“A shame that your father recalled the Paladins,” Æthelwulf remarked to Pepin, the prince of Wessex riding alongside Pepin's carriage. It was a bit gentler on his twisted spine for long journeys, and it was hardly as if the army they marched with was outpacing it. “It would have been a dream to fight beside them.”
Æthelwulf smiled at the thought, completely ignorant of what the recalling of Astolfo and Bradamante meant.
Ecbert did, though he hid it with patient smiles and a farewell feast. Charlemagne had made a decision after years of investment into England. A decision made after reading reports from countless spies as well as Pepin's own.
Despite the vast army that so slowly marched North, one that was baying for the blood of the Northmen, Charlemagne had foreseen the conclusion of this war and decided against risking his Paladins in a battle with a foregone conclusion. His father felt that while bloodying the Northmen was still a possibility, outright victory wasn't, so his most valuable pieces were being pulled off the stage for another day and another battle.
“They were needed elsewhere,” Pepin replied.
“I would have thought your father would have recalled you as well,” Æthelwulf remarked with a gentle probing, not sure what to make of his continued presence in these foul islands.
“I have spent years preparing for this battle. It seems only right that I see it through,” Pepin replied, giving an answer that he knew Æthelwulf would respect. And respect it he did based on the quirking of his lips and the firm nod in response. The truth was a far crueler thing. Something that Pepin had prepared himself for the moment he set sail for Britannia.
Charlemagne had not recalled him alongside Astolfo and Bradamante. He was to stay in Ecbert's court as an advisor until Charlemagne decided otherwise. It was banishment in all but name. He was to stay on the islands, out of sight and out of mind, likely to be forgotten until his dying day. And likely even after.
His wretched affliction was a stain on the legacy of a Frankish King, but for a Roman Emperor? The stakes were higher and the margin for error was nonexistent. Charlemagne simply couldn't afford to have a deformed son at his court, even if he was forced to dwell in the shadows.
“I've long awaited this day,” Æthelwulf replied, gazing off in the direction of the Northmen. Where Prince Ragnar celebrated his wedding. A beloved prince, by all accounts. One who understood his duties and the expectations placed upon him. Kind to the servants, clever enough to hold his tongue and listen, and a brilliant warrior. It almost felt like a mockery that he was sent by God to punish Charlemagne's hubris, while Emperor Siegfried was rewarded at every turn by the gods he worshipped. “Father spoke of patience, but I will admit, my own was nearing its end.”
That was a sentiment that most felt when Ecbert decided at long last to commit the army that he had amassed. There was much rejoicing, with priests burning incense and chanting prayers throughout the mass of bodies, some hundred and sixty thousand men strong. If Pepin listened, he was sure that he would be able to hear priests chanting their prayers as they marched.
“I hope that spirit remains once the battle begins,” Pepin replied. He had his doubts. The men were ready to fight. They were practically chomping at the bit. They felt they had God's guiding hand on their backs and that He was pushing them forward to a fateful confrontation with the Northmen.
But few things were as fragile as morale. It only lasted until the first setback, and the reports that Æthelwulf interrupted his reading for idle chatter left Pepin uncertain of what it would be, but convinced it was soon to come.
Siegfried would have known long in advance that even with his veteran force, he couldn't hope to overcome such a disparity of numbers. He would have plans in place when Ecbert did decide to move. He’d had months to prepare for such a battle, and Pepin was attempting to see his plan through the scouts and spies scattered across Northumbria.
“How long do you think it will be?” Æthelwulf questioned with the brashness of a young man eager to prove himself and to step out of his father's shadow.
To that, Pepin glanced up at the darkening skies overhead. “I doubt that it will be long… but I fear that the Northmen will see us long before we see them.” It was clear that wasn't what Æthelwulf wanted to hear. He was dreaming of glorious battles that would see his name etched into the bedrock of history. But, even with an unwelcome answer, Æthelwulf thanked him for it, as it was a direct answer, unlike what he received from his father at the very head of the army.
Being a cripple had its advantages, loath as Pepin was to accept them. He was an unsightly creature, so when most weren’t gawking at his deformity, they were quick to avert their eyes and pretend that they didn't see him at all. It made it easy to maneuver in the camp once they stopped for the night.
He walked through the sea of tents with so many men crammed into them that they were practically spilling out. Some lacked shelter entirely, content with a bedroll, a pitchfork, and the clothes on their back as they lay in the dirt between tents to protect them from a strong breeze. Others forewent sleep entirely, gathering around campfires to play games or sing songs.
But it was what Pepin didn't see that worried him. The camp was so vast that building defenses for it was essentially impossible without deforesting the local hunting grounds. Instead, there were watch towers dotted along at steady intervals with patrols of foot soldiers to ensure that no one was sneaking into the camp unnoticed.
And it was what he heard that concerned him.
Ecbert's tent stood out amongst the sea of tents. A sign of importance to differentiate himself from the impoverished lords with whom he surrounded himself. There were so many noble tents, it felt like a third of the camp was dedicated to them. When he ventured near, the guards posted outside of the tent allowing him to enter with glances of ill-disguised disgust, he could hear it.
