It was about midday when Wulfstan’s eyes finally came to rest upon the sprawling, enormous collection of tents that formed the main field encampment for the swelling forces of Saxany. Having never before seen more than a few hundred warriors together at once in his own lifetime, at most perhaps a thousand, the vision before him was entirely breathtaking in scope.
The last stretch of the two-week-long journey had been a particularly difficult, half-day march. All elements of the Great Fyrd had been implicitly instructed to get to the Plains of Athelney as fast as was humanly possible. Every last moment of preparation was critical, according to the word that filtered down to the marching masses.
Wulfstan remembered the earliest stages of the summons well enough. Beacons lit on the summits of great hills soon resulted in a chain of smoking signals whose meaning was as unmistakable as it was urgent. Couriers and messengers dispatched to all parts of the kingdom had spread the alarm with tremendous rapidity. The word had raced throughout Wulfstan’s home region in Sussachia, eliciting a great panic amongst the occupants of nearby villages, hamlets, and larger estates.
Wulfstan had quickly gathered up his arms and whatever provisions he could carry. Having said his goodbyes, he had hurried with some men from the nearby villages to the designated muster point for his territory, a place located just east of the fortified market-town of Langstenford.
From the muster point, it had been a most tiring march. More had been added daily as the main column passed by the other muster points set along the way. Like rivulets feeding into an ever-growing river, the many smaller musters combined their numbers with the growing column.
The larger market-towns that they had passed contributed supplies and provisions to the column. An abundance of swiftly collected materials and foodstuffs were given over to the force as it passed by, to be conveyed out to the great plains.
After a few days, more than a few men within the general Saxan ranks greatly envied the thanes and their houseguard, all of whom traveled mounted. The overwhelming number of the men in the column came from the sweeping, expansive levy of the common folk, known as the General Fyrd. There were very few from the Select Fyrd of thanes, ceorls, and the like who did not have a steed to assist their travel.
As a ceorl, Wulfstan was of a rank to qualify him for the Select Fyrd. Yet as fortune had not favored him, he was a ceorl that had not been afforded the luxury of a mount. As such, he had marched among the majority on foot. At the least, Wulfstan was not ill-prepared for the arduous endeavor, having gained some experience with enduring long marches on the two previous campaigns that he had been called to serve in.
Back at his uncle’s homestead, near to the village of River’s Edge, he was also used to a number of day-long forays into the woods to hunt. He wished that his current exertions were for such a purpose.
Wulfstan sensed a growing anxiety among the common men with each passing day. He could not belittle the nerve-wracked men in his heart.
They were all leaving places where they knew virtually every tree, animal, large rock, meadow, furrowed strip, and, most certainly, every person around them. It was no surprise that their anxiety had risen precipitously as they passed into a far land, where nothing was familiar, and everything hinted at a looming danger.
A couple of mild rains along the way had brought some periods of discomfort, but overall the skies had remained generously clear and bright throughout the long march. The first part of their march was conducted through the forests of Byrtnoth’s lands, taking wide, beaten trails through woods that were known to contain outlaws and brigands. Once they had reached the Iron Heart Mountains, they had proceeded through a broad valley, and on into the tree-covered range of low hills that bordered upon the far eastern edge of the Plains of Aethelney.
At long last, the ground had started to level out, and the trees had begun to thin, until one day, on the edge of dusk, they had emerged out onto the great plains. From that point onward, it was little more than a night spent out in the open air, and the half-day brisk jaunt that they had just endured.
Out on the sprawling plains there were hundreds of field wagons and carts, with many more oxen and horses. The animals had been herded and gathered in large throngs far to the rear of the front line tents. The beasts were grazing idly where they dotted a wide expanse of grasses, and Wulfstan had no doubts that the creatures were grateful to be relieved of their burdens. The baggage train and attendant animals traveling with Wulfstan’s own column would shortly be added to that mass.
Seeing the staggering sight of the encampment, Wulfstan’s left hand inadvertently drifted towards the sword sheathed at his left side, his fingers clenching around the leather-wrapped hilt. His hand rested against the straight cross-guard, where the latter pressed against the metal rim that formed the lip of the scabbard. The flesh of his hand was barely covered by that short, horizontal bar, serving as the base of the untapered, double-edged blade.
His unstrung hunting bow of ash wood was carried in a loose grip in his right hand. A low-hanging, cylindrical quiver full of beech-shafted arrows rested just behind his right hip, affixed to a diagonal leather strap that looped across his body and up over his left shoulder. His current weaponry was rounded out with a long, single-edged seax, carried in a horizontally aligned sheath at his waist.
