Blood Eagle: King Alfred and the Two Viking Wars

PREFACE

Sceapig Isle, Kingdom of Kent, 854 AD

Ealdorman Raedulf ordered his men to spread oil over the decks and barrels of the Norse longship. The thought of burning the sleek vessel saddened him but, after careful consideration, it was better to destroy it than recapture it, and let it be used once more against the Saxons.

Despite their after-battle weariness, Raedulf’s willing troops gathered up the bodies of their foes and, two-to-a-corpse, heaved them aboard the stranded ship. The ealdorman had accounted for five of the slain Vikings, so well had he wielded his father’s and grandfather’s sword, which was, ironically, a Viking blade inscribed with the Runes of Victory. None of the three men had brandished the precious weapon in defeat, although they had used it twice in Saxon defeats. The last time had been two years after his father’s death, last year, when another of the victors of the naval battle of Sondwic, Earl Ealhhere, fell with men of Kent and Surrey in a hard-fought engagement on the Isle of Thanet. Raedulf had survived the fighting thanks to his quick wits and boldness, so the sword his grandfather had taken from the Viking chieftain he had slain with a slingshot was still his to fight with another day, after this minor but significant victory.

All the Viking bodies were aboard the craft. Because he hated to see the destruction of what he considered a work of art—since his childhood, he had loved ships—he sorrowfully ordered the torching of the vessel. He remained in Minster Bay long enough to ensure that the conflagration would indeed consume the corpses and their vessel alike. With a sinking heart, he watched the gaudy paint blister on the carved dragon figurehead at the prow and the greedy flames devour the snarling creature’s head so that for only a moment, the ferocious beast seemed to launch flames from its mouth like a mythical beast. Raedulf turned away with mixed feelings before proceeding to help carry the Saxon dead, all ten of them, uphill to the abbey, where they would receive a Christian burial and be laid to rest in the same graveyard as the ealdorman’s illustrious forebears.

As they toiled up the narrow trail to the Minster, black smoke billowing from the beach behind them, Raedulf reflected on the day’s events. First, the alarm blaring from the watchtower, then the tense wait to ambush the raiders, at the cost of sacrificing innocent outlying islanders. It was only one of the difficult decisions he would have to make that day. As he knew they would, the Danes had followed this selfsame trail leading to the abbey. Monasteries and convents were their preferred soft targets, where silver and jewels could be found unguarded by warriors and were thus easy pickings. The insatiable raiders little suspected that from out of the undergrowth would spring a force of battle-hardened Saxons, dealing death and routing them back to the beach. There, the wrathful Vikings had formed into a defensive wall, but Raedulf’s men outnumbered them and, at the cost of ten of their company, slaughtered thrice the number of raiders to the last man.

Ay, survival on Sceapig is coming down to a question of numbers, Raedulf thought sadly as they entered the abbey gates. I have a lot of persuading to do as soon as the burials are over.

The first person to be persuaded had to be himself because he loved Sceapig and felt his roots were there. But circumstances were driving him away. His foresight in repairing the hall in Rochester—for he was Ealdorman of Rochester—would be repaid. The Vikings had burnt the building back in 842 when his father, Asculf, had feared for his and his mother’s lives. The town walls had resisted the Norsemen, but a betrayal had let them enter by a postern gate. The slaughter, devastation and looting had been typical of the merciless and rapacious Sea Wolves: the scourge of the age.

After the disaster and the joyful reunion with his family on Sceapig, Ealdorman Asculf chose to reside in the hall his father, Deormund, had built on the isle. Apart from his ealdormanry duties—such as witans, levies and so forth—Raedulf had stuck by this decision. Only now, the time had come to abandon their island home even if his son, the fourteen-year-old Deormund, named after his great-grandfather, loved the island and its beaches. The boy had followed the same arduous training in swordsmanship and weaponry as himself and his father. An ealdorman and a potential successor had to uphold the family tradition of excelling in the martial arts. Young Deormund was as fine a swordsman as any of his predecessors. Today, his father had to mollify him—for he wanted to fight the Danes by his side—by insisting that he stay in the hall to defend his mother, if need be, with his life. In truth, Raedulf knew that his swordsmanship was superb, but the youth’s frame needed to fill out before he could face a muscular Viking warrior.

