the Saxon arms, but this view is certainly not supported by the
chroniclers. It is true that both at Wareham and Exeter the pagans broke
new ground, and secured their position, from which no doubt they did
sore damage in the neighboring districts, but we can trace in these
years none of the old ostentatious daring and thirst for battle with
Alfred. Whenever he appears the pirate bands draw back at once into
their strongholds, and, exhausted as great part of Wessex must have been
by the constant strain, the West Saxons show no signs yet of falling
from their gallant King. If he can no longer collect in a week such an
army as fought at Ashdown, he can still, without much delay, bring to
his side a sufficient force to hem the pagans in and keep them behind
their ramparts.
But the nature of the service was telling sadly on the resources of the
kingdom south of the Thames. To the Saxons there came no new levies,
while from the north and east of England, as well as from over the sea,
Guthrum was ever drawing to his standard wandering bands of sturdy
Northmen. The most important of these reinforcements came to him from an
unexpected quarter this autumn. We have not heard for some years of
Hubba, the brother of Hinguar, the younger of the two vikings who
planned and led the first great invasion in 868. Perhaps he may have
resented the arrival of Guthrum and other kings in the following years,
to whom he had to give place. Whatever may have been the cause, he seems
to have gone off on his own account: carrying with him the famous raven
standard, to do his appointed work in these years on other coasts under
its ominous shade.
This "war flag which they call raven" was a sacred object to the
Northmen. When Hinguar and Hubba had heard of the death of their father,
Regnar Lodbrog, and had resolved to avenge him, while they were calling
together their followers, their three sisters in one day wove for them
this war-flag, in the midst of which was portrayed the figure of a
raven. Whenever the flag went before them into battle, if they were to
win the day the sacred raven would rouse itself and stretch its wings;
but if defeat awaited them, the flag would hang round its staff and the
bird remain motionless. This wonder had been proved in many a fight, so
the wild pagans who fought under the standard of Regnar's children
believed. It was a power in itself, and Hubba and a strong fleet were
with it.
They had appeared in the Bristol Channel in this autumn of 877, and had
ruthlessly slaughtered and spoiled the people of South Wales. Here they
propose to winter; but, as the country is wild mountain for the most
part, and the people very poor, they will remain no longer than they can
help. Already a large part of the army about Gloster are getting
restless. The story of their march from Devonshire, through rich
districts of Wessex yet unplundered, goes round among the new-comers.
Guthrum has no power, probably no will, to keep them to their oaths. In
the early winter a joint attack is planned by him and Hubba on the West
Saxon territory. By Christmas they are strong enough to take the field,
and so in midwinter, shortly after Twelfth Night, the camp at Gloster
breaks up, and the army "stole away to Chippenham," recrossing the Avon
once more into Wessex, under Guthrum. The fleet, after a short delay,
crosses to the Devonshire coast, under Hubba, in thirty war-ships.
And now at last the courage of the West Saxons gives way. The surprise
is complete. Wiltshire is at the mercy of the pagans, who, occupying the
royal burgh of Chippenham as headquarters, overrun the whole district,
drive many of the inhabitants "beyond the sea for want of the
necessaries of life," and reduce to subjection all those that remain.
Alfred is at his post, but for the moment can make no head against them.
His own strong heart and trust in God are left him, and with them and a
scanty band of followers he disappears into the forest of Selwood, which
then stretched away from the confines of Wiltshire for thirty miles to
the west. East Somerset, now one of the fairest and richest of English
counties, was then for the most part thick wood and tangled swamp, but
miserable as the lodging is it is welcome for the time to the King. In
the first months of 878 Selwood Forest holds in its recesses the hope of
England.
It is at this point, as is natural enough, that romance has been most
busy, and it has become impossible to disentangle the actual facts from
monkish legend and Saxon ballad. In happier times Alfred was in the
habit himself of talking over the events of his wandering life
pleasantly with his courtiers, and there is no reason to doubt that the
foundation of most of the stories still current rests on those
conversations of the truth-loving King, noted down by Bishop Asser and
others.
