King Alfred And The Danes
In his royal villa at Chippenham, on the left bank of the gently-flowing
Avon, sat King Alfred, buried in his books. It was the evening of the
6th of January, in the year 878, a thousand years and more backward in
time. The first of English kings to whom a book had a meaning,--and the
last for centuries afterwards,--Alfred, the young monarch, had an
insatiable thirst for knowledge, a thirst then difficult to quell, for
books were almost as rare as gold-mines in that day. When a mere child,
his mother had brought to him and his brothers a handsomely illuminated
book, saying,--
"I will give this to that one of you four princes who first learns to
read."
Alfred won the book; so far as we know, he alone sought to win it, for
the art of reading in those early times was confined to monks, and
disdained by princes. Ignorance lay like a dismal cloud over England,
ignorance as dense as the heart of the Dark Ages knew. In the whole land
the young prince was almost alone in his thirst for knowledge; and when
he made an effort to study Latin, in which language all worthy
literature was then written, we are told that there could not be found
throughout the length and breadth of the land a man competent to teach
him that sealed tongue. This, however, loses probability in view of the
fact that the monks were familiar with Latin and that Alfred succeeded
in acquiring a knowledge of that language.
When little more than a boy Alfred became king. There was left him then
little time for study, for the Danes, whose ships had long been
descending in annual raids on England's shores, gave the youthful
monarch an abundance of more active service. For years he fought them,
yet in his despite Guthrum, one of their ablest chiefs, sailed up the
Severn, seized upon a wide region of the realm of Wessex, made
Gloucester his capital, and defied the feebly-supported English king.
It was midwinter now, a season which the Danes usually spent in rest and
revelry, and in which England gained some relief from their devastating
raids. Alfred, dreaming of aught but war, was at home with his slender
store of much-beloved books in his villa at Chippenham. With him were a
few of his thanes and a small body of armed attendants, their enjoyment
the pleasures of the chase and the rude sports of that early period.
Doubtless, what they deemed the womanish or monkish tastes of their
young monarch were objects of scorn and ridicule to those hardy thanes,
upon whom ignorance lay like a thick garment. Yet Alfred could fight as
well as read. They might disdain his pursuits; they must respect his
prowess.
While the king lay thus in ease at Chippenham, his enemies at
Gloucester seemed lost in enjoyment of their spoils. Guthrum had divided
the surrounding lands among his victorious followers, the Saxons had
been driven out, slain, or enslaved, and the brutal and barbarous
victors dwelt in peace and revelry on their new lands, spending the
winter in riot and wassail, and waiting for the spring-time budding of
the trees to renew the war with their Saxon foes.
Not so with Guthrum. He had sworn revenge on the Saxons. Years before,
his father, a mighty chieftain, Ragnar by name, had fallen in a raid on
England. His sons had vowed to Odin to wash out the memory of his death
in English blood, and Guthrum now determined to take advantage of the
midwinter season for a sudden and victorious march upon his unsuspecting
enemy. If he could seize Alfred in his palace, the war might be brought
to an end, and England won, at a single blow.
If we can take ourselves back in fancy to New-Year's day of 878, and to
an open plain in the vicinity of Gloucester, we shall see there the
planted standard of Guthrum floating in the wind, while from every side
armed horsemen are riding into the surrounding space. They know not why
they come. A hasty summons has been sent them to meet their chieftain
here on this day, armed and mounted, and, loyal to their leader, and
ever ready for war, they ride hastily in, until the Danish champion
finds himself surrounded by a strong force of hardy warriors, eager to
learn the cause of this midwinter summons.
"It is war," said Guthrum to his chiefs. "I have sworn to have England,
and England shall be mine. The Saxons are scattered and at rest, not
dreaming of battle and blood. Now is our time. A hard and sudden blow
will end the war, and the fair isle of England will be the Raven's
spoil."
