Chapter XXII “Now, by my faith, Lords, ’twas a Glorious Day.”
Cædwalla decided not to await the enemy, but to advance at once to meet him. He himself led the van, which was composed of his choicest troops, and he ordered old Ceolwulf to keep with him, as a mark of especial honour. The scout who had brought the news of Arwald’s advance acted as guide, and in a short time the two rival forces came in sight of each other. Cædwalla saw that Arwald would have the advantage of position if he were allowed to attack from the higher ground where he was. He therefore ordered his men not to march directly for the enemy, but to leave them on their left and march as if with the intention of getting in between them and Wihtgaresbyryg. By this manoeuvre Arwald had to descend from his superior position, and the onus of attacking remained with him.
In those rude times there was not much attempt at marshalling the fighting men. The leaders brought their men on to the ground and put them as near to each other as possible, and then stout arm and keen steel had to decide the rest. Each chieftain acted as the bravest soldier, and his duty was to run the greatest risk.
In the present instance, there seemed a sort of tacit deferring of the awful struggle that must take place. When Cædwalla had obtained the equality of position he wanted, he halted, and drew up his men in a semblance of martial array; and in this respect he had a manifest advantage over his antagonist, for he and his men were well known to each other. Many of the West Saxon eorls had fought in numberless fights on the borders of Wales, and against Wulfhere of Mercia, the son of Penda. They were, therefore, used to discipline, and were likely to keep cool in the hottest of the fray; while Arwald’s men had never seen a set battle, and many of them had scarcely ever fought before. But their numbers and strength seemed quite to counterbalance this disadvantage, and Cædwalla saw at a glance the Wihtwaras were not to be despised. Arwald had wrought his men’s courage up to a desperate pitch by telling them that Cædwalla would deprive them of all their possessions, and, unless they won the battle, no man’s life or property was safe.
Cædwalla’s eyes sparkled with excitement, but he was otherwise very calm, and no observer would have known that he was inwardly burning with eagerness to begin the battle, and avenge the death of his dearest friend. He rode along in front of his men, mounted on his white horse, cheerily saying an encouraging word here, or passing a light jest there, and congratulating everyone on the immediate prospect of realizing all their hopes.
The forces of Arwald had now approached to within two hundred yards, and the combatants could see each other well. There was nothing between them, and the battle might begin at any moment.
Cædwalla had turned his horse’s head towards the enemy, and was quietly glancing along their line. In front of him was Arwald, looking more brutal than ever. The cut over his eye, which he had received from Wulfstan’s sling, was swollen and inflamed, so much so that one eye was nearly obscured. His red, bloated face, and coarse features, combined with his huge and corpulent person, mounted on a powerful, vicious-looking black horse, offered a striking contrast to the refined, intellectual, determined face of Cædwalla. bronzed with exposure, and looking a splendid, dashing soldier, as well as prudent, clear-headed king: a perfect type of the old Heretoga, or leader in war, chosen by the free acclamations of his fellow tribesmen for his brilliant qualities, and not necessarily because of any hereditary claim; the pure type of an earthly ruler, if only such could be elected without corruption and for worthy motives.
Cædwalla sat his horse tranquilly, and critically scanned Arwald with a contemptuous glance that made that fat chieftain furious. He was just going to give the order to his men to charge, when Cædwalla raised his battle-axe, and instantly the whole of the West Saxon army rushed straight for the Wihtwaras.
For the next few minutes there was the awful work of destruction, hideous sounds and confused sights, axes flashing, arms rising and falling, passionate shouts, groans, and wild cries. In the midst of the battle could be seen the golden dragon of Wessex, and ever and anon the clear, ringing stentorian voice of the king, cheerily and happily cleaving a way through the struggling mass. Such battles must have been all alike, and the monotony of the death fight could seldom be relieved. The victory must go to the side who had most “last,” or endurance, in it; for the idea of running away while strength remained scarcely could occur to men taught from earliest childhood that no fate in this world or the next could await any man worse than the fate of the coward. But sheer brutal strength, or capacity for fighting with the largest number of wounds, must then, as now, have been very materially modified by the moral influences of will and determination. And in this way the personal qualities of a leader were certain to affect his followers. The energy, moral as well as physical, of Cædwalla, infused itself into his men, and each man fought with a certainty of winning. Gradually the coherent mass of striking, thrusting, wrestling humanity gave way, and the scene became changed into groups of individual combatants.
