Chapter Thirty-One: A Legend is Born
Winchester, end of September, 877
One thousand men had joined Ubbe's invasion over the course of its progress, and still his army had suffered a few losses compared to what he had begun with, caused by the assaults on Ælfred's strongholds in Wareham, Bath and now, Winchester. He didn't want to start any lengthy sieges, and even though Inwær had joined him by now, Anlaufr's loss was making the siege option even less attractive. He was hard to replace concerning disease not just because of his undoubtable ability, but also as most men, having joined from Scandinavia, distrusted the converted Saxon. Yet he was the most able physician amongst the army, having learnt most of the former seer's knowledge, and Erlend's failure to prevent Ubbe's wound from infecting didn't exactly help his cause. Even then, the time it took to prepare for Bath's assault was enough for disease to ravage the camp.
Still, Inwær was unable to combat the king's infection effectively, and so it wasn't only his age, but also that wound that would impair his ability to fight fairly significantly. But now was not the time to think about it.
Ubbe sat on the throne of Wessex, even though the war still raged on. Hafrid had reported that Ælfred had joined his army with that of the Irish chiefs. Not a thought for today – it was time to enjoy the victory.
Around 900 men had attempted to hold Winchester against Ubbe's 10.300. In the aftermath of the siege, little over 1.600 warriors' corpses littered the town's defences. And now, houses were burning, and more bodies were strewn around. Ælfred's capital would end up being eradicated soon enough, just as the wounded king wanted it. With Wessex' delaying stratagems in an attempt to unite the Christian forces, Inwær had raised a point that he may not be able to witness the end of the conflict himself. Instead of whatever the Saxon intended to provoke with that information, Ubbe readily followed Hæsteinn's advice – the Faceless Flayer would also be the Destroyer of Winchester.
One who was planning his next move.
“Little over 8.000 men, my king. Mostly from Irland, having come to defend their faith”, Hafrid reported. “The chief of Laigin has just landed a scouting force in Dorset, likely to see how well Wareham is defended.”
“Then they'll s-s-see there isn't much left there”, the Tormentor grinned.
“Only a good battlefield”, Tryggve finished his master's thought.
Wide fields without any hazards – everybody nodded, even Steinn forced himself to. “We would have the advantage in every way on even ground.”
Sigfrið eagerly added his own opinion. “The Irish are mostly light skirmishers, if I remember our last encounters with them. Once the shieldwall closes the distance, we'll make mincemeat out of them easily.”
“I can only agree that it will be as fine a day as we could ask for to wage our decisive battle. But that is not this day. Let us enjoy today's victory, remember those who feast in Valhalla now, and celebrate those who will do so soon!”
“My king, the scouts report that the pagan host is moving”, Chanai said. The Jew had come to replace the men who led the Swiss, Ælfwine, as Wessex' commander. Many were protesting against Ælfred's decision to name him as such, and the Irish flat out refused to follow his orders. It was a difficult decision to make, and in the end the king had opted for 'dire times need dire measures'. Chanai was the most competent man he had left (save for himself) after his last commanders fell into the heathens' hands, to the heathens' steel.
The Jew went on. “They say the Flayer has nearly ten thousand men at his disposal, and that they have left Winchester in ruins. The Irish from Laigin have landed in Dorset, and appear to be their target.”
“They shouldn't have”, the king of Alt Clut noted. “My own encounter with the Sorcerer, the one amongst that devilish breed who has already joined his master in hell, showed me that alone, we are overwhelmed. It is in times like these that the men of the true faith must stand together.”
“Then you'll agree with me that we need to rush to their help, Owain.” The king of Wessex picked up on Alt Clut's words, twisting his intended meaning and leaving him speechless for a moment.
“But...that's not what I meant!”
“It isn't? Alone we are overwhelmed, you said. Which is why we are all here, and for which Wessex is very grateful. All of us are, as are these brave men from Laigin, who thought they could reach us in Dorset. Shall we leave them to their gruesome fates for nothing but bad luck, to have run into the hands of our enemies?
No, we shall not. We have all come together to defend Christendom on our fair isles, to protect our people from the heathen scourge that tries to overwhelm us and usher in a dark age. Only the men from Laigin have not joined us yet, with Mercia and Scotland in no state to do so. We can leave them to die, but for what purpose? Who will reinforce us when the horde rushes towards our position? How would you feel if your allies abandoned you that way?
