Chapter One
As the sun began its descent in a cloudless sky, the battle-weary Saxons cheered as the blazing dragonship sank in the windswept channel. The forceful gusts obscured the cries of drowning men as the remnants of Norse invaders embraced a watery grave. The stench of death intermingled with the sea mist as King Alfred’s warriors walked amongst the carnage, seeking their fallen brothers in arms while a healer tended to the wounded.
Women from a nearby village hurried towards the sandy battlefield, carrying baskets filled with an assortment of healing herbs while children carried much needed linen to bind the wounds. The healer was grateful for their assistance, barking orders as he bound the severed leg of a gravely injured warrior.
“We are skilled with the needle,” one of the women said as she pointed to a man whose arm had been slashed.
“Tend to him then!” The healer shouted while the rest of the women made themselves useful ministering to the mutilated men.
A stableboy drove a wagon down the sloping shoreline, reining his horse when he reached the blood-soaked beach. He jumped off his seat and calmed the frightened animal as he waited to load the wagon, thanking the Lord silently that the heathen assault had been thwarted.
Brantson walked amongst the wounded as his able-bodied men made the necessary preparations to bury the dead. He spoke with every man, assessing their wounds while providing comfort, but his demeanor was somber as he silently counted the number of warriors he had lost. Brantson gestured to the stableboy who hurried towards him, and he smiled slightly when the lad removed his hat and bowed.
“How are you called?”
“Alden, my lord.”
“Alden, I would have you bring the wounded men to the holy brothers at the abbey, but return quickly for the dead.”
“We will need more wagons,” Alden replied while pointing at the heathen bodies.
“Nay, we will alight a funeral fire as is their custom. I would not deny them their beliefs.”
“As you wish,” Alden mumbled before taking his leave.
“The boy seemed surprised by your honorable treatment of the enemy,” the first officer said quietly as he approached his commander.
“It is only fitting,” Brantson murmured as he gazed upon the lifeless bodies. “But you already know my thoughts in this regard, so why are you troubled?”
“One of the children said there were two dragonships.”
Brantson did not answer immediately but rather walked towards the rippling waves breaking softly upon the muddy beach. He glanced at the quiet coastline as the red and orange hues of twilight brightened the evening sky.
“Set up camp in the forest, near the abbey. If what the boy said is true, I would expect a raid when the moon sits high in the sky.”
Brantson remained at the water’s edge while his first officer carried out his orders. His thoughts returned to a battle at sea so many years past, when the man he called father had died while serving King Alfred in a fight of his own choosing. If the king had not been victorious, Rollo’s fate might never have been known. His eyes became moist as he remembered the pain the woman he called mother suffered once she learned the truth, and because he remembered, he took pity on the heathen women who lived across the North Sea since they would never learn the fate of their men.
***
The Saxon warriors rested in the darkened camp, eating dried meat but drinking sparsely as they awaited the enemy while scouting parties patrolled the shoreline in the warm night air. The men spoke in whispers, their soft words hidden beneath the screeching sound of dying animals as nocturnal predators ensnared their prey. A gentle breeze rustled the trees, the cool night air a welcome respite from the sweltering heat that lingered across the countryside. Faint flashes of lightning were seen on the horizon, casting an eerie whitish glow in the star-studded sky.
Brantson sat against a white birch, sharpening his sword while his thoughts wandered to happier days when cousins spent the summer months in Exeter, visiting Concordia’s Uncle Sidonius, her mother’s brother who had restored the familial estate to its former glory. A smile formed on his solemn face when he recalled Concordia running through a flowery meadow, her laughter echoing across the countryside as she playfully teased the younger children. He was not of their blood, but he was considered family, sharing a life once thought beyond his reach. The cousins sought his counsel because he was older and wise beyond his years, which formed a deepening bond that defied the passage of time.
Brantson did not remember when his feelings towards Concordia began to change. She was as a sister, a spirited little girl who never left his side whenever he visited Wareham. His hand sought the silver Cross he wore beneath his tunic, Concordia’s parting gift when he left to serve in King Alfred’s army. She had stayed atop the Keep until he was lost to her view, a mere child whom he would not see again for many years.
Brantson rose in the ranks of King Alfred’s army and became a respected officer, a gifted tactician who thwarted the Norsemen on numerous campaigns, but the heathen continued to threaten Britannia’s shores, keeping Brantson in the midst of battle and preventing him from returning to those he loved.
“My lord,” Bryce said softly as he approached his commander.
Brantson smiled at his first officer, beckoning him to sit while sheathing his sword. He handed the younger man a wineskin filled with water and waited as Bryce greedily drank his fill.
“The breeze does little to dispel this insufferable heat!” Bryce grinned as he wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “Rain would be most welcome.”
“Not until we win the battle!”
“That is what I meant,” Bryce chuckled, “but all is quiet still. It is possible the children were mistaken.”
“I pray that is so, but the night is young, and the abbey is known for its riches, but that is not why you seek me.”
“You speak the truth, as always. We have received word from the king,” Bryce replied as he handed Brantson a sealed parchment. “The messenger is being fed as we speak.”
Brantson broke the king’s seal and was surprised when he noticed a second letter had been enclosed with the king’s communication. He recognized Concordia’s handwriting but controlled his desire to read her words before reading his king’s orders.
