Ethelbert, the second son, King of Kent, while Ethelred and Alfred were
to be in the line of succession to Ethelbald. Ethelbald died in 860, and
Judith returned to France, subsequently marrying Baldwin, Count of
Flanders. Ethelbert as successor joined the kingdoms of Wessex and Kent.
Alfred lived at the court of Ethelbert, and became noted for the
intelligence and studious activities which were to make his future reign
the conspicuous epoch in English history, so brilliantly commemorated a
thousand years after his death in 901, in the millenary celebrated in
Winchester and its neighborhood in 1901.
Ethelbert died in 866 and was succeeded by Ethelred. In 868 Alfred
married Elswitha, the daughter of Ethelred Mucil of Mercia. Meanwhile
the Danes had resumed their predatory excursions, and in the winter of
870-871 Ethelred accompanied by Alfred attacked them at Reading, but
after an initial victory was repulsed. Four days later, Ethelred and
Alfred with their forces were attacked on Ashdown near White Horse Hill;
after a heavy slaughter the Danes were out to flight. The Danes,
however, reinforced by Guthrum with new troops from over the sea, within
a fortnight resumed offensive operations, and at Merton, two months
later, Ethelred was mortally wounded. He died almost immediately after
the battle, and "at the age of twenty-three Alfred ascended the throne
of his fathers, which was tottering, as it seemed, to its fall.")
THOMAS HUGHES
The throne of the West Saxons was not an inheritance to be desired in
the year 871, when Alfred succeeded his gallant brother. It descended on
him without comment or ceremony, as a matter of course. There was not
even an assembly of the witan to declare the succession as in ordinary
times. With Guthrum and Hinguar in their intrenched camp at the
confluence of the Thames and Kennet, and fresh bands of marauders
sailing up the former river, and constantly swelling the ranks of the
pagan army during these summer months, there was neither time nor heart
among the wise men of the West Saxons for strict adherence to the letter
of the constitution, however venerable. The succession had already been
settled by the Great Council, when they formally accepted the provisions
of Ethelwulf's will, that his three sons should succeed, to the
exclusion of the children of any one of them.
The idea of strict hereditary succession has taken so strong a hold of
us English in later times that it is necessary constantly to insist that
our old English kingship was elective. Alfred's title was based on
election; and so little was the idea of usurpation, or of any wrong done
to the two infant sons of Ethelred, connected with his accession, that
even the lineal descendant of one of those sons, in his chronicle of
that eventful year, does not pause to notice the fact that Ethelred left
children. He is writing to his "beloved cousin Matilda," to instruct her
in the things which he had received from ancient traditions, "of the
history of our race down to these two kings from whom we have our
origin." "The fourth son of Ethelwulf," he writes, "was Ethelred, who,
after the death of Ethelbert, succeeded to the kingdom, and was also my
grandfather's grandfather. The fifth was Alfred, who succeeded after all
the others to the whole sovereignty, and was your grandfather's
grandfather." And so passes on to the next facts, without a word as to
the claims of his own lineal ancestor, though he had paused in his
narrative at this point for the special purpose of introducing a little
family episode.
When Alfred had buried his brother in the cloisters of Wimborne Minster,
and had time to look out from his Dorsetshire resting-place, and take
stock of the immediate prospects and work which lay before him, we can
well believe that those historians are right who have told us that for
the moment he lost heart and hope, and suffered himself to doubt whether
God would by his hand deliver the afflicted nation from its terrible
straits. In the eight pitched battles which we find by the _Saxon
Chronicle_ (Asser giving seven only) had already been fought with the
pagan army, the flower of the youth of these parts of the West Saxon
kingdom must have fallen. The other Teutonic kingdoms of the island, of
which he was overlord, and so bound to defend, had ceased to exist
except in name, or lay utterly powerless, like Mercia, awaiting their
doom. Kent, Sussex, and Surrey, which were now an integral part of the
royal inheritance of his own family, were at the mercy of his enemies,
and he without a hope of striking a blow for them. London had been
pillaged, and was in ruins. Even in Wessex proper, Berkshire and
Hampshire, with parts of Wilts and Dorset, had been crossed and
recrossed by marauding bands, in whose track only smoking ruins and dead
bodies were found. "The land was as the garden of Eden before them, and
behind them a desolate wilderness." These bands were at this very moment
on foot, striking into new districts farther to the southwest than they
had yet reached. If the rich lands of Somersetshire and Devonshire, and
the yet unplundered parts of Wilts and Dorset, are to be saved, it must
be by prompt and decisive fighting, and it is time for a king to be in
the field. But it is a month from his brother's death before Alfred can
gather men enough round his standard to take the field openly. Even
then, when he fights, it is "almost against his will," for his ranks are
sadly thin, and the whole pagan army are before him, at Wilton near
Salisbury. The action would seem to have been brought on by the
impetuosity of Alfred's own men, whose spirit was still unbroken, and
their confidence in their young King enthusiastic. There was a long and
fierce fight as usual, during the earlier part of which the Saxons had
the advantage, though greatly outnumbered.
