Ok, this is something of a one-shot and I would love it if someone could make more of it. I have always wondered what would have happened if Athelstan had been not just defeated but killed at the battle of Brunanburh, one of the most significant battles of the Dark Ages (outside those of Bath and Chester, and yes, I know, I need to restart Cato's Cavalry).
So - here's what I have started. Who wants to finish it?
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The barn was old and before they had arrived it had smelt musty, as if someone or something had died in it a long time ago. It was of Mercian make, judging by the carvings.
And now it smelt of blood and death and the other smells that came with death. Aedward wrinkled his nose at the smell. Faugh.
They had been 30-strong when they had arrived at dusk, limping and supporting each other, some using spears to prop themselves up, or in some cases what remained of spears. Now there were barely a score of them. The worst of the wounded had died, sometimes with barely muffled screams, sometimes with nothing more than a rattling moan as the light had died from their eyes.
Old Ecfrith had gone about the worst of the wounded. The old warrior had been a priest once, or trained to be one. He had taken up the sword years ago, around the time that the King’s grandfather had fought the Norsemen at Ethandun. Now he went from dying man to dying man, reciting a few words of scripture to ease their passing.
He sighed as he stared into the fire that they had made in a hole scraped in the floor of the barn. Damn them. Damn them all, the new Norse and their allies from the North. They’d landed on the coast, in hundreds of keels. And then they’d marched to meet the King’s forces.
Bruna's burh. That would be the name of the battle, from now until the end of time. Heh. A battle named for an old dead drunkard. Should he laugh or cry?
They’d been doing well at first. The King’s tactics had been cautious, careful. But then… The arrow. It had come from nowhere. An inch to one side and it would have hit his helmet. Instead it had entered his eye, vanishing for half its length. And then Aethelstan, Bretwalda, first King of all the English, had died in a puddle of his own piss.
The king’s brother Aedmund had taken command quickly, but the news had spread quickly and with it a part of their strength had gone. The Norse and the Strathclyde Walha had gained new strength even as the English had quailed. And Aedmund had not been the warrior that his brother had been.
Not that he had lasted much longer. That surge… He had seen Olaf himself there, with his berserkers on either side of him, carving a bloodied hole in the shield wall, as well as in Aedmund’s skull. And that had been it. The wall had been broken, the ends rolled up.
The men had run. Run for their lives. And men who are running are easy targets for archers.
He sighed again – and then stiffened. He could hear hooves. He stood, despite the agony of the arrow-wound to his thigh as the rough bandage pulled at the injury, and hobbled to the door. “Who comes?” he growled.
“Ethelwulf,” came the answer. “Bearing the body of the King.”
They all stirred at that. Men craned their heads to peer into the darkness. A small group was there, escorting a horse. The man leading them was bloodied – were they not all bloodied? – and his arm was in a sling. And on the back of the horse was the motionless form of a man.
They carried him carefully into the barn and laid him by the fire. The corpse was stiffening and still that same arrow protruded from his eye socket.
“Winchester is a long way away,” Aedward muttered. “But he must be buried there. Besides his grandfather.”
“Aye, he must,” Ethelwulf muttered. “Although who will be king next is a matter for the Witan.”
Cold water seemed to trickle down his back. “Eadred?”
“Dead in the rout. Arrow to the back. Foolish boy should never have been with us.”
Silence fell. “How did you get the King’s body away?”
“I covered him with a cloak and dragged him away. Found a horse eventually. Olaf and Owain searched for his body. They failed but are still feasting in celebration. Their men have lit great bonfires.” Another pause. “I heard of the Walha celebrating to the West.”
“They would,” he spat bitterly – and then a man screamed as a spear struck him in the chest and he looked about in the darkness. There were men there in that darkness, men with spears and bows. An arrow took a man in the chest and he fell into the fire, sending sparks flying everywhere.
The air was filled with shouts and screams, chaos was everywhere, and he rolled to one side to avoid a short throwing spear and then tried to come upright again, his leg so painful that he let out a half-scream himself. More arrows, more screams – and then he realised that the hay on the floor of the barn had caught on fire. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and levered himself fully up. Ethelwulf was dead, impaled by a spear, and next to him lay Ecfrith with an arrow in his chest.
Something hammered into his shoulder and as he fell he realised that it was a spear. The world seemed to go grey for a moment and he felt as weak as a kitten. He could not hold his sword, he could barely turn his head. Many men were screaming now and as he finally, oh so slowly, looked to one side he could see that the body of the King was on fire as well.