“We are to return to court once we finish here,” Brantson said, somewhat bemused. “I wonder what mischief is planned.”
“Concordia must be behind this,” Bryce laughed while pointing to the second letter that Brantson shoved inside his boot, “and why have you not yet told her how you truly feel?”
“If there is no battle, we will set out at first light, otherwise we will leave once the men are rested. Have the messenger await us at the abbey, but have him inform the healer we would have our wounded return with us, if they are fit to travel,” Brantson barked at his first officer.
“I meant no disrespect and apologize for my impertinence,” Bryce told his commander and friend as he arose.
“I must beg forgiveness, my tone was overly harsh,” Brantson whispered as he stood up and grasped Bryce’s forearm.
“There is nothing to forgive, the day has been long and it is not yet finished; we are all in need of rest.”
Brantson nodded as Bryce returned to the camp, waiting until he was once again alone before retrieving Concordia’s letter. He leaned against the smooth bark of an oak tree and gently broke the wax seal. He read over the words quickly, holding his breath with each sentence, before he slowly read again Concordia’s innocent words...
Brantson, I trust you are well. It is unfortunate that I have not had the pleasure of your company since I have been housed at the king’s court, but this will soon be remedied. I am in need of your wise counsel, and beg your support, as you have done so many times when I was but a child. I await you anxiously, my dearest friend. Concordia.
“Concordia, what are you up to now?” Brantson mumbled beneath his breath while shaking his head.
Brantson folded Concordia’s letter, placed it inside King Alfred’s message, and thrust the communication into his pouch. He grasped his belted dagger, his fingers clenching and unclenching the hilt while he tried to interpret Concordia’s cryptic message. He was troubled because she called him her dearest friend. She held his heart, but he feared he had waited too long to confess his true feelings, and that she was already smitten with someone she had met at court. He vowed to seek her hand in marriage, but then could he chance losing her friendship if she feared his love?
Brantson was grateful to return to the task at hand when one of his men hurriedly ran towards him.
“There is movement amongst the trees,” the warrior whispered as he pointed towards the dense brushwood.
Brantson nodded while silently giving the order to pursue the enemy. His men crept stealthily through the forest, keeping their distance while trying to determine the size of the enemy forces.
“Have the archers await the enemy at the abbey. They will have to cross open ground before they reach the walls,” Brantson said quietly to the young warrior.
Brantson searched for Bryce as he walked silently through the woods with his sword drawn, but he had difficulty identifying any of his warriors in the darkened shadows.
“My lord,” a whispered voice said from behind. “There are ten men, maybe eleven.”
“They are outnumbered then, but I would rather fight in the clearing than amongst the trees, but if we silence them, one at a time, from the rear, we hold the advantage and will keep our losses to a minimum. Find Officer Bryce and tell him I will join our scouts watching the beach. I would capture their ship.”
“As you command,” the warrior replied as he disappeared within the trees.
While the archers stood at the ready, waiting for the order to release a deadly barrage of arrows, the Saxon foot soldiers quickly came upon the unsuspecting Norsemen with drawn daggers. Bryce nodded when one of the foot soldiers put his hand over the surprised heathen’s mouth, deftly slit his throat and quietly placed the dead body upon the ground. Another heathen was taken by surprise and yet another, which left six invaders to be felled by the archer’s arrow.
Brantson could smell victory as he joined his scouts who had already captured the anchored dragonship. He noticed two Norsemen bound together, sitting near the water’s edge, but he had not expected to find enslaved women and children crammed in the dark hull when he boarded the vessel. He shouted to his men as he started to pull the captives onto the deck. His warriors reassured the frightened children while the women kept praising God for their deliverance.
“Our village is near Chichester,” one of the women tearfully said. “We do not know the fate of our men.”
“We will rest in the abbey this night,” Brantson replied, “but do not worry, my warriors will see to your safe return.”
Brantson turned his attention to the Norsemen who glared at their captor as he approached. Both men spat at Brantson’s feet when he stood before them, and remained silent when questioned.
“My lord!” Bryce shouted as he ran down the sloping shoreline and headed towards the water’s edge, but he stopped abruptly when he came upon the women and children.
“They were taken near Chichester,” one of the scouts said. “We are bringing them to the abbey.”
“Praise God they were not harmed,” Bryce whispered as the women and children followed their saviors towards the forest path that led to the abbey while Brantson joined him.
“Select ten men who have seafarer training. We will sail this ship to Wareham, and from there we will escort these men to Winchester. Perhaps they might be persuaded to speak to the king,” Brantson began. “I leave you the command; see that the dead are properly buried; any wounded who are not fit to travel are to remain at the abbey until the healer releases them from his care; return the women and children to their village, but if the village is destroyed, bring them to the fortification and seek Lord David’s counsel. Once all is settled, meet me at the king’s court.”
“As you command,” Bryce saluted, but before he took his leave he whispered mischievously. “Good luck pursuing Concordia.”
Brantson’s face turned bright red as his first officer quickly left the beach, but he did not mind the words because Bryce was a trusted friend, a friend who had suspected the depth of his feelings for Concordia before he had admitted the truth to himself.
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