But again we get glimpses of the old trap of a feigned flight and
ambuscade, into which they fell, and so again lose "possession of the
place of death," the ultimate test of victory. "This year," says the
_Saxon Chronicle_, "nine general battles were fought against the army in
the kingdom south of the Thames; besides which Alfred, the king's
brother, and single aldermen and king's thanes, oftentimes made attacks
on them, which were not counted; and within the year one king and nine
jarls [earls] were slain." Wilton was the last of these general actions,
and not long afterward, probably in the autumn, Alfred made peace with
the pagans, on condition that they should quit Wessex at once.
They were probably allowed to carry off whatever spoils they may have
been able to accumulate in their Reading camp, but I can find no
authority for believing that Alfred fell into the fatal and humiliating
mistake of either paying them anything or giving hostages or promising
tribute. This young King, who, as crown prince, led the West Saxons up
the slopes at Ashdown, when Bagsac, the two Sidrocs, and the rest were
killed, and who has very much their own way of fighting--going into the
clash of arms "when the hard steel rings upon the high helmets," and
"the beasts of prey have ample spoil," like a veritable child of
Odin--is clearly one whom it is best to let alone, at any rate so long
as easy plunder and rich lands are to be found elsewhere, without such
poison-mad fighting for every herd of cattle and rood of ground. Indeed,
I think the careful reader may trace from the date of Ashdown a decided
unwillingness on the part of the Danes to meet Alfred, except when they
could catch him at disastrous odds. They succeeded, indeed, for a time
in overrunning almost the whole of his kingdom, in driving him an exile
for a few wretched weeks to the shelter of his own forests; but whenever
he was once fairly in the field they preferred taking refuge in strong
places, and offering treaties and hostages to the actual arbitrament of
battle.
So the pagan army quitted Reading, and wintered in 872 in the
neighborhood of London, at which place they received proposals from
Buhred, King of the Mercians, Alfred's brother-in-law, and for a money
payment pass him and his people contemptuously by for the time, making
some kind of treaty of peace with them, and go northward into what has
now become their own country. They winter in Lincolnshire, gathering
fresh strength during 873 from the never-failing sources of supply
across the narrow seas. Again, however, in this year of ominous rest
they renew their sham peace with poor Buhred and his Mercians, who thus
manage to tide it over another winter. In 874, however, their time has
come. In the spring, the pagan army under the three kings, Guthrum,
Oskytal, and Amund, burst into Mercia. In this one only of the English
Teutonic kingdoms they find neither fighting nor suffering hero to cross
their way, and leave behind for a thousand years the memory of a noble
end, cut out there in some half-dozen lines of an old chronicler, but
full of life and inspiration to this day for all Englishmen. The whole
country is overrun, and reduced under pagan rule, without a blow struck,
so far as we know, and within the year.
