What Might Have Happened Part 21

"Lord King, let me come with you," bellowed Wulfsige. "Guards ..."

Behind, in the shelter, Osbert muttered to Ethelnoth and the others, "What's he doing? Will he do what that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Burgred did? Is this the end? If so, it's time we all made our peace with Guthrum-"

"I can't say," said the alderman. "But if that fool of a bishop, and of a pope, make him give up between them, then that is the end of England, now and forever."

Alfred strode through the encampment, none daring to obstruct or challenge him, and out into the wet, dripping forest and marshland along the line of the flooded river Tone. But he was not walking completely at random. The thought had been growing on him for weeks that there might come a time when he had to be away from his men, from the crowds of faces looking to him for advice and orders, even from the silent pressure of his disapproving wife and the two coughing, fearful children at her skirts.

He knew now where he was going. To the charcoal burners. They had huts scattered all through the forests, coming out only when they needed to sell their wares, and then returning immediately to the thickets. Even in peacetime kings' officers did not bother them much. People said that they carried out strange rituals and spoke an ancient tongue among themselves. Alfred had been careful to mark one encampment down when he stumbled on it in the course of one of the hunting expeditions he and his men carried out for food, before they had begun simply to levy toll on the peasants round about. He headed straight for it through the winter dusk.

It was dark by the time he reached the first of the huts. The large man in the doorway looked at him with grave suspicion and lifted his ax. "I wish to stay here. I will pay for my lodging."

He was taken in without fuss, or indeed recognition, when he showed them that he had both silver pennies to pay for his lodging, and a long sword at his side to resist secret murder. The man looked oddly enough at the king's-head pennies when they were offered, as if wondering how long they would be tender. But the silver was good, and that was enough. No doubt they thought he was another runaway thane, deserting his allegiance, but not yet ready to go home or to approach the Vikings' court and sue for amnesty.

On the evening of the next day, the king sat in warm, homely darkness, lit only by the glow of red coals. He was alone in the hut, while the few men and women of the camp busied themselves with the complex operations of their trade. The wife had slung a griddle over the low fire and put raw griddle cakes on it, telling him in her thick accent to watch them and turn them as they cooked. He sat, listening to the crackle of the fire and smelling the pleasant mix of smoke and warm bread. For the first time for many months, the king was at peace. It was a moment taken out of time, a moment when all the pressures outside balanced each other and canceled out.

Whatever happened now, Alfred thought comfortably and lazily, would be decisive. Should he fight? Should he give up and go to Rome? He no longer knew the answers. There was a numbness within where before a fire had burned. He looked up but felt no surprise when the door sc.r.a.ped quietly, and through it came the ma.s.sive head and shoulders of the grim churl Tobba. He was no longer wearing his gold ring, but trailed his Viking ax at his side. Stooping beneath the low roof, he came over to the fire and sat down on his haunches opposite the king. For a while neither man spoke.

"How did you find me?" asked Alfred at last.

"Asked around. Got a lot of friends in these woods. Quiet people. Don't talk much unless you knows "em."

They sat a while longer. Absently, Tobba reached out and began to turn the cakes in his thick fingers, dropping them back on to the hot plate with faint hisses of steam.

"Got some news for you," he offered.

"What?"

"Messenger come in from Alderman Odda the morning after you left. Ubbi Ragnarsson attacked. Took his fleet down channel, landed, chased off Odda and his levy. Reckoned they was only peasants, since they only 'ad clubs and pitchforks. Chased 'em into a hill forest by the beach, bottled 'em up, reckoned that was it. That was a mistake. Come midnight, pouring rain, Odda bust out with all his men. Clubs and pitchforks they do all right in the dark. Killed Ubbi, lot of his men, took the Raven banner."

Alfred felt a reluctant stir of interest, an emotion that penetrated the numbness that possessed him. But he still did not speak, only sighed as he stared into the fire. Tobba tried to catch his interest.

