Alfgar the Dane or the Second Chronicle of Aescendune<br />A Tale of the Days of Edmund Ironside, A. D. Crake [best romance books of all time TXT] 📗

soldier's eye on the ground before him, and saw that it was the very place where a stand could be made with every advantage of ground.

"It is well," said Edmund; "we will wait for him here."

A loud cheer from those around him showed how he had succeeded in imparting his own brave spirit to others. The trumpets commanded a halt; and Alfgar and other riders bore the commands of the king to the extremities of the host.

Each division took up rapidly the position assigned; for in this domestic war men fought side by side with those they had known from childhood, and were commanded immediately by their own hereditary chieftains.

The broken nature of the ground protected them well from an attack on either flank, and they strengthened this advantage by throwing up a mound and digging a ditch, with the greatest rapidity.

While thus engaged, they saw the flashing of spear and shield in the east, reflecting the setting sun, and speedily the whole country seemed to glow with the sheen of weapons.

Edmund raised himself in the stirrups.

"Englishmen! brethren!" he cried, "you see your foe, the ruthless destroyers of your land and kinsfolk; the pagan murderers of your archbishop, the sainted Alphege. God will help them that help themselves. It shall be ours to strike one glorious blow for liberty and for just vengeance on this field. I vow to the God of battles I will conquer or die."

He took off his helmet and looked solemnly to Heaven, as he called on the Supreme Being to register his vow, and a deep murmur of sympathy arose around, until it found loud utterance in the cry, "We will conquer with our king or die," from a thousand voices, until the glorious enthusiasm spread throughout the camp. Glorious when men fight for hearth and altar.

Edmund looked proudly around.

"With such warriors," he said, "I need not fear Canute."

The trench and mound were completed, but the enemy did not advance. He planted his black raven banner two miles off in the plain, arranged his forces, and halted for the night.

"We must fight tomorrow at dawn of day," said Edmund. "Now, bid the campfires be lighted; we have plenty of meat and bread, mead and wine; bid each man eat and drink his fill. Men never fight well on empty stomachs. Then return yourself to my side, and share my tent this night; perhaps--perhaps--for the last time."

"If so, woe to England--woe!" said Alfgar. "But I have confidence that her day of tribulation is passing from her. The blood of the martyred saints cries aloud for vengeance on the Danes."

CHAPTER XXI. EDMUND AND CANUTE.

The watch was duly set; campfires were lighted, and joints of meat suspended over them; barrels of wine and mead were broached, for all the country around contributed with loving willingness to the support of its defenders; and when hunger was appeased the patriotic song arose from the various fires, and stirring legends of the glorious days of old, when Danes and Norsemen fled before the English arms, nerved the courage of the men for the morrow's stern conflict.

Around the fire kindled next the tent of Edmund sat the warrior monarch himself, with all the chieftains, the ealdormen, and lesser thanes who shared his fortunes.

The minstrels and gleemen were not wanting here, but none could touch the harp more sweetly than Edmund himself; and, the banquet over, he sang an ancient lay, which kindled the enthusiasm of all his hearers, and nerved them to do or die, so that they longed for the morrow.

Before it was over the trumpet announced some event of importance, and soon a messenger brought the tidings to Edmund that a large force was advancing from the west.

All rose to look at them, not without anxiety; as yet they were far distant, across a wild moor, but as they drew nearer, and their standards could be more clearly discerned, it became gradually evident that it was a reinforcement; and so it proved, for heralds, galloping forward, announced the men of Dorsetshire.

They were most gladly received, for now the English forces were equal in number to their adversaries, and every man felt the hope of victory strong within him.

At length Edmund bade messengers go through the camp, and cause every man to retire to rest, for they must all be stirring by dawn on the morrow.

He himself, with Alfgar, went through the host and then inspected the watch. When he came to the outpost nearest the foe he found Hermann on duty as officer of the watch, and spoke earnestly to him and his men.

"Be on your guard," he said, "as men who know that the welfare of England depends upon them; if you see the least movement on the part of the crafty Canute, rouse the camp at once; they are not unlikely to attack us by night if they can surprise us, not otherwise."

Alfgar was standing on a low mound contemplating the opposite camp, that of his own countrymen, attentively.

"Well, Alfgar, my son, do you see aught?" said Edmund approaching him.

"I fancied I saw some figures seek the hollow where the ditch passes from us to them."

"We will wait and see whether aught comes of it," said the king; "how do you like our prospects?"

"Well, my lord, I would sooner be with you at this moment than in any other place in England."

"Even than in Aescendune?"

"Yes; just now."

"Alfgar, do you think your father yet lives?" said Edmund, as he again gazed upon the Danish camp.

"I think not; I fear he is numbered amongst the dead; I have over and over again inquired of Danish prisoners whether they knew aught of him; they all said he had not been known in their ranks for years."

"The chances of a warrior's life are so many that he may not improbably be gone, but remember you found another father at Carisbrooke."

"I shall never forget that, my lord."

Here Hermann interrupted them.

"My lord, would you look closely at that little clump of furze upon the banks of the brook?"

"By St. Edmund, there they are! now to catch Danish wolves in a steel trap; creep back within the mound."

The whole guard was speedily aroused.

"Shall we alarm the camp?" said Hermann.

"Not for the world, they want all the sleep they can get; this will only be a reconnoitring party; did they find us asleep they would of course cut our throats, and then bring their brethren to attack the camp. As it is, I think we shall cut theirs instead."