Wulfstan did not bear all of his means of war upon his own person.
His older chain mail shirt and segmented iron half-helm were currently stored on one of the ox-pulled wagons within the baggage train. So were a long, broad-bladed spear, and a large, newly crafted wooden shield, which had been given to him at the moment of his departure. Having some of the items placed on the wagon had taken a little of the burden off of the extended march, but there was no way that Wulfstan was about to part for even a moment with his sword; a sword that his very own father had directly passed down to him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering a wisp and taste of that very day, when he was just sixteen summers in age.
Wulfstan gently fingered the loose hilt-ring, akin to one that would be worn on the finger, which was attached to a loop solidly attached to the tri-lobed pommel of the sword. He often wondered about the origin of that ring, as the full history of the sword had been lost to time.
His father, Ealdred, only knew that the sword was at least one hundred years old. Regarding the hilt-ring, he had indicated that it might have had something to do with being a symbol of an oath taken by one of their ancestors to their lord.
As his father had insisted that the blade had been passed straight down through their own family, Wulfstan had often wondered whether his forefathers had once fought at the right hands of greater lords. As a youth, it had been an inspiring fantasy to think that Wulfstan’s own bloodline had once included renowned warriors.
The heirloom sword was about the only part of Wulfstan’s equipment that had not been provided to him by his community.
The collective support of seven other families, totaling eight hides of land between them, had been required to equip him with his half-helm, mail shirt, and some provisions as a warrior of the Select Fyrd. Ever since his father had passed on following a long illness, not more than a year after he had bequeathed Wulfstan the sword, Wulfstan had lived with his uncle, Ealdhelm.
As a young, strong, single male, who had no overriding objections or obligations, Wulfstan had been a prime choice to be the one sent to the main musters to fulfill the families’ commitment to the land’s defense.
Wulfstan had been feeling fit and strong for the current sojourn, as he had just been engaged in the taxing labor of assisting in the annual plowing of his uncle Ealdhelm’s fields.
Of a modest build, his five foot nine inch body was clad in a light brown, knee-length tunic of wool, with loose-fitting trousers wrapped about below his knees with long strips of cloth. Simple leather shoes caked in dried mud covered his feet.
A silver brooch at his right shoulder clasped a dark brown cloak that flowed out behind him. At the moment, his head was covered with a round cap of felt, also of an earthen color.
His face was starting to gain a dense, lengthening stubble, well-advanced and spread all over his cheeks and chin. The nascent growth went along with the pronounced, dirty blonde moustache that graced his upper lip.
Mentally, he had already admonished himself to shave the considerably established stubble, determined to maintain his regular habits, despite the presence of a nearing war. On his two previous campaigns, he had learned that such seemingly inconsequential things helped to keep his inner moorings in place.
Wulfstan’s sharp eyes peered diligently outward from beneath his prominent eyebrows, a gaze that always seemed to take in his full surroundings. Sometimes, those keen gray eyes reflected the hardness of stone, and at other times they echoed the gentleness of a misty morning. The great vision of the enormous encampment and the horizon beyond it was enhanced by the clarity of the beautiful day, with nary a cloud in the sky. A bright sun stood out radiantly in the sky above, permeating the plains with a soothing warmth.
The massaging touches of a cool, soft breeze flowed intermittently across the plain. It was hardly conceivable to Wulfstan, in the presence of such a magnificent view, that a great and bloody battle was so very imminent.
That grave thought dampened the elating sensation summoned forth by the sheer breadth of the vision, as much as it reminded him of his troubling, recurring dreams; powerful images of storms, destruction, and the peculiar skyward ascension that the dreams always ended with. The stark visions had begun to revisit him with every passing night.
It was hard for Wulfstan to believe that he was standing on the fabled Plains of Athelney. He had heard the stories told over the years about the old Southern Kingdom, remembering the epic accounts of battles fought within the western Marches, many involving the vitally strategic plains that he was now seeing with his own eyes.
He looked out instinctively for any sign of the enemy on the western horizon, as his contingent continued on their march down towards the broad masses of tents. There was nothing as far as the eye could see to indicate the approach or presence of the enemy army. Beyond the line of tents, and the early efforts to dig camp trenches on the perimeter, the horizon was utterly silent and still.
Wulfstan’s loose column was shortly brought to a halt, as materials for tents and other supplies were removed from the baggage train and carried onward by foot.