We may still hear in fancy the wild shouts of approval with which this
stirring declaration was heard. Visions of slaughter, plunder, and rich
domains filled the souls of chiefs and men alike, and their eagerness to
take to the field was such that they could barely wait to hear their
leader's plans.
"Alfred, the Saxon king, must be ours," said Guthrum. "He is the one man
I dread in all the Saxon hosts. They have many hands, but only one head.
Let us seize the head, and the hands are useless. Alfred is at
Chippenham. Thither let us ride at speed."
Their bands were mustered, their arms examined, and food for the
expedition prepared, and then to horse and away! Headlong over the
narrow and forest-bordered roads of that day rode the host of Danes, in
triumphant expectation of victory and spoil.
In his study sat Alfred, on the night of January 6, poring over an
illuminated page; or mayhap he was deep in learned consultation with
some monkish scholar, mayhap presiding at a feast of his thanes: we may
fancy what we will, for history or legend fails to tell us how he was
engaged on that critical evening of his life.
But we may imagine a wide-eyed Saxon sentinel, seared and hasty,
breaking upon the monarch's leisure with the wild alarm-cry,--
"Up and away, my king! The Danes are coming! hosts of them, armed and
horsed! Up and away!"
Hardly had he spoken before the hoof-beats of the advancing foe were
heard. On they came, extending their lines as they rode at headlong
speed, hoping to surround the villa and seize the king before the alarm
could be given.
They were too late. Alfred was quick to hear, to heed, and to act.
Forest bordered the villa; into the forest he dashed, his followers
following in tumultuous haste. The Danes made what haste the
obstructions in their way permitted. In a few minutes they had swept
round the villa, with ringing shouts of triumph. In a few minutes more
they were treading its deserted halls, Guthrum at their head, furious to
find that his hoped-for prey had vanished and left him but the empty
shell of his late home.
"After him!" cried the furious Dane. "He cannot be far. This place is
full of signs of life. He has fled into the forest. After him! A king's
prize for the man who seizes him."
In vain their search, the flying king knew his own woods too well to be
overtaken by the Danes. Yet their far cries filled his ears, and roused
him to thoughts of desperate resistance. He looked around on his handful
of valiant followers.
"Let us face them!" he cried, in hot anger. "We are few, but we fight
for our homes. Let us meet these baying hounds!"
"No, no," answered the wisest of his thanes. "It would be worse than
rash, it would be madness. They are twenty--a hundred, mayhap--to our
one. Let us fly now, that we may fight hereafter. All is not lost while
our king is free, and we to aid him."
Alfred was quick to see the wisdom of this advice. He must bide his
time. To strike now might be to lose all. To wait might be to gain all.
He turned with a meaning look to his faithful thanes.
"In sooth, you speak well," he said. "The wisdom of the fox is now
better than the courage of the lion. We must part here. The land for the
time is the Danes'. We cannot hinder them. They will search homestead
and woodland for me. Before a fortnight's end they will have swarmed
over all Wessex, and Guthrum will be lord of the land. I admire that
man; he is more than a barbarian, he knows the art of war. He shall
learn yet that Alfred is his match. We must part."
"Part?" said the thanes, looking at him in doubt. "Wherefore?"
"I must seek safety alone and in disguise. There are not enough of you
to help me; there are enough to betray me to suspicion. Go your ways,
good friends. Save yourselves. We will meet again before many weeks to
strike a blow for our country. But the time is not yet."
History speaks not from the depths of that woodland whither Alfred had
fled with his thanes. We cannot say if just these words were spoken, but
such was the purport of their discourse. They separated, the thanes and
their followers to seek their homes; Alfred, disguised as a peasant, to
thread field and forest on foot towards a place of retreat which he had
fixed upon in his mind. Not even to the faithfulest of his thanes did he
tell the secret of his abode. For the present it must be known to none
but himself.
Meanwhile, the cavalry of Guthrum were raiding the country far and wide.