Poor Buhred, titular King of the Mercians, who has made believe to rule
this English kingdom these twenty-two years--who in his time has marched
with his father-in-law Ethelwulf across North Wales--has beleaguered
Nottingham with his brothers-in-law, Ethelred and Alfred, six years
back, not without show of manhood--sees for his part nothing for it
under such circumstances but to get away as swiftly as possible, as many
so-called kings have done before him, and since. The West Saxon court is
no place for him, quite other views of kingship prevailing in those
parts. So the poor Buhred breaks away from his anchors, leaving his wife
Ethelswitha even, in his haste, to take refuge with her brother; or is
it that the heart of the daughter of the race of Cerdic swells against
leaving the land which her sires had won, the people they had planted
there, in the moment of sorest need? In any case Buhred drifts away
alone across into France, and so toward the winter to Rome. There he
dies at once--about Christmas-time, 874--of shame and sorrow probably,
or of a broken heart as we say; at any rate having this kingly gift left
in him, that he cannot live and look on the ruin of his people, as St.
Edmund's brother Edwold is doing in these same years, "near a clear well
at Carnelia, in Dorsetshire," doing the hermit business there on bread
and water.
The English in Rome bury away poor Buhred, with all the honors, in the
Church of St. Mary's, to which the English schools rebuilt by his
father-in-law Ethelwulf were attached. Ethelswitha visited, or started
to visit, the tomb years later, we are told, in 888, when Mercia had
risen to new life under her great brother's rule. Through these same
months Guthrum, Oskytal, and the rest are wintering at Repton, after
destroying there the cloister where the kingly line of Mercia lie;
disturbing perhaps the bones of the great Offa, whom Charlemagne had to
treat as an equal.
Neither of the pagan kings is inclined at this time to settle in Mercia;
so, casting about what to do with it, they light on "a certain foolish
man," a king's thane, one Ceolwulf, and set him up as a sort of King
Popinjay. From this Ceolwulf they take hostages for the payment of
yearly tribute--to be wrung out of these poor Mercians on pain of
dethronement--and for the surrender of the kingdom to them on whatever
day they would have it back again. Foolish king's thanes, turned into
King Popinjays by pagans, and left to play at government on such terms,
are not pleasant or profitable objects in such times as these of one
thousand years since--or indeed in any times, for the matter of that. So
let us finish with Ceolwulf, just noting that a year or two later his
pagan lords seem to have found much of the spoil of monasteries, and the
pickings of earl and churl, of folkland and bookland, sticking to his
fingers, instead of finding its way to their coffers. This was far from
their meaning in setting him up in the high places of Mercia. So they
strip him and thrust him out, and he dies in beggary.
This, then, is the winter's work of the great pagan army at Repton,
Alfred watching them and their work doubtless with keen eye--not without
misgivings too at their numbers, swollen again to terrible proportions
since they sailed away down Thames after Wilton fight. It will take
years yet before the gaps in the fighting strength of Wessex, left by
those nine pitched battles, and other smaller fights, will be filled by
the crop of youths passing from childhood to manhood. An anxious
thought, that, for a young king.
The pagans, however, are not yet ready for another throw for Wessex; and
so when Mercia is sucked dry for the present, and will no longer
suitably maintain so great a host, they again sever. Halfdene, who would
seem to have joined them recently, takes a large part of the army away
with him northward. Settling his head-quarters by the river Tyne, he
subdues all the land, and "ofttimes spoils the Picts and the Strathclyde
Britons." Among other holy places in those parts, Halfdene visits the
Isle of Lindisfarne, hoping perhaps in his pagan soul not only to commit
ordinary sacrilege in the holy places there, which is every-day work for
the like of him, but even to lay impious hands on, and to treat with
indignity, the remains of that holy man St. Cuthbert, who has become, in
due course, patron and guardian saint of hunters, and of that scourge of
pagans, Alfred the West Saxon. If such were his thoughts, he is
disappointed of his sacrilege; for Bishop Eardulf and Abbot
Eadred--devout and strenuous persons--having timely warning of his
approach, carry away the sainted body from Lindisfarne, and for nine
years hide with it up and down the distracted northern counties, now
here, now there, moving that sacred treasure from place to place until
this bitterness is overpast, and holy persons and things, dead or
living, are no longer in danger, and the bodies of saints may rest
safely in fixed shrines; the pagan armies and disorderly persons of all
kinds having been converted or suppressed in the mean time; for which
good deed the royal Alfred--in whose calendar St. Cuthbert, patron of
huntsmen, stands very high--will surely warmly befriend them hereafter,
when he has settled his accounts with many persons and things. From the
time of this incursion of Halfdene, Northumbria may be considered once
more a settled state, but a Danish, not a Saxon one.
