*
The shield wall continued to hold, though many had fallen in the tempestuous furor of the battle. The slope running up to the top of the ridge was now littered with the bodies of slain Avanorans. The ground near the top of the ridge was so cluttered with the dead of both sides that the fallen bodies created obstacles and hazards, threatening every step that a warrior took.
Aethelstan issued commands for the shield wall to pull back just far enough so that the Saxan warriors could achieve better footing. The enemy was much more numerous, and kept climbing, stumbling, and maneuvering through the fallen bodies to hack and slash at the shield wall.
Many who had begun the day in the deeper ranks of the Saxan defenders had now moved forward to fill up gaps, reinforcing the places where those in the front had fallen. The stream of arrows and other missiles between both sides had lessened, as more casualties took their toll, and the number of remaining arrows, bolts, and stones decreased. The archers, slingers, and crossbowmen were being much more selective in the targets that they aimed at, and those who had thrown javelins had nothing more to hurl after the early exchanges.
Aethelstan’s eyes stung harshly from the sweat and blood covering his face, and his arms had grown very weary. His entire body felt heavy and slow, his chest heaving as he took an assessment of the course of the battle. Another Saxan shield that he had taken up was now missing about a quarter of its size, no longer fully round, as many chunks had been cut and smashed out of it during the intensive fighting.
An excited, deafening cry erupted from the right of the Saxan line. Aethelstan saw that the enemy was falling back in a loose and disorganized mass; or at least it seemed so.
Though many signals throughout the battle were being delivered by Avanoran horns, he had not failed to perceive the three distinctive, short blasts that had just preceded the mass fallback.
He was also quick to observe the forms of a large number of horsemen manifesting quietly as they moved up towards the front areas of the battlefield, across from the Saxan right flank. The trees below had, to a large extent, screened the riders’ movements until they emerged into the view of those along the ridgetop, as the riders pressed forward in an orderly line.
The horsemen bore long lances, some bearing pennons, and were well-protected with mail shirts, helms, and lengthy kite-shields. The muscular destriers that they rode snorted and pawed at the ground, as the ranks drew to a halt, waiting and watching.
A small number of Saxan warriors broke off individually from places along the right flank of the shield wall, to head downhill after the chaotically retreating Avanoran warriors. It was just a trickle at the present moment, but could soon become a torrent that would threaten the stability of the entire Saxan line.
The appearance of the enemy’s resolve breaking was far too tantalizing for many of the thanes and household warriors who were looking for a decisive moment to carry the hard-fought day. Tiring and bloodied, they were undoubtedly hungry to bring the battle to a conclusive end, and the scent of potential victory made the opportunity far too tempting to contemplate.
It was exactly what the Avanoran leaders were counting upon. Before the dam broke, Aethelstan had to move with haste to keep the shield wall stable, and the discipline of the men in place.
“A ruse! A ruse! Hold the shield wall! Obey my command!” Aethelstan shouted out urgently.
The men close around him hurriedly signaled upon horns, while others shouted, relaying his orders onward with alacrity and volume. The thanes down on the right side of the line, who yet remained in their positions, urgently yelled out at the few who had left the lines. Elated and vigorous, those latter warriors were slashing and stabbing as if victory was imminently within grasp, striking at the rear of the enemy warriors who were still retreating haphazardly back down the slope.
Several of the men paused and looked back up the hill, hearing the insistent shouts and horns. Their expressions held disbelief, outwardly stunned and dismayed that so few were taking advantage of the apparent fracture in the enemy lines.
As exhausted as he was, Aethelstan called upon a few last reservoirs of energy, running expeditiously down the back of the shield wall, and exhorting the men of the line to continue recalling the pursuers.
The lives of every man that had left the shield wall was now under the gravest peril. Aethelstan knew that the instant that those men reached just beyond the base of the hill, they would hear another horn blast, as a vicious trap was sprung.
