An Interlude on Athelney

In the second week of the New Year of Our Lord, Eight Hundred and Seventy Eight, The Danes broke out from their winter camp at Gleawanceaster and once more assailed the Kingdom of Ælfred. The King was at Cippanhamm for Yuletide when the Danes descended out of the snow on the small Saxon host. Ælfred and his companions were taken utterly by surprise. They tried to stand at the river but were overwhelmed. The fighting was fierce and bloody and the waters of that unhappy stream ran red with the bright heart’s blood of Wessex. Ælfred was defeated and driven back beyond Selwood. The King, together with such remnants of his band as remained, took refuge amid the masterless men of the marshes on the isle of Athelingaig.

Among those who accompanied the King was one Edric, House Ceorl to the Ealdorman of Dornwaraceaster. Much of what follows is his story but it would make no sense without reference to the actions of the King at this time of his greatest trials.

Fr Asser of St Davids

Wiltun

In the Year of Our Lord, 908.

Author’s Note

Following the death of Ivar in 871, the wars continued intermittently until 874. Halfdan took the majority of the Danish forces north away from Wessex, where resistance was strongest, and established a Kingdom centred on York – Jorvik to the invaders. At some point in 876, Halfdan departed England and the Danish army split into two. The southern faction was led by Guthrun, sometimes called Gudrun, who established himself in Eastern and Southern Mercia, forcing peace on the Mercian King, Ceolwulf.

This state of affairs was tantamount to a partition of the Mercian Kingdom and gave Guthrun a base at Gloucester, the Anglo-Saxon Gleawanceaster, from which he could again harass Wessex.

The principal place names I have used in this story are: Athelingaig - The Island of Athelney; Bradanforda is Bradford on Avon, where one can find one of the few extant Saxon Churches; Cippanhamm – Chippenham, Dornwaraceaster is Dorchester. Glestingaburg – Glastonbury and Ceoddor, modern-day Cheddar. The physical geography of Somerset in those days was very different from today. It is hard to see Athelney as an island these days and the area now known as the Levels was then alternately forest and swamp.

The main forest of Selwood divided the Kingdom of Wessex into two parts. Wessex proper ran from Kent through Sussex, Hampshire and Wiltshire and included eastern Dorset. Selwood ran almost north-south, from just above Dorchester to Calne, in Wiltshire. Wessex-beyond-Selwood was a wilder place. The towns were smaller and further apart and the landscape less hospitable. The land ran from the marshes of Somerset to the granite moors of Devon and the wild, wooded hills and valleys of West Dorset.

This distinction remains to this day. West of Selwood, one is aware of the space. The congruence of Somerset, Dorset and Devon is one of the most beautiful and unspoilt parts of England. I am happy to say it is where we now make our home.

Ælfred, Ætholnoth and Guthrun are, of course, historical characters. The rest, and this entire story, are my own imaginings.

An Interlude on Athelney, AD 878

“Edric! Edric! Come on, man, where the Devil are you?” Edric of Dornwaraceaster rose slowly from his sleeping- pallet and pushed aside the hides that covered the doorway. He emerged, blinking, into the wan daylight. As usual on this cursed isle it was raining, a fine drifting rain that covered everything, the sort of rain that a man does not heed until he is soaked to the skin.

Ælfred had arrived on Athelingaig with the remnants of his force the day before Easter. In the fortnight since, others had come straggling in, bringing both reinforcement and news. It seemed the Kingdom was lost. All of Wessex proper was subjugated by the Danes. Many had fled across the sea to the land of the Franks. Only here, beyond Selwood, were men still free. Edric wiped his eyes and looked about him.

He was a tall man, well above the average, with a long face and prominent ears. His bare arms showed countless old whitened scars, little legacies of a life of conflict. A livid purple line was slashed across his brow, evidence of another and more recent wound received in the service of his King and the Land of Wessex.

Of all the marks he bore, this was the one he hated, for it had taken his honour. That day at Cippanhamm -- he felt heart-sick in its remembrance. He had served his Ealdorman for nigh on fifteen years, had taken wounds in his defence. At Cippanhamm his Lord had fallen. Edric had been powerless to save him, rendered insensible by a blow from a Danish sword to the head. His helmet had saved his life but that was as nothing to the loss of his reputation. The code of the House Ceorl was a harsh one. A man should not survive his sworn Lord, his Ring-Giver. His companions had all fallen at their Lord’s side, defending the tattered banner of Dornwaraceaster. Edric should have died among them. Thus he lived, a ni-thing, a man without a master. Such thoughts consumed his every waking hour and troubled his dreams, also.