The battlefield was strewn with dead and dying. Cædwalla’s standard bearer was down, but the banner was still waved above the foremost ranks, and the golden crest of Wessex was foremost in the fight.
Arwald’s army was being pushed back, no man looked to see where, but as the foe retreated Cædwalla pressed on. The Wihtwaras were thrust away from Wihtgaresbyryg, and were slowly retiring towards the high hills behind them. Fighting every foot of ground at first, they gradually hastened their retreat until at last it became a rout.
All round deeds of “derring-do” were being performed, and Cædwalla cheered his men on to the pursuit with words of praise and encouragement. The king was followed by the main part of his army, and pressed hard upon the retreating Wihtwaras.
“Unless we kill Arwald, we have done nought,” shouted Cædwalla, urging on his horse to fresh exertions.
They had now reached the foot of the down, whose ample slope rose from the valley in wooded clumps up to a height of some five hundred and fifty feet above them. Pursued and pursuers were alike becoming exhausted. Arwald and the few that were left of his personal following kept on their way up the hill. Cædwalla’s horse, which had received several severe wounds, was clearly incapable of following much further, and the king got off, resolving to follow on foot. Arwald still bestrode his black horse, but that powerful animal was fast becoming distressed. Seeing that he could not escape from his pursuers, Arwald, who had now reached a grassy knoll, drew up and turned to look at his enemy.
Below him he could see the golden dragon and the broad shoulders of the West Saxon king, the centre of a little band of determined warriors, among whom the weather-beaten face of old Ceolwulf looked hard set and enduring, like a grey lichen-covered rock amid the saplings of the forest.
“By the golden hair of Freya,” muttered Arwald “but they shall die as well as we, if die we must. Here, my men, we will wait them; and let each man fight as he never fought before.”
So saying, the Wihtwara chieftain dismounted from his tired horse, and prepared for the fight. The scene was a fitting one for the arena on which the sovereignty of the island was to be finally decided between the rival chiefs. It was very near the summit of the lofty down, now known as Newbarn, or Chillerton Down. From the spot where Arwald stood he looked right down the lovely valley of the Medene; eastward and northward, his eye roamed over swelling down and wooded valley, and here and there the silver streak of the distant sea. The lovely scene lay spread out in mellow haze, for the sun was getting low behind the chieftain, and great shadows stretched from his feet far over the valley below; while patches of grey mist were rising here and there over the basins of the Medene and the Yare.
Grimly Arwald looked at the scene, but none of its peaceful beauty struck him. All he thought of was hatred of the man who had dared to come to disturb him in the enjoyment of his tyranny and power, and satisfaction at the thought of how he could take him at disadvantage, breathless as Cædwalla would be when he reached the summit of the knoll, and dazzled with the setting sun level with his eyes.
Arwald mustered about thirty adherents, most of them wounded, and not more than a dozen of whom were able-bodied. The chief of the Wihtwaras himself had not received any serious wounds, seeming to bear a charmed life in the midst of the battle; and owing to this immunity from wounds, he himself, as well as many of his followers, believed that he was not destined to lose his life on the battle-field. Full of these hopes, he waited for his antagonist.
Cædwalla, seeing that his enemy was resolved to await him, and that now there was to be no more retreat, but that here either he or Arwald was to leave his bones for ever, bid his men to take it easily and regain their breath. The West Saxons, therefore, paused a little below the summit of the knoll, and gazed back at the land behind them, where many of their comrades could be seen drawing together and advancing after their king. Many others were visible, lying on the ground; for them no more fighting remained. Of the Wihtwaras no coherent body existed. The victory was evidently complete, and Cædwalla could plainly see that there was no need for him to fight Arwald now. The Wihtwara must fall to superior numbers; he could fly no further, and the desperate nature of his situation was evidently known to himself. Ceolwulf urged waiting for the rest to come up, pointing out the folly of risking such a life as that of Cædwalla, now undoubted king of Wihtea, as of Wessex and the South Saxons.
“Leave this swine to be dealt with by thy faithful ceorls and eorls, my lord. Why risk thy life needlessly? Dost thou think thou must do more to show all men thy valour? Who does not know of Cædwalla?”
