The Reign Of
HEREWEALD I
Earl of Northumbria
JULY 4th, 1089
So. The months went on, and no significant developments were made. The fighting began again in Lowland Scotland, this time between the King of Scots and the Duke of Munster. Reports came in every other day of another village raided, another castle besieged, and another neutral Lowlander settlement wasted.
In Northumbria, things were uneventful, as ever they were all across England. The island kingdom had remained out of the crusade to retake Rome, and with good reason. The saracens had plowed their way up the Italian peninsula vigorously, and had gone barreling across the South-Slavic countries without hindrance. Even the mighty Hellenistic Roman Empire in the east, which had to this point been expanding deep into Syria, Egypt, and Persia, was now receding, losing more and more of Anatolia to the Turks.
Hereweald passed the time that he had to himself looking through old books and charters that had been his father's legislative aid, with the help of Åle's 'wisdom.' There were some tax records, papers detailing a plebiscite (as it turned out, he was chosen for succession by the peasantry!), and some notes from the Domesday census, about a quarter of which was written in Latin script; the rest was Fuþorc, which his father had apparently favoured. He continued to leaf through the papers, skimming over each one before moving to the next, until he found one that piqued his interest. He read through this document in its entirety: it detailed a claim on the lands of Dunbar and Cumberland (as they were part of Northumbria at the coronation of Æðelred I, 300 years ago now). He read further down to find that his father had planned to take these territories during the French-Scottish war, but an unexpected peace and weak rulership by William II made it impossible for him to keep them.
"Åle?" said Hereweald.
"Yea?" replied Åle, looking up from another charter that he had been looking through.
"What are the chances that we could win a decisive victory in a war against Galloway?" he asked, looking back at the charter.
"Galloway?" questioned Åle, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why Galloway, specifically?" Then, he noticed the interest that the lad was taking in the charter. "What's on that paper, pray tell?"
"It's a charter" explained Hereweald. "It says that Northumbria has a legitimate claim on Dunbar and Cumberland."
"Hmm..." Åle took a moment to think about this. Something had sounded familiar. "Hand me the paper, if you don't mind?" Hereweald gave him the charter, and he read it over quickly, before looking up with the wide-eyed expression of a child. "You found it!"
"You know of it?" asked Hereweald, confused.
"Yea, I know of it!" said Åle, nearly shouting in excitement. "I helped to draught it!" He read it over again and again, shaking his head in disbelief. "I thought Good King Willy would have burned it, but I suppose someone decided to keep it."
"What should we do?" asked Hereweald.
"Your father was never able to accomplish his dream of reuniting all of Northumbria before his death" said Åle, looking up. "I think we'd be doing him a great honour by carrying on his work; what do you think?"
Hereweald thought for a moment. He looked down, he looked left, he looked in any direction which might foster thought. What were the risks? What were the rewards? What would his father do? "You haven't answered my question, Åle. Would we be able to win a decisive victory against Galloway?"
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AUGUST 8th
"My friends" began Hereweald, standing before him his three vassals in his study. "I have summoned you to discuss a matter of importance; perhaps not to you, but to me."
"Go on, my liege." said Egfrið, the stateholder of Durham. He was a shorter man, with pale blue eyes and a personality as single-sided as they come.
"Yea" said Hereweald. "Egfrið, do you know anything about Northumbria's claim to Cumberland or Dunbar?"
"Yea, my liege." said he. "I was there when we went to fight for it. Why do you ask?"
"Well, my friends" said Hereweald, looking each of the three men (if you could say that Sighere was a man, rather than a boy) in the eye before continuing. "I propose that we go forth and finish what was started during the French-Scottish war, and retake the borderlands."
"Yea, my liege!" said Sighere, eagerly. "Let us bring glory to our father's name!"
"Sir, if I may" began Wedneswine. "What if we cannot strike down the enemy?"
"Don't worry, lad." said Hereweald. "Åle has informed me of their strength, and I must say that Galloway has been bled dry of any fighting spirit."
"I shall go." said Egfrið.
"You have my soldiers at your disposal." added Sighere.
"If it is God's will, then I shall go." said Wedneswine.