“There you are, you ugly bastard. The King has sent for you. Look sharp, now!”

It was Hereward of Middletun, made Ealdorman at the young age of seventeen and standing high in the King’s favour. Edric liked Hereward, most people did. He was a cheerful young man, even now barely three and twenty. Edric may have felt a twinge of jealousy at Hereward’s renown but could not find in his heart to resent the younger man.

“What does Ælfred want of me?”

“His horse has died and he wants you to carry him!”

“A task I’m fit enough for.”

“Oh, don’t take on, man. No one blames you for your Lord’s misfortune. The King has need of you now, so look lively!”

Edric smoothed his clothes as best he could. Hereward could hardly suppress a grin, as the big warrior pulled stray bits of straw from his tunic and beard. They walked together to the King’s hut. Edric moved ponderously. His shoulders seemed too wide, even for his height, and they rolled as he walked. By contrast, Hereward was light and graceful, seeming to glide along beside the larger man.

The King was seated outside the hut at a rough wooden table. Moisture sparkled in his hair and beard but he did not heed the rain. Several of his Thegns and House Ceorls stood or sat nearby. He looked up as Edric and Hereward approached; gave a nod to Hereward, who moved to one side.

“Edric of Dornwaraceaster, thank you for coming so early. I have need of your services.”

“Are you sure it’s me you need, My Lord?”

A flash of irritation crossed the King’s face and then he smiled.

“Edric, I understand your pain. You feel you have lost all honour. We, who fought that day at Cippanhamm and saw your master fall, know different. You fought as a man should for as long as you were able. Your Lord is dead now, and we pray, with the saints. Now I have need of you. Will you refuse me?”

“Never, Lord. You have only to command me.”

“Good! Now, if you can accomplish that which I now desire, you shall become Ælfred’s man. Seventeen House Ceorls I lost at Cippenhamm. There is a place at my table for you, if you will but take it.”

Ælfred knew his man. To simply give Edric a new position would have failed. The man was too proud. But to earn a place among the King’s Ceorls - that was a challenge he would respond to. His sense of duty to the King would let him make the attempt. His honour would be satisfied only by success. Ælfred knew Edric would not return if he failed. He would succeed or literally die trying.

“How may I serve you?”

“The Abbess of Glestingaburg has sent word. She has provided succour to several of our wounded. She has also given shelter to a number of women and children who fled the pagans. I am taking a force to escort them here. I need you to draw away the Danes. I want you to take a small band and harry them. Hit and run. Can you do this for me?”

Edric brightened visibly. Here was a chance for him to avenge his master and recover his pride. “That I will, My Lord!” Ælfred smiled. The King had an infectious smile that lightened the hearts of those about him. He was not yet thirty years old and had been King for seven years. He had never expected to sit on the throne of Wessex, being the youngest son of King Æthelwulf.

“There is one other charge I must give you.”

“You have but to ask, My Lord.”

“Today we had great news! The pagans sent an army out of Cymru, to attack our lands in the West. They came to battle at Cynuit Hill and were destroyed.”

“Great news indeed, My Lord.”

“I want you to spread the word of this victory and tell all you meet that the Fyrd is summoned by Ælfred to come to Egbert’s Stone at Whitsuntide, five weeks from today. This time we will not fail or Wessex will be no more.”

“It shall be as you command.”

Edric spent the rest of the day in preparation. He chose local men to ride with him, men of the King’s Royal Estate at Ceoddor. The following day he rode out with forty well-mounted warriors at his back, heading north, towards Gleawanceaster. They had ridden but half a day when they came upon a small host, heading for Athelingaig. At its head rode Ætholnoth, Thegn of Sumurtun, and the chief of the King’s men in those parts. Edric exchanged news with the grizzled old veteran and Ætholnoth gave him twenty more warriors to supplement the band.

“The King will be glad of you and your men,” Edric told the Thegn. “He rides this day to Glestingaburg to bring the wounded and the women in.”

“First I ride to the west, for we have news of a raiding party towards Tantun. I mean to warm their arses before I go to Athelingaig. There’s sport for you to the east as well. The Danes forage far and wide out of Cippanhamm. They seem to believe they own the place!”