It seemed fitting, as the darkness took him.
So - here's what I have started. Who wants to finish it?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The barn was old and before they had arrived it had smelt musty, as if someone or something had died in it a long time ago. It was of Mercian make, judging by the carvings.
And now it smelt of blood and death and the other smells that came with death. Aedward wrinkled his nose at the smell. Faugh.
They had been 30-strong when they had arrived at dusk, limping and supporting each other, some using spears to prop themselves up, or in some cases what remained of spears. Now there were barely a score of them. The worst of the wounded had died, sometimes with barely muffled screams, sometimes with nothing more than a rattling moan as the light had died from their eyes.
Old Ecfrith had gone about the worst of the wounded. The old warrior had been a priest once, or trained to be one. He had taken up the sword years ago, around the time that the King’s grandfather had fought the Norsemen at Ethandun. Now he went from dying man to dying man, reciting a few words of scripture to ease their passing.
He sighed as he stared into the fire that they had made in a hole scraped in the floor of the barn. Damn them. Damn them all, the new Norse and their allies from the North. They’d landed on the coast, in hundreds of keels. And then they’d marched to meet the King’s forces.
Bruna's burh. That would be the name of the battle, from now until the end of time. Heh. A battle named for an old dead drunkard. Should he laugh or cry?
They’d been doing well at first. The King’s tactics had been cautious, careful. But then… The arrow. It had come from nowhere. An inch to one side and it would have hit his helmet. Instead it had entered his eye, vanishing for half its length. And then Aethelstan, Bretwalda, first King of all the English, had died in a puddle of his own piss.
The king’s brother Aedmund had taken command quickly, but the news had spread quickly and with it a part of their strength had gone. The Norse and the Strathclyde Walha had gained new strength even as the English had quailed. And Aedmund had not been the warrior that his brother had been.
Not that he had lasted much longer. That surge… He had seen Olaf himself there, with his berserkers on either side of him, carving a bloodied hole in the shield wall, as well as in Aedmund’s skull. And that had been it. The wall had been broken, the ends rolled up.
The men had run. Run for their lives. And men who are running are easy targets for archers.
He sighed again – and then stiffened. He could hear hooves. He stood, despite the agony of the arrow-wound to his thigh as the rough bandage pulled at the injury, and hobbled to the door. “Who comes?” he growled.
“Ethelwulf,” came the answer. “Bearing the body of the King.”
They all stirred at that. Men craned their heads to peer into the darkness. A small group was there, escorting a horse. The man leading them was bloodied – were they not all bloodied? – and his arm was in a sling. And on the back of the horse was the motionless form of a man.
They carried him carefully into the barn and laid him by the fire. The corpse was stiffening and still that same arrow protruded from his eye socket.
“Winchester is a long way away,” Aedward muttered. “But he must be buried there. Besides his grandfather.”
“Aye, he must,” Ethelwulf muttered. “Although who will be king next is a matter for the Witan.”
Cold water seemed to trickle down his back. “Eadred?”
“Dead in the rout. Arrow to the back. Foolish boy should never have been with us.”
Silence fell. “How did you get the King’s body away?”
“I covered him with a cloak and dragged him away. Found a horse eventually. Olaf and Owain searched for his body. They failed but are still feasting in celebration. Their men have lit great bonfires.” Another pause. “I heard of the Walha celebrating to the West.”
“They would,” he spat bitterly – and then a man screamed as a spear struck him in the chest and he looked about in the darkness. There were men there in that darkness, men with spears and bows. An arrow took a man in the chest and he fell into the fire, sending sparks flying everywhere.
The air was filled with shouts and screams, chaos was everywhere, and he rolled to one side to avoid a short throwing spear and then tried to come upright again, his leg so painful that he let out a half-scream himself. More arrows, more screams – and then he realised that the hay on the floor of the barn had caught on fire. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and levered himself fully up. Ethelwulf was dead, impaled by a spear, and next to him lay Ecfrith with an arrow in his chest.
Something hammered into his shoulder and as he fell he realised that it was a spear. The world seemed to go grey for a moment and he felt as weak as a kitten. He could not hold his sword, he could barely turn his head. Many men were screaming now and as he finally, oh so slowly, looked to one side he could see that the body of the King was on fire as well.
It seemed fitting, as the darkness took him.
