Wind swept over the white landscape, shaking loose snow from the branches of dormant trees and evergreens. Most of the people were wise enough to take refuge from the weather, and little hovels boasted the smoke of smoldering hearth fires. But one element of human braved the outdoors, atop the backs of strong, well-bred horses, covered in supple fabrics and skins.
The cold winter morning sent a chill through the riders as Alfred gathered his reins and clucked to his horse. The young lord felt more alone than he ever had in his life, despite being surrounded by guards, pages, servants, and priests. His jewels sparkled in the pale sunlight and shone like beacons among the caravan of men. Armor and weaponry jingled, and the horses grunted under the weight of the men who carried heavy iron swords. Alfred carried a sword as well, with a jeweled handle that matched the diamonds that adorned his neck and chest. His wrists and his fingers were also bejeweled but covered by soft leather gloves. Even Alfred's saddle was set with diamonds.
Squires carried banners of the House of Wessex, which flapped in the breeze and snapped close to his head. Alfred was nauseous as the horse swayed beneath him. He wanted to look back. He wanted to turn his horse around and gallop back, back to the monastery that had been his home for nearly four years. Instead, he kept his face front, and his back straight, aware that eyes were always on him. He could not, however, hide how sick he was getting.
"You are looking a bit green, little brother," observed the king.
"It is nothing," Alfred insisted.
Theobald trotted his horse alongside Alfred's. "That is a ... white horse," Theobald stated.
"It is." Alfred glared at his cousin, hearing a tone of judgement in his voice.
"Pardon my saying so, my lord, but it might not be the best choice to ride to war."
"It is a fine choice." Alfred looked straight ahead, trying not to show how bad he felt.
"As you say." Theobald clucked his tongue, which sounded like a shaming toward Alfred, and he glared at his cousin's back as the ealdorman rode forward to scout the road ahead.
"He is right." Prince Aethelred sidled up close and spoke low. "No warrior rides a white horse!"
Alfred put his head down because he barely had the strength to speak. "White is pure, like the pope's cassock. Anyway, I am supposed to be a cleric, not a warrior."
"Hm." Aethelred smirked.
Alfred ignored him as his horse jounced over the lowlands of Wessex. He thought about his immediate future with every step that his horse took, bringing him closer to the pagans who killed kings, closer to a place where he would witness killing and possibly be forced to kill. A queasy feeling rolled through his insides and started working its way up through his body. He pulled his horse to a halt and clambered out of the saddle, barely getting down in time to get sick on the path.
King Aethelbert stopped the procession and turned his horse. "Was your drink too strong last night?"
Theobald laughed, and Aethelred joined in teasing, but after the third time Alfred scurried off his horse, no one was laughing. It appeared that he was truly ill, and they started to glance at one another with concern. Wulfheard dismounted to help the weak and weary lord back into his saddle.
Alfred resisted the urge to cry, though he was truly miserable. He longed for the warm fires of the monastery and for the bishop who had been his caretaker for as long as his memory spanned. Alfred could not remember a time when Bishop Wihtred had not been with him, teaching him about faith and Christ, grooming him for a future that he had so eagerly embraced. He was pale and shaking when he took his saddle for the last time. The cold, dry air was his only solace as his belly was too empty to offer anything more than dry heaves, and his muscles ached from retching.
"Is he afraid of battle?" Alfred could hear one of the men whisper.
The royal procession arrived at the great bridge of Lundene early in the day. The wind had swept away the usual fog of the city and Alfred had a clear view of the giant wooden bridge. Another, more ancient bridge, of Roman construction, was only a furlong further down the river, but they went over the more recent, wooden structure, which arched at the center and then gradually led them back down to the opposite river bank, officially setting them in the middle kingdom of Mercia.
The heavily traveled roadways cleared before them, and their horses tramped through the puddles of human and animal waste that littered the street. They marched through the town and out the northern gate, up the sloping rampart of earth to where the second wall of defense for the city had been piled. As they reached the plateau they had to dismount and walk their horses down the steep outer side.
The sun peeked above them as they made their way north of the city, leaving the stench of people and the smell of the river behind them. They traveled through the day, taking their midday meal in their saddles. When the stars began to peep out in the darkening sky, Aethelbert finally called for them to stop.