“Cease, old man,” said Cædwalla. “I know well what is prudent, and what is rash. It becomes not Cædwalla to decline to punish the murderer of Athelhune, and I know my own duty as well as pleasure.”
Arwald knew well that the game was up, but he counted on at least killing Cædwalla before the rest of the West Saxons could arrive. He ordered his men, therefore, to pay no attention to any other of the small following of Cædwalla, but to rush simultaneously upon the victorious king.
“What!” shouted Arwald, “is the dainty young chief of the robber-band afraid to meet the axes of warriors? Has he come thus far, and, finding himself face to face with brave men, does he now fear to meet their blows? Why does he not rush forward to avenge all his dead eorls? The axes of Arwald and the Wihtwaras have drunk deep of West Saxon blood.”
“All in good time, my friend, all in good time. A king chooses his own season and means of punishment, and thou shalt not be forgotten,” answered Cædwalla disdainfully.
All the West Saxons having now recovered their breath, Cædwalla advanced towards Arwald. Ceolwulf had seen the object of the Wihtwara chieftain, and he warned the few men round Cædwalla to look out for a rush.
As soon as the king set foot on the level sward on the summit of the knoll, Arwald and his men made a simultaneous charge upon him, which Cædwalla, on his part, sprang forward to anticipate.
Arwald, trusting to his huge strength and ponderous weight, struck with his battle-axe straight at Cædwalla’s head, and the West Saxon king received the full force of the terrific blow on his already half-severed shield. The axe cut through the iron studs and ornaments that still kept the shield together, and buried itself sideways in Cædwalla’s left arm. But Cædwalla’s right arm was not idle. Striking with all his force at the same moment that he parried the blow of the Wihtwara, he cut through the steel hawberk, the under shirt of leather, and deep into the flesh of Arwald between the ribs over the heart; for Arwald was so determined to destroy his adversary that he took no thought of guarding himself. Before Arwald could recover from the overbalance of his own thundering blow, Cædwalla had struck again, and this time he aimed at the bare arms of the Wihtwara. So fiercely did he strike that the whole muscles and flesh of the upper arm were shorn off clean to the bone, and Arwald knew he could never fight again. The blood flowed down in torrents, but his rage still burnt fiercely. Wielding his axe in the other hand, he struck straight for Cædwalla’s face, and the king had no use in his other arm to ward the blow. He parried it with his axe, but not sufficiently to prevent the axe glancing off and inflicting a deep gash in his neck. But Arwald had struck his last blow, for Cædwalla, swinging his axe over his head, brought it down with fearful force on the helmet of his antagonist. Right through the iron helmet it went, and deep into the skull, and there so wedged itself between the bones that Cædwalla could not draw it out, and the huge Wihtwara chieftain rolled over to the ground dead.
But Cædwalla would also have been dead before now had it not been for the trusty Ceolwulf. The adherents of Arwald, true to their orders, and reckless of their own lives, had crowded round Cædwalla, and struck at the same time as Arwald. Two fierce blows aimed at the king were caught on Ceolwulf’s shield, which was not so much damaged as Cædwalla’s. A third was parried by the old man’s axe, while a fourth the noble old warrior received in his own body, which he interposed between his lord and the death blow. The Wihtwara’s axe caught Biggun on the chest, and would have penetrated to the lung but for the soundness of the mail shirt he wore. As it was, the stout old man swung his axe round upon his foe who had given him the wound, and split his helmet and head, felling him to the ground. The other attendants of Cædwalla had not been idle. The blows intended for the king were intercepted, and in many cases the Wihtwaras were killed without offering the least resistance to their slayers, so intent were they in trying to kill the rival of Arwald, and thus fell an easy prey to their antagonists. The fall of their chieftain, however, caused them to turn much more desperately on the West Saxons, and fierce blows were showered on all sides; but the result could not be doubtful for a moment. After a few plunging blows, wild struggles, and fierce imprecations, all resistance ceased, and Wihtea was won to Cædwalla.
