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 had retreated into Wiltshire. There, a few days later, a
second battle was fought at Sceorstan {xvi}, wherein much bravery
was shown on both sides. On Monday the two armies fought all day
without any advantage on either side. On the Tuesday the English were
rapidly getting the better, when the traitor Edric, severing the head
of a fallen Englishman named Osmaer, held it up, shouting:
"Flee, English! flee, English! Edmund is dead."
They began to yield; and it was as much as Edmund himself could do, by
lifting his helmet, exposing his features, and shouting, "I live to
lead you to victory!" to restore the battle.
Canute retired upon London, followed closely by Edmund. Upon the road
messengers came from Edric imploring the forgiveness of his injured
brother-in-law, and offering to join him with all his forces. There
was long consultation over this in the English camp; but in spite of
Edmund's own feelings it was decided to receive Edric, since Canute's
fate would seem to be quite decided if England were united by the
union of those southern English who had fought under Canute with
Edric, and the men of Mercia and Wessex who had won the previous
victories.
So the two armies met together. The men of Hampshire, who had followed
the Dane, were welcomed as returning to their true allegiance by their
countrymen; and Edmund did violence to his feelings by receiving Edric
to his council board, if not to his friendship.
It was a joyous day when Edmund approached London, and thus fulfilled
the promise of his coronation. Canute, who had made another attempt on
the city, fled before him, but hovered around until two days later.
Edmund engaged him the third time at Brentford, and defeated him
again. Then Edmund retired into Wessex to raise more troops, and
during his absence the Danes took the offensive again, once more
besieging London in vain, while they harried all the neighbouring
districts until Edmund returned with a large army, drove them into
Kent, and gave them such a fearful defeat at Otford that they fled in
despair to the Isle of Sheppey, and all men said Edmund would have
destroyed them utterly, had not Edric persuaded him to stop the
pursuit at Aylesford.
The Danes soon emerged again, and, crossing the Thames, commenced
plundering Essex, when Edmund and Edric, with all the flower of the
Anglo-Saxon race, advanced to meet them once more. Nearly all the men
of note in England followed Edmund's banner, for, now that his
abilities were proved, there was a general enthusiasm in his favour.
So all the rank and title of the realm stood by him when he drew up
his army hard by the little river Crouch, near Assingdun, in Essex,
then called Assandun.
There, by his side, when the tents were pitched the evening before the
battle, stood many a brave ealdorman,--Godwin of Lindsey; Ulfketyl,
the hero of the East Angles; Ethelweard, the son of the pious
Ethelwine, whom men called the "Friend of God." And present at that
last banquet were Ednoth, the bishop of Dorchester, and other
ecclesiastics, who had come to pray for the host and to succour the
dying with ghostly aid. Well nigh all the great men of England were
here. But Edric supped in their midst. Their spirits were high that
night, and while Edmund drank to their success on the morrow, each man
responded with a fervour which augured confidence in that morrow's
issue--all save the wicked Edric, whose heart seemed far from his
words.
The events of that fatal morrow are matter of history. The armies
joined battle. Victory seemed to favour Edmund. The Danes were already
giving way, when Edric turned and fled, with his whole division, whom
he had corrupted. After that all was disorder amongst the English; but
they continued fighting bravely until the moon arose, and they were
becoming surrounded on all sides, when, in sheer desperation, they at
last gave way.
Edmund would not yield until Alfgar seized the bridle of his horse,
and almost by violence caused him to turn his steed, bidding him live
for England, for he was its hope. It was growing dark rapidly, and the
darkness alone saved Edmund and the relics of the English army.
With a faithful few, including both Alfgar and Hermann, nearly all of
the party wounded, the English king rode sadly from the scene,
groaning bitterly in spirit.
"Why did I trust him again? Why did I trust him?" he kept muttering to
himself.
"You did not trust him. The council overruled you. I was present,"
said Alfgar.
"But I might have resisted."
And he persisted in his unavailing regret.
It was a sad sight to see the field of battle strewn for miles with
the dead and dying, while gangs of plunderers swarmed in all
directions. One sharp encounter with such a party served to warm
Edmund's blood, after which he was a little more cheerful.
