John The Old Saxon: King Alfred and the Revival of Anglo-Saxon Learning - John Broughton

Historical Fiction Set In Anglo-Saxon England

John The Old Saxon: King Alfred and the Revival of Anglo-Saxon Learning by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Hautvillers, 858 AD

A rider in a state of panic informed the abbot that a Viking longship had entered the Marne: raiders would be upon the abbey within the day. The abbot, no less overwrought, immediately summoned John for advice.

“Oh, God help us! What are we to do?”

“There is much to do,” John replied stoically. “Do I have your permission to organise the brothers, Father Abbot?”

“Ay, ay, anything! Do what you must.”

My friend wasted no time, ordering every able-bodied man to drag dry twigs and branches from the forest. He had them create a long barrier in front of the monastery. Some grumbled, wondering how a low obstacle that a man could jump over might serve any purpose. But John knew what he was about; the pouring of oil over the brushwood revealed what he planned.

Back behind the barred gates, he had the monks take up their arms before lining them into several ranks. I recall to this day the ringing speech he delivered.

“Brothers, soon we will be under attack. I know many of you opted for a life of peace, but the Evil One has other ideas! I ask you to remember that these are not men you will be fighting against, but demons. Why else would they slaughter innocent women and babes? For every one you lay low, consider you are saving scores of innocents. God will smile upon you for this. Have no fear, because the Almighty is by our sides this day!”

This speech was greeted by a great roar and battering of weapons on shields as performed by real warriors. What John did not mention was their advantage of surprise, because the Norsemen expected either feeble fighters or no resistance. Overall, John had trained seventy-five monks. Even the elderly and overweight brothers prepared to lend a hand. A large pile of rocks, each the size of a man’s head, was ready on the ramparts for them to hurl down on the foe. My friend had provided for this steady accumulation of boulders over the past few weeks. John called to the monks who had proved most accurate at the archery butts. He had them tie strips of linen to an arrow, which they then dipped in oil. Satisfied that the preparations were in place, all that remained was to wait.

The Vikings came streaming from the forest in their furs, faces painted with blue stripes, charging towards us with their round, coloured shields raised and their hoarse voices yelling fierce war-cries. The sight of them was enough to make the stoutest heart quake. John ordered the arrows lit and gave the command,

“Aim well at the barrier, tense your bows! Release!” He knew the timing was all-important.

Six flaming arrows struck the hurdle where the oil caught at once. Soon, a wall of flame sprang up before the advancing enemy. The careful timing meant that several of the advanced Norsemen were reduced to screaming and running away, their garments ablaze, as John had intended. It was the first warning that the monastery was not defended by feeble axe-fodder. The second came with a volley of arrows from the monks. True, the majority of the barbed arrowheads embedded in enemy shields, but at least four Vikings fell. Whereupon, John shouted, “There is only one ship’s crew! We can destroy the heathen!”

A score of the foe took a running jump through the flames and rushed towards the wooden palisade. Their clear intention was to fight fire with fire. In moments, the abbey gates resembled a giant hedgehog, pierced by scores of flaming arrows. John, who had inspected the gates, was satisfied that they were made of oak trunks and knew that they could resist fire for hours. The Vikings, not knowing that, gathered their forces in front of the entry, as the scribe had hoped.

“Now!” he yelled at the elderly and unfit monks up on the ramparts. They hurled the heavy stones down on the unsuspecting Norsemen. Again, five foes dropped senseless to the ground. Not all the Vikings wore helmets. They raised their shields tardily. Six rocks thudded uselessly against the gaudily painted linden planks.

“Hold!” cried John. “And keep your heads down!”

He had seen two of the grey-bearded monks pierced by the arrows of Norse archers reacting to the rock attack. From the forest trotted six Vikings carrying a heavy looking tree trunk. John gathered a group of monks on the ramparts and issued two javelins each.

“See those men with the tree trunk? They have a ram to test the strength of our gates. At their first charge, rain the darts on them.”

The Vikings had underestimated the preparation of the defenders. They disdained mere monks. On other occasions against a feared enemy, their chieftain would have protected the rammers with a shield wall. In their overconfidence, they paid the price as all six of the trunk bearers fell, impaled by one or more javelins. John organised another hail of rocks before deciding the time had come to take the offensive. In the courtyard, he lined us up in three ranks. There, in the centre of the first, I, a seasoned warrior, stood ready to lead the charge.

“Open the gates!” John bellowed while, like the wake of a boat, the acrid reek of smouldering arrows assailed our nostrils and the heavy barriers swung back.

“Charge!” I yelled, rushing forward, axe and shield at the ready. So swiftly had we exited the abbey that the Vikings had no time to organise a shield wall. I estimated that there were thirty of the formidable Norsemen. We were more than double their number.