The retreating enemy footsoldiers would suddenly come to a halt, and the sound of hoof beats would fill the trees as a host of knights cantered forward upon their warhorses. The encroaching, mounted force, which had only recently come within view deep in the trees, would then descend on the stranded, tired Saxans. No quarter would be extended to any warrior that the intended ruse had so ably manipulated away from the shield wall.
“Call them back! Call them back now! Their lives depend on it, do not tarry!” Aethelstan shouted at the upper limits of his lungs.
The men of the front and rear ranks took up his cry, calling on their fellow fighters to hurry back to the shield wall. The sense of alarm was rife in their tones, as their calls reached out to the warriors descending the slope.
Realizing that most of their number had stayed above along the ridge, and hearing the dire urgency in the outcries, the strayed fighters ceased in their pursuit. Most of them were a little more than halfway down the ridge, close upon the enemy, but not yet far enough along to spring the waiting trap.
They took one more frustrated hack or jab in the direction of the fleeing enemy warriors, before turning back and trudging reluctantly up the slope. Disgruntled and not entirely understanding what faced them, they made slow, half-hearted progress at first. They were spurred into haste just a moment later, as horns blared angrily from the forest below.
The Avanorans, in frustration, moved their mounted force forward, vibrating the ground as the fleeing Avanoran warriors on foot came to an abrupt halt, turned, and started back after the now-retreating Saxans.
Casting some quick glances over their shoulders, and frantically picking up their pace, a stark realization dawned upon the returning Saxans. They now saw what had been waiting for them a short distance from the base of the ridge’s slope, and knew that they had been saved from certain death by their comrades’ persistent warnings.
Aethelstan called earnestly for any archers on the right flank to come forward with him. The Saxans coming back toward the wall still had about a fourth of the length of the ridge’s frontal slope remaining for them to surmount. The mixed Avanoran force, of mounted cavalry and the returning lines of foot soldiers, were now climbing steadily up the slope of the hill, rapidly shortening the gap between them and the tiring Saxans.
“Archers through, send one volley on my signal, then fall back!” Aethelstan shouted.
The shields in the front were parted to allow the archers through to the outer edge of the ridge top. Aethelstan raised his sword high into the air, passing between two stout thanes, whose mail and helms were spattered copiously with blood.
“Hold!” Aethelstan called, as the warriors hurrying up the hill finally reached the top, passing in relative safety back within the confines of the shield wall. The instant that Aethelstan saw the last few men reach the refuge of the shield wall, he brought the sword down in a forward slash, crying out, “Loose arrows!”
The concentrated volley greeted the regrouped Avanoran pursuers, striking indiscriminately into the ranks of the forward-most spearmen. There were some arrows that found fleshy targets a little further behind, bringing down a few horses and riders.
“Behind the shield wall! Archers fall back!” Aethelstan called loudly.
The peasant archers needed little prompting, with the oncoming Avanoran warriors, as they hurried back with Aethelstan, hustling between the masses of round shields through channels that remained parted to allow them through. The shields then overlapped once again, as the Saxans of the front line closed their ranks.
It was not much longer before the right flank was engaged by the Avanorans, who had been thwarted in their designs for easy quarry. The ridge on that end had a more gentle slope, and the enemy’s horses continued their ascent, pacing their steeds up behind the screen of foot soldiers.
Their attempt offered Aethelstan the first opportunity of the day to strike hard at the core strength of the enemy force; the mounted knights.
Aethelstan wished that he had archers with full quivers available at that moment. He commanded the men of the back ranks who had anything that they could use as a missile to ready themselves. As the clash of steel resumed along the right flank, and the cries of battle carried through the air, Aethelstan called for another volley to be loosed.
A horde of projectiles went flying, ranging from arrows, to stones, to makeshift missiles, the latter consisting of everything from crude war clubs, with stones lashed by leather thongs to short wooden shafts, to hand axes once used for farm duties. The deadly, arcing cloud soared overhead, showering down upon the mounted Avanoran ranks.