The slight delay at the cusp of reaching the end of the march was perhaps the most burdensome part of the entire journey. Now that they had arrived, the tired, anxious men were wholly focused on getting settled and acclimated.
Rest and sustenance beckoned tantalizingly close. There was more than a little grumbling by the time that the group of thanes finally roused the column to proceed.
Led by one of Ealdorman Byrtnoth’s most senior thanes, Wulfstan’s contingent strode through the midst of the vast multitude of tents, until they reached a cleared area towards the northern end of the huge encampment.
A number of Saxans from other parts of the realm hailed them warmly, as the arriving column passed by. Wulfstan and many of the others in his contingent returned the hearty greetings with boisterous salutations of their own.
Already, Wulfstan could feel the bonding undercurrents present with the men from the other regions of Saxany. While undoubtedly existing before the summons, those bonds had already been made much stronger by the shared threat that they were all now facing together. Rivalries existed between various regions of the kingdom, but such things were largely put aside when an existential danger towered over all the Saxan provinces.
Wulfstan’s column immediately set about placing and erecting their tents, extending the size of the massive encampment even further. The tents were simple enough to set up, as those used by the common elements of the Saxan force had a nearly uniform size and design.
Wulfstan helped to set vertical poles in the ground at a measured distance, while his comrades laid out a rectangular canvas. A tubular sleeve ran down the middle of the canvases, through which a timber rod was slid to provide the backbone for the tent’s ridge. He then helped to secure pegs in the ground along the lower edge of each long side of the canvas, through the holes that already pierced the material.
“We are here at last, at journey’s end, and there is no need for any more marching, thank the All-Father,” one of the men commented as he drove the last peg into the ground.
The speaker, a burly, middle-aged fellow named Siward, was from a village near to Wulfstan’s own home. “I say we find us some good ale,” Siward suggested. “And maybe a gleeman that can tell us some poems. Maybe even to a steady tune.”
“Or maybe a round of riddles, what do you say?” piped in one of the others, a young, wild-eyed youth of about eighteen years old, whose name Wulfstan did not know.
“My knees can take no more marchin’, but my throat is good for ale, and my ears good for poems or for riddles,” added an older man, gray of beard, by the name of Bertulf.
“Yer ears for riddles maybe, but not yer brain,” guffawed another older man.
A round of spirited laughter gripped the group around them at the jest.
“Put your pence on a riddle tonight, then, if ya feel so,” retorted Bertulf, his tone laced with belligerency.
“I cannot, in good conscience, battle one who has no means of doing battle,” replied the other, eliciting an uproarious round of laughter, while his belittled comrade groaned and cursed under his breath in frustration.
“Then I will match wits with you, and see your measure, my good man. I could use some pence of my own. But we have not finished yet,” Wulfstan remarked with a grin to Bertulf’s oppressor.
While he enjoyed riddles, Wulfstan had more of an affinity for the thick, bitter ale that was such a staple of Saxan life. Truly, that heavenly drink was what Wulfstan had his heart set on at that moment.
Yet ale, riddles, and even poems would have to wait.
“And do not forget, my friends, we still have some weapons to get back into our possession,” Wulfstan reminded the others, after the levity had settled down a little.
Siward, still looking humored from the verbal exchanges, shook his head ruefully. “Maybe you are right. But it does not mean we cannot keep our minds on returning here for ale and song later! Don’t know how long it will be before we fly into the outer dark again!”
Wulfstan smiled at the man’s spirited declaration, though he could not help but feel a little bittersweet about Siward’s last few words. A heavy weight was carried within Siward’s reference to an old saying held among their people.
That Saxan saying likened a person’s life to the flight of a bird through the hall of a thane. It described a bird’s passage from a cold, outer darkness, into a hall full of warmth and companionship, and on out the other end of the hall, into the icy darkness once again.
Life was not unlike that image, as a man was born from the darkness to live for a brief time, before going back to the darkness from which he had first come. At least for now, Wulfstan knew that there could still be warmth and companionship. He had not yet reached the other end of the hall with its shadowy, mysterious veil, and he intended to stay within the light of life’s hearth fire as long as he possibly could.
Wulfstan turned about, sweeping his gaze around as he called out loudly, “Then once we have our weapons in hand again, ale and song sounds good to me too! What say the rest of you?”