The rest and greater part of the army, under Guthrum, Oskytal, and
Amund, on leaving Repton, strike southeast, through what was "Landlord"
Edmund's country, to Cambridge, where, in their usual heathen way, they
pass the winter of 875.
The downfall, exile, and death of his brother-in-law in 874 must have
warned Alfred, if he had any need of warning, that no treaty could bind
these foemen, and that he had nothing to look for but the same measure
as soon as the pagan leaders felt themselves strong enough to mete it
out to him and Wessex. In the following year we accordingly find him on
the alert, and taking action in a new direction. These heathen pirates,
he sees, fight his people at terrible advantage by reason of their
command of the sea. This enables them to choose their own point of
attack, not only along the sea-coast, but up every river as far as their
light galleys can swim; to retreat unmolested, at their own time,
whenever the fortune of war turns against them; to bring reinforcements
of men and supplies to the scene of action without fear of hindrance.
His Saxons have long since given up their seafaring habits. They have
become before all things an agricultural people, drawing almost
everything they need from their own soil. The few foreign tastes they
have are supplied by foreign traders. However, if Wessex is to be made
safe the sea-kings must be met on their own element; and so, with what
expenditure of patience and money and encouraging words and example we
may easily conjecture, the young King gets together a small fleet, and
himself takes command of it. We have no clew to the point on the south
coast where the admiral of twenty five fights his first naval action,
but know only that in the summer of 875 he is cruising with his fleet,
and meets seven tall ships of the enemy. One of these he captures, and
the rest make off after a hard fight--no small encouragement to the
sailor King, who has thus for another year saved Saxon homesteads from
devastation by fire and sword.
The second wave of invasion had now at last gathered weight and volume
enough, and broke on the King and people of the West Saxons.
The year 876 was still young when the whole pagan army, which had
wintered at and about Cambridge, marched to their ships and put to sea.
Guthrum was in command, with the other two kings, Anketel and Amund, as
his lieutenants, under whom was a host as formidable as that which had
marched across Mercia through forest and waste, and sailed up the Thames
five years before to the assault of Reading. There must have been some
few days of harassing suspense, for we cannot suppose that Alfred was
not aware of the movements of his terrible foes. Probably his new fleet
cruised off the south coast on the watch for them, and all up the Thames
there were gloomy watchings and forebodings of a repetition of the evil
days of 871. But the suspense was soon over. Passing by the Thames'
mouth, and through Dover Straits, the pagan fleet sailed, and westward
still past many tempting harbors and rivers' mouths, until they came off
the coast of Dorsetshire. There they land at Wareham, and seize and
fortify the neck of land between the rivers Frome and Piddle, on which
stood, when they landed, a fortress of the West Saxons and a monastery
of holy virgins. Fortress and monastery fell into the hands of the
Danes, who set to work at once to throw up earthworks and otherwise
fortify a space large enough to contain their army, and all spoil
brought in by marauding bands from this hitherto unplundered country.
This fortified camp was soon very strong, except on the western side,
upon which Alfred shortly appeared with a body of horsemen and such
other troops as could be gathered hastily together. The detachment of
the pagans, who were already out pillaging the whole neighborhood, fell
back apparently before him, concentrating on the Wareham camp. Before
its outworks Alfred paused. He is too experienced a soldier now to risk
at the outset of a campaign such a disaster as that which he and
Ethelred had sustained in their attempt to assault the camp at Reading
in 871. He is just strong enough to keep the pagans within their lines,
but has no margin to spare. So he sits down before the camp, but no
battle is fought, neither he nor Guthrum caring to bring matters to that
issue. Soon negotiations are commenced, and again a treaty is made.