But the saddest scene in the flight lay on a gentle eminence,
commanding a view of the field, whose deformities night mercifully
shrouded from view, although the murmurs of the wounded reached them
even there in one long subdued wailing moan.
There, on that little hill, lay bishops and abbots in their sacerdotal
apparel. Where they had met to pray, there they lay in death! With a
deep sigh Edmund recognised Ednoth, bishop of Dorchester, lying stark
and stiff in his bloody robes. A troop of Danish horsemen had
surrounded the hill and massacred them all. The assassins had even
hewn Ednoth's finger off for the episcopal ring.
Yet, even at this awful crisis, Edmund's lion heart did not wholly
fail him, as he left the field where lay all the flower of the
Anglo-Saxon race: the brave and faithful Ulfketyl, Earl Ethelweard,
Earl Godwin, Elfric the ealdorman, and well nigh all the great men of
England, all sleeping in death. He rode to the south till he reached
the vale of the Thames, which he pursued until he reached the
neighbourhood of Gloucester--Alfgar and Hermann still by his side. And
now it was seen how his merits were recognised, and how he had already
gained the love of his people, for, from the territory of the Hwiccas,
and all the extreme west of Mercia, men flocked to his standard until
he was at the head of an army almost as numerous as that he had lost
at Assingdun, only less perfectly disciplined and officered.
But Canute followed hard upon his heels, hoping to crush him while yet
weak in numbers, until he discovered, to his great mortification, his
rival's camp on the banks of the Severn, and saw that the forces were
again nearly equal.
Then even the Danish chieftains shuddered at the thought of another
battle. Five great battles had been fought, in three of which they had
been defeated. There was no Edric now with Edmund to play into their
hands, and they hesitated to engage a sixth time.
At this moment an embassy was seen approaching from Edmund's army.
Alfgar bore Edmund's personal defiance to Canute, offering to spare
the effusion of blood, and settle their differences by single combat.
Canute's brave and impetuous temper caught the suggestion at once.
Such appeals to the God of battles were common in the north, and he
accepted the challenge.
There is an island in the Severn, then called Oleneige, now called
Olney Island. The following day both armies gathered together on
opposite banks, and the two kings, clad in splendid armour, were
wafted thither. Alfgar, having landed his lord, retired with beating
heart to the English bank. Edmund and Canute were alone on the island.
The battle began; no words can describe the dread emotion with which
the two nations watched the event.
They continued a long time without any apparent advantage; at length,
King Edmund's fury adding strength to him, his blows were so thick and
weighty, that Canute, perceiving his own strength to diminish,
conceived a resolution to attempt ending the quarrel by a treaty.
But being crafty, and fearing lest his disadvantage should be apparent
to Edmund, he collected all his energies and rushed furiously upon
him, then withdrew himself aside, and desired Edmund to suspend the
conflict for a while.
"Generous prince," said he, "hitherto I have had a covetous desire of
your kingdom, but now I do yet more earnestly covet your friendship;
your father and my father have each reigned over the land, let us
divide the inheritance like brothers."
Edmund's generous spirit led him to accept the offer, and he threw his
battle-axe to the ground and extended his right hand, which Canute
eagerly grasped {xvii}.
So the land was divided; Edmund was to be head king and to have
Wessex, Sussex, Kent, East Anglia, and Essex, with the city of London;
while Canute had Northumbria and Mercia.
Canute professed himself a Christian, and swore to govern his people
according to the old English laws, and to preserve their temporal and
spiritual privileges, a promise which, upon the whole, he well
observed.
And so England entered upon a peace of fifty years, only broken by an
event yet in the womb of time, the Norman Conquest.
"Come, Alfgar," said Edmund, one day soon after these events, "let us
go to Aescendune and fix thy wedding day; Elfwyn need fear no longer
that the sword will be the portion of his grandchildren."
Peace! sweet, sweet peace! oh how joyful it was to be once more in the
deep woods of Aescendune, to hear the sweet song of the birds, and to
fear no evil! Sweet, ineffably sweet were those days to Alfgar and
Ethelgiva!
So the day was at length appointed; it was to be the feast of St.
Andrew, and to take place at Oxenford, which had been assigned to
Edmund's dominions; for he insisted that it should be celebrated with
all the pomp the presence of a king could lend.
It was now the season of the falling leaf and there were only a few
weeks longer to wait.