"What sort of motley crew is this?" said a voice from the door (which, to this point, had been closed), spoken in Norse. Hereweald turned to see none other than his father in law, Erik, King of Sweden. "A war meeting without me? Blasphemy!" laughed he.
"Your majesty" Hereweald greeted him, bowing. "What brings you here?"
"I go to Rome." said Erik. "And I wished to see how my daughter was faring before I left..."
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OCTOBER 28th
September had come and gone, and the weather was changing day by day. The forest had turned to blazing orange once more, and the apple trees had dropped their sweet fruits. There was something different this time, though; Five thousand Saxon soldiers were gathered in the meadows around Eoforwic. They came from all over the realm; mostly Saxon, but some were Norse. Most were men, but there were a few young women who took up arms like the shieldmaidens of legend (much to the disdain of our Norman rulers).
They were arranged in columns, twenty rows each with five warriors abreast. Granted, they didn't always stand in their lines, and they shifted around a bit, but they were orderly to Hereweald's content. He and the other commanders rode out in front of the entire army, inspecting each of their columns before moving out. Each column had one banner of five bands, three of crimson and two of gold. On the first gold band was embroidered "Hereweald Our Earl" in Fuþorc (again, much to the disdain of Good King Willy). Every so often, a two-colour pennant was seen, and even a raven banner or two (boy, it seems we're out to piss Willy off today...).
"Do you plan on giving a speech, sir?" asked Wedneswine, adjusting his helmet. "These are all fresh lads, my liege, and a few aren't even lads, sir."
"What good is a speech, lad, when they'll forget every word when the arrows start raining?" said Hereweald. "An extra ration of ale will go much farther with an inexperienced lot, I'd say."
"Sir, if we give them ale- I mean, there are women in this army, you cannot possibly be suggesting-"
"You obviously spent a lot of time around the church when you were younger." said Hereweald. "We have our Folcríht, we don't need to build a Nova Roma."
"But, sir, some of the articles in the Folcríht are absolute barbarism, heretical even!" shouted Wedneswine. "I mean, really-"
"I won't hear another word of this, Jensen." said Hereweald. "I have seen worse atrocities and barbarism within your church, dear lad. Once you clear those up, I'll consider ammending the Folcríht to accommodate it." Wedneswine opened his mouth to say something, but he decided against it, and sunk back into his saddle. Åle grinned; it was a tremendous joy for him to witness the church being tossed aside.
"Oi, lad." he called. "Congratulations."
"Thank you, kindly." said Hereweald, apparently knowing what he was talking about. Wedneswine and Egfrið were yet unkithed of it, whatever it was; Egfrið couldn't care less.
"If you don't mind me asking, what's he talking about, my liege?" asked Wedneswine.
"He did some very barbaric things" laughed Åle.
"Har, har har." Hereweald said. "My wife is expecting a child, if you must know."
"She enjoyed it." said Åle. "I could hear you from the mead hall!"
"Like he said, barbaric. No honest Christian woman would ever dream of orgasming!" said Hereweald, chuckling. "Let's get moving, shall we?" And, with that, Åle ordered the first column onto the road north...
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JANUARY 6th, 1090 AD
The wind was damn cold, and that was all anybody needed to know. There wasn't much snow, but there was plenty of ice all around, and mud deep and thick enough to lose a cow in. This wasn't hardly the ideal setting to be fighting in, not at all.
The commanders busily shifted their armies about, positioning them for the fight to come. The Galwegian soldiers were fairly orderly, fighting in a mix of Saxon and Gaelic styles. There were some light cavalry, but their army was mostly lightly or entirely unarmored infantrymen, carrying shortswords, handaxes, and bows. Such was the way that they traditionally fought, but the better organized armies just to the north would be fighting in a much more conventional Germanic style.
The field was dominated on the Galwegian side by a low knoll, inhabited by a stand of oaks. The mound was surrounded by fallow, which in the warmer months would have cradled wheat or barley.
"Sir, we are ready to advance." said Åle. His speech was hindered by the chinstrap of his helm.