There was nowhere off the road for them to camp and all around them stretched the deep, cold fields of Mercia. Alfred looked out at the vast white landscape which spread forever in all directions. The road was Roman and was built up above the natural landscape and then paved. They dismounted and Alfred stood, holding the reigns while Ser Wulfheard built a fire for him, then he sat down in front of the little blaze while Wulfheard set up a tent behind him, and the squires unsaddled his horse and covered the beast with a blanket.
Alfred's brothers had their own fires in front of him, and behind him was a long caravan of small fires with a few huddled figures over each one. Wind whipped through the blazes and ruffled their hair, and Alfred shivered in front of his tent.
Wulfheard skewered meat and put it over the fire, but Alfred's stomach was still churning. The two squires skewered their own dinners and thrust them into the fire, Efrog scorching his meat and burned the skewer. Alfred cringed as the boy began devouring the half-burned, half-raw meat. The four of them were relatively alone, and the loneliness stretched across the nothing that was on either side of the road as the sun melted into the horizon, and black inked the sky above them. The meat sizzled over the fire, and Wulfheard inspected it in the gathering dark.
"Here you are, lord." Wulfheard held out the sizzling meat for him. "Cooked all the way through."
Alfred held his stomach. "I do not think that I have the strength."
"Without food," Wulfheard insisted, "you will never have strength."
Alfred took the skewer and held it.
"Many people are going to bed starving," Wulfheard reminded him. "You should be grateful."
"I know," Alfred sighed.
He nibbled at the meat, then lay down to sleep with his head in the tent and his feet close to the fire. The following morning, they still had another full day to travel and Alfred did not want to eat breakfast, but Wulfheard insisted.
"You need meat, Alfred." Wulfheard forced a hunk of boiled bacon into his hand.
Alfred choked down a few bites before they took their saddles for the morning, and then he prayed to God to give him strength. His stomach was sore inside and out, but he managed the rest of the ride without having to scramble off his horse.
Near exhaustion by nightfall, Alfred did not even see the large form of the Hall of Nottingham until he heard the horses in front of him tromping over the bridge. The evening sky grew purple above them as they marched their horses into the courtyard, where King Burgred waited with a party of nobles.
"Keep your back straight," Aethelbert muttered under his breath.
The company dismounted and Alfred walked behind his brothers to greet the reception line. He kept his chin up, despite his fatigue.
"The great Lord be praised. It is good to see you, King Aethelbert." King Burgred sported a shaggy beard that was turning white with age and worry. "How has your journey treated you?"
"Tolerable, your highness," replied King Aethelbert. "And who are these fine men?"
Burgred turned to the receiving line and introduced Aethelbert to his generals. The Mercian king greeted Prince Aethelred warmly, then he turned to Alfred. "Lord Alfred," he became formal. "I have not seen you in several winters. You have grown."
"Thank you for your hospitality, your highness. Your hall will be a welcome retreat from the Downs."
Burgred ushered them in out of the cold and they all took seats by the hearth. "The pagans have killed Ecgwerth of York and razed the city in retribution. Aelle has left the island all together and leaves us with the rage of the provoked pagans."
There were no fun tales or heroic legends told around the fire that night. When the kings finally laid down to sleep, Alfred's head was ringing with the talk of war. He closed his eyes to the dark interior of the hall, and in his mind, he knelt at an alter with Wihtred, where they said their nightly prayers, and prayed for triumph over their enemies.
Dawn filled the hall with light and Burgred got the house up and moving early. Crowds of villagers filled the streets and dove for safety when the line of heavily armored horses came clattering out of the courtyard and made their way through the town. As they reached the northern border of Nottingham, Alfred fell into a fast gallop behind his brothers and King Burgred. Merging behind them were two armies, both flying colorful banners bearing the crests of either Wessex or Mercia as they charged through the woods.
He led them through the forest and into the camp, which was muddy, frozen, and miserable. Men were sleeping in tents and horses were outside. Gaunt faces looked up to see them as they marched through, churning the soil with the hooves of their mounts.
"Why are they not fed?" Alfred mumbled. Wulfheard hushed him.
A light snow began to fall as Burgred brought them to a tent at the top of a hill. Alfred dismounted behind his brothers and followed them inside where a large fire was being set at the entrance. Alfred accepted a cup of wine from a servant, sat on a pillow, and leaned back against a rug-covered log.
"Your highness." Burgred motioned to Aethelbert, and the two kings walked outside alone.