"The Raven banner, you know, it really does flap its wings when the Vikings are going to win, and droops them when they're going to lose." He grinned. "Messenger said there were some kind of arrangement on the back, so you could control it. Odda's sending it to you. Token of respect. Maybe you can use it in the next battle."

"If there is a next battle." The words spoken with great reluctance.

"I got an idea about that." Tobba turned a few more cakes, as if suddenly embarra.s.sed. "If you don't mind hearing one from a churl, that is, well, really, a slave ..."

Alfred shook his head glumly. "You will be no slave, Tobba. If I leave, you come with me. I can do at least that. I will not hand you back to Daniel and his torturers." "No, lord, I think you should hand me over-or the messengers won't go out and there will be no army for you. But that will only be the start of it. I escaped before-can do it again. And there is something then that I could do . .

For several minutes the churl spoke on, low-voiced, clumsy, not used to ordering his thoughts and speaking in this manner. But he would not be stopped. Finally the two men sat and stared at each other, both in different ways awed by what they had come to.

"I think it could work," said Alfred. "But you know what he's going to do to you before you escape?"

"Won't be much worse that what I've had to put up with all my life."

Alfred paused one more moment. "You know, Tobba, you could just run to the Vikings. If you took them my head they'd make you a jarl in any county you wanted. Why are you on my side?"

Tobba hung his head. "To tell . . . words, they don't come easy. I been, my whole life, a slave, but my father, you know, he wasn't, and maybe my kids won't be, if I ever have any." His voice dropped to a mutter. "I don't see why they should grow up talking Danish. My dad didn't, nor my grandad. That's all I care about."

The door sc.r.a.ped again, and the burners' woman looked in, her face sharp with suspicion. "

'Ave you two forgotten them cakes? If you've burnt them there'll be no dinner for none of us!"

Tobba looked up, grinning. "No fear of that, missis. You got two good cooks 'ere. We been cooking up a storm. 'Ere-" He scooped a cake deftly off the plate and popped it hot and whole into his cavernous mouth. "Done to a turn," he announced, blowing crumbs. "I reckon them's the best b.l.o.o.d.y cakes ever been baked in England."

It was a reluctant army that gathered at Edgebright's Stone. A smaller army than Alfred had ever led before. Before it grew even smaller word arrived that the Vikings were gathering their own army at Eddington. Alfred was determined to attack before the odds became even worse.

The Vikings had left their camp in the forest soon after dawn and were drawn up in the fields close by. Their berserkers, the fiercest fighters of all, were shouting curses at the enemy as they worked themselves into a rage of battle madness. But the English soldiers stood firm despite the steady rain that soaked their chain mail, and dripped from their helmets' rims. They stirred and gripped their weapons when the wail of the lurhorns was carried by the damp air.

"They attack," said Wulfsige, standing at his king's right hand.

"Stand firm!" Alfred shouted above the thunder of running feet, the first crash of metal against metal as the lines met.

The English fought well, hacking at the linden s.h.i.+elds of their enemies, holding their own.

Men were wounded, dropped to their knees, fought on stabbing upwards under the pirates'

guards. While, from behind the fighting ranks, half-armed churls staggered up with the biggest boulders they could lift, and lobbed them over their companions to crash down on the attackers.

There were cries of pain and rage as the stones dislodged helmets, broke collar bones, and fell to the ground to perhaps provide a tripping block for a straining foot.

Alfred stabbed out with his sword and felt it sink deep. But at the same time he saw that his lines were being forced back in the center. "Now!" he called out to Wulfsige. "Give them the signal."

The enemy front rank shuddered and almost fell back when willing hands lifted the captured Raven banner high beside the Golden Dragon of Wess.e.x. Now there was no flapping of jet wings to urge on the Vikings. Instead the Raven's head was down, the wings drooped in death, st.i.tched red drops of blood dripping down from each eye.

But the line held, fought back, pushed forward once again. While to their rear the berserkers gathered, foaming with rage and chewing the edges of their s.h.i.+elds with pa.s.sion. When they attacked together none could stand before them.