Combined with vicious axe, lance, and sword thrusts along the front of the shield wall, the enemy’s left flank was gored. The Avanoran spearmen, having greatly tired themselves in the retreat down the hill, and the pressing climb back up it, splintered quickly. The mounted fighters, unable to use the full strengths afforded a mounted warrior, were stalled in their advance, providing ample targets for missiles and hand weapons. Horns called out urgently from the enemy ranks, and the spearmen and mounted warriors began backing down the slope.
“Hold!” Aethelstan called out forcefully, seeing the enemy retreat. “Hold the line!”
He hurried back up to the ridge’s apex, to get a better look. The enemy forces were pulling back en masse, and the pause in the fighting afforded the Saxans a prime opportunity to regroup.
His own men had suffered heavy casualties, and were in dire need of a respite after an extended period of hand to hand combat. The wounded were helped away from the shield wall, as both clergy and non-combatants from the areas behind the battle lines hustled forward to assist.
As the din of battle was suspended, the sickening sounds of groans and cries from wounded men reached Aethelstan’s ears. They were terrible noises that jabbed right into his inner heart.
Keeping his face steady, he rapidly disseminated orders that the men were to remain along the ridge-top. As with the last lull in the fighting, they were also to set about acquiring whatever weapons, shields, helms and even mail coats that could be retrieved easily from the fallen of both sides.
Each break in the fighting provided a grisly opportunity, but they were ones that could not be overlooked. The men of the General Fyrd could now arm themselves with something much better than makeshift clubs, low quality spears, harvest tools, and long knives. The men of the Select Fyrd could replace shattered shields, and broken swords and axes. Stripping the dead was a repulsive, unwelcome chore, but given the dire circumstances, Aethelstan believed that the Saxans would be forgiven for the mild violation of the corpses.
Aethelstan then repeated a very strict dictate that he had issued before the fighting had begun, that if any Avanoran wounded were come across, they were to be tended to. He knew that there would likely be moments of personal vengeance, as men who had just lost kin and dear friends came across enemy wounded, but the great thane hoped to keep bloody revenge to a minimum. Though his hope was rooted in sheer idealism, mercy was one of the ways that the Saxans could distinguish themselves further from the invaders.
Men from among the peasant levies were then ordered to gather up any arrows that they could find intact, as many of the Avanoran arrows that had missed their intended targets could be pulled out of the ground, from trees, or picked up in a reusable condition.
Aethelstan strode down the length of the Saxan front, heading back towards center where his standard still flew unscathed. Cenferth rushed forward to greet him eagerly upon his return.
“Thane Aethelstan! The right flank was saved, The Almighty is indeed with you this day!” Cenferth exclaimed, in excited tones.
“For now, Cenferth,” Aethelstan replied calmly, clasping his household warrior on the shoulder. “The marauders will be back soon enough. But we have some time, as even they need some rest.”
“How long do you think we have this time, before they attack again?” Cenferth asked, running a grime-covered finger over the five-lobed sword pommel jutting up from his scabbard.
“A handful of moments? An hour? Maybe they will simply retreat back to Avanor. Could we not hope for that?” Aethelstan asked, with a sad, regretful smile. He wished it could be so simple.
Aethelstan glanced towards the skies. The airborne scouts for the Avanoran force continued to circle in wide, gliding patterns overhead. In the midst of so much death, Aethelstan found that they now resembled carrion birds, readying to descend for a gruesome feast.
Relatively few in number, the sky riders would not be a great threat to the Saxan force, but they would convey to the enemy commanders that the Saxans were still concentrated along the ridge line. Any movement the Saxans tried to undertake in any numbers would be easily spotted during daylight. Edmund had so few Himmerosen available to him that the enemy presence in the skies would go uncontested. There was no hope of reinforcement, with the overwhelming majority of sky steeds requisitioned for the massive battle out on the Plains of Athelney.
