The Edge of Light (27 page)

From the other camp bed came the sound of Guthrum snoring. Erlend closed his eyes and the battle raged before him once again. He opened his eyes and stared into the dark. Slowly, carefully, he stretched and flexed his legs, his arms, his shoulders, his back. He was alive. Guthrum snored louder. Suddenly Erlend felt weary. He closed his eyes and this time saw only the dark. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders and then he too fell asleep.

The Danish leaders—Halfdan, his fellow-king, Bagsac, and the jarls— met in council the following day and decided to march forth from Reading to seek battle with the West Saxons.

“One battle won us Northumbria and one battle won us East Anglia,” Halfdan said to his war council. “My aim is to add Wessex to our holdings, I see no reason why we should not triumph again. And if we are to move, it would be well to move quickly, before the Mercians have a chance to come to the aid of the West Saxons.”

There was not a single dissenting voice. Scouts were sent out to determine the West Saxon position, and on the morning of January 7, another bright clear cold winter day, the Danish army issued out of Reading in full battle array and marched up the Ridgeway toward Lowbury Hill, where the West Saxon army was camped.

The West Saxon surprise was as great as the Danes’ had been when the fyrds attacked Reading. Neither the king nor his councillors had expected the Danes to leave their base camp, and the whole end of the Ridgeway toward Reading had been left open and unprotected. Most devastating of all, the West Saxons had left the ridge just to the southeast of their camp unmanned, Halfdan camped in a slight hollow behind it and immediately posted scouts on the unprotected ridge, but one thousand feet from the West Saxon camp on the Ridgeway below.

Alfred swore bitterly when he realized what had happened. The Danes had always been so reluctant to leave their base camps! He had never dreamed they would come out into the open like this.

“We should have occupied that ridge,” he said to Ethelred. “It is inexcusable of me to have neglected it.”

“Too late to bemoan our mistake now,” Ethelred said. His face was drawn and grim. “We must decide immediately whether to fight on our own or try to escape in the night. If we stay, we will be facing battle tomorrow.”

The two brothers were alone for a moment, awaiting the arrival of the ealdormen who had been called for a war council. Ethelred’s eyes were steady on his brother’s face. Ethelred wanted the two of them to decide now, Alfred realized, before the ealdormen arrived. He forced himself to push aside his fury at his own stupidity and concentrate on the problem at hand. A battle, he thought. Tomorrow. Without the Mercians.

“The men are in high heart, Ethelred,” he said slowly. “Even if the Mercians do not come in time, I think we will be all right. Worse to run. That would surely knock the heart from the fyrds. Twice now they have fought the Danes and held their own. They have confidence. They will fight well if we fight tomorrow.”

“I think you are right. And God knows when we shall have such an army collected again.” Ethelred’s brown eyes were clear as he looked at his younger brother. “Alfred,” he said, and stopped. Then, very carefully, still with those clear steady eyes: “Should anything befall me on the morrow, it is you who must take the kingship.”

Alfred’s head jerked up. His face went very pale and his eyes widened and darkened. He did not answer. “I love my sons,” Ethelred went on, still in that same careful voice. “But they are still boys. Wessex needs a king who is a man.” He paused. Then, again: “It must be you.”

Alfred’s throat moved as if he were trying to talk but could not. He wanted to protest, to tell Ethelred not to speak so, but his voice stuck in his throat. His heart was rejecting utterly what his brain knew to be true: Ethelred was mortal. Finally, after a struggle that Ethelred could clearly see, Alfred gave up trying to answer and nodded.

Ethelred put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Alfred covered it with his own. Then, as if the touch had released his voice, he said urgently, “Whatever happens, Ethelred, do not let yourself be taken alive!”

His brother smiled. Wryly. “I will remember that.” He looked over Alfred’s shoulder. “Here come the ealdormen.”

It was full dark when a single horseman, coming from the north, rode into the West Saxon camp and asked for the king. Alfred knew as soon as he saw the face of Ethelred of Hwicce that the news was not good.

“The Welsh have risen,” the young Mercian ealdorman said to the king and his brother. “Burgred and the rest of our ealdormen are fighting on our western border. They cannot come to the aid of Wessex.”

Ethelred and Alfred exchanged a grim look. They had resigned themselves to the fact that Burgred would not arrive before the morrow’s battle, but they had yet been counting on future assistance from the Mercians. Alfred thought of the thousands of West Saxons who had marched to Nottingham, and shut his mouth hard.

