We galloped onto the high ground which sloped steeply away from the Viking settlement of Westburg, and took the road heading towards the ancient town of Gleawanchester. From there we would be able to cross the broad Severn River using one of many ferries, and then travel on to Caerleon on the south coast of Gwent. Once there it would, we hoped, be a simple matter to find a fishing boat to carry us over the Severn Sea, perhaps to Cynwit. Or close to it any way.
We drew to a halt on a knoll to give the horses a quick breather and to share the squashed remains of supper from the cap that I had pushed inside my tunic. Looking back we could clearly see, not one, but two distinct columns of lively flame. The kitchen fire must have found a foothold in the building’s framework and happily vaulted into the roof of the vast Hall.
No doubt we were being pursued, but a good deal of the available manpower must be swallowed up in fire-fighting. We strained our ears but couldn’t detect any sound that might betray the approach of horse’s hooves.
‘Maybe they assumed that we headed directly south. Back over the Mendips.’ I suggested.
‘If so, it will only be temporary. The farther we can get under the cover of this dark night the better.’ replied Alfred. ‘We must make all haste to get back to Athelney and mobilise our armies. I’m sure that they intend attacking us during this season of Christmastide.’
‘But that’s now.’ I said.
The horses, despite my instinctive bias, were well bred and willing. To save their wind and energy, we kept them trotting, only allowing them a controlled canter where the ground was flat.
As the pale grey light of dawn forced its way beneath the purple blanket of night we gained sight of a riverside settlement. Not knowing how things could be within the village we chose to leave the well marked track and turn to the west, directly towards the broad ribbon of steel grey water that was the Severn. When we reached its swaying, reed bristled banks we turned again heading back towards the north, this time in search of a ferry and its keeper.
Already there were people moving in the strips of field that lay in the woodland clearings. We followed a narrow track at the fringes of the forest where we would not be seen too clearly. But even then some folk stopped in their work and peered through the gloomy dawn light to see who we were.
‘Halt!’
The shouted order came from within the darkness of the woods on our right.
‘Stop where you are. Or your next breath will be your last.’
The suddenness of the shout startled my horse and I struggled to control him and bring it to Alfred’s side. Through the rising sweat of fear I felt a vague relief. The command, however rude, had been from a British throat.
‘Throw down your weapons.’ the voice had the sound of military confidence. ‘In front of you, throw them where I can see.’
I was about to reach into my tunic for dagger, but I noticed that Alfred did not move.
‘Come sirs.’ called the voice. ‘You insult me.’
Two men dropped silently from the branches of some pine trees on our left. Each held a very steady, fully drawn long-bow, its wickedly barbed arrow aimed at destruction.
‘My men become impatient. I advise you to make haste.’ the owner of the voice appeared from behind a fallen tree trunk.
‘Any insult sir, is upon my head.’ Alfred’s voice was strong and commanding. ‘Your own will become independent of its body and staked at the city gate if we do not pass.’
The leader of the highwaymen smiled and, with a confident arrogance, came closer on strutting legs that were clad in breeches made from a ragged green material.
‘You have the temerity to accost the King of the British people.’ said Alfred aggressively, sitting tall on his horse. ‘And he, surrenders his sword to no one!’
‘My apologies master King.’ the man bent deeply in a mock, courtly bow. ‘But I must insist that you do as I ask or, I promise you, my man will shoot you.’
Still Alfred did not move, not even an eyelid flickered. His gaze fixed on the highwayman. ‘We are being pursued by Viking murderers. You would serve your country best by assisting us and not detaining us.’
‘There are many Norsemen who would wish to take my skin for their war shields.’ the ruffian laughed. ‘And nearly as many British.’
The horses fidgeted, mine particularly. They sensed our tension and were urgent to be away.
‘Perhaps I’ll keep you here. The heathen may pay me right well for your miserable body.’ he stroked his bearded cheeks. ‘After all, if their search is frustrated they will take some of the poor lives in our village as punishment. It’s happened before.’
‘Come with us, then.’ suggested Alfred warmly. ‘Help us drive the evil pirates from our land and I will personally grant an unconditional pardon. For you and your men.’
