthrum held out at the small settlement of Chippenham for two weeks. Alfred and the fyrd awaited him. Finally, the Viking offered his surrender, together with a promise to leave Wessex for ever. Three weeks later, Guthrum and thirty of his nobles submitted to baptism at the Saxon camp of Athelney, in the presence of Alfred and his thanes.
Among them was a new thane who had no hands.
For a few days after the surrender at Chippenham, there was an open air ceremony at which the king gave his loyal followers their rewards.
When he came to the men from Sarum, Aelfwald was pleased to see a twinkle in the king’s blue eyes.
“Where is Port?” he asked.
The sheep farmer was brought forward and Alfred looked at his arms before declaring:
“This Welshman,” this was the term often applied to men of Celtic descent, “fights like a true Saxon noble.” He turned to Aelfwald with a look of enquiry and the thane nodded quickly: for the day before he had spent the morning with the king urging him to bestow this honour upon his loyal man. “Therefore,” Alfred continued: “from today, Port, you are to be a thane.” And then, followed by Aelfwald and his family, he solemnly embraced the astonished sheep farmer.
But this was not all. If Port was to be a thane, he must have land.
At a nod from the king, two monks now stepped forward. They held in their hands heavy sheets of parchment: for the granting of lands was carefully recorded in writing. There were two kinds of land that the king could grant: the ordinary land of the people on which the owner would owe him the feorm tax; or the still more valuable bookland, which was exempt from all taxes except military service and contributions to fortifications and bridges.
“Thane Port,” Alfred announced, “I will give you bookland.”
The sheep farmer flushed with pleasure; his eyes opened wide as the monk, holding up the charter, read it out in Latin, which he translated into Saxon as he went along.
The wording of the charter, like all such documents at that time, was resounding.
In the name of the High Thunderer, the Creator of the World, be it declared to all present, absent and to come, by the contents of this charter that I, Alfred, by the grace of God King of the Anglo-Saxons, give and concede to Port an estate in my ownership into his perpetual possession by hereditary right.
His own charter: his own land. Now he was truly a thane. As he listened carefully the monk continued.
And on account of his pleasing obedience I confirm the extent of the estate: that is, twenty hides near the river Avon, immediately north of Aelfwald’s land.
Twenty hides! He was a rich man. With the income from that he could give his sister Edith not only her gold cross but put jewels on it too. He knew the land in question. It was a fine estate. He listened intently as the monk came to the definition of its boundaries, which was written not in Latin but in Anglo-Saxon, so that there could be no doubt about what was meant.
First along the river, then at the bend, east over the meadow to the great tree; then north along the boundary furrow to the linch, and west along the dyke . . .
He knew every inch. Even as the monk recited, his precise mind was carefully calculating its income.
Which lands include the place called Odda’s farm, and the right to pasture in the meadow six oxen . . .
“Stop.”
At this unexpected interruption from the sheep farmer, the monk looked up, astonished.
“There are eight oxen there, not six,” Port objected.
Alfred stared at him, then seeing what kind of man he had to deal with, smiled.
“Are you sure?”
Port nodded.
At a sign from the king, the monk crossly altered the charter, before continuing.
And to receive from the dairy farm there twenty weys of cheese, fifteen lambs, fifteen fleeces . . .
But Port was shaking his head.
“They produce twenty-five weys of cheese,” he told the king.
Now Alfred and all those around burst out laughing, and even the monk could not suppress a smile. Again the charter was altered.
That he may have and possess and present the aforesaid land to whomsoever he shall choose in all things with free will, except the fortification of fortresses, construction of bridges and military service.
He had land, and he had it for ever. The Charter ended with the usual flourish.
If anyone shall insolently attempt to infringe this generous munificence, let him know that, on the great Day of Judgement when the deepest caves of Hell shall open and the whole world tremble, he will perish in the infernal fire with Judas and all traitors and suffer agonies for all eternity, if he shall not have previously made amends, with compensation.
It was done. Aelfwald and the others witnessed the charter. Port had lost his hands, but regained a portion of his ancient ancestral territory.
When it came to Aelfwald’s turn, Alfred had a special gift: an inscribed ring and a small jewelled casket. To accompany these personal mementoes, he added a fine new farm.
The farm of Shockerlee lay just to the north west of Wilton, on the wooded slopes of the small ridge that rose between the two broad valleys of the Wylye and the Nadder rivers, and which was known as Grovely Wood.
Like many new farms, it had been carved out of the edge of the woodland, as its name – meaning the sheaves of corn,
shocker
, in the wood,
lee
– implied. It was excellent, well drained land.
shocker
, in the wood,
lee
– implied. It was excellent, well drained land.
When the king had passed on to the next thane, Aelfwald turned to Aelfstan and Aelfgifu and told them:
“You both fought bravely together. In my will, when Aelfric inherits the lands at Avonsford, you shall jointly own Shockerlee.”
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