Our only choice is to come to their aid. To engage in that one battle that will decide the fate of Britain. We have gathered our full strength, as much as they have. It will be long, hard and bloody. It will demand great sacrifices from all of us. But in the end, it will be worth it. For we will drive out the heathen from our land!”
Ælfred let his words take the intended effect. Then he went on. “Then let us decide how we are going to meet the enemy.”
This would be his closest-matched battle yet. 9.500 of his own men, facing 8.200 Christians under Ælfred's command. So as the king of Wessex readied his troops, Ubbe did the same.
“We crush them here and Wessex is ours. So I expect nothing less then a victory. Valhalla can wait for after our triumph”, he began. Not that anyone of those present had the intention to die today. “I will lead the centre. Steinn takes the left, Hæsteinn the right, just as in Dorchester. Each flank with a bit over 3.000 men.
Whoever breaks his opponent first needs to make no effort to pursue the fleeing cowards. Everyone is just going to run home, knowing that we hold our victory, and not attempt to return to Wessex any time soon.
As for how you advance, I trust in your ability to choose whatever is right.”
“They w-w-will wish their g-g-god had already t-t-taken them”, the Tormentor said, grinning. “When my black r-r-raven advances towards the C-c-christians, they tend to run.”
Tryggve beamed with pride, as he would serve as his master's merkismaðr in this next battle. The standard he carried was a powerful weapon in itself. As was Ubbe's raven – made even more threatening by his merkismaðr, the Nordlander giant Härek. Now if that didn't intimidate the cowardly Christians – Tryggve could basically taste the sweet nectar of victory already.
Steinn was not as certain of victory as Hæsteinn's second man. But he liked their chances. “We will harass the enemy with our riders, using the full flexibility of our Norman ways”, the First Norman stated. “At the same time, we should be able to assist any other flank should the need arise.”
“Then rest well, men”, Ubbe closed the meeting. “For tomorrow will be a feast for the bird we carry into battle!”
It was close to Wareham that the two armies finally met. Ælfred's men had joined those from Laigin and could thus face the Norsemen together. While it robbed them of the opportunity to wipe out the smaller Irish chiefdom's troops, the deciding battle seemed to still be in their favour. The warriors went into formation – two and a half shieldwalls, spread over the plain fields that would form the battlefield. Steinn's right flank was notable for the high amount of horsemen next to his semi-wall, the red bolt fluttering in the wind next to Ubbe's raven.
The opposing side seemed to be well-organized this time. Ælfred's presence was clearly distinguishable in their centre, alongside what seemed to be plenty of Irish chiefs. The Christian left flank reminded Steinn of the Welsh he fought in Gwynedd, while a lone Wessexian rider was ordering their right into shape.
Ubbe gave the signal. And so the battle of Wareham had begun, the one which would decide the fate of these lands for years, decades, perhaps centuries to come.
The Christian flanks spread out, attempting to widen the battlefield, as the viking shieldwalls slowly came closer. Interpreting it as a sign that Wessex' right was already close to breaking, attempting to escape his reach, before they had even engaged, Hæsteinn abandoned the slow approach and picked up the pace towards his opposing flank. That this change wasn't answered with more arrows and javelins, but an increase in outward speed from the Christians, confirmed his action and he drove his men forward with more vigour.
The Welsh left on the other hand had tried to get their archers into range of Steinn's cavalry, and opened fire as soon as they had reached it. It didn't take long for the Norman to realize that the Christians had a clear advantage in number of archers, and kept his men in formation while using his speed advantage as often as possible to break into the Welsh ranks.
With his flanks engaged in their battles, Ubbe's centre was left in his own, which wasn't something that concerned the king much, until he had covered most of the ground between the enemy and him, in a close shieldwall. Then, Ælfred sounded the charge.
That wasn't planned. At all. His men should charge, not the Christians. But instead of that, thousands of lightly armoured Irishmen stormed against Ubbe's 3.000, and he quickly realized that they were far more than he had at his disposal. And then came the javelins – when the first men began to fall, the shieldwall began to fall apart, too. He had no choice – the distance had to be closed quickly, and so he ordered a counter-charge. The huscarls in their heavy armour would have a clear advantage in close quarters.