“In the name of the Father!” I roared, crashing my axe with a jarring blow onto the shield of an adversary. As trained, the man next to me lunged his spear into the now unprotected belly of the warrior with his shield raised to protect himself from my strike. John’s training had paid off straight away. Encouraged by this initial success, the other monks, with admirable discipline and armed with the confidence of superior numbers, pressed home our advantage. I searched in vain for a chieftain to take on, I might have known, he had already perished under John’s unbridled assault. With his death, the Viking resistance, formidable but overwhelmed, broke. One by one, they turned to run for the forest. Sometimes we underestimate the capabilities of the elderly; from the ramparts hissed lethal arrows, many aimed badly, but some fatally striking the backs of the fleeing Norsemen.

It was now a question of hunting down fewer than ten men. John did not want any to escape. The victory was crushing: as far as I could tell, in the confusion of battle, we had lost no more than a dozen monks to the Vikings’ blades. Each of those deaths strengthened our resolve to press on vengefully towards the river.

“This way!” John pointed to the moored longship. Sure enough, the survivors, shields abandoned for ease of running, were headed in that direction. I seized a javelin from one of the monks and, taking careful aim to the raucous cheers of my comrades, brought the last and nearest man to the ground, never to rise again. Following my lead, a dozen darts flew through the air. Only two struck home, but as John had declared in his rousing speech, every fallen enemy was the salvation of some innocent person elsewhere. A skeleton crew aboard the longship hauled their few defeated comrades over the gunwales and cut the ropes mooring the ship, which drifted to safety into the main current.

John seized a bow, strung an arrow, and found the thigh of a Viking who screamed useless curses at him. Soon, they were out of range.

The battle was over, for we could do nothing to prevent their escape. John expressed his disappointment to me. “They will inform their kinsmen and return. Next time, we will not have the advantage of surprise.”

“You may be wrong, Brother John,” I said without conviction, “they might prefer easier pickings. Most likely, they will inflate their tale to justify defeat. Along the lines that we had a giant monk in our ranks, with arms like a monster. That would be you!” We laughed partly in relief and also to keep up our courage.

The abbey was a strange place that evening as we conducted the funerals of the eight monks who had given their lives defending our home. Sorrow mixed with jubilation is a dizzying blend. Despite their emotions, the brothers, to their credit, managed to chant the solemn responses in the requiem. Prayers over the graves, too, were conducted with tears and shared memories, but it is human nature to celebrate a victory and, commendably, after the burials, the abbot ordered a hogshead of wine to be consumed in the refectory. Divided among the whole community, it was a well-calculated amount: enough for raucous celebrations but insufficient to cause drunkenness.

During this, the abbot, who had never raised a hand in anger, called for order and began an oration.

“Brothers, this day, you have won a remarkable victory, praise the Lord! By the courage of your arms, you have preserved our monastery, its people and treasures intact. Let us spare another thought for our fallen brothers, whose sacrifice for our welfare will be remembered in our prayers at every service. I must especially commend Brother John, our scribe, whose military experience made the difference. Without his tactics, I dread to think of the horrors these walls might have witnessed.”

He stood beaming upon his charges, paused to collect his thoughts, then thought it better to curtail his discourse.

“Enough of speechmaking and merriment, Brothers! We must retire to Compline and afterwards to a well-deserved night’s sleep. As an exception, tonight, Matins and Lauds are not obligatory, for you have earned an undisturbed rest. However, I will expect to see you all at Prime.” His blessing followed and relatively soberly, we trooped to the church.

On the way from the refectory to the chapel, John said to me, “Tomorrow, after Prime, we must organise the burning of the enemy corpses. The pagans are unworthy of Christian burial. To my knowledge, they cremate their dead and, in their heathen beliefs, their souls fly to the hall of their ferocious gods. As victors, we must at least grant them that, Asher.”

For the time being, the operation of building an enormous pyre was John’s last commitment as a military leader. With a jaundiced expression, he watched the crows flap away from the bodies when we disturbed their feasting.

“That speaks volumes about the futility of their religion, Brothers,” came from between his clenched teeth. “The crow is their sacred bird. Even so, see how it pecks out the eyes of the dead! At least, we shall be spared the presence of Vikings in Heaven.”

“Amen!” I cried as I hauled a heavy body near to the, as yet, unlit pyre. It took two of us to raise corpses into position. For the second time in twenty-four hours, John called for oil. Liberally sloshing it around the pyre, he instructed two brothers to touch their flaming brands onto the heap. In moments, flames leapt up to devour the crackling wood and the clothes and flesh of the thirty warriors.

John could not resist murmuring a prayer for the defeated enemy. “We must forgive them their blindness, for God, in His mercy, will judge each of them.” When John had finished, he called the monks together in the courtyard. As he addressed them, many eyes were on the black pall of smoke beyond the palisade.

“Who among you was brought up in this area?”

Two hands raised hesitantly.

“The rest of you, return to your duties,” he ordered. Not a man questioned his right to issue orders, so they left the four of us alone.

“What is it, Brother?” the older of the two monks asked.

“There must be a place nearby, some heights commanding a view of the river. Do you know of such a place?”