The best known of these is, of course, the story of the cakes. In the
depths of the Saxon forests there were always a few neatherds and
swineherds, scattered up and down, living in rough huts enough, we may
be sure, and occupied with the care of the cattle and herds of their
masters. Among these in Selwood was a neatherd of the King, a faithful
man, to whom the secret of Alfred's disguise was intrusted, and who kept
it even from his wife. To this man's hut the King came one day alone,
and, sitting himself down by the burning logs on the hearth, began
mending his bow and arrows. The neatherd's wife had just finished her
baking, and having other household matters to attend to, confided her
loaves to the King, a poor tired-looking body, who might be glad of the
warmth, and could make himself useful by turning the batch, and so earn
his share while she got on with other business. But Alfred worked away
at his weapons, thinking of anything but the good housewife's batch of
loaves, which in due course were not only done, but rapidly burning to a
cinder. At this moment the neatherd's wife comes back, and flying to the
hearth to rescue the bread, cries out: "Drat the man! never to turn the
loaves when you see them burning. I'ze warrant you ready enough to eat
them when they are done." But besides the King's faithful neatherd,
whose name is not preserved, there are other churls in the forest, who
must be Alfred's comrades just now if he will have any. And even here he
has an eye for a good man, and will lose no opportunity to help one to
the best of his power. Such a one he finds in a certain swineherd called
Denewulf, whom he gets to know, a thoughtful Saxon man, minding his
charge there in the oak woods. The rough churl, or thrall, we know not
which, has great capacity, as Alfred soon finds out, and desire to
learn. So the King goes to work upon Denewulf under the oak trees, when
the swine will let him, and is well satisfied with the results of his
teaching and the progress of his pupil.
But in those miserable days the commonest necessaries of life were hard
enough to come by for the King and his few companions, and for his wife
and family, who soon joined him in the forest, even if they were not
with him from the first. The poor foresters cannot maintain them, nor
are this band of exiles the men to live on the poor. So Alfred and his
comrades are soon out foraging on the borders of the forest, and getting
what subsistence they can from the pagans, or from the Christians who
had submitted to their yoke. So we may imagine them dragging on life
till near Easter, when a gleam of good news comes tip from the west, to
gladden the hearts and strengthen the arms of these poor men in the
depths of Selwood.
Soon after Guthrum and the main body of the pagans moved from Gloster,
southward, the viking Hubba, as had been agreed, sailed with thirty
ships-of-war from his winter quarters on the South Welsh coast, and
landed in Devon. The news of the catastrophe at Chippenham, and of the
disappearance of the King, was no doubt already known in the West; and
in the face of it Odda the alderman cannot gather strength to meet the
pagan in the open field. But he is a brave and true man, and will make
no terms with the spoilers; so, with other faithful thanes of King
Alfred and their followers, he throws himself into a castle or fort
called Cynwith, or Cynuit, there to abide whatever issue of this
business God shall send them. Hubba, with the war-flag Raven, and a host
laden with the spoil of rich Devon vales, appear in due course before
the place. It is not strong naturally, and has only "walls in our own
fashion," meaning probably rough earthworks. But there are resolute men
behind them, and on the whole Hubba declines the assault, and sits down
before the place. There is no spring of water, he hears, within the
Saxon lines, and they are otherwise wholly unprepared for a siege. A few
days will no doubt settle the matter, and the sword or slavery will be
the portion of Odda and the rest of Alfred's men; meantime there is
spoil enough in the camp from Devonshire homesteads, which brave men can
revel in round the war-flag Raven, while they watch the Saxon ramparts.
Odda, however, has quite other views than death from thirst, or
surrender. Before any stress comes, early one morning he and his whole
force sally out over their earthworks, and from the first "cut down the
pagans in great numbers": eight hundred and forty warriors--some say
twelve hundred--with Hubba himself are slain before Cynuit fort; the
rest, few in number, escape to their ships. The war-flag Raven is left
in the hands of Odda and the men of Devon.