Back in the hall, he had to cope with his son’s excited questions about the battle before instructing him to fetch his mother, as they would go to the abbey together to speak with Abbess Disburh. He refused to tell either his wife or son why he sought audience with the Mother Superior. Their presence was only necessary to save him from repeating his argument—the same that he must sadly relate to the abbess.

The island is depopulated; the outlying farmsteads are heaps of ashes, and there is no sign of these continual raids relenting. I do not have enough men to garrison Minster. We lost another ten warriors today, Mother. What I am saying is that I must take my men to Rochester and leave you and the sisters undefended—

You can’t do that, father! I will stay and head the detachment.

Before Raedulf, whose face had clouded into a thunderous expression, could speak, the elderly abbess, successor to the saintly Abbess Irma these last ten years, raised her hand.

My son, she addressed the chestnut-haired youth, whilst I admire your undoubted valour, it is your duty to heed your father. Do you not see how it pains him to make this decision? A son must obey his father, just as Our Lord did his Father’s will and let himself be nailed to a tree. Say no more! she scolded as he opened his mouth to protest.

Deormund hung his head and glowered at the paving stones.

You should come to Rochester and bring the sisters with you, Mother, Raedulf said. I will build you an abbey there. As you know, Justus founded the diocese, one of the missionaries who accompanied Saint Augustine to Kent, to convert the pagan southern English to Christianity over two hundred years ago. You and the nuns will be able to use the sacred cathedral where Saint Paulinus is buried in the sanctuary of the Blessed Apostle Andrew, which King Æthelberht founded when he built the city of Rochester.

Disburh smiled sweetly and, pursing her lips, paused before saying, You speak knowledgably and persuasively, Ealdorman, but just as your son must obey you, so must I defer to my Father in Heaven. I cannot take this decision lightly here and now. I must pray to seek God’s will for us; only then, when my prayers are answered, shall I decide.

Mother, never forget the wrath of the pagans; you have a responsibility for the souls in your charge.

Our prayers will protect us if it is God’s will, my son.

Outside the abbey, safely out of earshot, Raedulf gave vent to his pent-up anger.

The foolish old woman! How can prayers shield her from a Viking blade?

His wife took his arm and spoke steadily, Do not fret, husband, Abbess Disburh is an intelligent and pious woman. Your words were not wasted, but she must address her thoughts to the Lord. She will come, you’ll see. As for me, I’ll feel safer inside the walls of Rochester, and, she added with a relieved tone—I’ll feel more relaxed about you and Deormund, too.

Don’t worry about me, mother, Deormund growled. I’ll miss Sceapig. I don’t want to go to Rochester!

For fear it would sound childish, he did not wish to explain why. The truth was, he did not wish to leave behind his inseparable boyhood companion, Faruin—like a brother to him. Who would he explore and hunt with in a town?

There’s a fine smith I know in the city, Raedulf said to his son. It’s about time you had your own sword. I was at least two winters younger than you when I got mine. Oh, and you know that hound you’ve been nagging me about? You’ll be able to walk him along the banks of the Medway.

A hound and a sword, father? If you swear it, I’ll come to Rochester willingly.

Both parents laughed, and Raedulf made the vow.

ONE

Sceapig Isle, Kingdom of Kent, 855 AD

Amid the forest on the Ness, Faruin cursed under his breath; hunting was so much easier in pairs, with one to rouse up the game and the other make the kill. Now that he was alone—Deormund was in Rochester—he had wasted the morning.

Just as he despaired of returning home to Minster without anything for the pot, he froze. Was that a partridge foraging in the undergrowth? Moving his arm stealthily, he nocked his arrow, took careful aim, only for the fowl, as if by a sixth sense, to make its ungainly flight towards the edge of the trees. Cursing again, but not to be dissuaded so near to his prey, Faruin moved silently, despite his lanky frame.