Arguing.
“My lands have been ravaged by these heathens, and I will have my due in blood!” A voice shouted out, and from the shadows, he saw the red faced rage of a noble around a large table. His proclamation was met with jeering and dismissal.
“All our lands have been ravaged! It doesn't grant you the right to lead the left flank!” Another shouted back at him, and the voices that had jeered earlier were now roaring with agreement. While the first noble's supporters jeered back.
At the center of it all was Ecbert. His expression was calm and dignified, but Pepin knew the man well enough to know that he was at his wits end with the conversation that had gone in circles for days on end.
Glory was a powerful motivator. And so was shame. The nobles who gathered around Ecbert now were the same nobles who had abandoned their lands with what wealth and strength they could muster. They wanted to wash away the perception that they were no more than clever cowards, and the previously well-established plans were cracking under their fervor and eagerness to fight.
Old and new rivalries flared now that they were taking the fight to the Northmen. They didn't want to be placed under the command of another, or they coveted a position that another had and the glory that would come with it. And the old divide between Northumbrian and Mercian lords was rearing its ugly head worse than ever.
Some days, the lords felt as if they were one wrong remark from fighting each other before they fought the Northmen.
Ecbert took great care to not make a wrong remark, “Peace, my lords. Peace!” He stresses, raising a hand to calm down the squabbling nobles. “We have enemies aplenty outside of this tent. There is no sense fighting amongst ourselves.”
It was to his credit that they did quiet down. His authority over them was new and untested in many ways, but Ecbert was at least respected by all the men in the tent. Or at the very least they understood that he held the keys to their future, so it was best to still their wagging tongues when he said so.
“I understand your eagerness,” Ecbert uttered in a calmer voice for a quieter crowd. “But do not let it overwrite your good sense. A plan is in place, my lords. Deviation now, in the final hour, is most unwise.” He was right. Everyone in the tent knew that he was right. Few things were more dangerous to an army on the eve of battle than to change the commander.
However, the lords didn’t care about what was right. They cared about themselves and their ambitions.
The nobles argued around Ecbert. Not directly protesting his decision, but calling out insults to each other to voice how little they cared for the current arrangement. An arrangement they had previously agreed to, but nobility was quick to forget favors and remembered slights for generations. Ecbert sat in his throne, his irritation slowly simmering and Pepin wondered if he was going to see the restrained king lose his temper for the first time.
But then a messenger arrived, covered in a sheen of sweat with so little breath that he had to gasp to get out his message. “Riders, my king! Riders in the night! We’re under attack on the west wing!”
The reaction was immediate. Fear and bluster. Pepin saw through it all. A battle that they had clamored for had arrived early and without warning. Their confidence that no one would be mad enough to attack such a force was shattered. Ecbert, to his credit, was decisive.
“Water! Get the man some water!” He demanded, standing up, and a servant pressed a cup into the messenger’s hands, and he drank deeply from it. “Now, my good man, you say the Northmen are attacking the western flank? How? How many? Why were they not seen by our patrols? How deep are they in our camp?”
The messenger bowed his head, “I do not know their number, your grace, but they are in their thousands. We suspect that they ambushed our patrols, but they do not cut deeply into our camp. They harry our outskirts.”
A distraction.
“A distraction,” Ecbert concluded alongside Pepin’s thoughts. “They seek to burn our supplies! Double their guard, and call for our riders! We can crush their cavalry here and now! Deus Vult! God wills it!” The warcry was echoed out by the nobles, who rushed out of the camp for their share of the glory. Leaving behind only Ecbert and Pepin.
Through the tent fabric, he could hear the camp coming alive as word was spread. Orders were being barked out, shouts of defiance and anger echoed through the air. It was superficial. And pointless. Siegfried would not attack with such confidence if such simple countermeasures would work.
Ecbert sank into his throne, his gaze going to the shadows where Pepin lurked in. There was a heavy silence in the tent, Ecbert visibly chewing on the situation before a sigh escaped him. “Why in God’s name would he attack? Why wouldn’t he simply leave? What does he hope to gain by fighting a hundred thousand men?”
The questions revealed the truth of it. The same truth that Pepin had long since realized. And the truth that his father had recently understood.
Ecbert, at no point, actually intended to actually fight Siegfried the Wolf-Kissed.
He amassed his army and influence, delaying and delaying, in the hopes that when the army swelled large enough, Siegfried would decide fighting it simply wasn’t worth it. Because it wasn’t worth it. They had ravaged Mercia, Northumbria, and the Eire. They had more wealth than they could hope to carry back to Scandinavia even if they made three trips.
Any sane man would look to what they had gained, look to the army that saw to chase them off, and simply decide to leave. To stay and fight was an unnecessary risk. A pointless risk.