“Then we must teach them different!”

And with this, they parted, Ætholnoth to Tantun and Edric to the northeast. At each village and holding, he sent messengers to gather news and pass the word of the mustering at Egbert’s Stone. Whenever they saw large bodies of Danish troops, they would linger long enough to be seen, and for the pursuit to start, before drawing away, ever eastwards. Thus it was that Ælfred was able to bring the folk from Glestingaburg unmolested. It was on their return leg, as they approached the great sweep of Selwood from the East, they had their first true encounter with the enemy.

Five days of running from a fight had made the band restive and now, as they saw a small party of pagans driving off cattle, they saw their opportunity at last. Edric led his men round a hill capped with a ring of trees: the sort men said were groves of the Druids in ancient times. Saxons fight on foot, so they dismounted in the tree line, leaving half a dozen as horse-holders. The fighting men ran lightly over the tussocky ground to a ford they knew the raiders would have to cross. Here, Edric divided his men, sending twenty into the woods on the far side with the rest ordered into the river, to crouch from sight beneath the riverbank.

The Danes came on, unawares. Edric waited until they were almost at the river. He gave a great yell “God Almighty!!!” and led the charge. An echoing shout came from the woods behind and the Danes found themselves caught between hammer and anvil. It was not battle - it was slaughter. Eighteen invaders died in the blink of an eye. Blood turned the approaches to the ford to sanguineous mud. The axe-blades drank their fill. Edric roared to his men “You see they can be beaten! They die like any other vermin. Now, round up the cattle and we’ll take them home!”

The villagers were stunned. The Danes had arrived at dawn, stolen their cattle and taken what few precious things they could find. They had murdered the headman and the hedge-priest and fired the Great Barn. The women and children had fled to the woods at the raiders’ approach. They were only now emerging as the Saxons rode in with the rescued cattle.

“God be praised!” A woman’s voice rose from the crowd. She broke the spell, for suddenly they were surrounded by excited faces, clamouring for news and demanding an account of the battle. Edric was a taciturn man and lacked facility with words. He had never been easy other than in the company of warriors. He envied those at court who could jest and recount stories. He looked around the crowd and reddened. He lifted his voice. “We caught them by yonder ford and killed them.” The villagers looked on expectantly, for Saxons love a good tale. There was an awkward silence. “I’m no bard,“ Edric said at length. ”Let some other tell it.” And with this he moved a little way off, hearing as he did so, the voices of his men, competing to tell the story.

He dismounted and began to rub down his horse with a handful of dry grass. He cursed himself inwardly for his inability to speak to his fellows, other than to give orders or discuss tactics. He felt at home only among others of his kind: warriors. He was thirty-one years old and had never married; had never known a woman other than the drabs that followed the armies. He could count his friends on one hand. It was little to show for a life of service.

“I see that, for you, the glory’s in the doing, not the telling.” The woman’s voice was low and well modulated, without strong accent. Edric nodded and turned to face the speaker. “I am Godgifu, daughter of Oswulf of Bradanforda.” She was unmarried, then, for she had not named herself as any man’s wife. She was tall and full-breasted. Her fair hair was braided and coiled and about her head. She wore a simple dress of fine green wool, belted about a slim waist. He guessed her age to be not too many years above twenty. She could not have been called handsome, for her features were large and bore the scars of some childhood ailment. Yet there was something about her that called to Edric. There was an aura about her. It spoke to the warrior of calm self-assurance. Her eyes, he saw, were beautiful, brilliant blue and kind, somehow. It was as if she could look inside him and see the pain. He was dumbstruck.

“And are you always so frugal with words, My Lord?”

“I’m no Lord. I’m ni-thing.”

“That, I cannot credit. How so?”

“House Ceorl to the late Ealdorman of Dornwaraceaster. He died, I lived.”

“At Cippanhamm on Twelfth Night?”

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

“I took this,” he indicated his scarred brow, “Lost my senses for a while. When I came to myself again, the day was lost, my lord with it.”

“But none can blame you, surely. You took a wound, and not the first, by your scars. What of the new Lord?”

“I failed his sire, what need has he of such as me?”

“Then he’s a puppy and fool, to boot. I see you for a valiant man.”

“Then you see more than most.”

“More than most, or just more than you?”