A number of the men responded with a vibrant cheer, attracting some attention from other nearby warriors at the sudden burst of enthusiasm. Wulfstan laughed to himself, for even though the specter of war was undeniably hanging over all of them, his people would never omit a good opportunity for ale and song.
“Then let us finish what needs to be done, so we can see to our wants,” Wulfstan said to the men around him.
Wulfstan, and the others that had finished erecting their tents, set out to retrieve their weapons and equipment still remaining with the oxcarts, wagons, and packhorses of the column’s baggage train.
The walk to where the baggage train was being quartered was a considerable distance. The carts, wagons, and draft animals were purposely set farther back from the frontal areas of the Saxan army’s lines. An enemy would not find the baggage trains of the Saxan ranks easy prospects to reach.
Wulfstan found that his great round shield, its iron boss crafted with a pointed apex, was on the same cart as his mail shirt. He donned the mail shirt so that he did not have to carry it back, and then grabbed his shield.
Before going onward, he paused for a moment to run his fingers over the iron rim that went around the outer edge of the shield’s face. Underneath its painted, hide-covered facing, the shield was made of stout wood planks, yet undamaged by combat. Soberly, he reflected that the handful of wood planks and thin layer of hide would be all that stood between him and the blades and arrows of the enemy in coming days.
Another nearby cart held his iron half-helm, resting atop one of the cart’s posts, along with an elongated lance that was bundled with others in the body of the cart. The lance’s broad blade and extensive shaft were to Wulfstan’s preference. It was a weapon rather effective for parrying styles of combat that involved slashing and thrusting.
His half-helm was of the time-honored, battle-tested spangenhelm design, a quartet of iron plates riveted to an iron frame, and provided with an iron nasal guard descending from the brow band. Slinging the shield across his back by its leather strap, Wulfstan put on the helm, to wear it for the trek back to his tent.
From his vantage among the numerous ox-carts and wagons, he espied the distant tents of the merchant groups. Despite his deep misgivings about them, he paused and thought for a moment about seeing to some maintenance issues for his gear.
He only had a few silver pennies with him, several of which were only half-coins. After some consideration, he thought better of the idea, deciding to return to the main camp, and opting to hold onto his meager aggregate of coins.
In a short time, there would be even more merchants drawn to the army’s presence, like leeches gravitating to the promise of blood under bared skin. The growing numbers of merchants would undoubtedly create much more room for haggling, which was not to the disadvantage of the buyer. In an environment of increased negotiation and options, Wulfstan would find that his few full coins and several half-coins would suddenly grow in their purchasing capacity.
At the very least, the greed of the merchants was firmly limited by the King’s own law. They could not exact greater prices from their buyers than those found outside of a time of war. Yet even with the clear writ of the King himself, it still took constant diligence on the part of the King’s servants and household guard to watch for violations, and enforce the edict.
If Wulfstan were king, and the entire land were in true danger, he would have demanded whatever was needed without concern for profit. Perhaps that was why his blood was not royal, Wulfstan mused to himself, with a grin spreading upon his face.
As he meandered back towards the teeming expanse of tents, he slowed down in the open ground to watch as a large, oncoming column of mounted warriors approached from the southeast.
In a few moments, their vanguard was passing directly in front of Wulfstan. Triangular pennons hanging from the lances of many of the warriors bore a field of golden stars set upon a purple background. It was the distinctive symbol of the Count Leidrad of Poitaine, whose lands were steeped in lore, a considerable power even in the days of the old Southern Kingdom.
Count Leidrad himself was riding in the lead of the lengthy column, as the heavy cavalry formation was largely comprised of his household retinues and other main garrisons. He sat high in his saddle, the cloth underneath it matching the purple of the pennons. The steady breeze cascading across the plain gently tousled his thick, silvery hair about.
He wore an elegant tunic of deep blue, with elaborate, golden embroidery worked along its collar, hem, and the ends of the sleeves. His great blue cloak matched the hue of the tunic closely. Earthen colored trousers, the bottoms of which disappeared into boots graced with bronze prick spurs, completed the Count’s splendid attire.
A squared jaw, a large nose with a pronounced arch to it, shaped as such due to more than one prior breakage, and a pair of deep-set eyes were the most noticeable features of his bearded face. He was a strong-looking man, though he carried a slight paunch in the belly and a little roundness of cheek in his later years.
Wulfstan marveled at the eminent presence of the great Count, while regretting that it was only in a time of war that he was afforded the chance to see the great lords of the Saxan realm in person.
The mounted column behind the Count was a special sight in itself.