Aethelstan knew that time was working at cross-purposes for the Saxans, both in their favor and against them. The longer that the Saxans held out on the ridge line, the more that the chances of the enemy’s goals being achieved would dwindle. There was little doubt that the force before them intended to pass through and strike the flank or rear of the Saxan forces out on the Plains of Athelney.
The battle before them, on the other hand, would likely be lost in a struggle of unrelenting attrition. Aethelstan would not have been surprised to learn that he had already lost one in four men to death or serious injury.
He turned back towards Cenferth, who was awaiting him patiently. “Yes, we could hope that they decide to retreat. Come, let us take a walk together.”
Cenferth quietly fell in with Aethelstan as they strode along the back of the ridge. Just past the center, a large group of levied peasants were sitting down and taking a rest. They looked haggard and weary, no longer unfamiliar with the horrors and agonies of battle. Aethelstan knew that for a great many of them, their outlook on life had been changed irrevocably, in just a few short hours.
A few had fallen asleep, having slumped down to the ground where they stretched out without concern for cover. Some seemed to be in a silence of their own, while still others passed the time talking with each other in low, subdued voices. Some wept openly over the losses of comrades and kin, as others sought to comfort them, speaking gently or putting an arm around their shoulders.
Aethelstan’s heart ached at the mournful sights. Though phyiscally unscathed, with only a few cuts and bruises incurred in the fighting, the men were profusely bleeding in spirit.
A little more reassuring, Aethelstan could see that several peasants had procured shields, helms, swords, and other well-made weapons. One man of more advanced years was wriggling into a mail shirt, though the blood-stained, punctured iron links in the chest area spoke volumes as to what had happened to its former owner. Nevertheless, the man seemed eager to don the mail coat without delay.
Several of the men glanced in his direction as he walked through their midst. A few chewed upon pieces of salt meat or hard bread, and a barrel of ale had been tapped. A couple of men were handing out water skins, which had been filled from the stream that traveled through the low ground behind the ridge. Men cupped their hands and splashed water on their faces, working to clean off the filth and blood from the battle.
A couple of monks were assisting some men with their lighter wounds. They carefully poured water over the bleeding injuries to clean them out, before wrapping strips of cloth to temporarily bandage them.
The lessons of war were woven into the vivid images spread all around Aethelstan. Levels of fatigue and adequate food and drink were all central to the morale of an army. Food was perhaps the highest factor of them all, as empty stomachs deteriorated spirits within a force extremely quickly. In some ways, the elements of rest and sustenance were a much greater concern than all of the knights, war horses, arrows, and swords of the Avanoran invaders.
“Great Thane, you must eat too,” an older, grizzled-looking man interjected in a gruff voice, breaking Aethelstan away from his dark, inner ponderings.
The scraggly, bearded man went by the name of Bothelm, a leather worker who plied his trade in Bergton. Bothelm had a look of deep concern on his weathered face.
He extended a large chunk of bread in one hand, and a wooden cup filled with ale in the other. “The ale is from a new barrel just brought up from the camp. Not the best… not nearly as good as my wife brews… but it is the nectar of heaven right now.”
At first, Aethelstan hesitated, as he wanted to make sure that all of the men were getting a chance to get some food and ale before he worried about his own needs. Yet Aethelstan understood the look of worry in the eyes of the older man. It was the kind of expression that transcended the more worldly matters of simple artisans and high-ranking thanes.
“Thane Aethelstan, if your strength is not kept, then how can you lead us?” the older man urged, as he pushed the food and ale cup forward. “We all need you to keep your strength.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Aethelstan replied, smiling amiably, as he accepted the proffered bread and ale.
He took a deep draught of the ale cup, finishing about half of it in the first gulp. He had to restrain from downing all of the vessel’s contents in his great thirst.
In normal times, he certainly would have questioned the skill of the brewer, but, as Bothelm had said, the circumstances of the moment made it taste as sweet as anything that had ever touched his lips. A small sigh escaped Aethelstan, as he breathed out slowly in the wake of the long swig.