But that noble king was scarcely able to receive the congratulations of his supporters. He strove to remain standing, but the scene swam before his eyes; he forced himself to speak, but the words would not form themselves on his lips, and he would have fallen heavily on the ground had not two or three of his attendants run to support him. They laid him gently on the grass and stanched his wounds: both cuts were fortunately clean ones, and a simple bandage round the arm prevented much loss of blood there; but the cut in the neck was more serious. Ceolwulf was sitting near, a grim and satisfied expression on his weather-beaten face. The blood was oozing from the wound in his chest, but he was doing nothing to stop the bleeding. His eyes were fixed on Cædwalla’s pale face, and he was muttering some grumbling remarks to himself. The little grassy platform high up on the hillside, so lately the scene of desperate, relentless strife, was now covered with dead or dying men, and the few survivors were too worn out to do more. They sat or reclined on the sward, waiting for the rest of their comrades to come up. The sun had now set, and the cold breeze of evening blew keen on that elevated spot.
Presently a West Saxon eorldoman rode up, attended by a few footmen, and gazed at the silent group. Seeing Cædwalla, he dismounted, and hastily went up to him, fearing the worst, but was reassured by the men who sat beside him.
“We must carry him down from here,” said the eorl. “Get you as many young withies or hazel boughs from the copse down yonder,” he added, turning to the men who had come with him, “and make a litter for your king.”
Then he mounted his horse, rode to the brow of the hill, where the now numerous band of survivors were clearly seen in the valley below, raised his axe, on which he had put the helmet of Arwald, high above his head, and shouted, in a voice that rang over the silence of the hills:
“Long live Cædwalla, king of Wessex, Sussex, and Wihtea!”
Directly after a ringing cheer could be heard in the valley, and even the exhausted warriors on the summit joined in the shout of triumph. Again and again the cheers rang out, and rapidly the news spread over the island.
The men with the litter now returned, and carefully Cædwalla was lifted upon it. The movement caused him to open his eyes, and they happened to fall upon Ceolwulf. The king feebly beckoned him to his side, and, as the old man slowly and stiffly came up to him, the wounded king said: “Ceolwulf, old man, I owe my life to thee. Ask me what thou likest, and thou shalt have it.”
But Ceolwulf made no reply. He merely shook his head slowly, and went on grumbling to himself.
Cædwalla was carried down the hill, and, as it was now too dark to go much further, the eorldoman who had taken charge of the little army gave directions that the king should be carried to a cottage near, and the rest of the men were to encamp around. With prudent foresight, another eorldoman had gone on with a party of men to make the country people bring them in provisions, and the victors were supplied with necessary food after their hard day’s work.
The wounded men were cared for, and proper guards were set to keep watch during the night. Nothing, however, happened to disturb their rest.
The next morning the hardy West Saxons were all astir at an early hour, and parties were sent out to collect the arms and accoutrements of the dead, and to compel some of the inhabitants to help bury those who had fallen.
Arwald and those who died upon the grassy knoll of Chillerton Down were buried in five barrows, or tumuli, close to where they fell, but Arwald was honoured by having one all to himself.
Cædwalla had recovered consciousness for a short time in the early morning, and had given orders that Wihtgaresbyryg was to be occupied without delay, and all the able-bodied men throughout the island were to be slain as an atonement for the death of Athelhune and the other West Saxons.
It was evident he did not much realise the teaching of Christianity as yet, and the fierce spirit of his ancestors still burnt within him, unchecked by any softening influence.
Arwald had sent his two young sons away from the island as soon as he had received news of the probable invasion of Cædwalla, and they were in hiding near Stoneham, or as Bede calls it, ad Lapidem, a little village or manor to the north of Southampton. Cædwalla had given orders, in accordance with his vow, to kill all of the race of Arwald, and he expressly directed that search should be made for all his descendants and relatives; but these terrible orders could not be executed immediately, for much had yet to be done.
Ceolwulf was despatched to Binbrygge-ea with directions to see that Ælfhere and his sons were restored to their lands and possessions; and he was also charged with seeing that a force of men were levied to assist Cædwalla in getting in supplies and helping to crush the western and southern part of the island. The boats were to be sent round from Brædynge Haven to the north of the island, and one boat was to be sent over to Selsea, to report the success of the expedition, and to bring over Wilfrid, if he would come. The rest of the little army, now thoroughly recruited, although sadly diminished in numbers, marched on Wihtgaresbyryg, expecting to meet with a stubborn resistance; but Arwald had led out all the fighting men with him, and owing to the skilful way in which Cædwalla had thrust himself in between Arwald and the fortress, none of the routed force had been able to escape to it.
