Chapter 38, the Hamlet of Southwell, north of Leicester, July 956 AD
The civil war had been raging for fifteen months but had, until June of that year, largely spared the towns and villages of the Midlands. All that had changed when the two principle armies had taken their initial respective objectives in the shires of Cheshire and Middlesex – the rebels making their leisurely way south from the Welsh marches and the royal army moving north after capturing London. Winter had then intervened, so both powers bivouacked for those fallow months, abiding by the principle of not warring in that period, but, come the spring, the Shires of Leicestershire and Warwickshire became the new focus of the two advance parties. Spring turned to summer without a decisive engagement but then it was that the king returned, hotfoot, to Lambeth to attend to his dying Confessor, Father Scule. Fatefully, he ordered that his exiled friend, Cenwulf, take command of the rear battle in his stead. Now he rode to assess the import and consequence of that decision…
The heavily armed party thundered through the Hamlet, pennants streaming in the sultry July heat. Banners of lions and wolves that bespoke a royal party, causing startled villagers to leap out of the way and bow low whilst covering mouths to shield them and their issue from the clouds of dust kicked up by hooves on arid dust. This was a group of Huscarls-the Godhelmings personal bodyguard and household soldiery and at their fore rode the king, pilloried in the past for his stoutness and gluttony. No more: here was a warrior Saxon that looked the part: chainmail shimmering on his muscled frame – face of grim mien as he scanned his surroundings with gimlet eyes. The many hours of training and strategizing with the martial men of Saxony had visibly altered him. Whether that would translate to skill on the field of battle only time would tell…
At last they reached the bounds of the Royal camp and came to a halt before what looked like command pavilions that flew the Standard of the House of Carew, England’s royal standard and that of the Earl of Warwick whose lands were directly affected by these latest ructions. Hurrying out to greet their Lord and master were the aforementioned Earl and the Lord Marshal, Ælfnoth of Warwick and Wulfnoth Carew, old comrades-in-arms and doughty soldiers: both carried worried looks beneath their helms.
‘I would like to say well met my lords,’ the king stated baldly as he nimbly dismounted looking coldly upon the pair, ‘but clearly these are not fortuitous times…’
Ælfnoth, whilst yet the King’s Advisor, had become a bitter rival and tormentor of his liege for reasons as yet opaque and he snorted, eliciting a pointed look from his companion. They were still on their knees as the king, tall and imposing, moved past them into the tent. That was their cue to rise and follow.
A restraining arm was placed forcefully on the Earl’s shoulder by the Marshal: ‘let me do the talking my friend – we must exercise caution in this matter or face destruction…’
‘Destruction? You jest surely sir?’ Was the impassioned rejoinder from Ælfnoth, ‘all do know the real reason for our calamitous showing…’
‘Be silent my lord! Now is not the time for troubled pride and old enmities-we must preserve our standing with the king.’ Grand Mayor Wulfnoth placed himself squarely in front of the Earl: ‘you
will let ME do the talking sir, by God!’
For a moment, the younger Earl squared up to the other. Technically Wulfnoth outranked him by dint of being both Grand-Mayor-the same as Duke- and also Lord Marshal, but the fire in the Advisor’s eye hinted at a recklessness that might throw all such caution aside. And then it was gone, the Earl took a deep breath let his shoulders relax. He nodded silently and the two proceeded, with purpose, into the pavilion.
Within the air was even more heavy than without, but there was no move by the king to have this audience anywhere else, so the two commanders shuffled up to the table at which Osweald sat, a goblet of cooling wine already in hand. He had already divested himself of his broadsword and passed his helm to an attendant. Upon his brow sat a plain circlet of shimmering gold-a clear message of his authority to the sullen lords.
‘Well? Which of you two will explain the calamitous reversal at Warwick?’ Here was a spirit and authority that had not, hitherto, been seen in their king. ‘I leave to attend to my dear-departed Confessor’s last hours and hear, whilst in Lambeth, that not only have you engaged the enemy against my express command but also that you have been handily
bested!’ This last was emphasised by slamming his goblet upon the table spilling the wine all over it.
Wulfnoth, a veteran of many battles and who had fearlessly served both this king and his mother, unsteadily cleared his throat, ‘my liege your orders were indeed clear but an opportunity was espied by our scouts-it was one too good to pass up on…’
‘And what
opportunity might that have been sir, I pray?’ The king said scorn dripping from his voice, ‘an opportunity to lose one third of your number to the enemy, if reports are to be believed?’
‘No sire, they had come up in ramshackle fashion to invest their lines, we were in battle order. It was a chance to end this affair for once and all…’
Osweald held his cup out again, waited for it to be replenished and then turned a fierce look to the other: ‘you sir! Have you nothing to say?’
You wouldn't like me when I'm angry 
Wulfnoth started to reply but was stilled by the king, ‘I said I would hear from my lord of Warwick.’ Another disdainful look to Ælfnoth ‘speak!’
Wulfnoth could only look away as his companion, voice trembling with righteous anger began: ‘you would belittle your esteemed commanders, we two, steeped in battle and full of experience? Have you no shame lord king?’
The restraining arm was there again, prompting a furious shaking off, ‘no, my friend, our king has asked me to speak and, as is my right as belted Earl and Lord Advisor, I will have my say!’