Ethelred said to his Mercian namesake, “Thank you for bringing us this word, my lord ealdorman. “You look to have had a hard ride. Come and take some food.”

Alfred looked at his brother’s quiet, dignified face and felt a fierce surge of love and pride.

“I have brought you my sword as well,” the redheaded Mercian answered. From the expression on his face it was clear Ethelred of Hwicce felt bitterly humiliated by the news he had been forced to carry. “If you will accept it, of course,” he added stiffly.

“We will gladly accept your sword, my lord,” Ethelred the king replied with his gentle courtesy. “And your valorous heart as well. The fight will be on the morrow. Those are Danes you see on yonder hill.”

“Tomorrow?” said Ethelred, startled. Then, with heartfelt fervor: “Thank God!”

At that Alfred grinned. “It has been a long wait since Nottingham, my friend.”

“That it has.” Young Ethelred blazed a returning grin and ran a dirty hand through his hair. “If you will just show me where I can get some food, my lord …”

Alfred walked around the camp till quite late, talking with thanes he knew, exchanging a jest with a man here, an encouraging word with one there. The temper of the army was confident. Far from being discouraged by being driven from the field at Reading, the men seemed to be looking forward to this next encounter. This time, they told their prince, there would be no rivers with which to trap them!

When Alfred finally returned to his own tent, he was content. The ground was frozen with the cold and the sky was a great bowl of stars overhead. The weather looked to play no part in the morrow’s encounter. The numbers of the armies were close to even. The victory would fall to whichever army fought the harder.

Please God that army would be the West Saxons’!

The Danes were stirring as soon as the first light began to streak the sky. The West Saxons ate their bread and cheese and watched the enemy slowly marshaling their troops into battle lines on the ridge above them. The leaders of Wessex—the king, the king’s brother, Alfred, the ealdormen, the king’s companion thanes, and the lone Mercian nobleman who had come to their assistance—met before the king’s leather tent in council of war.

“They are forming into two columns,” said Osric, Ealdorman of Hampshire. All the men in the group turned to look once more to the ridge. The hill was divided by the Ridgeway, and on one side of the ancient track was a column flying the Raven banner of the leaders, the kings Halfdan and Bagsac. The other column was mustering under a variety of individual pennants.

“Those pennants on the left belong to the different jarls,” Ethelnoth of Somerset said.

“So,” said Ethelred, “king’s men on the right, jarls’ men on the left.”

The men of his council grunted in agreement.

“We shall form up in two columns also,” Ethelred said. “I shall lead the column opposing Halfdan, Alfred shall lead the column opposing the jarls.”

A startled silence fell and the ealdormen looked at each other. Ethelnoth of Somerset, who had fought at Aclea with Ethelbald and been his friend, said, “My lord, the prince is brave as a lion, no doubt about that. But he is twenty-one years of age. Full young for such a responsibility. Give the left to me, or to another of us older men who has more battle experience,”

Alfred said nothing, but his face was taut and his eyes were narrowed and blazing.

“No,” said Ethelred. “Alfred will take the left. And, my lords, should aught happen to me on the field of battle today, Alfred has my name for the succession.”

This command of the king drew no opposition. There was not a man present who wished to see a child at the helm of Wessex today. “Very well,” said Ethelred quietly. “Let us arm ourselves for battle and pray to our Lord and all his saints for victory.”

Alfred was very silent as he donned his battle dress. Brand, who was assisting the prince, looked at the familiar face and did not after all say the words that had been on the tip of his tongue. Alfred’s mind was not on Brand. The thane lifted the prince’s mail byrnie to slip on over the leather tunic that Alfred already wore. As the mail coat settled into place, Brand lifted the prince’s swordbelt. Alfred looked from the belt to the man who held it, and for the first time his intense preoccupation lifted. The golden eyes registered his thane’s face. “God be with you this day, my lord,” Brand said fervently.

“And with you.” The familiar clipped voice was just the same as always. Brand smiled and after a minute Alfred clapped his thane on the shoulder. “We shall beat them, my friend.” He grinned. “I know it.”

Suddenly Brand knew it too. His greenish eyes glowed. “Yes, my lord!”

Alfred rammed his sword into his belt and put his sax dagger through the swordbelt on the other side. His hair was bound by his distinctive green headband. The West Saxons still fought unhelmeted. “Arm yourself, Brand,” he said crisply, “and follow me,”

Brand moved hastily so as not to be far behind.