This is the news which comes to Alfred, Ethelnoth the alderman of
Somerset, Denewulf the swineherd, and the rest of the Selwood Forest
group, some time before Easter. These men of Devonshire, it seems, are
still stanch, and ready to peril their lives against the pagan. No doubt
up and down Wessex, thrashed and trodden out as the nation is by this
time, there are other good men and true, who will neither cross the sea
nor the Welsh marches nor make terms with the pagan; some sprinkling of
men who will yet set life at stake, for faith in Christ and love of
England. If these can only be rallied, who can say what may follow? So,
in the lengthening days of spring, council is held in Selwood, and there
will have been Easter services in some chapel or hermitage in the
forest, or, at any rate, in some quiet glade. The "day of days" will
surely have had its voice of hope for this poor remnant. Christ is risen
and reigns; and it is not in these heathen Danes, or in all the Northmen
who ever sailed across the sea, to put back his kingdom or to enslave
those whom he has freed.
The result is that, far away from the eastern boundary of the forest, on
a rising ground--hill it can scarcely be called--surrounded by dangerous
marshes formed by the little rivers Thone and Parret, fordable only in
summer, and even then dangerous to all who have not the secret, a small
fortified camp is thrown up under Alfred's eye, by Ethelnoth and the
Somersetshire men, where he can once again raise his standard. The spot
has been chosen by the King with the utmost care, for it is his last
throw. He names it the Etheling's _eig_ or island, "Athelney." Probably
his young son, the Etheling of England, is there among the first, with
his mother and his grandmother Eadburgha, the widow of Ethelred Mucil,
the venerable lady whom Asser saw in later years, and who has now no
country but her daughter's. There are, as has been reckoned, some two
acres of hard ground on the island, and around vast brakes of
alder-bush, full of deer and other game.
Here the Somersetshire men can keep up constant communication with him,
and a small army grows together. They are soon strong enough to make
forays into the open country, and in many skirmishes they cut off
parties of the pagans and supplies. "For, even when overthrown and cast
down," says Malmesbury, "Alfred had always to be fought with; so, then
when one would esteem him altogether worn down and broken, like a snake
slipping from the hand of him who would grasp it, he would suddenly
flash out again from his hiding-places, rising up to smite his foes in
the height of their insolent confidence, and never more hard to beat
than after a flight."
But it was still a trying life at Athelney. Followers came in slowly,
and provender and supplies of all kinds are hard to wring from the
pagan, and harder still to take from Christian men. One day, while it
was yet so cold that the water was still frozen, the King's people had
gone out "to get them fish or fowl, or some such purveyance as they
sustained themselves withal." No one was left in the royal hut for the
moment but himself, and his mother-in-law Eadburgha. The King--after his
constant wont whensoever he had opportunity--was reading from the Psalms
of David, out of the Manual which he carried always in his bosom. At
this moment a poor man appeared at the door and begged for a morsel of
bread "for Christ his sake." Whereupon the King, receiving the stranger
as a brother, called to his mother-in-law to give him to eat. Eadburgha
replied that there was but one loaf in their store, and a little wine in
a pitcher, a provision wholly insufficient for his own family and
people. But the King bade her nevertheless to give the stranger part of
the last loaf, which she accordingly did. But when he had been served
the stranger was no more seen, and the loaf remained whole, and the
pitcher full to the brim. Alfred, meantime, had turned to his reading,
over which he fell asleep, and dreamt that St. Cuthbert of Lindisfarne
stood by him, and told him it was he who had been his guest, and that
God had seen his afflictions and those of his people, which were now
about to end, in token whereof his people would return that day from
their expedition with a great take of fish. The King awakening, and
being much impressed with his dream, called to his mother-in-law and
recounted it to her, who thereupon assured him that she too had been
overcome with sleep and had had the same dream. And while they yet
talked together on what had happened so strangely to them, their
servants come in, bringing fish enough, as it seemed to them, to have
fed an army.
The monkish legend goes on to tell that on the next morning the King
crossed to the mainland in a boat, and wound his horn thrice, which drew
to him before noon five hundred men. What we may think of the story and
the dream, as Sir John Spelman says, "is not here very much material,"
seeing that, whether we deem it natural or supernatural, "the one as
well as the other serves at God's appointment, by raising or dejecting
of the mind with hopes or fears, to lead man to the resolution of those
things whereof he has before ordained the event."