"They have disappeared."

"Only to appear with more effect; they will be creeping like snakes coming to be scotched; they won't find a man like Edric at the head of the English army now--one who always chose the sleepiest and deafest men for sentinels. Ah, well! he is openly with the enemy now; I only hope he will come within swing of my battle-axe tomorrow.

"Ah! There they are."

"Where?" inquired two or three low voices eagerly.

"Creeping up the slope; now get your arrows to your ears; take the opposite men when they arise."

A few moments, during which men could hear their own hearts beat, when up rose the Danes from the grass like spectres, and rushed for the mound. A storm of arrows met them, to which nearly half succumbed.

Swinging his axe, Edmund, followed, by the rest, jumped from the mound to meet the survivors; numbers were nearly equal, the English now slightly superior. Each man met his individual foe. Young Hermann's sword broke against a Danish axe; he rushed in and got within the swing of the weapon; both wrestled for the deadly steel, they fell, rolled over and over on the grass; at length Hermann grasped his opponent's throat like a vice with his mailed hand, and held till the arms of his foe hung nerveless by the side and the face grew black, when, disengaging his right hand, he found his dagger, and drove it to the victim's heart.

"Well done!" said Edmund; "you are the last, Hermann; Alfgar has finished some time; we have been watching you; this little beginning promises luck tomorrow.

"You and I must retire now, Alfgar.

"Good night, Hermann; good night, my men; wipe your swords on the grass; keep them bright."

The morning dawned bright and radiant; and with the first appearance of the sun the horns of the English blew their shrill summons, and the whole army awoke as a man. A hurried meal was partaken of, hurried of necessity, for the Danes were already emerging from their camp, and forming their lines in order of battle. They evidently meant, as usual, to take the initiative; in fact, in the recent reign, had they not done so, there would never have been any fighting at all.

Every one, both friend and foe, expected that Edmund would await the onset in his entrenched camp. Great, therefore, was the surprise, when he led his forces without the entrenchments, with the observation that the breasts of Englishmen were their best bulwarks.

He knew his forces, that they had confidence in him; and he could not have shown better his confidence in them, and his feeling that the time had now at length come to assume the offensive.

Canute was doubtless somewhat surprised, yet he was learning to know Edmund.

The English hero divided his army into three divisions: The right wing, where he posted around his own person the chosen band whom he had trained during the last few years of retirement; the left wing, chiefly composed of the men of Wessex; the centre, the weakest and newest recruits, whom he posted there with as deep a design as led Hannibal to use the same strategy at Cannae.

The Danes advanced impetuously to the attack, led by Canute himself, somewhat similarly divided, and Edmund at once advanced his forces to meet them. One hundred yards apart, both armies paused, and glared upon each other. There was no flinching. With teeth firmly set, lips compressed, and the whole body thrown into the attitude of a tiger about to spring, each warrior gazed upon the foe.

The Danes, clad in black armour, with their ponderous battle-axes, and fierce visages, upon which no gentle ray of mercy had yet shone; the English, their minds set upon avenging the outraged national honour, the desolated homes, the slaughtered families: the Danes bent on maintaining their cruel superiority; the English bent on reversing it or dying: the Danes hitherto victorious on nearly every field; the English turning upon their oppressors as men to whom the only thing which could make life tolerable was victory.

Canute's voice was heard crying, "Now, warriors, behold the hounds ye have so often chastised await your chastisement once more."

Edmund, on the other hand, "Victory, my men, or a warrior's grave! We will not live to see England prostrate beneath the tyrant any longer."

Then came the rush: the crash of steel upon steel, the hideous melee, where friend and foe seemed blent in one dense struggling mass; the cries which pain sometimes extorted from the bravest; the shouts of the excited combatants, until Edmund's centre gave way.

He had expected this, and desired nothing more. The Danes pressed on deeply into the core of the hostile army, when they found their progress stopped by some of the bravest warriors who formed the rear, and at that moment the wings curved round upon them.

"Come, my men!" shouted Edmund; and with Alfgar by his side, followed by the whole of the English cavalry, burst upon the rear of the Danes. He and his cleft their way in--hewed it through living masses of flesh; trampled writhing bodies under foot; their very horses seemed to laugh at the spear and sword, until before him Edmund saw Canute himself. He struggled violently to reach him; slew two or three living impediments, and the two rivals faced each other for one moment; then came Edmund's ponderous blow. Canute avoided it, but his horse fell beneath it; the spine severed near the neck. He was dragged up instantly by his armour bearer, who attended upon him, as Alfgar upon Edmund, and before the attack could be renewed a living torrent separated the combatants.

The victory was won; the Danes were in full flight.

O joy for England! the day of her captivity was turned; henceforward she might hope. The foe, the invincible foe, was flying before an English king and an English army.

For while on the one side Edmund had charged the foe on their left flank, on the other side the men of Wessex had imitated his example, and the foe yielded.

Still, terrible in defeat, more than half fought their way out of the trap into which they had fallen, and retired upon their camp, closely pursued, until the trump of Edmund recalled the pursuers, anxious lest they should in turn fall into an ambuscade, for reinforcements were awaiting the Danes behind.

. . . . . .

From this time the prospects of Edmund and England brightened. Day after day fresh reinforcements came into his camp, until he followed Canute, who