Most mounted warriors in Saxany did not fight on horseback, especially in the lands that once comprised the old North Kingdom. The great thanes of both past and present from the latter territories were well content to ride to the battlefield and dismount to fight. Such was the time-honored fashion, for men who viewed their place as within their great shield walls, standing shoulder to shoulder with their fellow men.
The column that passed Wulfstan was part of the other kingdom of old, which had embraced methods of war using both horse and rider. Of course, these were also the lands that were more favorable to such styles, containing broader plains and less mountainous regions.
Contingents such as those under Count Leidrad were now the true cavalry of the Saxan Kingdom. The steeds that they rode came from areas of Saxany that possessed legendary stud farms, which bred formidable war horses.
The superb horses seemed to know their own heritage, as they cantered proudly across the open field. Many hundreds trotted by Wulfstan as he watched, the ground reverberating steadily with their iron-shod steps.
A modest host of leather-covered ox-carts, pack horses, and a large contingent of infantry followed the mounted force. Wulfstan knew that there were multitudes of lances, scale armor, mail armor, and shields for the main heavy cavalry piled within the creaking carts being pulled forward by plodding oxen.
Wulfstan waited idly as the multitude of supply carts passed. A number of warriors gathered near to him, several hailing the newcomers as they awaited their passing.
The cries of “Be hale, and be whole!” rang out, from both those marching as well as those watching, as the forces from Poitaine were enthusiastically greeted during their arrival.
As the last of the carts passed by their position, a few of the bystanders continued onward. Wulfstan took a couple of steps along with them, but then hesitated, his curiosity piqued by the sight of a second horse-borne formation approaching. It was just then coming into view, from a more southwestern direction than the force with Count Leidrad had come from.
Wulfstan’s interest compelled him to patience, and he took a seat down upon the ground to take in the sight of the second column’s approach. As a man that had never gone very far from his home village, he hungered to see the things that he had only heard spoken of before.
The second group of riders finally drew near, and Wulfstan was glad that he had waited. The riders of this group all bore deep red cloaks, as well as large pennons exhibiting a green background, with the figure of a large white horse in the middle.
Another crowd of onlookers quickly assembled, and from their comments Wulfstan confirmed to himself that he was indeed seeing the fabled riders of Bretica. He felt a tingle of excitement as he heard them openly named.
These were the storied riders whose great war horses thundered into battle clad in magnificent scaled armor. He had heard incredible tales of their feats ever since he was a boy, told by traveling storytellers, men of the village, and even his own father.
Fiercely independent and proud, the Breticans were not a people easily subdued or ruled under duress. The host of tales speaking of their ferocious resistance to Midragardan raiders proclaimed such notions boldly. Those accounts were also warnings to any foolhardy enough to try and compel the Breticans to their will.
The Breticans enjoyed great autonomy in the lands under their dominion, and for good reason. Their ire, when roused, was truly something to be feared according to all accounts.
The threat coming from the west had resonated in a rapid and powerful muster of the Breticans, who had unflinchingly, and hastily, moved northwards to stand with the rest of the Saxan realm.
At their head was the famed Count Gerard II, whose own praises had already been sung by famed gleemen, and told by the most renowned of storytellers, all across the kingdom.
A powerfully built man just entering his later years, his thick, wavy locks that had once been midnight black were now laced with ample streaks of gray. His sharp blue eyes scanned the camp and bystanding throng, nodding curtly to various individuals as they hailed him.
His expression remained stern and proud, like the reputation of the stalwart ensemble that he was leading into the huge encampment. His beard and moustache graced an angular, long face with a prominent nose that was decidedly aquiline in its profile.
At the moment, the magnificent horses present in the stately entourage were spared the burdens of the scale armor, having traveled for countless leagues from the farthest southeastern reaches of Saxany.
Wulfstan could only imagine what the Bretican ranks would look like when readied in full battle array. The majority of the Bretican riders matched the character of their stout horses, in that they were proud of demeanor and powerful of build. They were courteous enough to the enthusiastic hails coming from the crowd all around Wulfstan, but they maintained a high posture within their saddles.
The men on foot behind them looked exceedingly tired, and visibly relieved to have reached the camp. Wulfstan’s sympathies lay with the infantry. Like the commoners with Wulfstan, they had undergone a very strenuous march without the benefit of having horses to carry them.
“Did ya save any of your storied ale? I want to see if it as good as yer tales say!” yelled out one spirited fellow in their ranks, who was using his tall spear almost as a walking stick.