King Osweald, for his part could only look on, astonished, his mouth agape at such insolence. Then he recovered himself: ‘Ah my
Lord Advisor indeed-he who had to be recently warned against factionalism, who plots and schemes against me and mine.’ The word
advisor had been said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
With friends like these...
‘I am no traitor sir!’ The Earl snapped, ‘but mayhap you might ask such of your
beloved friend since the fault for our so-called reversal may be laid squarely at his door!’
‘What fault was it of Cenwulf my lord Earl? He is a competent soldier and one of the realm’s appointed battle commanders-do you say that he should not have taken my place?’ Osweald spluttered, of a sudden not on sure ground.
‘I do say so sir-his abject tactics and shoddy authority are the
only reason we suffered such a defeat. Our flank that collapsed, his and his alone. You may be thankful that you have two such commanders in myself and Wulfnoth here or you would have lost more than the two thousand who fell…a number, by the way, that equates neatly to those under the command of Cenwulf!’ The last was spat out by Ælfnoth who cared not the insult given.
For an interminable time there was only silence, doom laden and heavy, as the import of both the Earl’s inference as well as his insolence bounced around the tent. It was broken, at last, by the king in croaky voice ordering the Earl to leave. Ælfnoth offered a bow, heavy with irony, before exiting. The Lord Marshal, for his part, stayed exactly where he was, his breathing heavy and laboured, his eyes watching the king’s closely.
At last the younger man signalled for the Grand Mayor to join him at the table and gestured a page forward with drinks. He reached for what was his third cup, drained it in a long pull and shouted for another. Whether it was the Frankish wine or the absence of his tormentor, Osweald at last relaxed uttering some words in a language that Wulfnoth did not recognise-it was not Saxon, their mother-tongue, nor Latin for certes.
‘Sire?’
Osweald looked to his commander with sad eye. ‘I speak in the Frankish tongue my lord. Cenræd has me learning both that and the language of the Pays D’Oc of Aquitaine…says it will improve my standing when we accept foreign signatories…much good will it do me if we lose this war.’
Wulfnoth grunted and growled ‘we will not lose my king.’
‘Oh aye? And what makes you so sure sir? My reign has been a disaster thus far: I have lost our treasury in foreign wars, lost the loyalty of the lords of Saxony, lost my friend and the respect of my Council and now we lose the first major engagement…’ He trailed off, gazing deeply into the goblet and absent-mindedly swirling around its contents.
‘You are much too maudlin my liege. We will not lose.’
‘Where has my friend fled to? Cenwulf?’ The king asked, changing the subject entirely and suddenly solicitous of his disgraced boon-companion.
Wulfnoth fixed Osweald with stern gaze, ‘I know not my lord king and I care not! Of that, at least, Ælfnoth was right: Cenwulf did not cover himself with glory.’ The Grand Mayor stood and peered down at his king with intent, ‘the battle was fought more than two weeks ago - do you not wonder why we were not harried and pursued after?’
Bleary-eyed Osweald shook his head. He wished he might be swallowed up in a whole vat of his favourite wine-it would be preferable to the cares of kingship, for certes.
Wulfnoth crossed the room and returned with a battle map that he unfurled. He drew his dagger and thrust it into the part that denoted the nearby town of Tamworth. ‘See sir-
that is where the enemy is. Besieging Tamworth in Ælfnoth’s demesne, some twenty leagues to our south…’
‘Yes- and what?’
‘The battle was fought here sire-at Warwick. We retreated north-some twenty leagues here to Southwell. They came north also, but stopped at Tamworth. They only travelled seven or eight leagues in pursuit. Does that not tell you something my king?’
Osweald shook his head again, his fuddled brain not grasping but then slowly, surely, comprehension started to dawn upon the king’s face; ‘they have not the strength? Is that it?’
Wulfnoth was nodding eagerly, ‘I think they still overmatch us sire but if word coming out of Tamworth is correct mayhap by only a thousand or more. We sold ourselves dearly in retreat from Warwick, by the rood, and I hear tell the Earl of Derby commands them-he was ever over-cautious…’ He let the import of this make its own way in the other’s reckonings.
Osweald banged his fist on the table but this time not in frustration. ‘I see it sir., Then mayhap we have a chance if it is
we who go on the offense!’
Wulfnoth, forgetting himself entirely, clapped the king on the back: ‘you have it sire! Let it be us who stalk them. It might even have them thinking we have more soldiery than is actually the case.’
Osweald nodded agreement ‘mayhap sir mayhap. It is well thought out.’ He stood and motioned his pages for his sword and helm. ‘I will find my tent my Lord Marshal-I am weary from the ride…’
Before he turned, however, Wulfnoth gave voice to the matter still hanging in the air: ‘what of Earl Ælfnoth, sire? What are your orders for him?’
Osweald paused and looked down, ‘he has insulted me my lord-I am not like to forget that in a hurry.’ A long silence before he added quietly, ‘but he may keep his position for now…’
Wulfnoth exhaled a long breath of relief for, as irascible as he was, Ælfnoth was still, along with Duke Wulfgar of Essex, probably the finest battle commander in the realm.
The king’s words interrupted the Grand Mayor’s thoughts: ‘I will send for my eldest son, however, Grand Mayor- he has come of age and is set to be a fine soldier. What that means for the Lord Advisor only time will tell. I give you good day sir.’
Wulfnoth once more bowed low as his liege lord departed, wondering all the while what these last words might mean for the fiery Earl of Warwick and for the realm…
