I was absolutely exhausted by the sea skirmish and spent the rest of the trip in a kind of daze sitting in a corner of the deck. At the front of my mind was the awful memory of Brent. His recovery, after losing his hand so violently, had been miraculous. He had to be a very tough individual. And I knew that he had recognised me.
A surprise awaited us when we docked at the small harbour quayside below Cynwit. Amongst others, Deaks was waiting for me with some awful, though half expected, news.
As we had supposed, a mounted Viking search party had headed South from their riverside township, and had passed into the narrow rocky gorge where they met the good Friar, Brother John. They had questioned and tortured him at length before destroying his little homestead farm and binding him onto the back of his terrified mule.
He had died shortly after he was found by farm workers. His right hand had been cut off at the wrist and the bloody remains of his hand had been hung round his neck on a leather thong. He had weakly mumbled something about Halfdan wanting both of King Alfred’s hands and Ranulf’s head for deceiving him.
But the biggest bit of news, was that the Vikings were moving. The day before, undercover of the weather, a large fleet must have put out from their Steep Holme sanctuary, for it had emerged from the fog and sailed into the broad river estuary just a few miles to the east of where we now stood.
Deaks had been released from safe keeping when the news of the King’s flight had broken at Athelney and realising that we hadn’t fled home by the same route as our outward journey, the young man had made good speed across the marshes to Cynwit, carrying with him my wooden chest and my sword, Wolfbane. He had made a lean-to shelter near the small wooden quayside landing and had kept a constant watch on the water for two days and nights.
‘Knew you’d come this way, specially after Father John and all.’ he told me, as we followed the King and his babbling, panicking entourage up to the fort. ‘Your liking for the ships and all too.’ his crossed eyes widened a little. ‘But, for a while I was scared in case you didn’t come back. You should have taken me with you.’ he scolded.
His voice rattled away with all the detail that he knew of the invasion force until I was probably more fully, and certainly more accurately, briefed than Alfred himself. There had been a total of twenty-three ships to arrive in the narrow river channel that led from the river estuary. The army had not yet fully disembarked and only a handful of the heathens had been raiding the local communities of fishermen and basket weavers. Testing the ground almost I thought.
A positive move on Edmund’s part while we had been away was to take charge of the army divisions of the Fyrd. This would enable us to quickly strike back at our invaders. Particularly so, because he had brought them across the divisive marshlands and they were camped less than a mile away.
If we could organise ourselves and rally all our available forces, we could surprise the Viking Pirates by taking the battle to them. Or maybe that’s what they were waiting for?
Away to the north I could make out the approach of another Viking Ship. Perhaps Halfdan himself was being brought to direct the battle. By now he’d have heard of the fight at sea and, although it could only have been a tiny thorn in his side, he would be hopping mad with a keen ambition of vengeance. I thought it likely, and the unbidden vision given me by my dreaded intuition was one of a hard fight ahead.
We all prepared for battle in our own way. The majority of foot soldiers and spearmen proceeded to consume as much wine as they could procure. Already many of them were becoming belligerent and drunken, scrappy fights broke out between rival groups and individuals. The King and his close entourage attended a special mass at the makeshift church hall, the building of which, my mother had personally supervised. Edmund allowed his own men to relax at their posts but, as always, disallowed any wine drinking or unruly behaviour. I went to my parent’s house with Deaks, to bathe and prepare myself as a warrior with a mail shirt, heavy leather grieves and an iron helmet inlaid with a bronze crest. My mother sombrely attended both my father and myself and gave me a large brooch in the form of a snarling wolf’s head to hold the folds of the fine cream cloak that I was going to wear. The very same cloak that I had taken from Osric’s body the day he was killed.
Mother and I spoke at length, about the day-to-day happenings in their new home and my own travels, eventually I worked towards a subject that I needed to confide. That of the overwhelming, wild craziness that sweeps me along in times of battle. And worse, what I felt must be a shameful enjoyment that surged through my body when I brutally overpowered an enemy. It was a personal glimpse of feelings that I had never before dared to share with anybody. I was afraid on the one hand of sympathy, in case the terrible effect disappeared, and on the other, of ridicule and censure.
I received neither. My mother smiled and bade me sit down as she told me of a similar conversation she had had with my father many years ago. He had been so guiltily upset, that he had been bent on becoming a monk and shutting himself away. But through talking, he had come to terms with the strength of his inner powers and had pledged that they would only be used for our King’s will. I felt intensely relieved to know that I wasn’t possessed by some latent, fiendish devil.