Alfred had escaped, but England lay helpless in their grasp. News
travelled slowly in those days. Everywhere the Saxons first learned of
the war by hearing the battle-cry of the Danes. The land was overrun.
England seemed lost. Its only hope of safety lay in a man who would not
acknowledge defeat, a monarch who could bide his time.
The lonely journey of the king led him to the centre of Somersetshire.
Here, at the confluence of the Tone and the Parret, was a small island,
afterwards known as Ethelingay, or Prince's Island. Around it spread a
wide morass, little likely to be crossed by his pursuers. Here, still
disguised, the fugitive king sought a refuge from his foes.
For several months Alfred remained in this retreat, his place of refuge
during part of the time being in the hut of a swineherd; and thereupon
hangs a tale. Whether or not the worthy herdsman knew his king,
certainly the weighty secret was not known to his wife. One day, while
Alfred sat by the fire, his hands busy with his bow and arrows, his head
mayhap busy with plans against the Danes, the good woman of the house
was engaged in baking cakes on the hearth.
Having to leave the hut for a few minutes, she turned to her guest, and
curtly bade him watch the cakes, to see that they did not get overdone.
"Trust me for that," he said.
She left the room. The cakes smoked on the hearth, yet he saw them not.
The goodwife returned in a brief space, to find her guest buried in a
deep study, and her cakes burned to a cinder.
"What!" she cried, with an outburst of termagant spleen, "I warrant you
will be ready enough to eat them by-and-by, you idle dog! and yet you
cannot watch them burning under your very eyes."
What the king said in reply the tradition which has preserved this
pleasant tale fails to relate. Doubtless it needed some of the
swineherd's eloquence to induce his irate wife to bake a fresh supply
for their careless guest.
It had been Guthrum's main purpose, as we may be assured, in his rapid
ride to Chippenham, to seize the king. In this he had failed; but the
remainder of his project went successfully forward. Through Dorset,
Berkshire, Wilts, and Hampshire rode his men, forcing the people
everywhere to submit. The country was thinly settled, none knew the fate
of the king, resistance would have been destruction, they bent before
the storm, hoping by yielding to save their lives and some portion of
their property from the barbarian foe. Those near the coast crossed with
their families and movable effects to Gaul. Elsewhere submission was
general, except in Somersetshire, where alone a body of faithful
warriors, lurking in the woods, kept in arms against the invaders.
Alfred's secret could not yet be safely revealed. Guthrum had not given
over his search for him. Yet some of the more trusty of his subjects
were told where he might be found, and a small band joined him in his
morass-guarded isle. Gradually the news spread, and others sought the
isle of Ethelingay, until a well-armed and sturdy band of followers
surrounded the royal fugitive. This party must be fed. The island
yielded little subsistence. The king was obliged to make foraging raids
from his hiding-place. Now and then he met and defeated straggling
parties of Danes, taking from them their spoils. At other times, when
hard need pressed, he was forced to forage on his own subjects.
Day by day the news went wider through Saxon homes, and more warriors
sought their king. As the strength of his band increased, Alfred made
more frequent and successful forays. The Danes began to find that
resistance was not at an end. By Easter the king felt strong enough to
take a more decided action. He had a wooden bridge thrown from the
island to the shore, to facilitate the movements of his followers, while
at its entrance was built a fort, to protect the island party against a
Danish incursion.
Such was the state of Alfred's fortunes and of England's hopes in the
spring of 878. Three months before, all southern England, with the
exception of Gloucester and its surrounding lands, had been his. Now his
kingdom was a small island in the heart of a morass, his subjects a
lurking band of faithful warriors, his subsistence what could be wrested
from the strong hands of the foe.
While matters went thus in Somerset, a storm of war gathered in Wales.
Another of Ragnar's sons, Ubbo by name, had landed on the Welsh coast,
and, carrying everything before him, was marching inland to join his
victorious brother.