At this moment Alfred saw what his opponents could not see yet-and he shouted aloud.

Behind the enemy, bursting out from between the trees, came a motley, skin-draped horde. They were waving clubs, crude logs of firewood, tent poles, iron pokers, tools, and weapons of any kind. They fell on the Viking rear like a great cras.h.i.+ng wave, striking down and destroying.

For the first and only time in his life Alfred saw a heathen berserk's expression change from inhuman fury to amazement and then to plain uncomplicated fear.

Within a minute the battle was over as the Vikings, attacked from back and front, broke lines, tried to flee, and were struck down. Alfred had to force his way through his own men and their dancing half-human helpers to throw a s.h.i.+eld over Guthrum as he was driven to the ground, to save his life and accept his surrender.

That night was a night of feasting. Magnanimous in victory, Alfred sat the defeated Viking king Guthrum at his side. He was silent for the most part, drinking deeply and heavily of the mead and ale.

"We had you beaten, you know," Guthrum finally growled. They were at that stage of the banquet when the politenesses have all been said, and men are free to talk openly. The kings'

neighbors on either side, Ethelnoth, Bishop Ceolred, Alderman Odda, and a Viking jarl, had ceased to listen to their leaders and were talking among themselves.

Alfred leaned over the table and hooked away the Viking's wine cup.

"If you'd like me to stop feasting and carry on fighting, that's all right by me. Let's see, you must have three- or fourscore men of your army still alive. And as soon as the others know it's safe to surrender they will all come in. When would you like to begin this battle?"

"All right, all right." Guthrum retrieved his wine cup, grinning sourly. He had been in England thirteen years and had long since dispensed with interpreters. "You won, fair enough.

I'm just saying that in the battle, in the real battle, we had you beat. Your center was caving in. I could see you standing in the middle, two ranks back, trying to rally them. When your line broke I was going to send a hundred berserks right down the middle, to get you. I reckoned we'd let you get away once too often already."

"Maybe." After the total victory Alfred could afford to be generous. But in spite of his experiences of losing battles, he thought this time Guthrum was wrong. It was true that the Viking hard core of veteran professionals had forced his men back in the center, but the English thanes had been standing well, with none of the dribble to the rear he had come to expect.

Though their line was bent, they were still holding together.

Not that it mattered anyway who would have won. He still remembered and savored the moment when the ragged, badly-armed men had fallen on the Viking rear.

"How did you get them to do it?" asked Guthrum, his voice low and confidential.

"It was a simple idea brought to me by a simple man. Your warriors are lazy. Every one of them has to have at least one English slave to cook for him and clean his gear, if not another to cut fodder for the ponies and help to look after the loot. You've had no trouble recruiting servants, because they have plenty to run away from. All I did was to get a message to them-a message from someone they could see was one of their own and not interested in lying to them.

It was his idea to rally them. It was I who told him how it could be done." "I know the one who did this, who came just a few days ago. They called me over to look at his back when he came in. Very skillful job. Everyone was talking about it. Even startled me.

But what message could he bring that could unite these creatures?"

"A promise-my promise. I gave my word that every runaway slave in your camp would be pardoned, would have his freedom, and would receive two oxgangs of land in exchange for every Viking head."

"An oxgang? Why that must be one, or more, of what we call acres. Yes, I suppose a man could live on that. I can see the wisdom of this promise. But where did you get the land from?"

He lowered his voice again, looking around out of the corners of his eyes. "Or was it just a lie?

All know that you have no land or treasure. You have nothing left to give. Certainly not enough for all who fought today. What are you going to need. Four thousand acres? If you're going to promise them land in my kingdom, I can guarantee they'll have to fight for every inch of it."

Alfred frowned grimly. "I am taking it from Church estates. I have no other choice. I cannot go on doing battle with both Vikings and Church. So I defeat one-and beg mercy from the other. I firmly believe that the land granted by my ancestors was necessarily provisional, and that I have the right to reclaim it. I am breaking up several estates of the Church, and will grant them to these my new tenants. I may have to levy extra taxes to set them up with stock and gear-but at least I can count on future loyalty."