By the time the full light of morning was blazing in the sky, the two armies had taken up their positions. The Danes had the higher ground, on the ridge to the east of the Ridgeway. Ethelred had moved his own men to a slight rise that rose behind his camp to the southwest of the Ridgeway. The pure cold January sun shone brilliantly, the two armies faced each other with but a thousand yards separating them, and the ritual shouting of abuse that presaged every battle began. Swords banged on shields. The noise from the Danish ranks was tremendous, and as they stood waiting in the bright sun, tension began to rise in the West Saxon lines. In the war council, the leaders had determined to take the offensive. Only so could they hope to negate the Dane’s advantage of holding the hill, to break the force of their charge. Yet here they stood in the cold sunlight, waiting.

Alfred stood under his own personal banner of the White Horse and looked to the other wing, for his brother. The Golden Dragon of Wessex flew, but the king was not in place beneath it.

“Where is the king?” he asked Osric, the Hampshire ealdorman, who was fighting under his command.

The ealdorman’s face was grim. “Hearing Mass in his tent,” he replied.

Alfred looked toward the king’s tent, pitched now to the rear of the lines, His response was involuntary. “Surely not now?”

“Yes, my lord,” came the stoic response. “Now.”

On the opposite hill the masses of men were beginning to move. Then horns blew and an even louder shout went up from the Danish ranks. They raised their brightly colored shields and began to advance slowly down the hill. They blanketed the hillside and the noise they made was absolutely petrifying.

“Brand!”

“Yes, my lord?” The thane was at Alfred’s side instantly.

“Run to the king and tell him the Danes are advancing. We must attack now!”

Brand was gone almost before Alfred had finished speaking.

The Danes still held their charge, but their battle horns were blowing. The West Saxon fyrds were becoming restive. Alfred could see the men looking at him, then looking toward the king’s banner.

God in heaven, he thought. Ethelred must attack now!

Brand was beside him again, his breath heaving he had run so hard. “My lord, the king says that he will not leave the altar until the priest has ended the holy rite. That would bring the worst ill luck of all, he says.”

Osric, hearing Brand’s reply, looked at Alfred. “What shall we do, Prince?” he said. “If we wait longer, we shall have to retire from the battle.”

“The king’s prayers may well be in our favor,” Alfred replied grimly. “But it is needful also for us to help ourselves.” He drew his sword. “We will attack.”

Osric looked unsure. “Without the king?”

Alfred could feel the restlessness in the army. Another minute and all would be lost. He turned to Osric, and his face was bright and falcon-fierce. “Without the king,” he said. “Follow me.” And raising his sword, he gave the cry of his house,
“Wessex! Wessex!”
and charged down the hill. The men of his command poured after him. After a brief moment’s hesitation, the king’s leaderless column followed.

The Danes, seeing the West Saxons beginning to charge, ran forward themselves, The two armies met with a clash at the bottom of the valley and the shock of the West Saxon charge was so fierce that it forced the Danes to fall back slightly up the hill whence they had come.

Brand struggled to keep his place at Alfred’s back. The prince was in the forefront of the battle, with Edgar on his right holding his banner high to show to all on the field Alfred’s position. The West Saxons pressed forward eagerly, inspired by their prince’s ferocity. Up and up and up the hill they went, pressing the Danes back. Halfway up the ridge was a road junction, a place where five ancient trackways met. This junction was marked by a single stunted thorn tree, and there the Danes steadied. The slow backward retreat halted and the men under the banner of one of their jarls, the banner of a great golden eagle, rallied.

Erlend fought to keep close to Guthrum’s eagle banner. Hammer of Thor, he had not known fighting could be so fierce! The West Saxon who fought under the banner of the White Horse was like a wild boar in full charge. Erlend had begun to think that nothing could stop him. But Guthrum was holding on now, shouting and blazing and urging his men to press forward, to push the West Saxons back down the hill. The fight between the leaders concentrated around the thorn tree. Concentrated and stuck and held. It was man against man, a clashing of sword and battleax and spear, a bloody give-and-take, with the dead falling under the feet of the living, and the wounded lying unheeded in agony while the battle raged back and forth on top of them. Erlend saw his uncle, surrounded by a wall of dead men, climbing over those he had felled to get at the ones coming next.