He was too strong for the Saxons of that quarter to make head against
him in the open field. Odun, the valiant ealderman who led them, fled,
with his thanes and their followers, to the castle of Kwineth, a
stronghold defended only by a loose wall of stones, in the Saxon
fashion. But the fortress occupied the summit of a lofty rock, and bade
defiance to assault. Ubbo saw this. He saw, also, that water must be
wanting on that steep rock. He pitched his tents at its foot, and waited
till thirst should compel a surrender of the garrison.
He was to find that it is not always wise to cut off the supplies of a
beleaguered foe. Despair aids courage. A day came in the siege in which
Odun, grown desperate, left his defences before dawn, glided silently
down the hill with his men, and fell so impetuously upon the Danish
host that the chief and twelve hundred of his followers were slain, and
the rest driven in panic to their ships. The camp, rich with the spoil
of Wales, fell into the victors' hands, while their trophies included
the great Raven standard of the Danes, said to have been woven in one
noontide by Ragnar's three daughters. This was a loss that presaged
defeat to the Danes, for they were superstitious concerning this
standard. If the raven appeared to flap its wings when going into
battle, victory seemed to them assured. If it hung motionless, defeat
was feared. Its loss must have been deemed fatal.
Tidings of this Saxon victory flew as if upon wings throughout England,
and everywhere infused new spirit into the hearts of the people, new
hope of recovering their country from the invading foe. To Alfred the
news brought a heart-tide of joy. The time for action was at hand.
Recruits came to him daily; fresh life was in his people; trusty
messengers from Ethelingay sought the thanes throughout the land, and
bade them, with their followers, to join the king at Egbert, on the
eastern border of Selwood forest, in the seventh week after Easter.
Guthrum, meanwhile, was not idle. The frequent raids in
mid-Somersetshire had taught him where his royal enemy might be found.
Action, immediate and decisive, was necessary, or Alfred would be again
in the field with a Saxon army, and the fruits of the successful
midwinter raid be lost. Messengers were sent in haste to call in the
scattered Danish bands, and a fortified camp was formed in a strong
place in the vicinity of Ethelingay, whence a concerted movement might
be made upon the lurking foe.
The time fixed for the gathering of the Saxon host was at hand. It was
of high importance that the numbers and disposition of the Danes should
be learned. The king, if we may trust tradition, now undertook an
adventure that has ever since been classed among the choicest treasures
of romance. The duty demanded was too important to trust to any doubtful
hands. Alfred determined himself to venture within the camp of the
Danes, observe how they were fortified and how arranged, and use this
vital information when the time for battle came.
The enterprise was less desperate than might seem. Alfred's form and
face were little known to his enemies. He was a skilful harper. The
glee-man in those days was a privileged person, allied to no party, free
to wander where he would, and to twang his harp-strings in any camp. He
might look for welcome from friend and foe.
Dressed in Danish garb, and bearing the minstrel's harp, the daring king
boldly sought and entered the camp of the invaders, his coming greeted
with joy by the Danish warriors, who loved martial music as they loved
war.
Songs of Danish prowess fell from the disguised minstrel's lips, to the
delight of his audience. In the end Guthrum and his chiefs heard report
of the coming of this skilled glee-man, and ordered that he should be
brought to the great tent, where they sat carousing, in hopeful
anticipation of coming victory.
Alfred, nothing loath, sought Guthrum's tent, where, with stirring songs
of the old heroes of their land, he flattered the ears of the chiefs,
who applauded him to the echo, and at times broke into wild refrains to
his warlike odes. All that passed we cannot say. The story is told by
tradition only, and tradition is not to be trusted for details.
Doubtless, when the royal spy slipped from the camp of his foes he bore
with him an accurate mind-picture of the numbers, the discipline, and
the arrangement of the Danish force, which would be of the highest value
in the coming fray.