On this occasion Alfred would seem to have taken special pains to bind
his faithless foe. All the holy relics which could be procured from holy
places in the neighborhood were brought together, that he himself and
his people might set the example of pledging themselves in the most
solemn manner known to Christian men. Then a holy ring or bracelet,
smeared with the blood of beasts sacrificed to Woden, was placed on a
heathen altar. Upon this Guthrum and his fellow kings and earls swore on
behalf of the army that they would quit the King's country and give
hostages. Such an oath had never been sworn by Danish leader on English
soil before. It was the most solemn known to them. They would seem also
to have sworn on Alfred's relics, as an extra proof of their sincerity
for this once, and their hostages "from among the most renowned men in
the army" were duly handed over. Alfred now relaxed his watch, even if
he did not withdraw with the main body of his army, leaving his horse to
see that the terms of the treaty were performed, and to watch the
Wareham camp until the departure of the pagan host. But neither oath on
sacred ring, nor the risk to their hostages, weighed with Guthrum and
his followers when any advantage was to be gained by treachery. They
steal out of the camp by night, surprise and murder the Saxon horsemen,
seize the horses, and strike across the country, the mounted men
leading, to Exeter, but leaving a sufficient garrison to hold Wareham
for the present. They surprise and get possession of the western
capital, and there settle down to pass the winter. Rollo, fiercest of
the vikings, is said by Asser to have passed the winter with them in
their Exeter quarters on his way to Normandy; but whether the great
robber himself were here or not, it is certain that the channel swarmed
with pirate fleets, who could put in to Wareham or Exeter at their
discretion, and find a safe stronghold in either place from which to
carry fire and sword through the unhappy country.
Alfred had vainly endeavored to overtake the march to Exeter in the
autumn of 876, and, failing in the pursuit, had disbanded his own troops
as usual, allowing them to go to their own homes until the spring.
Before he could be afoot again in the spring of 877 the main body of the
pagans at Exeter had made that city too strong for any attempt at
assault, so the King and his troops could do no more than beleaguer it
on the land side, as he had done at Wareham. But Guthrum could laugh at
all efforts of his great antagonist, and wait in confidence the sure
disbanding of the Saxon troops at harvest time, so long as his ships
held the sea.
Supplies were running short in Exeter, but the Exe was open and
communications going on with Wareham. It is arranged that the camp there
shall be broken up, and the whole garrison with their spoil shall join
head-quarters. One hundred and twenty Danish war-galleys are freighted,
and beat down channel, but are baffled by adverse winds for nearly a
month. They and all their supplies may be looked for any day in the Exe
when the wind changes. Alfred, from his camp before Exeter, sends to his
little fleet to put to sea. He cannot himself be with them as in their
first action, for he knows well that Guthrum will seize the first moment
of his absence to sally from Exeter, break the Saxon lines, and scatter
his army in roving bands over Devonshire, on their way back to the
eastern kingdom. The Saxon fleet puts out, manned itself, as some say,
partly with sea-robbers, hired to fight their own people. However
manned, it attacks bravely a portion of the pirates. But a mightier
power than the fleet fought for Alfred at this crisis. First a dense fog
and then a great storm came on, bursting on the south coast with such
fury that the pagans lost no less than one hundred of their chief ships
off Swanage, as mighty a deliverance perhaps for England--though the
memory of it is nearly forgotten--as that which began in the same seas
seven hundred years later, when Drake and the sea-kings of the sixteenth
century were hanging on the rear of the Spanish _armada_ along the Devon
and Dorset coasts, while the beacons blazed up all over England and the
whole nation flew to arms.
The destruction of the fleet decided the fate of the siege of Exeter.
Once more negotiations are opened by the pagans; once more Alfred,
fearful of driving them to extremities, listens, treats, and finally
accepts oaths and more hostages, acknowledging probably in sorrow to
himself that he can for the moment do no better. And on this occasion
Guthrum, being caught far from home, and without supplies or ships,
"keeps the peace well," moving as we conjecture, watched jealously by
Alfred, on the shortest line across Devon and Somerset to some ford in
the Avon, and so across into Mercia, where he arrives during harvest,
and billets his army on Ceolwulf, camping them for the winter about the
city of Gloster. Here they run up huts for themselves, and make some
pretense of permanent settlement on the Severn, dividing large tracts of
land among those who cared to take them.