The older man smiled warmly at him. “Thank you, Great Thane. When you take your needs to heart, know that you take our needs to heart. Do not refuse yourself what your body needs.”
With a slight bow, the old man turned, and rejoined a nearby group of companions. Aethelstan stood a little entranced by the warm words and sentiments of the man, a beacon of light in the midst of such a terrible struggle. Even in the most daunting of times, such rays of light pierced his inner laments, reminding Aethelstan what they were all really fighting for.
After a moment’s pause, he tore off a piece of the bread and placed it in his mouth. He let the rough bread soften for a moment before beginning to chew it. Cenferth had been served with some bread, dried meat, and ale from some other men close by.
He held a chunk of the salty meat out to Aethelstan, talking through a mouth full of food, “Some meat would do you good as well. A man cannot live on bread alone.”
“I think your concerns about bread have been used in a different context by the priests, but thank you anyway,” Aethelstan replied with a grin, taking it from him. “If there is one that I am not worried about finding ample food, it is you, Cenferth. You have a nose for it, better than the most capable hunting dog in all of Saxany.”
Though he tried to slow his pace, he wolfed down the salted meat, and the rest of the ale and bread in a few moments. The heat of the battle had obscured his hunger, but now that his senses could turn towards other needs, he found that he was as famished as he was parched.
The sound of a horse galloping, coming from somewhere behind them at great speed, abruptly attracted his attention. He heard the sentries down on the other side of the ridge calling out challenges. He drew his eyes to the sight of the rider, just as a few armed warriors stepped aside to let the mounted figure through.
Approaching slowly up the back slope of the ridge was a man upon a gray horse, whose flanks were sleek with lather from an arduous jaunt. The man was lightly garbed, with a brown cloak clasped by a silver pin at the right shoulder, over a tunic and breeches of a similar color. His face was drawn and careworn, as much as his hair was disheveled. Aethelstan knew from the first glance that the rider had pressed both himself and his mount to the outer limits of their endurance.
The horseman bore a rolled up parchment in his right hand, clutched protectively, as he neared Aethelstan and slowed the horse down.
“Thane Aethelstan,” the rider addressed him without delay, pulling the reins up on the horse a couple of feet away from the Saxan commander.
“Yes?” Aethelstan replied.
“The reply from Arubandel,” the rider responded, with a leaden expression, extending the parchment towards Aethelstan.
Aethelstan accepted the parchment from the somber rider, and fingered the unbroken wax seal on it. The man’s countenance had already communicated the contents of the parchment, though Aethelstan still had to read the actual words inscribed upon it.
He turned towards Cenferth, “Get this man to our rear encampment. He has risked much to reach Arubandel and return back here. See that he is given food, drink, and any rations he may desire, if he should need to depart.”
The man looked back over at the ridgeline, where a good number of men idled along the course of the shield wall. They were looking out with shields and lances within easy reach, awaiting the expected return of the enemy.
His eyes swiveled back to Aethelstan. “Thane Aethelstan, great thane of Bergton, I can speak for myself, but not for my steed. My horse has been driven hard, and I will not begrudge him some much earned rest, but I would like to rejoin those of my home village on the line, if you will allow me to.”
Aethelstan regarded the exhausted man for a moment, before nodding. “If that is what you wish.”
“I cannot rest, as long as the day has not been decided,” he said, as he swung his back leg around, and dismounted the horse. “Can you have one of your men guide me to the place where the men from Oak Crossing are gathered?”
“I will take him, Thane Aethelstan,” Cenferth volunteered immediately. “I know that the men from Oak Crossing were placed on the left flank. Come with me.”
Cenferth beckoned to the rider, and the man started to go with him, as another Saxan took control of his horse and led it away. Before the man had gone more than a stride, Aethelstan took a sudden step forward and put a hand upon the man’s shoulder, halting him momentarily. “Before you go, I must have your name.”