I noticed the archers ease their bowstrings and move closer to hear more clearly.
‘What is your name.’ asked Alfred. ‘And how many of you are there.’
‘I am known as Bearnwald or Bearn for short.’ he gestured towards the bowmen. ‘And this is all of us. At the moment.’ he stood tall. ‘How do I know you tell the truth.’
Alfred held up his hand and showed them the large ring that was embossed with the Royal Seal. ‘Well now Bearnwald, compared to you, we are already unarmed. If we bear you false, it will be a simple matter for you to take your leave.’ he told them quietly.
A shrill whistle cut the cool morning air.
‘It is a signal from a friend.’ Bearnwald said, scanning the hills behind us. ‘Your friends are on their way.’
He signalled to his two men, who put up their bows and came to hold the horse’s bridles.
‘Quickly, get down from there and follow me, the twins will hide the beasts.’
We could hear the distant guttural shouts of our Viking pursuers as we followed Bearnwald into the narrow strip of pine forest. Hastily we were ushered up into the spike clad branches of a tall straight tree. Ahead of us, our highwayman friend climbed swiftly and easily until he reached a cleverly concealed platform that nestled into a forking of the mighty trunk.
When we reached the lookout point we found it much bigger than it had appeared, it held all three of us quite comfortably.
‘For some reason, and we’re all the same, people never think of looking up when they hunt.’ commented Bearn smilingly. ‘I’ve spent many a long hour up here while a jealous rival sought me below.’
We carefully looked through the woven wall of living branches. Towards the south, the way that we had come, we could see a substantial military force. They were at a standstill and roughly questioning a woman, one of the innocent farm workers that we had seen earlier. Abruptly, the force split into two groups, the larger one headed along the main trail for the town and a smaller one turned and continued along the edge of the woodland, heading towards our lofty concealment.
As the last horseman trotted past the young farm slave we saw a brightness glitter. The sound of a shrill scream sliced the air. It was cut short as the peasant’s neck was severed. The bloody torso fell to the softly broken ground that the poor woman had so recently been tending. A ripple of laughter wove through the mounted troops. Alfred’s body stiffened beside me.
‘By God. I swear that they will pay for that cruel deed.’ he whispered. ‘Find me a sword Bearnwald. Find me a sword now!’
‘Aye sir, you are King indeed.’ said the outlaw looking into the raw wildness that crackled in Alfred’s spirit. ‘If you wish it, I can promise that they will not get far.’
‘I wish it. By God, I wish it!’ he answered. ‘But, Alfred leads his army, he does not push it. Give me a sword.’
In reply Bearnwald stood, knocked an arrow to the bow that he carried and fired the arrow into a lofted arc. The slender shaft embedded softly into the timber of another treetop hideaway on the other side of the track. Through the lacing of pine branches above the arrow, we could see a row of pale faces. With amazing speed and efficiency, Bearn gave his instructions using a language of signs.
Obviously something that happens regularly I surmised, Alfred and I had just been their targets.
The row of faces opposite us disappeared into the gloom of the evergreen forest. Bearn turned to us, his finger on his lips,
‘Be silent. If we are to be successful this must be done our way.’
He opened a chest that I’d not noticed and took out two handy looking swords and a bow with a slim quiver of arrows. The sword belt buckled across our shoulders, to give us room to climb from our lofty perch. The bow, Bearn gave to me and I pushed it under the sword belt. He beckoned us to follow, and without hesitation, he dropped silently over the side of the platform and smoothly climbed down the ancient trunk of the magnificent tree to the forest floor.
As quietly as we could, we followed the fleet-footed agility of the gang leader. Once on the ground we kept low, almost bent double, as we dodged from bush to bush and tree to tree across the forest, cutting off a large looping bend in the rutted track that would lead the murderous troops through the twin walls of thick forest.
We arrived at the edge of the track moments before the arrival of the Viking intruders. We could hear them just beyond the bend, very confident and making no attempt at concealment or caution. Bearn pointed to a length of sturdy cord which lay across the road.
‘When you hear the noise of this horn pull that cord and secure it by the loop to that stump.’ he said, quickly showing me the action.