“Come by our tents, and we will spare ya some. Ya walked far enough, lad. But the question is, can ya southern lads handle our drink? It is not often that we northerners can put you lads to the test!” replied one of those near Wulfstan, a somewhat portly, balding fellow with a broad grin.
His comments drew a lively round of laughter from the onlooking crowd.
“You will know the skills of Hincmar soon enough, when I take you up on your offer,” boasted the other, a hearty smile shining through his weary face.
“We shall see, Hincmar of Bretica! Come by my tent, and we will give ya the chance!” the paunchy northerner retorted amiably, waving to Hincmar as the Bretican infantry trudged onward.
When the rest of the Bretican column had passed, Wulfstan felt that his return back to his tent was now long overdue. He did not want to miss the promised ale and song among his own companions. Wulfstan strode quickly towards the sector of the encampment that held the Sussachian tents.
Nevertheless, his witnessing of new arrivals had not quite ended. This time, he did not draw to a halt by choice, instead feeling compelled to come to a stop due to the imminence of yet another column approaching, this one coming from the northwest.
Impatience was now getting the best of him, overriding any curiosities that he had. Spurring himself forward, he hustled across the column’s line of approach.
Yet despite his strong urge to continue forward, once he was safely on the other side of the column’s path he decided to spare a few moments to indulge his abiding curiosities. The continuing wealth of new and fascinating sights was just too difficult to resist, especially for a man who had seen only Sussachia and a little of the Mittevald in his life.
Wulfstan saw that this third arriving group was wholly comprised of light cavalry. Listening to some nearby conversation, he soon learned that the riders were from northern reaches of Count Einhard’s lands. The Count’s territory of Annenheim lay just to the north of the most western marches of the Saxan Kingdom.
There were a good number of warriors and horses in Count Einhard’s force. Yet as the contingent did not entail infantry or a baggage train, the overall formation was considerably smaller than the previous two columns from Poitaine and Bretica.
The bloodline of these Annenheim warriors was very close in kinship to that of Wulfstan’s own ancestors. In truth they had once been of the same tribe of barbarian warriors. He knew this tale very well, and thought about it as he eyed his ancient kin for the first time.
Long ago, a very momentous choice had come to the barbarian people regarding their religious commitments. Followers of the church of the West had arrived within the lands occupied by the great tribe. Traveling through the lands, they had brought their message of faith, performed signs and healings, and had called upon the populace to embrace the All-Father, and Emmanu the Redeemer.
The response had been fractious for the formerly unified tribe. The people of Wulfstan’s lands had chosen to embrace the religion of the All-Father. Their tribal brethren in the western part of the land had rejected the overtures of the new faith’s adherents, remaining steadfast in the worship of their people’s ancient gods.
The association between the related people had subsequently grown ever more distant over the ensuing ages, due solely to the two factions’ chosen forms of religion. The large rift had only begun to heal following the subjugation of the polytheistic occupants of what was now Annenheim, during the period of the Two Kingdoms.
The conquest took place in the age when the lands now under those such as Count Einhard, Count Leidrad, and Count Gerard had been squarely within the rule of the Southern Kingdom. It had happened in the near mythical time of King Theodulf the Great, when the Southern Kingdom stretched even into the easternmost part of what was now the realm of Ehrengard.
Following several grueling wars, and the ensuing final conquest by King Theodulf, the rest of the formerly unified barbarian tribe had been converted to the Western Faith. Though not accomplished by peaceable means, that singular act brought closer associations advancing once again between Wulfstan’s people and the ones that they had then acknowledged as their prodigal kin.
The warriors in the horse-riding war band before Wulfstan were equipped with little more than round shields and spears. Only a few had iron half-helms to cap their heads protectively. The tales that Wulfstan was aware of indicated that these lightly armed riders were very capable of conducting fast and damaging raids in the lands of enemies.
They had long been renowned for their style of fighting, ambushing and raiding, spanning times both before and after King Theodulf. How they would be employed in a titanic clash of armies, such as the coming battle with the invaders certainly would be, Wulfstan could not tell.
There was no rider among them to match the preeminent presence of Count Leidrad or Count Gerard. Wulfstan looked over the column in disbelief, as he could not believe that the prominent Count Einhard would arrive in a subdued, unrecognizable manner.
His doubts were answered a short time later. From what Wulfstan was able to gather from snippets of nearby conversations surrounding him, Count Einhard’s main forces had already arrived and settled in the camp.