After our chat I went out into the streets, in the eyes of the people, most of them total strangers, I could see the open admiration of what they perceived to be a hero. The loud staccato voices and the quick, exaggerated movements of gesticulating hands showed that each had their own version of madness that was building, fuelled by each other’s excitement at the thought of the impending fight.
The general atmosphere in the town seemed to be of an apprehensive passion that had been nourished by high flown, positive expectations. We would have to be deviously careful and brutally fortunate to give our people the victory they deserved and needed. A defeat of the Viking now, would be a decisive action that would shape the coming years and enable our King to take proper control over Wessex and her people’s destinies. Europe was a vast area, the knowledge that I had gleaned from my reading and studies only scraped the surface, but I was confident that if we could move on successfully from our predicament, we would be a key player in the larger, inter-country game.
We were in a corner and a cornered wolf will fight like ten. I fingered the new clasp on my cloak as I returned to the house for rest and to eat.
I received a note from Alfred later in the afternoon bidding me to attend the officer’s briefing at his quarters. I set off immediately, and had to smile as the messenger led me to old Bevan’s House. The occupants had changed, but the old place brought back memories of sweet perfumes, soft silken sheets and a young girl with a mass of frothy blond hair. Inside I found the place to be a hive of coarse activity with messengers coming and going, clattering armourers repairing mail and sharpening swords. Guffaws of bravado rolled backwards and forwards like waves as their owners became loud with wine. All change is not for the better I thought.
I waited in an anteroom for several long moments before being called urgently in to Alfred’s room.
‘They did not tell me that you were here Ranulf. Damn their eyes!’ the King roared. ‘I left orders that you be brought directly to me.’
‘I am here now sir.’ I answered quietly with a deep courtly bow.
The King was sat on a heavy, leather covered stool, and appeared to have aged several years since I had last seen him. Behind him was a group of fine looking fellows who appeared to be dressed for a ball not for battle.
I’m afraid my scornful thoughts may have shown in my glance, because the King followed my eyes and seemed, for an instant, embarrassed. He rose from his desk and led me to a tall window beside the broad hearth with its blaze of fragrant timber.
‘Our latest reports of the enemy are almost unbelievable.’ he confided in a quiet voice. ‘They are in the process of disembarking their men. But they are dividing them, some to each side of the river. With the majority on the furthest bank!’
‘That’s incredible.’ I said. ‘And it gives us an amazing chance. At low tide each group will be cut off from the other and from their ships, by the deep silt and mud banks.’
The excitement tightened my chest to make me almost breathless.
‘They must have a reason, but darned if I can see it.’ I said.
‘No matter the why’s. It is, as you say, our chance.’ said Alfred
His eyes wandered to the clear view of the hills beyond the window as he quickly outlined his plan and strategy.
I was to lead a group of a hundred or so volunteers along the narrow coastal strip of rocky land that separates the marshes and the sea. The strip was like a slender finger, our only line of retreat would be to retrace our steps with no more cover than that offered by the tussocks of coarse grass. Our job would be to maintain surprise and engage the enemy that had landed on our side, the western side of the river estuary. We had to create a big enough diversion to attract their full attention while Edmund brought his mounted red-shirts at them from inland. After their defeat we would regroup and, with as much speed as possible, join the remainder of the forces under the command of the King. We would then cross the river by the ford and crush the pirate majority that had landed on the far bank.
Speed was of the essence and I was sent to collect my group of volunteers and have them ready to move off, undercover of the approaching dusk.
I was relieved to find a few faces that I recognised among the group and to see that the enthusiastic little band was not in the army’s normal drunken condition. But my best surprise was to find that my old archer friend, Eric had decided to come with us. I sent Deaks to bring him to me,
‘Glad to see you old friend.’ I said, grasping his hand. ‘What do you make of this lot then?’ I asked him.
‘They’ll do. I know a lot of them...And they all know you.’ he grinned.
Trying to stay calm, I explained to Eric what was happening and what our task was. Then personally, I made sure that all the men were properly armed, fed and sober. Each was given a small food parcel and, when we had moved away from the Royal quarters, I told them all, just what they could expect from the next twenty-four hours.
Deciding that further delay could only damage our chance of success and survival, I moved the men out and led them along the road I had taken with Edmund many years before. I strode along at a brisk pace pulling the heavy cream coloured cloak about me to keep out the chill that later tonight would carry a knee stiffening frost. Behind me followed Deaks and Eric, the rest of the men took up the double file and followed, each in their own thoughts and anticipation of battle.