Theobald followed them to the door and stood like a forlorn hound that wanted to follow his master while Aethelred paced back and forth in front of Alfred.
"Do you think the battle will start now?" Aethelred asked.
"Sit down and be still," Theobald commanded.
Aethelred stopped, glared daggers into their cousin's back, then responded. "I shall speak if I wish."
Theobald turned from the door and gave Aethelred a stern expression. Aethelred stood defiant for a moment, then took a seat beside Alfred and resentfully accepted his own cup of wine. When they were quiet, Alfred could hear a steady drum beat across the valley.
"Are those pagan war drums?" Alfred whispered in the thick silence of the room.
"They bait us," Theobald grumbled while he watched intently out the door.
Alfred could see the kings talking on the other side of the fire. They were making sweeping arm gestures in the direction of the valley, the prechosen battle ground. Theobald's anxiety was almost palpable until the kings returned to the tent, and servants started carrying in several courses for dinner. Alfred thought about the soldiers' thin faces that he had seen on their march in. He wanted to ask about them, but Wulfheard had already shushed him once.
"King Aethelbert and I will go on the morrow to the middle of the valley," Burgred announced.
Alfred looked at Aethelbert, who was looking down and listening intently, but he already knew the plan.
"We will demand to speak with a representative of the pagans," Burgred said. "And we will see if they can be persuaded to leave without the need for battle. We have amassed several armies. The hope is that they will see this and not wish to fight."
"Do you not think they, too, have been amassing this whole time?" Alfred spoke without thinking.
Burgred glared at him, and Aethelbert shook his head sternly, so Alfred sat back and waited for someone else to speak, but nobody asked for specifics.
When they laid down to sleep, Alfred prayed for the kings, for the soldiers, and for a quick resolution to the problem of the pagans. Most people, Alfred noticed, slept before he did and woke after he did. He laid awake for a long time, and in the middle of the night he got up to relieve himself, get a snack, and settle in for midnight prayers. When he went back to his bed, he slept a little, and had only a few hours of boredom before the sun rose, and the late winter morning arrived.
Alfred followed his brother into the cold, gray morning. White vapor coiled around their boots and entwined in the legs and tails of the horses. Drummers took up a slow toll when the kings stepped outside the tent. The drumbeat was slower than the beating of a heart, and it made the moment feel surreal as Alfred exhaled and saw his breath hang frozen in front of him for a moment.
"Lord." Uther and Efrog hurried over with his armor and helped Alfred dress and mount his horse. The drums continued their steady beat.
The kings got into their saddles, and Theobald and three other knights clustered around them. Alfred halted his horse in line with Aethelred, and they stood together to watch as the kings began to move forward at a stately pace. The horses reached the bottom of the ridge and pushed through knee-high, pristine snow, leaving a deep trench behind them. Alfred watched from the top of the ridge, and he saw that, across the valley, a hulking giant on a tall plow horse was lumbering between the trees.
Aethelred leaned forward in his saddle, as if he could strain enough to hear what was being said. The giant red-haired pagan got unnervingly close to the kings before he finally stopped his horse. The words that passed between them were lost in distance and wind, but the anger on the pagan's raised voice could be heard echoing up the hill. When the Saxon kings turned away and started to hurry back, Alfred's heart dropped.
"Archers!" Burgred was shouting as they crossed the field.
On the other side of the valley, the trees shook. The kings had yet to reach the incline on their side before the enemy army was breaking their cover, moving at a fast pace despite having to leap through snow.
"Archers!"
The word floated across the valley and a bugle sounded. Archers hurried to the front with a thudding of feet. Aethelred's mount danced and skittered, and Alfred's beast called out. The horses were trained for battle, and they were getting excited. Alfred held his reigns tight as the whooshing sound of two hundred arrows roared above them.
The kings clamored over the top of the ridge and hurried to get behind the archers just as the plow horse in the middle of the valley cried out. The arrows fell short of the advancing wave, but they hit the spot where the leaders had spoken.
Alfred stared at the form of the prone black horse in the white snow, surrounded by red splashes of blood. The pagan stood beside the dead animal, holding a thick round shield above his head as if he were merely blocking rain. Alfred's blood ran cold. How could they defeat an enemy who had no fear?
As the wave of arrows finished its volley, the pagan lowered his shield. He started walking through the snow toward their army while the fighters from the woods caught up with him. Burgred called again for archers.