The main contingent from Annenheim was evidently positioned towards the center of the Saxan camp. It stood to obvious reason that the riders before Wulfstan had arrived separately, and later than the main force. The lighter cavalry would likely have been used to shadow the Count’s march, warding the main force’s flanks and rear from a distance.
Having already witnessed the processions of the warriors of Bretica and Poitaine, Wulfstan was not quite as enthusiastic to watch the Annenheim column pass by in its entirety. The accelerating pangs of his empty stomach finally galvanized him, as he turned away and trudged onward, heading towards the tents of his comrades.
The evening’s gloaming was now settling in all around the encampment, the western horizon dimming towards the edge of night by the time that he ultimately reached his own tent.
His fellow Sussachian men, as he had expected, had already procured a moderate quantity of ale. His closest comrades had congregated around one particular campfire, where they were preparing a hearty joint of beef to accompany a quantity of bread that they had begun distributing.
The men were unabashedly distributing prodigious quantities of drink as well. Wulfstan watched the meat slowly roasting upon the spit, as it was diligently turned by one of his comrades. The scents wafting from the campfire caused his mouth to water immediately, and his mind to fixate upon the empty state of his belly.
He realized just how famished and thirsty he had grown. Pulling himself away from the tempting atmosphere, he walked a short distance away and placed his weapons and shield down within the opening of his own tent. When he had finished, he strode back over to the side of the blazing fire.
Fortunately for Wulfstan, the roasting was finished just a short time later. After letting a couple of the others have access to the meat, he withdrew his single-edged knife and sliced himself off a sizeable helping. He added it to his share of the bread and cheeses that were being apportioned.
He was then handed a wooden cup by Siward, which was filled to the rim with thick ale. From the expression and swaying manner of Siward, it was clear that the fellow from Miller’s Creek village had already partaken generously of Saxany’s cherished elixir.
Wulfstan slapped Siward on the back thankfully, and took a deep swill of the stout ale. A soft evening breeze caressed his face, as he felt the welcome rush of the thick liquid down his parched throat.
“Now, that is Saxan ale,” Wulfstan remarked with satisfaction, taking a deep breath. He shared a grin with Bertulf, who was sitting to Siward’s other side with a glazed look to his eyes, and a quite content expression.
“Time for ale, time for song, and a time for riddles,” Siward replied. “Been at the ale. You were away for some time, Wulfstan.”
“Just got caught up watching some of the new arrivals. Some procession it was! Not often that we’ve had a chance to see the harvest of Poitaine, Bretica, and Annenheim,” Wulfstan answered, before asking with a grin, “So have you been giving troubles to Bertulf while I’ve been gone?”
“That thick skull?” Siward said, raising his eyebrows and jabbing his thumb in Bertulf’s direction.
Next to Siward, Bertulf just continued drinking out of his cup, quite oblivious to the other’s words. His stupefied grin accented Siward’s words in a very humorous way. Wulfstan rumbled with laughter at the sight.
“No. Figure since Father Dunstan is here among us, I would do as a proper religious man,” Siward continued in a voice thick with sarcasm, as he feigned a concerned expression. “Be kind to those who are afflicted, ya know. All-Father did not see fit to give the poor man a brain. He has his burden in this life, and I just don’t wanna add to it. It’s the right thing to do. “
Siward’s mock serious countenance crumbled, as he then broke out into a big belly-laugh. He was clearly amused with himself, and impressed with his own wit. Wulfstan could only shake his head and laugh to himself at the ridiculousness of it all.
Bertulf’s brow slowly furrowed, as if he was just becoming aware of the possibility that he was the subject of the outburst of merriment. “What you… say?” Bertulf responded in a drawling slur, his grin shortening as his eyes narrowed irritably. “Ya think ya know everything about me… I will have ya know, ya just think ya do, Siward. Ya know nothing… nothing at all.”
“Oh… go back to yer cup, old man,” interrupted Siward, still chuckling as he winked at Wulfstan. Siward’s eyes then swerved back forward, and he paused as a look of recognition came into them. “Well, well. Father Dunstan looks about ready to sing.”
Wulfstan followed Siward’s eyes to gaze across to the opposite side of the circle around the fire. Just a moment later, a deep, melodious voice rang out among the gathered men, accompanied by the notes of a small, harp-like instrument. The raucous laughter and conversation died down quickly among those gathered around.