"From the slaves, perhaps. What of your bishops and priests? What of the pope? He will put your whole country under the ban."

Guthrum was well informed for a heathen and a pirate, thought Alfred. But perhaps now was the time to make the proposal.

"I mean to talk to you about that. I think I will have less trouble from the pope if I can explain to him that by taking a little land from a few ministers. I have gained for Christ a whole new nation. And, you know, we cannot go on living on the same island and sharing no belief at all.

This time I have sworn oaths on holy relics and you on the arm-ring of Thor, but why should we not all in future swear on the same things?

"This is my offer. I want you and your men to be baptized. If you agree I myself will be your sponsor, and your G.o.dfather. G.o.dfathers are sworn to support their spiritual children if they come into conflict later on." Alfred eyed Guthrum steadily as he said the last words. Guthrum, he knew, would have difficulty establis.h.i.+ng himself again in his central English kingdom after this shattering defeat. He would need allies.

The Viking only laughed. He reached across the table suddenly and tapped the thong wrapped around Alfred's right wrist, touching the Viking pendant he had taken to wearing.

"Why are you wearing this, King? I know where you got it from. As soon as Rani disappeared I knew you had something to do with it. No one else could have bested him. Now let me make you an offer in return. Already you have made bitter enemies in the Church. The black robes will never forgive you now, no matter what you do. They are arrogant always and think only they have wisdom, only they can say where a man will go once he is dead. But we know better! No man, and no G.o.d, holds all the truth. I say, let the G.o.ds contest with each other and see who keeps his wors.h.i.+ppers best. Let all men choose freely-between G.o.ds who reward the brave and the daring, and this G.o.d of the weak and timid. Let them choose between priests who ask for nothing-and priests who send innocent children to h.e.l.l forever if their fathers cannot pay for baptism. Choose between G.o.ds who punish sinners, and a G.o.d who says all are sinners, so there is no reward for virtue." He dropped his voice suddenly, in what had become an attentive silence. "Between a G.o.d who asks for t.i.thes on the unborn calf, and our way, which is free. I make you a counterproposal, King Alfred, king of the English. Leave your Church be. But let our priests talk freely and go where they will. And we will do the same for your priests. And then let every man and every woman believe what they will, and pay what they will. If the Christians' G.o.d is all-powerful, as they say, he will win the contest. If he is not ..."

Guthrum shrugged. Alfred looked round at his nearest councillors, all of them staring at Guthrum with consideration in their eyes.

"If Bishop Daniel were here he would d.a.m.n us all to h.e.l.l for listening," remarked Ethelnoth, draining his wine cup.

"But Daniel had gone to Canterbury to whine and complain to the archbishop," observed Odda.

"It is our own doing," quavered Bishop Ceolred in the silence. "Did I not beg Daniel to show moderation? But he had no wisdom. You all know that I have lost from the Vikings as much as any man, and I have been a faithful follower of the Lord Jesus all my life. Yet I, I say to you, maybe no man has the right to forbid another his share of the wisdom in the world. After all that we have suffered . . . who can forbid the king his will in this matter?"

"There is one thing that troubles me," said Alfred. Once more he had the heathen pendant in his hand, and was swinging it thoughtfully. "When our two armies met, mine fought for Christ and yours for the old G.o.ds. Yet mine won. Does not that show that Christ and his Father are the stronger?"

Guthrum laughed explosively. "Is that what you thought all the times you lost? No." He pulled suddenly at the pendant he wore round his own neck, undid the fastening, and handed it across the table to the king. "What that victory shows is that you are a true leader. Put down Rani's pendant and take mine. He wors.h.i.+pped Freyr, a good G.o.d for a warrior and a stallion, like Rani was. May he live in Thruthvangar, in the plains of pleasure, forever. But for kings like you and me, the true G.o.d is Odin, the father of the slain, the G.o.d of justice, the G.o.d who can say two meanings at once. Here, take this."