Drawing back his bowstring, he made no mistake this time. Years of competition with Deormund, aiming at targets no more extensive than the palm of a hand, repaid him as the arrow struck true, transfixing the partridge. His mother would praise him to the heavens this day! In three giant strides, he reached the bird, bent to work free his arrow—no sense in wasting a good shaft—grunted his approval at the size of the creature, plenty of flesh on this one, straightened and froze again. This time, he had not spotted another prey, but rather, he was the quarry.

From his vantage point among the fringe of trees at the edge of the forest, he gazed, mouth agape, upon the sparkling sea. The cause of his astonishment was another forest rising from the waves—one formed by masts, each with a billowing sail driving forward a longship. Vikings! There were too many for him to count, and they were, without doubt, heading for Sceapig. Bow in one hand and partridge in the other, he hissed an oath, not for the first time that morning. Why had he wandered so far from Minster? Now he would have to run home to warn the islanders of the approaching peril.

Risking a painful fall, he flew down the track to the meadow, only slowing his pace when he turned his ankle in a rut likely left by the weight of a barrow filled with firewood. Luckily, the twist of his foot was not severe enough to stop him from proceeding, but he decided to run at a more moderate speed; he could accelerate as soon as he reached the meadow.

Once across the meadow, gazing over his shoulder to check that the Norsemen were still on course for Sceapig—they were—he sped up the well-worn trail towards the settlement that contained the abbey, the hall and the small group of houses, including his parents’ home. He did not run to his home but took the steps of the watchtower two at a time, hardly breaking breath because his wiry physique and active outdoor life meant he was as fit as a young stag. Knowing that the alarm horn hung from a chain attached to the wooden tower ramparts, he peered over and gasped at the sight of so many sails, each boasting a giant emblem—mostly of black birds like ravens in different attitudes—so close now to the shores of the isle.

There was no watchman because since Ealdorman Raedulf had left with the majority of the menfolk, the island was reduced to less than a score of ceorls to work the fields. Faruin’s father was one of these: the stubborn fool! Why had he refused to leave Sceapig? Thanks to his hunting skills, the morning that should have been joyous was transforming into one of curses and regrets. He had begged his father to depart from Sceapig for Rochester, only to meet with a sullen refusal. Sceapig is my home and a pack of heathens will not drive me out. Well, that pack was here now!

Faruin raised the horn to his lips and blew the traditional three blasts. The effect was immediate as five men raced into the courtyard to stare up at him.

What’s up, lad? Eggert, the wheelwright, shouted.

Viking ships! Hundreds of them! Warn my father and the other men in the east field, and close and bar the gates. He coughed because his raised voice had become squeaky. Unlike Deormund’s, his voice hadn’t broken yet. It was so unfair! He was several months older than his best friend, who now boasted a rich, deep voice. When you had a voice like that, people respected you. Still, he gazed down with satisfaction at grown men scrambling to do his bidding. Yet, he thought fearfully, to what purpose? How could a score of Saxon ceorls resist a whole army of Vikings?

He peered over the parapet. The nearest longship was a matter of minutes from beaching in Minster Bay. No time to lose! He rushed down the steps, taking them three at a time, to dash across the courtyard to his family’s house.

Bursting into the smoky room, where his mother was chopping carrots to throw into the iron pot hanging from a bar suspended over the fire, he earned himself a scolding.

That’s no way to come in! I could have sliced off a finger from the shock you gave me! She turned to look at her son and waved the small knife threateningly, in complete contrast to the loving expression on her tired, lived-in face. Linveig’s was a hard life, and it pained him to give her the bad news, but he must. He flung the partridge onto the table.

I don’t know if we’ll ever get to eat that! he exclaimed.

There was something in his bearing and tone that alarmed her.

What is it, Faruin? I thought I heard the warning horn.

Ay, you did, mother. It was I who blew it. The Vikings are here. Make ready; we must leave the isle.

I’ll not go without your father.