We moved silently along the borders of the marsh, passing the small farms with their patchwork fields, the forester’s homesteads nestling on the fringes of the thick woodland and the cottages of the drovers and fishermen. As we passed each home, I sent a man to warn the occupants of the troubles. Most of our hurried warnings were heeded and many families got themselves to the relative safety and shelter inside the stout walls of Cynwit or they moved off to hide in the darkness of thickly forested valleys in the nearby hills.
Steadily, in the gathering darkness, we moved onto the rock strewn coastal strip that would lead us to where the hostile invaders had set-up their camp. Soon we would all have to be as silent as the silver marsh-wraiths to gain the most from our best asset, that of surprise. But for a while we could afford the luxury of some blood-stirring songs to bolster the men’s fighting spirits. With a deep rumbling tenor I started a popular song that, with bawdy detail, described the nightly habits, capabilities and very personal anatomy of the Viking King.
My example was seized on, and before long, a string of descriptively disparaging songs had been sent on their way into the darkening sky.
Soon we could see the light from a large number of campfires that reflected their flickering brightness on lowering cloud. Briefly checking our progress, I had Deaks open up his sack that held strips of material, torn from the clothing of our ladies of Cynwit. We bound lengths of the more broadly torn bandages about our boots to muffle our progress, other strips were wound around the blades of swords and other weapons to stop their clatter. Before we moved off again, I chose two of our company to move ahead of us as scouts and to give a warning of any pickets that the Norseman may have set. We had to seek every advantage.
And to this end, I led the men away from the top of that slender finger of land with its shale and grassy tussocks and took them down onto the wetness of the rocks that had become uncovered by receding tide. Our progress here was regularly punctuated by slips and stumbles but we were off of the exposed, relatively high ground.
It was because of these efforts to gain every edge on our opponent, that thoughts of murder crossed my mind when a clearly audible argument burst out of the darkness behind me. I turned and grabbed at the nearest figure of the group and pulled the pale face of Deaks to confront me.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Damn you, man.’ my voice hissed.
‘My Lord.’ croaked my servant. ‘If you please sir, the fisherman. He has some valuable information.’ I dropped him, my temper cooling.
The file of men had stopped and in the darkness, silently gathered around. A small wind groped and tugged at our clothing. Quickly I set two of the closest men to mount the low ridge as lookouts and turned back to the group of three offenders. The third man was shorter than Eric but had the easy broadness of the working man, in the thick darkness it was difficult to make out the features of the fellow, but he held his head high and thrust his chin forward in a confident manner.
‘We don’t have all night. Quickly, speak up.’ I said to him.
‘Milord. It’s just that, well...’
‘Spit it out man. For god’s sake, or we’ll still be here when it’s all over.’
‘Well, when I was fishing hereabouts, we used a tool for getting about on the mud flats to collect the eels from our traps. We called her a Mud-Horse.’ he paused, too many words tumbled around in his mind to get out of his mouth. ‘If’n we had one, we could get across the mud to the dragonships and fire them. That would keep ‘em busy and no mistake.’
‘A good thought, man. What do they call you?’ I asked him
‘A good many things sir, but mainly Snowy, on account of me white hair.’ he flipped back the hood of his cloak to show a luxuriant cap of frosty silver.
‘Well now Snowy, where could we get one of these mud horses? Or could we make one, perhaps?’
‘We couldn’t make one. Leastways, not here. They’re a kind of low frame set on a long piece of broad plank. You sort of lays against the frame, wi’ your fish basket in front, and pushes away with your feet across the slop.’ he paused to think. In the gloom I imagined a frown furrowing the broad forehead. ‘I’m sure that there might still be two of ‘em at the end of this headland. Always used to be.’
‘Right you are Snowy. Good. Let me know when you think we get there and we’ll take a look...If we’ve got time and we haven’t been discovered.’
Again we set out across the broken, rock strewn shore, heads bent a little now to avoid the probing icy fingers of the rising breeze. The glow in the sky was getting brighter, we were getting very close now. The scouts that had gone ahead should soon be reporting back. If they were still alive.
We came upon our two men quite suddenly. From where we cautiously marched, their two heads appeared silhouetted by the none too distant blaze of what proved to be an enormous ritual fire. They had both reached the end of the slender spit and were peering along the coastal strip of land that bound the deep gash of the river estuary. More descriptively than a thousand words, their expression, clear in the firelight, told us of the horrors they were witnessing. I signalled the rest of the men to stay low and climbed up the steep bank to them, as I reached them, a scream of agony tore the night air. The response was a wave vulgar of shouting, laughter and Viking curses. Looking past the scouts I saw what had frozen their feet to the earth.