The man replied, “Ceolfrid, a ceorl that has served in the garrison in the Burh at Sudborton, to the east.”
“Sudborton… there is excellent boar hunting around there, I am told,” Aethelstan said with a wistful grin, thinking of better times and pursuits.
The rider’s mouth turned up into a slight grin. It was a welcome relief to see the trace of levity dawn upon his forlorn, exhausted face. “Yes, Thane Aethelstan. It is indeed exceptional hunting there.”
“If we should live to see other days, and better ones at that, then I should like to come and hunt with you there. I will also make certain that you have at least five hides of land bestowed upon you,” Aethelstan said, with a smile of his own. “You have the blood of a worthy thane flowing in you. Fight well, Ceolfrid, and let us see better days together.”
“Thank you, Thane Aethelstan,” Ceolfrid replied in a low voice, nodding, with a look of surprise reflected in his eyes. The Saxan was hesitant, tongue-tied at the sudden bequest by Aethelstan.
Cenferth cast Aethelstan a grin, and led the stunned rider off down the line towards the area where the people of Oak’s Crossing were located. Aethelstan watched the rider go onward to his fellow men, willing to stand with them immediately after having endured a dangerous, hard-pressed ride alone through enemy-riddled land. As quickly as life could be cut short, Aethelstan could brook no delays in recognizing the worthiness of the brave Saxan. He deeply hoped that Ceolfrid survived to realize the reward.
Turning, Aethelstan walked away a few steps to where he stood by himself, and looked down at the parchment. The wax seal of Saxany and of Arubandel, a confirmation of the genuine nature of the message within, bound the parchment.
The nearest burh to the ridge, about ten leagues away to the south, Arubandel was one of several places to which Aethelstan had dispatched riders in a desperate need to scrape up as many additional men as could be found in the area.
Aethelstan paused a little longer, looking down at the reddish wax seals with trepidation, before delicately breaking them with his fingers and spreading the document out.
It was a direct message, reading;
‘Aethelstan, Thane of Bergton, serving Ealdorman Morcar of Wessachia, in loyal service of King Alcuin of Saxany:
On behalf of my lord, Thane Hathufrith of Arubandel, in loyal service to Ealdorman Byrtnoth of Sussachia, loyal servant of King Alcuin of Saxany, I regret that I cannot send you good tidings. All of our males, and even some of our women who could walk the distance, have gone to the great muster to the west. We have only the youngest of boys and the oldest of men, and can barely lock our gates or keep a watch on our ramparts. We regrettably have nothing to send to you in the way of more people for your levy. It is not our choice. All who could carry any weapons have already left in the great levy and afterwards. We are truly sorry.
– your brother in the Almighty,
Father Stigand
The message, one of several such correspondences that had returned over the past couple of days, caused Aethelstan’s heart to drop immeasurably, though he kept his face resolute. He knew that many other eyes were watching his reaction to the apparent message, many of them knowing that he had sent out calls for more help.
He was not surprised in the least by Father Stigand’s answer, having fathomed what the answer was before he even cracked the wax sealing the parchment. Even so, it did not make reading the heavy words any easier. Every rejection dampened his hopes further, the frustration mounting while standing on a battle position that he could not abandon.
Aethelstan turned and strode swiftly back towards the ridge. Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he whispered a silent prayer to the Almighty to provide him with strength. He uttered a petition that he could somehow be a source of inspiration to his warriors in the hours that they would need him most.
As he contemplated the words, the prayer filled him with a calmness that took the frayed edge from his nerves. When his eyelids finally parted, any man that looked into his face would see a composed, focused individual. He knew that they must not become aware of the despondence growing deep inside him, as he struggled with the daunting realities.
If any man among the Saxans looked a little closer, however, not every sign of his inner worries was so well-masked. The parchment in his right hand was clenched tightly, to the extent that the eyes of any that bothered to look could have easily perceived the whiteness of his knuckles.