Alfred, we may be sure, was ready to accept and be thankful for any
help, let it come from whence it might, and soon after Easter it was
becoming clear that the time is at hand for more than skirmishing
expeditions. Through all the neighboring counties word is spreading that
their hero King is alive and on foot again, and that there will be
another chance for brave men ere long of meeting once more these
scourges of the land under his leading.
A popular legend is found in the later chroniclers which relates that at
this crisis of his fortunes Alfred, not daring to rely on any evidence
but that of his own senses as to the numbers, disposition, and
discipline of the pagan army, assumed the garb of a minstrel and with
one attendant visited the camp of Guthrum. Here he stayed, "showing
tricks and making sport," until he had penetrated to the King's tents,
and learned all that he wished to know. After satisfying himself as to
the chances of a sudden attack, he returns to Athelney, and, the time
having come for a great effort, if his people will but make it, sends
round messengers to the aldermen and king's thanes of neighboring
shires, giving them a tryst for the seventh week after Easter, the
second week in May.
On or about the 12th of May, 878, King Alfred left his island in the
great wood, and his wife and children and such household gods [sic] as
he had gathered round him there, and came publicly forth among his
people once more, riding to Egbert's Stone--probably Brixton--on the
east of Selwood, a distance of twenty-six miles. Here met him the men of
the neighboring shires--Odda, no doubt, with his men of Devonshire, full
of courage and hope after their recent triumph; the men of
Somersetshire, under their brave and faithful alderman Ethelnoth; and
the men of Wilts and Hants, such of them at least as had not fled the
country or made submission to the enemy. "And when they saw their King
alive after such great tribulation, they received him, as he merited,
with joy and acclamation." The gathering had been so carefully planned
by Alfred and the nobles who had been in conference or correspondence
with him at Athelney that the Saxon host was organized and ready for
immediate action on the very day of muster. Whether Alfred had been his
own spy we cannot tell, but it is plain that he knew well what was
passing in the pagan camp, and how necessary swiftness and secrecy were
to the success of his attack.
Local traditions cannot be much relied upon for events which took place
a thousand years ago, but where there is clearly nothing improbable in
them they are at least worth mentioning. We may note, then, that
according to Somersetshire tradition, first collected by Dr.
Giles--himself a Somersetshire man, and one who, besides his _Life of
Alfred_ and other excellent works bearing on the time, is the author of
the _Harmony of the Chroniclers_, published by the Alfred Committee in
1852--the signal for the actual gathering of the West Saxons at Egbert's
Stone was given by a beacon lighted on the top of Stourton hill, where
Alfred's Tower now stands. Such a beacon would be hidden from the Danes,
who must have been encamped about Westbury, by the range of the
Wiltshire hills, while it would be visible to the west over the low
country toward the Bristol Channel, and to the south far into
Dorsetshire.
Not an hour was lost by Alfred at the place of muster. The bands which
came together there were composed of men well used to arms, each band
under its own alderman, or reeve. The small army he had himself been
disciplining at Athelney, and training in skirmishes during the last few
months, would form a reliable centre on which the rest would have to
form as best they could. So after one day's halt he breaks up his camp
at Egbert's Stone and marches to Aeglea, now called Clay hill, an
important height, commanding the vale to the north of Westbury, which
the Danish army were now occupying. The day's march of the army would be
a short five miles. Here the annals record that St. Neot, his kinsman,
appeared to him, and promised that on the morrow his misfortunes would
end.