On the narrow river bank the heathen masses were gathered around a roaring fire, the bright golden tongues of flame licked and crackled at a big wicker basket. We could clearly see the shrivelling faces of people through the coarsely woven cage. It was as if the faces were waxen masks. Unreal, except for the shrieking of total agony. The wind fanned the seat of the flaming pyre to white-hot and mercifully the screaming was cut off as the flames hungrily leapt about the rustic prison.
A stifled snarl burst from one of the trembling scouts.
‘They raped them first.’ he sobbed. ‘We stood here and watched. Three young girls.’
‘It was just two of us, we couldn’t do anything. Could we?’ pleaded the other.
‘No lads, you couldn’t have done a thing. But by God, we’ll see to their revenge now.’ I spoke quietly as I led them back from the scene of the barbaric human sacrifice.
‘Go among the men, and quietly tell them what you have seen.’ I told the two young scouts.
As they disappeared into the thick darkness of the night I called Eric to me and I told him my plan of attack.
We would form up and mount our attack in the traditional shieldwall, spanning the distance between the river and the edge of the treacherously boggy marsh. I would detail off our two young scouts to make their way into the marsh as far as they dare and, after they hear the sound of our attack, to fire the reed beds. As long as the wind direction held, the smoke and flames would move past us, to harry the inaccessible flank of the enemy.
The fisherman had been successful in finding his mud horses and I dispatched him and two others to attempt to reach the ships and to fire the ones furthest upstream. They would then be cast adrift to ride the river flow back upon the others and destroy as many as possible. Through the awful stench of the greasy smoke from the Viking’s fire we couldn’t see much of the anchored fleet. But we could see enough to be sure the vessels were now cut off from the disembarked ruffian hordes by a broad band of heavy, deep mud that was uncovered by the receding tide. I hoped that the stinking smoke would provide a shield for the three brave men as they slithered over the mud on their primitive sleds. For most of their way they should be invisible, hidden within the shadows of the steeply sloping river bank.
Their pagan ceremonies must have been completed because the Norsemen were lounging around drinking from roughly broached casks of wine and beer. They must have been so supremely confident of the protection from their Gods, that they were quite unprepared for our appearance. As we got closer I became suspicious of the lack of a guard or sentry and expected a counter-move or ambush at almost any moment. But none came.
While we were still below the shallow spit of ground, we formed-up and locked our shield wall into a solid square to house our attack.
The men were under strict orders to march steadily and above all, silently, towards our goal. Nobody would make a sound until I started the battle chant. I wanted to get as close as possible before we gave away our amazing advantage of surprise.
As one giant beast, we moved silently across the seaward side of the rock strewn promontory and mounted the grassy avenue of river bank between marsh and ooze. We were within an easy spear’s distance of the first revellers when I started the deep booming war chant. Quickly the throats of other men took it up, and within the space of a heartbeat we had become a solid wall of iron and rolling, thunderous sound. Quickly we moved forward, swooping out of the blackness upon the isolated knots of firelight-blinded men.
A shallow stream of hissing arrows burst from our rear ranks and passed overhead to take targets beyond the first group of panicking heathen.
Our advantage was quickly over though, the disciplined Viking warriors formed themselves into ranks to bar our progress and attempt to turn us aside. But they were unprotected axe men and spearmen. They managed to inflict casualties it is true, but our shieldwall held strong to a devastating effect, as our spearmen and swordsmen thrust at faces and bodies from both above and below the formidable barrier. All the while, our archers were busy pumping their tainted arrows into targets away and behind the main action. Quickly the Viking found that they had to clamber over their own slippery mound of dead to attack us. The attack visibly weakened and suddenly broke as the wall of reed beds to our right burst into a flying sheet of angry, windblown flame.
The shieldwall began to surge forward, chasing the retreating devils. Turning to face my men I held my arms up and bellowed for them to stop. It would be so easy to rush headlong into a defeat. Together we were strong, once fragmented we became vulnerable. Moving backwards, we retreated from the stinking, slimy mess of tangled flesh and blood. The whimpers or cries of any wounded enemy that we passed was silenced with the swift relief of sharp steel. Our own wounded were ferried back to the shore, temporarily at least, out of harm’s way.
I wiped the sticky blood from my hands and the sword handle, the right-hand side of the creamy cloak was heavy with splashed blood from our victorious first engagement. I eased the silver wolf’s head brooch and swung the garment to hang across my back. I had no need of its warmth. My rage was boiling deep within, and sweat was running in trickles from my face and shoulders.