When, therefore, the West Saxon host appeared before its walls, they found the gates thrown open, and they had no more fighting to do. Cædwalla was carried to Arwald’s house, and all men throughout the island knew that the power had passed from the nominee of Mercia to the kingdom of the house of Cerdic.
The eorldomen, who managed affairs during the illness of Cædwalla, acted with determination and relentless cruelty. The wretched Wihtwaras were hunted down and ruthlessly slain in strict fulfilment of the orders of Cædwalla.
But the king of the West Saxons himself lay ill, and mostly unconscious for the greater part of the next few days, and at last his faithful followers began to despair of his life, and all men longed for Wilfrid to come.
Ceolwulf had returned to Brædynge, and there, after having done all he was ordered to do, and arranged for the return of Ælfhere, had succumbed to the wound he had received, and which he had neglected. For some days he lay between life and death, but the faithful brother Malachi and Ædric nursed him well, and he and Wulfstan were laid in the same room for convenience of attendance. Ælfhere, the eorldoman, had been making great progress towards recovery, but it was observed that, as he grew stronger, he seemed to be less vengeful. The self-devotion of brother Malachi, who had saved his life at the risk of his own, and the unexpected and unaccountable solicitude of old Deva, had caused him to think over matters seriously; and he could not help being struck by the fact that there were noble actions, as brave as any performed in fighting, which arose from some hidden spring of conduct.
The fugitive tenants and small freeholders who looked to the eorldoman for protection had all returned to their homes, and things round Binbrygge-ea and Brædynge looked much as they did before the late exciting events.
The stockade was visited, and the dead all buried, care being taken to honour the defenders with a specially large tumulus high up over Binbrygge Down.
Malachi longed for news of Father Dicoll and brother Corman. He had heard of the adventure on the mud from Ædric, and was horror-stricken at the account he gave of what he had last seen of Father Dicoll, but was cheered by hearing that Ædric had since heard how Father Dicoll was taken into one of the cottages, and had been carefully attended to, and was probably by now quite well again.
Ædric had been told of his father’s existence the day after he arrived. At first he could hardly believe the news, so joyful did it seem; but when he fully realised it, he only waited to know exactly where he was concealed, and then went off as fast as his lame leg would let him, in spite of all remonstrances, to find his father.
Fortunately he was met by one of his old servants, who was leading back a cow that had strayed away from the rest of the cattle, and thus he was able to have a ride; for the old cowherd, seeing how lame his young master was, lifted him up, and set him on the broad back of the patient beast, and he soon reached the secluded dell overlooking the sea under the great white cliff where his father was lying hid. The boy stole down softly to the side of the little wattled shelter that had been made for the wounded eorldoman, down close to the shore under a high pinnacle of red, sandy cliff, which here forms a striking contrast with the dazzling white of the lofty chalk precipice on the westward side of the tiny bay. The little cabin was difficult to find; it lay in a retired chine, and was carefully hollowed out of the soft sand under the over-arching shelter of thick bramble bushes and tall ferns. The perpetual sound of the breaking sea at the foot of the cliffs deadened any sound of voices.
Ædric approached quite close to the entrance: all was silent; he peeped in. There lay his father, pale and worn, his eyes closed; he appeared to be dying. Ædric stole in on tip-toe. His father moved; his eyes opened.
“Father!” said Ædric. The wounded eorl looked round.
“What, Wulfstan, my boy, is it thou? How goes the battle?”
“Father, it isn’t Wulfstan: it is I—Ædric.”
“What, Ædric! my son! Am I dreaming. How did’st thou get here?” and the father stretched out his hand for his son to come nearer.
“Why, it is Ædric, my own son—my boy! my boy! I thank the gods thou art returned to me. There, bless thee, my son; sit down and tell me all that has happened to thee.”
And Ædric sat down, and, taking his father’s hand, told him everything. As the old eorldoman heard of the kindness of the monks or baldheaded ones, and the splendour and power of Wilfrid, he murmured over and over again:
“Truly these are great men, and they know more than we. They can bear pain as well as we can, and they can rule without fighting; but I think they miss a good deal by that. But perhaps, after all, there is more to be got without it. I don’t know though; if I get better, I will think over this.”