This was too easy. The Saxons clearly had no trust in their commander. The Tormentor happily saw him wildly riding through the ranks, attempting to rally his men against the viking charge, but mostly to no avail. Around hundred brave or foolish souls finally listened to the man and stood their ground, only to be mowed down quickly. That was the breaking point for the rest of them, as it was for the man on the horse, who now also tried to get away as quickly as he could.
“The Tormentor knows no mercy!”, Tryggve shouted.
And yes, of course Hæsteinn agreed. He hadn't thought about it before, but now there was absolutely no way that he would just let them run.
Steinn was left shocked as he tried to get an overview of the battle. While the Welsh archers had kept him in check, a horde was just coming down on his king's centre. And further away, the Tormentor's men pursued a few fleeing stragglers. “So much for no pursuit”, he cursed under his breath. “Hel's servants be damned.”
The Norman had to react – he had the cavalry, light as it may be. It was his duty to bring some necessary relief to the king's battle, hard under pressure. Ordering all his riders to him, Steinn gave up on the archers and launched himself towards Wessex' banner. An arrow planted itself in his shield on the back, others fell from their horses. It was up to the infantry to take out the Welsh now. His leader, king, friend needed him.
The arrival of the Norse cavalry could turn the tables, but for now he still had the upper hand. How strange it was that the Irish reluctance to follow his Jewish commander could actually turn out to play in his favour. With Chanai's weakly manned flank facing the Tormentor's, renowned for his cruelty, the trap was laid – and worked perfectly. A big threat lured away, Ælfred attempted to strike at the heart of the invasion directly. Owain's men had managed to keep the Norse right busy, but now their cavalry came. It was, hopefully, too late for them. Irish javelins kept finding their mark, and the riders with little to no protection were an easy enough target, too. With the Norse counter-charging, he raised his sword and shouted “for the glory of God!”.
The Irish skirmishers had felled many of his men, but the battle was far from lost. Ubbe had gotten into melee range, and split the skull of the first man who tried to stop him before swinging at the next man's arm. With a satisfying sound, his axe cut right through, and his opponent hardly had the time to howl in pain before he cut through his neck. Followed by his best men, the Faceless Flayer gained new hope. If this was all they could do, he'd cut them all down.
Spears pierced whatever the Irish had as armour, as well as Ubbe's deadly weapon, burying itself in another foe's chest as he blocked an attack with his shield. And then he saw him – Ælfred, the king of Wessex, surrounded by his champions and the Irish chiefs. Well-armoured and equipped, as most of the light infantry turned around to fight the incoming cavalry charge.
One could always rely on Steinn, Ubbe thought, as he wondered where the Tormentor was – if there was such a strong host in the Christian centre, either their information was wrong or he should already have finished his flank. He had no time to pursue this line of thought as his new opponents demanded all his attention. In the cacophony of shouts of charging, hit and dying men, he heard his Saxon title - “there's the Faceless Flayer!”, and had to rely on his full experience to avoid getting hit.
As he blocked one man's attack with his shield, another man drove his spear towards his face – which got stuck in his mask's jaw plate. Ubbe brought down his axe on the spear's shaft, and the now disarmed opponent got cut down by the warrior to his right. He was about to swing at the next man when the pain from his infected wound made a strong return.
His movements became slower and he gritted his teeth in more than just battle exhilaration. Still, with the support of his men he was fast enough to fend off the enemy's attacks. Then something robbed him of his breath.
Looking down on himself, he saw what was the cause. An Irish javelin had found its way into his chest. Ubbe dropped his shield. Swung his axe at the next enemy, but missed. Then sank to his knees. Then he saw a human figure approaching from above. Surely a valkyrie, to take him to Valhalla. Reinforcing his grip on the weapon, he mumbled his last words... “I... failed... But a piglet's piglet... can grunt, too.”
And this, young man, is the story of Ubbe Ragnarrsson. What do you mean I can't just leave it at that? Why not? You asked me to tell Ubbe's story, and Ubbe's story I told. I can assure you, he doesn't come back from the dead.
The battle? The invasion? Don't they teach you that in school? You should know about it! What became of Hæsteinn? The Tormentor? The new king of Lúnborg? Well, that isn't Ubbe's story any more, now is it?
Alright, alright, you win. But don't expect me to go into much detail here. I will give you an overview of what happened next. If there are any questions left afterwards, leave them for later.
Oh, if Ubbe achieved his goal? Well, he was known as the Faceless Flayer... anything else, you either already know or you will, soon. Youth today – where's the virtue of patience gone?