Deaks produced a leather water bottle and we passed it between us. The liquid tasted sweeter than any of the enemy’s wine might have done. But I dare say their mouths had now been soured by our strong and lethal thrust. The next fight would be a very different matter.
The pile of Viking dead was pulled to one side and dumped into the mud that banked the shoulders of the river. The enemy was regrouping with care, and preparing to meet us once more. I hoped that Edmund’s sense of timing wouldn’t be too far from those of our imminent need.
We advanced slowly and steadily within our armoured shell. This time we were far from silent, those bearing the heavy war shields hammered the shafts of their spears against the large, iron-studded, leather covered boards. Behind them, we struck out at the savage Pagan beliefs with our deep rumbling war-chant. On my signal everybody was silent. I was sure that in the contrasting quiet I could hear the wind of flighted souls sighing across the treacherous mire.
The shout for blood from the Pirate lines signalled their own attack. They obviously hoped to win by the sheer weight of numbers, for the first group rushed at us almost headlong. Our archers earned their bread again by letting fly a swarm of angrily hissing shafts. All of the missiles found targets and the fallen warriors tripped those following so that the next volley fell upon a macabre, confused mass.
The next wave of attack came from directly behind this heap of quivering wounded and dead. It struck our shieldwall with a crash that could have been heard in Athelney itself. Our ranks wavered under the pressure, but held. Blades blinked scarlet in the reflected light from the fires. Viking bowmen had found their targets and several of our good men were hit, some mortally. My ears sang with the hot blood that coursed my veins as I yelled encouragement to my men and helped reinforce areas of the wall where injury caused a weakness. All the while my sword point sought targets between the shield rims or thrust viciously upwards under the lower edges.
A man before me shuddered and started to topple with his shield as he was pushed towards us. Grabbing the bars of his shield I pulled him aside and thrust his shield back into the gap trapping the questing arm of a heathen. Deaks, ever at my side, caught the handle of the short dagger that was clutched in its hand and stabbed the thing with its own sting. My own right arm brought Wolfbane upwards beneath the shield to finish the man and the arm disappeared.
A yell went up from the rabble that composed the Viking army. I thought that another organised attack was being launched and a glance at my men told me that this could be the last. They were bordering on simple exhaustion and many of them were badly wounded. A long handled war-axe lashed at me from the small gap between the two shields that were held before me, my sword went instinctively up and out to parry it. The vicious curved blade clashed against my sword blade, and deflected, it slashed poor Deaks at the shoulder. A blood covered demon rushed forward from behind me and, before the axe could make another swing, he impaled the man’s throat with a broad bladed spear. In a bubbling froth of crimson the body sunk from view. I called for someone to help Deaks, and protesting, he was helped away.
I now discovered the reason for the earlier shout from the enemy’s ranks. A brilliant show of showering sparks drifted towards the dawn-lit clouds as several of the Viking’s longships collided. Flames leapt from one vessel to another and we could see a swimming figure, his wet snowy hair plastered to his skull, hacking at another taught anchor rope. We were not the only ones to have spotted him though, and he was soon surrounded by the splashes from optimistically committed spears and the more sinister ripples from silently plunging arrows. As the rope parted and sent the burning raft of ships drifting downstream upon the remainder of their fleet, a Viking archer found his target. The fisherman rolled onto his face and disappeared from view. The last glimpse I had of the man was of the golden light of fire shining on his white cap of wet hair, before he slipped beneath the turbid surface.
The main thrust of the counter attack that had begun to hurt us was over and the opposing lines before us crumbled. Some of the desperate Viking pirates tried to make their way through the soft, slime of mud and silt to free their remaining ships but I think most of them perished before they could reach the water.
One or two groups of enemy warriors, seeing their hopeless position, banded together to mount a last ditch attack on the remains of our valiant little band.
I was doubtful if we would survive, even from this, largely uncoordinated effort. Then from the distance I heard the blaring call from Edmund’s bull’s horn. Relief flooded over us. I even fancied that I could hear the thudding of the giant hooves as they cut their way through the ranks of enemy warriors that were being brought forward to fight with us.
The group of Norsemen immediately before us teetered on the edge of their doubt, but finding courage from deep in their warrior’s rage, they mounted a frenzied attack that was centred on our weakened flank. We, as they saw it, were their immediate barrier to any escape.
The hissing, spitting features of a red bearded Viking, his fetid breath hot on my face was my last memory of that grey morning before a pain that felt as though my skull had shattered, drove all consciousness from my mind.