For all his experience, education, and travel, and after all the reading he had done about war, Alfred could not have prepared his soul for the sight of twenty people falling dead in the sparkling snow before him. Slaughtered, like beasts. One moment fully alive, and in an instant, they had been removed without ever the chance of knowing Christ. His heart broke.
Most of the arrows fell around the enemy and punctured only the snow, leaving little pock marks on the white landscape where raven-feathered shafts were visible.
"Flanks!" Burgred called out.
The foot soldiers on the right and left flank rushed in to crush the advancing battalion. The sounds of war cries and the screams of agony filled the valley. Horses and shields clashed, and the clang of metal rang. A second wave of pagans broke through the trees and rushed into the fray.
Burgred sent more foot soldiers forward and they crashed into the front of the battle. The snow was no longer white, Alfred saw, but looked more the color of the dusty red landscape of Northern Italy. Alfred surveyed grimly the blood-stained ground, noting that some of the bodies were hidden in piles of snow, making legs and arms appear dismembered. Then he realized that some of them were dismembered.
Alfred felt sick. His horse was dancing beneath him, but he had it under control. Meanwhile, Aethelred's horse jerked its reins right out of his hands and Gwald caught hold of the bridle.
"I can handle my own horse!" Aethelred admonished him.
Gwald gave him the reins, which he would not have been able to reach on his own, and Aethelred snatched them, which caused his horse to rear and leap. Alfred's horse tossed its head and cried out for the battle, and he held it back, veering from Aethelred's wild mount. The bugle called for the cavalry, and the rushing of horses was more than Aethelred's stallion could resist. It pulled its bridle and took its own head, dashing down the hill with the others. Gwald dashed after his charge without a thought. Alfred's horse called out and Wulfheard had to walk his mount in a circle to keep it from following.
"Fool!" Alfred cursed his brother, remembering a time in the woods when Aethelred's bravado was more hinderance than help. "Wulfheard, you must retrieve him!"
"I won't leave your side," Wulfheard insisted.
"You will get him, or I will," Alfred swore. He was yelling to be heard over the madness that was swelling all around them. The sounds of the battle rang up the hill and the gurgle of the dying settled in their ears.
Wulfheard could see that he was serious, and he started his horse down the slippery slope, which was slick from so many going before him. Alfred moved his nervous horse to the edge and watched, trying to find Aethelred among the melees.
"There!" Efrog was pointing, but all at the valley floor was madness.
Alfred saw the original pagan, still marching with his arrow filled shield, getting closer and closer … to Wulfheard. Ser Wulfheard had found the prince and was putting his horse between Aethelred and the battle. Gwald was busy trying to get Aethelred out as Wulfheard's long sword rang against the axe of the red-haired wild man of the North.
"Wulfheard." Alfred prayed as the axe hooked the longsword and pulled the old knight from his saddle.
Wulfheard went down in the snow with a thud. Alfred opened his mouth to scream but the axe came down before he could make a noise. The raw color of the ground was doused in the brightest red Alfred had ever seen.
It was impossible. Time had to come to a halt. But the battle continued to tumble on in front of him and the body of Wulfheard was obscured by the insanity of war. The pagan was after Aethelred now, his fine horse and gleaming armor making him a prime target. Pagans were overwhelming the Saxon army on the field, and they were starting to climb the hillside. Alfred stood above them, watching their advance in horror.
The axe swung through the air and caught the hind leg of Gwald's horse, which screamed out in agony and went down. Aethelred had a clear path to escape, but he was turning around to look for his bodyguard.
Alfred kicked his horse and it was all the encouragement the beast needed to leap forward. They were airborne for several heartbeats, and Alfred could see Aethelred and Gwald getting out of harm's way just as the massive pagan was swinging his bloody axe where they had stood.
Alfred's horse had jumped from the ridge, and then they had to fall down the hill, and when they hit, they hit hard. Halfway down the hill, the horse found its feet and Alfred was jolted from the saddle. The white horse ran on, but Alfred hit the ground with a sharp pain accompanied by a loud crack, which set off a fire at the back of his head. Then the rest of his body landed, and the air was knocked out of his lungs in a painful exhale of breath.
He tried to move, but he could not command his legs. He looked up to see the pagan with the blood-dripping axe walking toward him.