Even the gatherings around nearby campfires quieted down as others heard the sonorous voice of the priest carried on the currents of the night air. Wulfstan grinned widely as the vibrant light from the fire flickered across the thin features of Father Dunstan, whose physical appearance did not substantiate such a powerful and rich voice.
It would be a mistake to assume that the priest’s slight frame meant any degree of weakness. Wulfstan had always marveled about how utterly tireless Father Dunstan was. The All-Father seemed to have given him a generously resilient health. In his early forties, Father Dunstan was as robust and energetic as he had always been in Wulfstan’s memory.
The kindly, dedicated priest had always attended diligently to everyone that needed help in Wulfstan’s home area, no matter the time of day or night. He was there in the darkest of times, and he was there in the brightest of times. The commoners could say in truth that he had been a part of nearly every major incident in the lives of all the peasants who lived within the boundaries of his parish.
It was the major reason that Father Dunstan had come with the men summoned to the great levy. Where he could have chosen to remain back in the small village church, well-removed from all danger, Father Dunstan had made it clear that he was not about to let the men go into a time of great risk and danger, without facing the ordeal right alongside them. His choice engendered a deep loyalty that resounded through the men from River’s Edge and the surrounding villages and hamlets.
Wulfstan’s sense of gratitude at the sight of the diminutive man came from more than just that willingness to share in the commoners’ burdens. Father Dunstan had also found time to help some of the youth of the village learn to capably read and write letters. He had given them a luxurious opportunity, one that village peasants would have otherwise rarely had access to.
Wulfstan was one of those fortunate youth, and had become one of the only ones in his family that could read for himself from the Sacred Writings. It was a deeply precious gift, and had become another of the many reasons why Father Dunstan was so very loved and revered.
The holy man began to sing a tale of valor, the lay of Saint Offa the Martyr. The esteemed story of a brave Saxan King, who had died at the hands of Midragardan raiders in a very brutal manner, was very well-known. It came from a litany of stories of warriors, kings, and saints that graced the Saxans’ rich heritage.
Father Dunstan’s thin fingers danced deftly along the strings of his instrument, and his eyes sparkled as he looked out among the men. Seeing Wulfstan, Father Dunstan gave him a quick, acknowledging wink, as he headed into another verse. Wulfstan nodded and smiled warmly in return.
The words seemed to flow with the steadiness of a mountain stream, his cadence and rhythm demonstrating that the priest had quite a mastery over the art of oral storytelling. Far from the flamboyance of a tale-spinner in King Alcuin’s court, clad simply in a loose-fitting, long dark tunic, with a squared, lighter-colored mantle atop, Father Dunstan gave the common men a rendition worthy of a royal audience.
Father Dunstan had once related to Wulfstan that his father had taught him such arts as a child, before he had gone off to a monastery to learn his letters and start on the road that had led him to becoming a parish priest. Wulfstan had no doubts that the man could have soared to fame if he had chosen another path in life.
Not all men of faith would approve of his singing of tales to the common men. Indeed, Wulfstan knew that some would take great offense at the priest’s activity, but Father Dunstan’s concern was not for what others thought of him. He was solely focused upon the welfare of those that he administered to.
As the stories Father Dunstan tended to tell were largely oriented on the lives of saints, the subject matter really did not stray far from his convictions and task. A little song to raise the spirit, to Wulfstan, was not such a bad thing.
It was yet another one of the reasons why Wulfstan and the other men so loved their parish priest.
Wulfstan took leave of Siward and Bertulf, and edged his way inward, coming to a free spot in the circle that was situated a little closer to Father Dunstan. He took a seat upon the ground, now close enough to gain more warmth from the fire in the rapidly cooling evening.
An earthenware jug held by another one of his companions was close at hand, to replenish Wulfstan when his cup was empty. His cares steadily relaxed, as many of the men accompanied Father Dunstan on a chorus that sang of a heroic battlefield stand by Saint Offa against a heathen horde.
Wulfstan gave a quick prayer of gratitude in his heart for the special moment. For a time, he would be sharing good bread, ale, and some meat with the men who had come so far together from their shared homeland. As night deepened, they would enjoy even more song and a generous allotment of ale.
Wulfstan chose to savor the moment, and he kept the worries about the future at bay. What would come, would come. Life would bring what it would, and there was nothing that he could do to alter that. For the present, he was still flying through the warmth and companionship of the long hall, wings yet beating strong in between the windows to the outer darkness.
As far as he was concerned, Wulfstan resolved to sustain his presence in that hall of life and friendship.
Section VI