That course of action would have left Ecbert in his position of supreme influence. He would be the man who chased off the Pagan King. The heathens that had ravaged their homes, pillaged their wealth, and rode off with their sons and daughters. All without needing to actually fight the renowned warrior king, who had never lost a battle, even when faced with longer odds than he currently did.
“Because his plans have changed,” Pepin answered. How, he could only guess. The marriage with Maeve of Alba was certainly an indication, but not a clear answer. “Even if those plans end at ruining yours.”
Ecbert offered a thin smile, “I had a similar thought. I’d hoped you would voice an alternative.” No such luck there. “I suppose I should be honored that the great Siegfried the Wolf-Kissed is going out of his way to crush my ambitions.”
That was one way to look at it.
Ecbert leaned back in his seat, adopting the mask that he wore so well, “No matter. If he seeks to fight, then we must simply win.” Pepin watched the king as he stood with a sense of purpose, and he bowed his head low since he could not do so naturally.
Because, despite never planning to fight Siegfried, he would have made plans just in case.
Pepin fell into the king's shadow at a distance as he emerged from his tent, organizing their defenses. Most of which were already well underway, but Ecbert understood the value of being seen as the one in charge. The messengers flowed too and from him from every corner of the catastrophically large camp -- their supplies had triple the guard placed to defend them while their cavalry were mustering. The west wing was being harried, and from where Pepin stood, he could see the glowing flames as tents burned.
“Your Grace!” A messenger shouted, dropping to a knee before Ecbert. “Lord Æðelbeald has charged out with his forces!”
Three hundred of their horsemen with two hundred supporting infantry.
“Recall him! Now!” Ecbert snapped, launched into a flurry of activity alongside the half panicked and enraged camp. The vast army, for all that it was a slow, lumbering beast, meant that while they built up their numbers, they had time for training, during which they were drilled in formations and arms. It looked like a good third of them forgot that training upon hearing of the attack, but most didn’t. And those that didn't were the stabilizing force in the army that stopped the panic from overwhelming their good sense.
The messenger faltered, “He is already engaged with the enemy, Your Grace.”
“Damn him! Get word to Lord Cenric and Lord Eadræd -- they are to engage in support and withdraw with Lord Æðelbeald!” Ecbert ordered naturally because he understood well enough what Siegfried was doing. It was the only way he could hope to defeat such a vast army. “Lord Pepin, do remind me how many horsemen Emperor Siegfried possesses?”
Warhorses were a special breed of horse. They had to be raised from birth for the battlefield -- conditioned to not flinch away from a colliding charge or the chaotic sounds of battle. More often than not, a good warhorse was worth more than the man that rode upon it.
“Fifteen thousand, King Ecbert,” Pepin answered. “Most taken from the lands of Northumbria and Mercia.” Warhorses didn't travel by sea in long voyages, so the reinforcements that came from the Mediterranean wouldn't have any. Siegfried arrived with roughly five thousand. The other ten thousand were taken from various noble houses and stables throughout the two small kingdoms that he’d raided with impunity.
“And do remind me, how many do we possess?” Ecbert said, looking down at the frozen stiff messenger.
“Two thousand,” Pepin answered. Wessex was not a large kingdom, even if it was a rich one. Throughout it, there were perhaps a thousand horses that were worthy of being called a warhorse. The remaining thousand they possessed came from the small nobles who flocked to their banner. Siegfried had swept Mercia and Northumbria clean of anything of value, and that included the horses. Leaving them with a mere two thousand, unless their men were willing to ride into battle with panicked work horses and mules.
“If Lord Æðelbeald, Lord Cenric, or Lord Eadræd take issue with this order, dutifully remind them of that. We do not have the forces to waste, especially when we know that the force harassing us is not the entirety of their strength!” Ecbert snapped and sent the messenger off running with a stern look. “And someone find my son before he does something rash!”
Ecbert did not venture to the battlefield, for he knew he would be of little use there. Instead, a steady stream of orders came from him as he tried to get a grip on the vast army that was stirring with anger at the attack. Formations were solidified and given the order to march, reinforcing the right wing.
But, no sooner than they arrived, horns blew to signal that the battle was over. For the briefest of seconds, Ecbert’s expression betrayed him. A thinning of the lips, his face paling in the light of the torches -- he understood that it could not be a victory. All the same, his presence was required, so whatever his misgivings might be, he set out on top of a horse.
The damage to the camp was considerable, but a far cry from how bad it could be. Dozens of burnt tents with bodies laying in the packed dirt between them, if the burning tent hadn’t collapsed upon them. Pepin would have to wait for reports, but he would estimate no more than a hundred had perished. If that. More would be injured, some losing their ability to fight.
It was… a lackluster night raid from such a famed warrior.
“If he did not attack our supplies, then what did he do?” Ecbert questioned, more to himself than anyone else. There was a quiet but growing dread that seemed to creep up on the king as he gazed out into the darkness, knowing that a wolf prowled in the dark. His grip on his reins tightened, and again, he whispered, “What did he do?”
It would take them three days to realize, and by that time, it was far too late.