The Winter of the Danes

Beate promised that she would try and discover where Elfgirda and her mother were being held. She told me that there were some women being held for ransom and these had not been harmed as yet. Ivar had little patience, though, it seemed. If no ransom was paid at the first demand, he sold the younger hostages to Friesian traders. The elder became drudges, or worse. I helped her lift the barrel above the bank and watched her struggle back to the camp with her burden. We agreed to meet again the following day. I crawled back to my hideout to continue the vigil.

The sun waxed stronger through the day and I must have dozed off in its warmth. Truth to tell, I had not realised the extent of my exhaustion. I slept like a baby and woke a captive. The pricking of a dagger at my nape dragged me from deep slumber. I turned slowly to see the grinning faces. There were three of them.

"What have we got here?" The voice was pure Angle. The three of them crouched in my hollow. The grins were still in place but eyes flickered nervously towards the camp. The sleep had left me now and I knew them for what they were - Wolfsheads, lawless men driven out for their crimes. They were poorly armed. Two with daggers, one with a hunting bow. The arrows in his quiver were mismatched and poor things.

"I am Hereward, son of Edmund of Sceaftensbyrig and Ælfred's man, " I said, "Whose men are you?" Although I knew the answer. I saw the surprise on their filthy faces. What was a man of Wessex doing here on the edge of Theodford? I seized my chance and swung a boot into the nearest crotch, pulling my own dagger as I rolled away from them. The one I'd kicked collapsed; I swear I burst his fruit. The bowman tried to nock an arrow but his hands were shaking like a man with the ague. I dived at the remaining pair, arms flung, and bore them to the turf.

There was time for nothing more. The disturbance had been spotted from the camp and Danish voices rose in the challenge. Abandoning all caution, I sprinted for the trees and my horses. The Wolfsheads scattered, one bent double still and limping. Glancing back, I saw him caught and cut down. A dozen or more Danish warriors were whooping in pursuit of the other two. They looked to be going strong. I caught my horse and one other, the one that carried my weapons, and, vaulting onto his back, I galloped away, leading the spare horse behind. The loss of the other horse, which carried my provisions, was a bitter blow. But a man needs a whole skin to eat. I had my shield and axe, the better of the bargain, as I thought.

The worst part was the camp would now be alert. Knowing there were Wolfsheads in the area would make them wary. I could see no chance of meeting Beate on the morrow. After a mile or so I slowed the horses. The land rose slightly, not enough to be called a hill but enough to hide me from the camp. The light was fading as I circled round to the north. I wanted to be on the opposite side from the Wolfsheads. Let the hue and cry go after them!

The next dawn found me in a patch of coppiced chestnut looking out on the main camp gate. A sentry stood by the gate, raised up by standing on a wagon bed. He had chosen well for the land was flat as sin and he could see anything that walked, crawled or flew outside the palings. I resolved to wait for darkness and spent the day hungry, in restless dozing. At least there was no sign of the sun and dusk came that bit earlier. The sentry changed at intervals and once or twice I saw horsemen enter and leave. Men may suppose that great sailors like the Danes would be fish from water on the land but not so. Although they fought on foot like us, all I ever saw could ride a land horse as well as their wavehorses. It is we Saxons who make poor cavalry. When Hengist and Horsa, the fathers of our race, first came to these shores, the Britons pressed them sore from horseback. Even today, we have the memory of Mount Badon. Some say the Britons' King will come again but I don't see it. They are pressed back far into the west now, beyond Selwood.

My thoughts that day were not on legends but living men. How to get into the camp? If I could only find Beate, she could point to Elfgirda and her mother. But now I lacked a horse. I was at the point of despair. Like my father, I am not greatly moved by the priests' mumblings but now, alone and in peril of my life, I turned to prayer.

Now I cannot say that praying brought the answer but I also cannot say that it did not. For, as I knelt in the thicket, it came to me that I could go among the camp as a Herald, come to negotiate for ransom. This device, at least, would gain me admittance to their stronghold and allow me to see for myself where Elfgirda and her mother were being held.

I woke before dawn the next day and made my preparations. I wove a wreath of osiers and attached them to a long wand of chestnut, cut from my coppice. I washed myself as best I could and combed out and braided my hair; my beard was not yet long enough to concern me overmuch. I put on fresh woollen trews and brushed my cloak with teasel. As soon as the camp was stirring, I made my approach. I rode towards the guarded gate slowly, my wand held high. As soon as I was within hailing distance I called to them in Danish.

"Peace! Peace, I come in peace!"

"Who comes?"

"Hereward of Wessex, herald to the King!"

"Which dunghill cockerel is that?"

"Ælfred of Wessex, the cockerel who beat you!"

There were obvious signs of hurried consultations and the gates creaked open. I rode in, looking neither to left nor right, but with my eyes fixed on a figure all in black, a silver circlet at his throat. He was tall and slim and would have been fair but for the small pox scars on his face. His hair was the colour of red gold and his eyes like ice. Ivar the Boneless was a well-made man.

His lips smiled but his eyes remained cold.

"State your business, Ælfred's pup."

"Lord Ivar?"

"That I am, boy, and more."

"My Lord, the King has sent me to discover if you will ransom the Lady Gytha, wife to Ædwig, Thegn of Warmynster, and also her daughter, the Lady Elfgirda. He would also inquire of you of any others you may hold that are of gentle birth."

"Ælfred has decreed no ransom."

"True, my Lord, for fighting men, but the King does not make war on women, nor wishes them to suffer in his wars."

Ivar appeared to consider this. I went on. "You will know, my Lord, that my King is of the Christian Faith?" Ivar nodded and spat on the ground; a casual insult. "It is simply thus," I said. "Our religion forbids us from rape or otherwise to make war on the gentle sex."