The monks exchanged glances, the younger nodded and muttered something about a standing stone.

“Ay, the lad is right, the hill of the menhir! Over yonder”—his elder pointed south-west—“from there, the river stretches for leagues before the eye.”

“What is your name?”

“Waldalenus.”

“Brother Waldalenus, I am placing you in charge of our security. From now on, every day, a lookout must be placed on that hill with orders to warn of the impending arrival of a Viking ship. They will set out before Prime and return before the light fades.”

“I will leave now. Tomorrow will be your turn, Brother Monegundis. While I am away, choose men for the next three days. Five of us should be sufficient—a watch every five days is not burdensome.”

“Good idea. Also, take a horn with you. If Vikings are approaching, the sooner you warn us, the better!”

When we were alone, John confided in me. “I am weary in mind and body. I think we have earned a day to ourselves, Asher.”

“As you say. I will speak with Brother Fardinanth. I doubt the amarius will object, under the circumstances.”

Later, I found the elderly monk in a bad way: his frayed nerves were betrayed by a tic at the side of his eye. “What ails you, Brother?”

He stared at me with an anguished expression.

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa!”

But I was not his confessor. “What bothers you, Brother Fardinanth?” I took a step closer.

“Yesterday, I killed a man, Brother. I dropped a rock on his head.”

“You helped to save the scriptorium from their flames, Brother. All our volumes are safe.”

Had he not considered such a possibility? As if by magic, his face changed from anguish to relief. To drive home the cure, I encouraged him. “Find the priest, Brother. Make your confession and you will feel better after absolution. Fear not, for in the eyes of the Lord, it was not murder you committed.” I am not sure he heard my request for leave of absence as he hurried away, for he was hard of hearing.

John and I decided to wander into the woodland on the track to the river that we had hastened along in furious pursuit the day before. It was a splendid decision, as I adored the twittering of birds and the aroma of the herbs. The peace of the forest, broken only by the occasional rush of a squirrel or the clumsy flight of a jay, restored our spirits. I was telling John about the nervous state of Brother Fardinanth when he clutched my arm.

“Hush! Do you hear that?”

Some way off, down towards the river came the sound of voices.

“Don’t worry. Those are not Vikings. Anyway, Brother Waldalenus has not sounded his horn.”

John laughed and made a very pertinent remark. “I believe there is not a monk in the abbey today who is not shaken by the battle, myself included. I was worried on hearing those voices, wishing I had brought my axe and shield.”

“They are probably harmless pilgrims. Soon, we will know.”

My supposition proved wrong. No more than another twenty paces took us to a dishevelled, unkempt fellow holding a child’s hand; behind him staggered a skinny, freckled woman with tousled red hair supporting on her arm an old man with a white beard, obviously exhausted.

“Brothers! Thank God! The monastery must be close,” said the man in a thick, uncouth voice.

“Ay, a few hundred yards, but allow us to help,” said John, picking up the boy who was maybe but four winters old, pressing him to his chest. “Best if you have a mule to give you a ride boy.” The child giggled. “Brother Asher, relieve the woman of her father!” He had guessed correctly as the woman smiled her relief, saying, “Father, take the Brother’s arm.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not much farther to the abbey. There you can rest, eat and drink. Your strength will soon return.” I ducked under his arm and hauled him to me, so that he now had more support. “That’s better. Can you walk?”

He grumbled about his aches and pains as do the elderly all over the world. We hobbled along steadily, learning from their garbled account how they had escaped from their village set ablaze by Viking torches until the abbey gates came as a welcomed sight. I took the old man straight to the well where a tin cup of fresh water helped revive him as he sat gratefully on the stone wall surrounding it.

“Leave some for me, grandfather!” the child squealed.

“Don’t worry, boy,” John said. “Not even your grandfather can drink the well dry.” The little fellow giggled again. Soon all four had slaked their thirst.

“Come, you must eat. You can finish your tale indoors,” I said.

In the refectory, the younger man asked, “Where are all the soldiers?”

“What soldiers?” I asked.

“The German mercenaries who defeated the Norsemen.”

Whilst I stared mouth agape, John understood in an instant. “Is that what they are saying? How people can start rumours! You are looking at your Saxon warrior, my friend.”

Another mouth dropped open.

“Are you saying that you monks overcame the Vikings?”

“Thanks be to God, it is so!” He ruffled the boy’s copper-blond hair distractedly. “Maybe, Brother,” he said to me, thoughtfully, “these rumours will aid our cause. If the raiders think we have a troop of Saxons inside these walls, they will not venture up the Marne.”

We all laughed and the boy, not understanding why, joined in with his giggles. It was the happiest we had felt since the panicked rider arrived.

“A real treat for historical fans”

— Amazon Review

“A great read”

— Amazon Review

“John Broughton hits the spot once again in this fascinating and enthralling chronicle of the life of King Alfred”

— Amazon Review

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: John The Old Saxon: King Alfred and the Revival of Anglo-Saxon Learning

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: Medieval Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 220