Again he held forward the silver medal. On it was Gungnir, the sacred spear of Odin. Alfred reached out and touched it, pushed it about on the table-then touched his chest.

"No. It is the cross of the Christ that I wear here. I have always worn it."

"Wear it still," Guthrum said. "Wear them both until you decide."

All movement round the tables stilled, the very cupbearers and carvers stopping in their tracks to gape at the king. Alfred's eyes, sweeping along the row of faces turned to his, fell suddenly on the anguished gaze of his chaplain Edbert.

In that moment he knew the future. If men were given the free choice Guthrum offered, then all the pa.s.sion, the faith, the loyalty of Edbert and his like would be of no avail. The bitter, grasping selfishness of the archbishops, the popes, the Daniels, would cancel it every time. With his mind's eye he saw the great ministers deserted, their stone carted away to use in barns and walls. He saw armies gathering on the white cliffs of England, armies of Saxons and Vikings united under the banners of Odin and Thor, ready to spread their faith to the Franks and the southerners. He saw the White Christ himself, a baby, crying forsaken on the last untended altar of Rome.

If he wavered now, Christianity would not stand.

In the tense silence Tobba leaned forward from his place behind King Alfred's chair. He took the chain in his hand and clasped it round his master's neck. There was the tiniest sound in the silent room as metal touched metal.

Or was it the loudest sound any of them had ever heard?

Roncesvalles

JUDITH TARR.

Spain, A.D. 778/161 A.H.

I.

Charles, king of the Franks and the Lombards, sometime ally of Baghdad and Byzantium, sat at table in the midst of his army, and considered necessity. He had had the table set in full view of it: namely, the walls of Saragossa, and the gate which opened only to expel curses and the odd barrel of refuse. The city was won for Baghdad against the rebels in Cordoba, but precious few thanks Charles had for his part in it. He was an infidel, and a pagan at that. Saragossa did not want him defiling its Allah-sanctified streets with his presence. FA'en if it had been he who freed them.

He thrust his emptied plate aside and rose. He was a big man even for a Frank, and a month of playing beggar at Saragossa's door, with little else to do but wait and eat and glare at the walls, had done nothing to lessen his girth. He knew how he towered, king enough even in his plain unkingly clothes; he let the men about him grow still before he spoke. He never shouted: he did not have the voice for it. He always spoke softly, and made men listen, until they forgot the disparity between the clear light voice and the great bear's body. "Tomorrow," he said, "we leave this place. Spain has chosen to settle itself. Let it. We have realms to rule in Gaul, and enemies to fight. We gain no advantage in lingering here."

Having cast the fox among the geese, Charles stood back to watch the spectacle. The Franks were torn between homesickness and warrior honor; between leaving this alien and unfriendly country, and retreating from a battle barely begun. The Arabs howled in anguish. How could he, their ally, abandon them now? The Byzantines stood delicately aside and refrained from smiles.

One voice rose high above the others. Not as high as Charles's, but close enough for kin, though the man it came from had a body more fitted to it: a slender dark young firebrand who was, everyone agreed, the very image of the old king. "Leave? Leave, my lord? My lord, how can we leave? We've won nothing yet. We've lost men, days, provisions. And for what? To slink back to Gaul with our tails between our legs? By Julian and holy Merovech, I will not!"

The reply came with the graceful inevitability of a Christian antiphon. "You will not? And who are you, young puppy? Are you wisdom itself, that you should command our lord the king?"

Our lord the king pulled at his luxuriant mustaches and scowled. He loved his sister Gisela dearly, but she had a penchant for contentious males. Her son, who was her image as well as her father the old king's, took after his father when it came to temper. Her husband that was now, barely older than the son who faced him with such exuberant hostility, looked enough like the boy to prompt strangers to ask if they were brothers; but Roland's forthright insolence clashed head-on with Ganelon's vicious urbanity. There was a certain Byzantine slither in the man, but his temper was all Frank, and his detestation of his stepson as overt as ever a savage could wish.