Ivar suddenly bellowed with laughter. The warriors, standing around and listening to our exchanges, did likewise.

"Why then make war? If not for women and plunder, then for what? The pleasure of killing men? Your King is mad and all Christians likewise. We fight for gain, boy, not glory!"

"As my Lord pleases."

I kept my face still although I was raging inside. "Will you discuss ransom, my Lord?"  Ivar shrugged. He stroked his chin with one hand, the other on the hilt of a long dagger at his belt. He looked at me keenly and I was sure he could see through my pretence. His ice-eyes were never still. He took in my garments and my weapons and my obvious youth.

"Why did Ælfred send a boy?"

"I speak your language a little, Lord."

"Hmm, so you do. A little. Come then, and let us speak of terms."

With that, he turned his back and strode towards the Great Hall. As I followed him, I caught a glimpse of Beate, eyes round as mill-wheels, lurking at the edge of the crowd. I gave her a brief sign with my fingers, under the guise of adjusting my cloak. The inside of the camp was rank and muddy and stank of dung, wood-smoke and horse-piss. As I looked about, I reckoned there were upwards of three thousand warriors alone. Everywhere I could see thralls and captives forced to menial work. Some sorry looking men were digging a new latrine trench and women were preparing the midday meal on an open range. It looked like flat bread and some sort of broth.

Ivar beckoned to me his quarters, a larger hut beside the Great Hall, made of cob and thatched with reeds. He thrust aside the hide that covered the doorway and drew me inside. In the gloom, I could see a sleeping pallet of fur-covered straw and a rough table and brace of chairs. Ivar sat and indicated I should do likewise. Two silent warriors took station at my back. There was a movement among the furs on the pallet and a girl-child, naked as a jay, emerged. Her face was bruised and wracked in misery. I felt my face grow hot with anger and desperately looked away, trying to compose myself.

The Danish chief had taken all this in; the direction of my glance and my reaction. He now sought to discomfit me further by calling the girl to him, as a man would call a dog. His hands roamed over the child's body. She whimpered as he thrust his fingers into her. All the while his eyes were on me. A smile played around his lips but never reached those cold, shrewd eyes.

"What do you think of my little pet?"

I said nothing, but kept my eyes locked on his, trying to ignore what he was doing. The girl tried to squirm away from the insistent fingers and he swatted her, backhanded, across the face to still her. I longed to reach across the table and cut his heart out but I felt the warriors behind me, alert and ready to kill if I moved against their lord.

I kept my peace and after a while, he grew bored with his tormenting of the child and shoved her roughly backwards to the bed. He yawned ostentatiously.

"So, Hereward of Wessex, tell me your proposal."

"I have none, my Lord. I seek only to know if you will offer the ladies for ransom."

"And if I will?"

"I am ordered to my King's good-brother, the King of Mercia, and arrange for payment."

"And if I will not?"

"I am to return to Wessex and tell the Thegn his wife and daughter are lost to him."

"Tell me, Hereward, are you a man of rank?"

"I am the youngest son of Edmond, Ealdorman of Sceaftensbyrig."

"And what is your wergild?"

"Six hundred shillings."

Ivar snorted at this. My wergild was the sum that a man must pay in reparations if he killed me. In Wessex, it was two hundred shillings for a peasant. My father's rank had wergild of twelve hundred shillings.

"It would almost be worth that to kill you."

"It would be the worst bad luck, Lord, to kill a herald."

The warriors behind me stirred again and I knew my words had hit home. The Danes are a superstitious race. Ivar shrugged again. I knew he was toying with me just because he could. It was the nature of the man. Nothing pleased him better than to inflict suffering. I couldn't understand him. He was a mighty warrior, brave as any man, but still he had the soul of a coward, using his strength against the weak.

"Eight Talents of pure gold for each limb," he said at last. I pulled a face of great distress. Such a sum was astronomical. It would ransom a dozen Thegns in other times. Mercia had paid barely twice that to buy off Halfdan's army the previous year. I let my shoulders sag.

"I fear it is too much, Lord."

"Far too much for a pair of fish-wives." Ivar agreed affably. "Far too much for the Queen of Wessex. Still, it is my price, boy. Now get you gone!"

Rough hands seized my arms and propelled me through the door. We walked in silence back to the gate. A thrall held my horse and I saw Beate hovering near by. I stopped. "Beate," I said, "is that you?" She was quick to take my cue and ran forward, dropping to her knees at my feet.

"Lord Hereward! Have you come to save us?"

"I'm trying to, Beate. Where is your mistress?"

She looked puzzled for only a moment and then caught on.

"They keep my mistress there, sir, in that hut beside the well."

She indicated the place in question. Before I could question her further, I was shoved towards my horse and she was sent on her way with a kick.

Once back in my coppice, I needed time to think. Certainly I had improved my situation in that I now knew where the ladies were being held. The problem of getting them out seemed as difficult as ever. The hut by the well was at the opposite end of the camp from the gate. It was close to the palings on the eastern side. I was now due north, a mile from the gate; say a mile and a half from Elfgirda. Even if I could get them out, I still lacked a horse and the land to the east was chancy; deep fen and swamp. Here, perhaps, lay my best chance. If we could make it to the fen, it would be almost impossible to track us.

I moved my camp eastwards under cover of night. The next morning I was barely four hundred paces from the palings and could see the hostages' hut clearly beside the well. I studied the immediate area inside and outside the camp. My problem was I wanted a diversion that would take the Danes to the western end of the camp, or at least as far as the gate. This would give a few precious minutes to get in and rescue the women. I was also resolved to take Beate with me as well. Her courage deserved no less.