Meanwhile, the Saxon hosts were gathering. When the day fixed by the
king arrived they were there: men from Hampshire, Wiltshire, Devonshire,
and Somerset; men in smaller numbers from other counties; all glad to
learn that England was on its feet again, all filled with joy to see
their king in the field. Their shouts filled the leafy alleys of the
forest, they hailed the king as the land's avenger, every heart beat
high with assurance of victory. Before night of the day of meeting the
woodland camp was overcrowded with armed men, and at dawn of the next
day Alfred led them to a place named Icglea, where, on the forest's
edge, a broad plain spread with a morass on its front. All day long
volunteers came to the camp; by night Alfred had an army in open field,
in place of the guerilla band with which, two days before, he had
lurked in the green aisles of Selwood forest, like a Robin Hood of an
earlier day, making the verdant depths of the greenwood dales his home.
At dawn of the next day the king marshalled his men in battle array, and
occupied the summit of Ethandune, a lofty eminence in the vicinity of
his camp. The Danes, fiery with barbaric valor, boldly advanced, and the
two armies met in fierce affray, shouting their war-cries, discharging
arrows and hurling javelins, and rushing like wolves of war to the
closer and more deadly hand-to-hand combat of sword and axe, of the
shock of the contending forces, the hopes and fears of victory and
defeat, the deeds of desperate valor, the mighty achievements of noted
chiefs, on that hard-fought field no Homer has sung, and they must
remain untold. All we know is that the Danes fought with desperate
valor, the English with a courage inspired by revenge, fear of slavery,
thirst for liberty, and the undaunted resolution of men whose every blow
was struck for home and fireside.
In the end patriotism prevailed over the baser instinct of piracy; the
Danes were defeated, and driven in tumultuous hosts to their intrenched
camp, falling in multitudes as they fled, for the incensed English laid
aside all thought of mercy in the hot fury of pursuit.
Only when within the shelter of his works was Guthrum able to make head
against his victorious foe. The camp seemed too strong to be taken by
assault, nor did Alfred care to immolate his men while a safer and surer
expedient remained. He had made himself fully familiar with its
formation, knew well its weak and strong points and its sparseness of
supplies, and without loss of time spread his forces round it, besieging
it so closely that not a Dane could escape. For fourteen days the siege
went on, Alfred's army, no doubt, daily increasing, that of his foe
wasting away before the ceaseless flight of arrows and javelins.
Guthrum was in despair. Famine threatened him. Escape was impossible.
Hardly a bird could have fled unseen through the English lines. At the
end of the fortnight he yielded, and asked for terms of surrender. The
war was at an end. England was saved.
In his moment of victory Alfred proved generous. He gave the Danes an
abiding-place upon English soil, on condition that they should dwell
there as his vassals. To this they were to bind themselves by oath and
the giving of hostages. Another condition was that Guthrum and his
leading chiefs should give up their pagan faith and embrace
Christianity.
To these terms the Danish leader acceded. A few weeks after the fight
Aubre, near Athelney, was the scene of the baptizing of Guthrum and
thirty of his chiefs. To his heathen title was added the Saxon name of
Athelstan, Alfred standing sponsor to the new convert to the Christian
faith. Eight days afterwards Guthrum laid off the white robe and
chrysmal fillet of his new faith, and in twelve days bade adieu to his
victorious foe, now, to all seeming, his dearest friend. What sum of
Christian faith the baptized heathen took with him to the new lands
assigned him it would be rash to say, but at all events he was removed
from the circle of England's foes.
The treaty of Wedmore freed southern England from the Danes. The shores
of Wessex were teased now and then by after-descents, but these
incursions were swept away like those of stinging hornets. In 894 a
fleet of three hundred ships invaded the realm, but they met a crushing
defeat. The king was given some leisure to pursue those studies to which
his mind so strongly inclined, and to carry forward measures for the
education of his people by the establishment of schools which, like
those of Charlemagne in France, vanished before he was fairly in the
grave. This noble knight died in 901, nearly a thousand years ago, after
having proved himself one of the ablest warriors and most advanced minds
that ever occupied the English throne.