Excerpts from
The Journals of Somerild Rite.
Translated from the old English by Edwin Sulis
As available from the Global Free Media Foundation
864
Fifth Monday after Epiphany
Written, Three Oaks’ Farm, North of Ciscaester (1)
Our predictions seem correct and our fears have come true. spring has come early. One of our group, a local farmer who lost his land to the heathens travelled as close as he dared to the camp to see if there was any change their behaviour. He says the great army of the Norsemen is packing up and, I presume carrying on through Sussex, their wintering complete. Our little group of revenge filled fighters have done what we can. Stealing from them, diverting goods from them to locals or even ourselves.
We number some 20 now. They name them Somerild’s Wolves but I detest this name. A sinner and penitent such as myself is not deserving of this honour. Although they call me their leader it is Osmund, the merchant, who is still nursing his injuries from our fight at Laudenwic, who is the loudest but also the most diplomatic. He takes competing voices and finds a middle path in that flexible almost undefeatably cheerful trader’s tone of voice. He seems to be the midpoint between Johanne’s desire for revenge and Wulfestan’s desire for peace.
Osmund, who travelled from Kent through Sussex to Wessex trading rare good, tells me that the King of the South Saxons is by both fealty and marriage, is subservient to Cynewulf, King of the West Saxons. Osmund has suggested that while the Norsemen winter here, he will be in Glecaster, Wintancester (2) or Sulis and preparing to liberate his southern kinsman.
It makes me turn my mind to Angland. King Aethelred has surely received news by now of this great Norse army and I wonder his actions. I pray he is noble enough to do the right thing and help his Saxon Christian kin in the south. I pray he will not give into greed and jealousy and watch as his rival nation falls to pagans for if he doesn't help, he’ll face the pagans alone.
We’re packing up, continuing our journey as the army’s shadow. A group of wasps stinging at the army or indeed, David to their Goliath.
Ash Wednesday
To whoever may read these, forgive me for not transcribing my actions since my last entry. Between our quick shadowing of the Norse army and I must admit, running out of ink. Having acquired some from a merchant near Wintancester. Osmund thinks they’re moving north. We perhaps thought they were headed to Wintancester or Glastonbury but they've moved north, perhaps to Silchester or Corencaester (3), travelling roman roads like the conquering army that built them. We held a quiet service in the woods, almost silent prayer, accompanied only by the winds passing through the trees that provided our cover
First Friday of Lent
We’re now travelling north, with what Osmund and others in our band call the plains of Old Sarum on our western side. I’m confused by these Norsemen. They are now headed perhaps directly away from Wintancester, are they headed north into old Mercia? Our journey continues.
The first Monday of Lent
We’ve found why the norsemen have travelled north. They’ve set up defensive lines to our north and are preparing to make battle. We cannot see who with, whether it's Cynewulf of Wessex or my own king, Aethelred and we dare not approach the army. Instead we are making a large arc around the army hoping to join up with those that might attack them. We only number some twenty but still we are skilled fighters and some skilled archers. Hardened by chasing the pagans from Canterbury (though I have heard the heathens call it Kanteborg or Kanteskirk in their own tongue, I think, perhaps this means something else Kentish) all the way to the borders of Wessex.
The First Wednesday of Lent
The last two days have been like gazing into hell. Tuesday morning we arrived at the camp of King Cynewulf and presented ourselves before him. I saw West Saxons, South Saxons fled from their homes, likewise Meonwara and even Whitgar islanders in amongst his army. He dismissed our usefulness out of hand but gave us a place in his army but not any other weapons. We were placed at the far West end of his battle lines as the army prepared. We were at the north end of narrow valley that’d be difficult to go around, further down the valley was the viking army, lead by their leader, Sveyn, called The Pale by some. At one point I saw him, a tall broad man with a white-blonde beard and similar hair. By him was a standard bearing a large black bird painted on the fabric. Opposite him stood Cynewulf under a yellow dragon painted on a white flag.
When the battle began the “Wolves” moved forward in a spread out formation, hugging the shrubs and bushes that were scattered across the slopes of our western flank. Wulfestan and the other archers including Harald the poacher moved forward and took opportunistic shots at banner holders and anyone else who seemed important. The rest of us held back, waiting for them either to pass towards the main line or a group to break off to investigate us. This is what we had done at Laudenwic and although the Kentish army lost the day, the Wolves had drawn significant blood from the Norsemen.
After some time and with our archers running low a group broke off from the main line. Two dozen of them. Wulfestan immediately signalled for the archers to focus on them and to carry out a fighting retreat. The Viking followed them, breaking out almost into a run despite their thick cloaks and heavy armour. When they were close enough we broke cover and ran at them with a cry of "Remember Canterbury!" praying they were taken by surprise. As luck (or god's will) would have it, they seemed to be and soon enough my axe, taken from a fallen Norseman a few days before (replacing my long since broken woodsman’s axe), was slamming into the chest of a Norseman, driving him backwards to the ground. Osmund raised his shield, protecting my head from an arrow. I thanked him without looking back to him and brought my axe up again towards another target.
And so they day went on. We continued on from this group into the main battle line, attacking the flank of a group of Norsemen already facing one of Cynewulf’s Thegns. The battle was a bloody mess. Men fighting swinging left and right, I was barely able to distinguish Saxon from Viking. At one point a viking blocked my axe swing and brought his shield up into my face knocking me out. By the grace of God or by the kindness of the Wolves or some other Jute or Saxon I awoke several hours later, by which time the battle was over. Johanne had carried me from the battlefield. Saying “A small lady like you doesn't weigh a lot” and I was now further down the valley by the side of a flowing stream which was flowing red with blood.
The vikings won and have marched on towards Corencaester. King Cynewulf was killed during the battle. A fair few Saxons survived though and it would appear “Somerild’s Wolves” have a fair few more pack members. Im gathering my strength as I write and I can hear Osmund delivering a speech, would that we lived in the old republic of Rome, he would make a fine statesman. He is calling me over, so I shall finish writing now.
- Chichester
- Winchester
- cirencester