Edric shrugged. He grew uncomfortable under the woman’s gaze. He knew, deep down, that she had the right of it. He knew he was no coward. Yet the new Ealdorman, his lord’s son, had spurned him. He was a puppy, she was right. He hadn’t been at Cippanhamm when the Danes had surprised the Saxons, attacking, out of common custom, in the dead of winter. The lad’s refusal had cut Edric to the quick. He had been weak from his wound, barely able to stand when he had offered the heir his service. “By God,” the boy had drawled, “I think not. See what your service brought my father!” Edric had slunk away liked a whipped cur, to lick his wounds on Athelingaig.

“Cat got your tongue? Or is it that that blow took your wits and you can’t remember your own name?”

“I am Edric, once of Dornwaraceaster and now of Athelingaig. But what of you? You name yourself a Thegn’s a daughter yet here you are in this midden.”

“I was on my way to Scireburnan, to the sisters there, to take the veil.”

“A nun?”

“Not yet, and not of my choosing. My father said I was too old to remain unwed in his household. For me, at least, the Danes are a blessing, for they keep me in the world and out of the cloister!”

“What will you do now?”

“I’ll ride with you to Athelingaig. I would have gone before, when we heard the King lived, but the men my father charged to convey me fled and the ones hereabout are little better than thralls. Will you take me?”

“I how somehow feel that that decision isn’t mine!” Edric smiled for the first time in many weeks and she saw a different man emerge, if only fleetingly. The smile transformed his long, lugubrious countenance. It brought an answering smile to her face and for a moment they stood, enjoying a precious spark of happiness amid the dark days.

Edric despatched runners from the village to the surrounding area, telling of the muster at Egbert’s Stone. When he was satisfied that this part of the country was awake to their King’s needs, he ordered his band to mount up once more. This time, Godgifu rode by his side. Sometimes they talked quietly as they rode but most often travelled in companionable silence. Godgifu proved herself to be a hardy traveller and made no complaint as to the pace or length of the day’s journey. They camped that night in Selwood. No fire was lit to alert the Danes to their presence and they had a frugal meal of dried beef, oatcakes and apples from the previous autumn with skins wrinkled like an old woman’s but still sweet.

The wood was silent but for the occasional stamping of a horse. Edric and Godgifu sat against an ancient beech and talked in low voices. Their conversation ranged far and wide but the more they talked, the more they found shared experiences. Both had found it hard to make friends. Both had grown up knowing that others were more comely. Edric found himself speaking of things he had never shared with another soul. It was easy to tell Godgifu, she understood him. She didn’t see him as a big warrior with over-wide shoulders and prominent ears, a figure to be mocked when his back was turned. She didn’t think him slow-witted because he found it hard to put things into words.

For her part, Godgifu found Edric an ideal companion. He did not try to impress her with exaggerated tales of his own deeds. He didn’t act as if she wasn’t there, like so many young men of her father’s court. He answered her questions honestly. Sometimes he struggled to find the exact word he wanted to express a particular feeling or describe something that he had seen but she quickly realised this was because there was only word that would do. He spoke sparingly, precisely; there was no room for ambiguity anywhere in his life. She found herself warming to this taciturn man. When he smiled, he was a different person. She saw within him all the honesty and gentleness that one person could wish for in another. He was serious, reflective, but not without humour. And he gave weight to everything she said, neither rejecting her opinions because she was a woman nor accepting everything she said simply to please her. She thought, for one horrified moment, that he was treating her like a man, that he would be different, somehow, if she were beautiful. Then she realised that he could not be other than he was, plain-spoken, carefully considerate. They talked late into the night in hushed voices. It was only when the guard changed for the third time that they reluctantly withdrew to sleep.

The following morning they were on the move before the sun had cleared the tops of the trees behind them. Edric was anxious to push on now, to return to Athelingaig. He found himself thinking that if he were one of Ælfred’s House Ceorls he could approach Godgifu’s father and he started at the thought. ‘Great God, man! You barely know her and yet you think of marriage!’ How could this be? Godgifu saw the confusion on his face and wondered at its cause. She had been watching him surreptitiously. ‘Now here’s a man I could spend some time with,’ she mused, but dismissed the thought as silly. She had given up hope of marriage years before when not even the most impoverished of her father’s men had asked for her, despite the sizeable dowry Oswulf had offered in desperation.