Bearnwald and Alfred moved on along the track’s edge to a point below the sweeping corner.
Crouching behind a stunted tree, my fingers gripping the loop in the cord, my breathing became steady but my heart beat still hammered at my ears. I pulled the bow and quiver from my back and laid them both by the side of the stump and pushed two arrows into the ground, ready for instant use.
My eyes followed the length of cord. I saw that it had been laid over a fork in the tree above me and ran across the track where it had been buried under a sprinkling of sand, at the other side, it rose like a sleeping snake into the lower boughs of an ivy filled tree opposite.
The Vikings rounded the corner. Their horses at an easy trot and their naked iron weapons glittering in the pale sunlight. Without a sideways glance they clattered past the point where Alfred and Bearn were concealed.
The horn bellowed.
Rooks took to the air above us, their cries filling the air. I heaved at the cord and straining, fixed the loop around the stump. As my fingers left it, it twanged like a lute string. The first rider tumbled into the dust and must have broken his neck. He lay still.
Like angry hornets, slender shafts of arrows hissed into the gap between the trees. Most found their targets, piercing the light riding armour and jabbing deeply into the squirming flesh of the merciless heathen.
Indiscriminately, the arrows rained on man and beast. Some, their horses shot out from under them, clambered over the pile of carcasses caused by my rope and tried to make a stand against the invisible hunters. Finding themselves effectively defeated they began to break and dash to the gloom of the woodland for cover.
Surprised, I found that my sword was already in my hand, the raging wildness tingled through my nerve ends. My breathing became shortened and all my senses seemed to become sharper, brighter. The warrior’s killing rage settled within me like a coiled whip. And I enjoyed it.
A Norseman looked for escape in my direction, I rose under him and drove the broad blade deep into the rounded belly. As the man fell to his back I struggled to pull the weapon clear but it was stuck fast. Another pair of scrambling boots were set to burst through my hide.
I drew the dagger with my left hand and picked up the fallen Viking’s short sword.
The man stumbled against his fallen comrade and his eyes flared wide when he saw me. He drew his arm back and, yelling for the assistance of his gods, sprang forward swinging the sword edge at my head. My senses were now so keen that everything seemed to happen in a dreamy sort of slow motion.
I ducked beneath the hissing glimmer of steel and, rolling as I hit the ground drew the razor sharp edge of my dagger across the back of the unprotected knees of my attacker. My rolling motion carried me into the base of the tree stump, winding me for an instant, before I could scramble to my feet.
The Viking, with the tendons of his leg severed, could go nowhere. His helmet had fallen from the shaggy red head and through the strained, drawn back lips, came whimpered sobs of pain. I drew back my arm and using the sword as a javelin, finished his painful existence on the turf before me.
With two swords lost to me, I snatched up the bow and knocked an arrow. An inner voice made me look back up the track towards my comrades.
Both Bearn and Alfred were busy with fights of their own. In the shadows behind the King I saw the fluttering shadow of a fleeing Dane. But it stopped, gathered itself into a solid form, and raised its blade aiming at the King’s unguarded back. I prayed that the Monarch would not stagger or be forced to retreat as I aimed and loosed the shaft in one smooth movement. With old Edmund’s drilling voice in my ears, I kept my eye on the target until the arrow struck, but already had another arrow knocked and drawn in case of a miss. Luckily the bow was good and the shaft true. We didn’t miss.
In the silence of the aftermath, the last calls of the disturbed rookery faded on the breeze. Carefully Bearn’s men walked among the enemy dealing swift mercy to the wounded and ensuring none had fled to pass a warning to the main body of their company. Quickly, the road was cleared, the bodies of men and their animals were dropped unceremoniously into a flooded pit and the weapons and valuables collected.
An old man swept the bloody patches of sand with a bundle of hazel twigs, effectively obliterating the traces of men beasts and their slaughter.
The sun had hardly moved the forest’s shadows and amazingly, it was all over, as though nothing had happened.
‘I thought you said there were only three of you.’ I said to Bearn as I came up to them.
‘I lied.’ he said with a grin. ‘There are twelve good men all told. An asset to any Army sir.’ Bearn bowed to Alfred.