There are still traces of rude earthworks round the top of Clay hill,
which are said to have been thrown up by Alfred's army at this time. If
there had been time for such a work, it would undoubtedly have been a
wise step, as a fortified encampment here would have served Alfred in
good stead in case of a reverse. But the few hours during which the army
halted on Clay hill would have been quite too short time for such an
undertaking, which, moreover, would have exhausted the troops. It is
more likely that the earthworks, which are of the oldest type, similar
to those at White Horse hill, above Ashdown, were there long before
Alfred's arrival in May, 878. After resting one night on Clay hill,
Alfred led out his men in close order of battle against the pagan host,
which lay at Ethandune. There has been much doubt among the antiquaries
as to the site of Ethandune, but Dr. Giles and others have at length
established the claims of Edington, a village seven miles from Clay
hill, on the northeast, to the spot where the strength of the second
wave of pagan invasion was utterly broken and rolled back weak and
helpless from the rock of the West Saxon kingdom.
Sir John Spelman, relying apparently only on the authority of Nicholas
Harpesfeld's _Ecclesiastical History of England_, puts a speech into
Alfred's mouth, which he is supposed to have delivered before the battle
of Edington. He tells them that the great sufferings of the land had
been yet far short of what their sins had deserved. That God had only
dealt with them as a loving Father, and was now about to succor them,
having already stricken their foe with fear and astonishment, and given
him, on the other hand, much encouragement by dreams and otherwise. That
they had to do with pirates and robbers, who had broken faith with them
over and over again; and the issue they had to try that day was whether
Christ's faith or heathenism was henceforth to be established in
England.
There is no trace of any such speech in the _Saxon Chronicle_ or Asser,
and the one reported does not ring like that of Judas Maccabaeus. That
Alfred's soul was on fire that morning, on finding himself once more at
the head of a force he could rely on, and before the enemy he had met so
often, we may be sure enough, but shall never know how the fire kindled
into speech, if indeed it did so at all. In such supreme moments many of
the strongest men have no word to say--keep all their heat within.
Nor have we any clew to the numbers who fought on either side at
Ethandune, or indeed in any of Alfred's battles. In the _Chronicles_
there are only a few vague and general statements, from which little can
be gathered. The most precise of them is that in the _Saxon Chronicle_,
which gives eight hundred and forty as the number of men who were slain,
as we heard, with Hubba before Cynuit fort, in Devonshire, earlier in
this same year. Such a death-roll, in an action in which only a small
detachment of the pagan army was engaged, would lead to the conclusion
that the armies were far larger than one would expect. On the other
hand, it is difficult to imagine how any large bodies of men could find
subsistence in a small country, which was the seat of so devastating a
war, and in which so much land remained still unreclaimed. But whatever
the power on either side amounted to we may be quite sure that it had
been exerted to the utmost to bring as large a force as possible into
line at Ethandune.
Guthrum fought to protect Chippenham, his base of operations, some
sixteen miles in his rear, and all the accumulated plunder of the busy
months which had passed since Twelfth Night; and it is clear that his
men behaved with the most desperate gallantry. The fight began at
noon--one chronicler says at sunrise, but the distance makes this
impossible unless Alfred marched in the night--and lasted through the
greater part of the day. Warned by many previous disasters the Saxons
never broke their close order, and so, though greatly outnumbered,
hurled back again and again the onslaughts of the Northmen. At last
Alfred and his Saxons prevailed, and smote his pagan foes with a very
great slaughter, and pursued them up to their fortified camp on Bratton
hill or Edge, into which the great body of the fugitives threw
themselves. All who were left outside were slain, and the great spoil
was all recovered. The camp may still be seen, called Bratton Castle,
with its double ditches and deep trenches, and barrow in the midst sixty
yards long, and its two entrances guarded by mounds. It contains more
than twenty acres, and commands the whole country side. There can be
little doubt that this camp, and not Chippenham, which is sixteen miles
away, was the last refuge of Guthrum and the great northern army on
Saxon soil.
So, in three days from the breaking up of his little camp at Athelney,
Alfred was once more King of all England south of the Thames; for this
army of pagans, shut up within their earthworks on Bratton Edge, are
little better than a broken and disorderly rabble, with no supplies and
no chance of succor from any quarter. Nevertheless he will make sure of
them, and above all will guard jealously against any such mishap as that
of 876, when they stole out of Wareham, murdered the horsemen he had
left to watch them, and got away to Exeter. So Bratton camp is strictly
besieged by Alfred with his whole power.