Faruin breathed deeply. Stubborn parents were his curse. If they left now, with all haste, he knew the quickest way to the ferry across the Swale and they could flee with their skins intact. If she stayed, what would happen? He squeezed his eyes closed, not daring to imagine her fate.

Mother, I beg you! We have only a few minutes to escape. Don’t you realise what the heathens will do to you? They are not men—they are fiends straight from hell! He was unsure whether he was exaggerating, but he needed to scare her out of her stubbornness. She was wavering; he saw it in her eyes when the door burst open. Startled, she screamed, fearing Viking raiders, but it was only her husband.

Oh, Eolf, it is you!

Who else would it be, woman?

I feared it was a Viking.

No Viking will ever set foot in my home.

Oh, and how do you mean to stop them? Three cats against a Norse army! Faruin sneered.

Eolf stepped closer to his son, his face contorted with rage at his son’s disrespect.

They’ll not get past the gates; we’ll fight them off.

Well, I’m away to Rochester, and I’m taking mother with—

He did not finish because a thumping blow to the side of the head sent him crashing to the floor as the room turned black.

Later, his mother was fussing over him, dabbing a damp cloth to his right temple when he came to. His stomach clenched, and he felt sick, but groaning first, he managed, Where is he?

Out on the gate tower, shooting down on the Vikings. They’ll soon break in, she said fearfully.

Faruin rose unsteadily, his head splitting.

Come, mother, we must go.

How can we? The Vikings are at the gate.

Trust me. I know a secret way out.

I’ll not leave your father. I’ll be a widow.

Ay, and I’ll be an orphan. Hark, mother, if leaving the abbey with her nuns for fear of the Vikings was good enough for Abbess Disburh, it’s good enough for you! I’m only fourteen years old with my life ahead of me. Why should I die for a stubborn fool who cares nought for me, and never has?

That’s not true. Your father loves you.

He has a strange way of showing it! And you, mother, do you love me enough to come with me, or are you going to wait for the heathen to rape you and slit your throat when they’ve done with you?

She looked shocked at his crude words, but then said almost in a whisper, Thank God the Abbess heeded the ealdorman’s advice. Ay, I’ll come. She paused only to find her pendant cross, pulling it over her head and kissed the wooden symbol. She smiled sadly. Looking around her kitchen, perhaps for the last time, she said, I’m ready, son.

He opened the door a crack to check that nobody was in the courtyard to see them leave. The only witness was a scabrous dog, scratching itself with its hind paw.

Come on, he said, taking her hand and leading her close to the wall of the ealdorman’s hall. They advanced in its shadow to the far corner, turned, and headed to the hen coop. The hens clucked and scratched the earth, but he did not spare them a second glance, leading his mother behind the enclosed pen. There, he knew, was an ancient fox tunnel that nobody had bothered to fill in. He and Deormund had used it whenever they wanted to come and go unseen from Minster. With a reassuring look to his mother, he wriggled through with expert ease, first ensuring that there were no Vikings in sight in either direction, even if he could hear their clamour from around the palisade at the gates.

Come on! he called to her from the hole. He was relieved moments later when his mother’s head appeared. He grabbed her under her armpits and hauled her to her feet. Now we run! he said, pointing to the woods about fifty yards from where they stood.

She surprised him by taking off into a sprint, hauling her dress as she ran till it came to her knees. Once into the trees, she turned to him, red-faced, giggling like a girl. I’ll wager you didn’t think I could run.

From now on, no talking. If I wave like this, go down on your haunches, clear?

She nodded and looked lovingly at her son, grown into a man. It only seemed like yesterday when he was born. Now he was the man of the family whilst his father threw his life away in a hopeless cause. She wiped a tearful eye and obediently followed her gangly boy with the trace of down on his cheeks along the track.

He halted and after a few minutes, he waved. She crouched down, as instructed, her heart thumping. Moments later, he was helping her to her feet and complaining, Trust my luck! A red deer hind, wouldn’t you know it when I’m not out hunting?

She sighed with relief and did not relax until the trees ended, and they crossed rapidly into a reed bed.

We’re safe now, he whispered, "even if there are Vikings around, I know