Alfred beamed and, standing between us, clapped a hand on each shoulder,
‘Then let’s get them across to the heart of Wessex where they can set about doing their best damage.’
‘I’ll gladly help you to get across the water.’ Bearn said quietly. ‘But I must come back. I’ve a pretty wife and two children in the town.’
‘I understand.’ said Alfred. ‘You have done enough already. If you would rather, Ranulf and I will carry on alone. If you could just help us to find a way over the Severn.’
‘So...you’re Ranulf eh?’ said Bearn, looking at me anew. ‘The songs say you are much taller and heavier. But they’re not wrong about your skill in fighting.’
We walked on through the narrow peninsula of the forest until we came to a thickly shrouded glade. The other men were there before us. The old chap that I had seen with the broom was busy preparing a meal of cold meat, cheese and bread, accompanied by the ever present jugs of foaming ale.
Bearnwald relayed to his men the offer that the King had made and briefly gave his own reasons for not being able to take it up. He told them that, any who wished to, should collect their belongings and prepare to move out.
None moved, so loyal were these ragged warriors to their leader that they all chose to remain with him in their woodland fortress. They did however give an enthusiastic approval to becoming official members of Alfred’s growing forces. Their mission was to become a sharp and slender thorn in the flank of the Dane invaders and to send forward whatever intelligence they could gather.
Our personal weapons were generously enhanced by the gifts of some swords and for me, a beautifully made long bow with a full quiver of fine, iron tipped arrows.
We left the safety of their forest after our meal and set off for the coast with Bearn and three of his ingenious archers. Our horses were left behind, they had been taken to a point on the river near to the town where the pursuers would, hopefully, find them and imagine we had fled across the river and towards the Celtic border of Gwent. Our route led us through the narrow strip of dense woodland to the banks of the River and a well concealed small ferryboat, which we used to take ourselves across the sluggish flow of the Severn River. Once across, Bearn led us by lane and obscure drover’s routes down to the northern coast of the Severn Sea, only a half-day’s march from the fortified township of Caerleon.
I had been looking forward to arriving at this shore, to once again gaze on the glittering expanse of the Severn Sea, with perhaps a glimpse of the southern shores that I had last seen as we had entered the foreboding gloom of old friar John’s rocky gorge. But it was not to be. The fog was so thick that, although I could plainly hear the waves, restrained as they were by their ebbing tide, I could not see them. The tiny beads of water floated and swirled in the air muffling our part of the world so that it seemed as though we were the only living things. Not even a gull called to its mate through the curtain of milky whiteness.
‘No British ship will put to sea in this.’ observed Bearn. ‘There is a small monastery close-by. We’ll go there.’
So, uncomfortably damp and becoming wetter, we made our way along a series of low walls until we came to an arched gateway. Bearnwald led the way through and knocked a loud rhythm on the door to a low, poor looking building. A small, circular peephole was briefly unplugged and with a deal of Gaelic muttering, the door was unbarred and eased open a hands-breadth. Bearn spoke a few brisk words, gesturing to Alfred with some reverence, and we were ushered in. The door banged shut behind us and a sturdy beam was wedged back into stone brackets to lock it against unwelcome intruders.
We were taken through to a long room which served as a multipurpose hall, some monks were busy at their bookwork while others cooked and some sat mending clothes. A tall man dressed in a fine woollen gown came to meet us.
He introduced himself as Asser, a Celtic Christian travelling in the district. He seemed to have a spontaneous rapport with Alfred and the two of them spent the greater part of our short stay in academic discussions and debate.
The inhabitants of the monastic settlement prepared a substantial meal for us and sent a messenger for one of the local fishermen who had a reasonably sized craft. He would, they assured us, be happy to take two passengers across the sea to the sheltering marshes of Wessex.
There was not much sympathy amongst them for their own leader, King Anarawd, and most people that we met bade Alfred a swift return and advised him to not give too much trust to the Celtic King, as he was known to fraternise with the Dane.
‘Our world seems to grow smaller.’ remarked Alfred, as we made our way along a misty shore toward the fisherman’s boat that would take us to savage war.