"Good, good." said Hereweald. His army was situated opposite the field, on an open piece of flat ground. There was a depression between where the two armies stood, facing each other. Other than that, there was no hindrance to their advance. He seated his own helmet upon his head, securing the chinstrap. One last look at the field before him, and he was ready. "Loðere, set up our banner here." The servant drove the post into the ground, which held on high the banner of his liege. "Wedneswine, tell the archers that they may let their arrows fly. Let the first shot be 300 paces."
"Yea, láford." said Wedneswine, going back to the back of the column, where the archers were.
"Shields, up!" shouted Hereweald. The command was echoed all the way down the lines, and board shields knocked against each other as they were layered to overlap. He stood behind the first line, protected by their shields. Spears were set between the shields, and laid across the top of the wall they formed.
"Three hundred paces, take aim!" he could hear Wedneswine shouting in the distance. "Archers, let fly!" In an instant, the sky was filled with little missiles. Hereweald watched as they soared high above the field, suspended for only an instant before falling back down to earth onto the Galwegian soldiers.
"Genægeþ!" shouted Hereweald, and all the infantry began their slow forward marching across the field. He counted off the paces to himself as they went. "One, two, three, four, five..."
At eleven paces, an arrow lodged itself in one of the shields with a loud 'thwock!' "Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen..."
By twenty-two paces, the archers had loosed another volley upon the knoll. In the distance, he could hear the muffled cries of men being pierced. At twenty-five, another arrow made itself at home in another shield. Thirty-four, the arrows from both sides are flying overhead.
Fifty paces, and the sound of individual arrows hitting the shields is replaced by what sounds like drums. They weren't just hitting the shields anymore, the heads were punching through. "Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three..." At fifty-three, the first warrior was wounded. An arrow had punctured his shield, and now rested between the bones of his forearm.
One hundred and eighty paces, and they were in the depression. More warriors had fallen, but the enemy's archers had been silenced. The time was now, they could advance unhindered. "Charge!" shouted Hereweald, and the shield walls broke up, the warriors now charging forth to death or glory.
Two hundred paces, and the enemy had advanced to close the gap. The fighting was brief, and left three hundred or so Galwegians alive and retreating. The Northumbrians cheered as the enemy fell away, unable to stand up against their superior. Hereweald looked down at his sword; not a single streak of blood ran along its iron blade. He took the banner from the man who was holding it, ran out in front, and waved it back and forth before his soldiers, who cheered for their Earl and his decisive (if not minor) victory at Carlisle...
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MARCH 12th
Again, they were advancing over open ground, although the weather was much milder, and their foe was much more intimidating. The numbers were fairly even (Three thousand against two thousand seven hundred), and the tactics were nearly symmetrical. Hereweald marched with his personal company, banner fluttering overhead, closer and closer to the center of the Galwegian shield wall. The two armies came closer and closer to each other, arrows flying erratically, breaking to a run as they approached each other.
Praise be to the creator of the game 1066
The two shield walls collided with a mighty crash, spears against shields, pushing each other out of the way. The Galwegians were at a disadvantage, as fewer of their men were spear-armed, instead wielding the preferred shortswords and handaxes.
"Come on, slaughter these bastards!" he shouted. From various points in his own line, men armed with Danish axes superseded the shieldwall, and began smashing and hacking the enemy's shields. Saxons poured through the openings, slashing at the enemy with all force.
Another great innovation that Hereweald had kept hidden until this point was the integration of crossbowmen into the main line. They put more than a few unsuspecting Galwegians to their death, as well as scaring the bloody hell out of the rest of them.
Hereweald plunged into a gap in the line with his men, his banner following closely behind. It wasn't long before he crashed into another standard, an ugly gray device owned by the Marshal of Galloway. He looked down to see the decorated armour of nobility, with a dead man inside. The enemy was falling away once more, with nobody to lead them. This was yet another victory for their heroic Earl...
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POSTBELLUM
So. The war ended on the 30th of March, with Northumbria in control of Cumberland. Life returned to normal for Hereweald, and, upon his return, taxes were cut significantly. The lad had made a name for himself, and the people had given him the nickname 'the little Morcar,' after his father.
On the 22nd of May, his eldest child, Alfric, began his education at court.
Margrete's father, Erik, died on June 13th, from severe wounds. He was buried in Pescara.
-Margrete was devastated.-
