Cædwalla; or, The Saxons in the Isle of Wight: A Tale

by Frank Cowper

Cædwalla decided not to await the enemy, but to advance at once to meet him. He himself led the van, which was composed of his choicest troops, and he ordered old Ceolwulf to keep with him, as a mark of especial honour. The scout who had brought the news of Arwald's advance acted as guide, and in a short time the two rival forces came in sight of each other. Cædwalla saw that Arwald would have the advantage of position if he were allowed to attack from the higher ground where he was. He therefore ordered his men not to march directly for the enemy, but to leave them on their left and march as if with the intention of getting in between them and Wihtgaresbyryg. By this manoeuvre Arwald had to descend from his superior position, and the onus of attacking remained with him.

In those rude times there was not much attempt at marshalling the fighting men. The leaders brought their men on to the ground and put them as near to each other as possible, and then stout arm and keen steel had to decide the rest. Each chieftain acted as the bravest soldier, and his duty was to run the greatest risk.

In the present instance, there seemed a sort of tacit deferring of the awful struggle that must take place. When Cædwalla had obtained the equality of position he wanted, he halted, and drew up his men in a semblance of martial array; and in this respect he had a manifest advantage over his antagonist, for he and his men were well known to each other. Many of the West Saxon eorls had fought in numberless fights on the borders of Wales, and against Wulfhere of Mercia, the son of Penda. They were, therefore, used to discipline, and were likely to keep cool in the hottest of the fray; while Arwald's men had never seen a set battle, and many of them had scarcely ever fought before. But their numbers and strength seemed quite to counterbalance this disadvantage, and Cædwalla saw at a glance the Wihtwaras were not to be despised. Arwald had wrought his men's courage up to a desperate pitch by telling them that Cædwalla would deprive them of all their possessions, and, unless they won the battle, no man's life or property was safe.

Cædwalla's eyes sparkled with excitement, but he was otherwise very calm, and no observer would have known that he was inwardly burning with eagerness to begin the battle, and avenge the death of his dearest friend. He rode along in front of his men, mounted on his white horse, cheerily saying an encouraging word here, or passing a light jest there, and congratulating everyone on the immediate prospect of realizing all their hopes.

The forces of Arwald had now approached to within two hundred yards, and the combatants could see each other well. There was nothing between them, and the battle might begin at any moment.

Cædwalla had turned his horse's head towards the enemy, and was quietly glancing along their line. In front of him was Arwald, looking more brutal than ever. The cut over his eye, which he had received from Wulfstan's sling, was swollen and inflamed, so much so that one eye was nearly obscured. His red, bloated face, and coarse features, combined with his huge and corpulent person, mounted on a powerful, vicious-looking black horse, offered a striking contrast to the refined, intellectual, determined face of Cædwalla. bronzed with exposure, and looking a splendid, dashing soldier, as well as prudent, clear-headed king: a perfect type of the old Heretoga, or leader in war, chosen by the free acclamations of his fellow tribesmen for his brilliant qualities, and not necessarily because of any hereditary claim; the pure type of an earthly ruler, if only such could be elected without corruption and for worthy motives.

Cædwalla sat his horse tranquilly, and critically scanned Arwald with a contemptuous glance that made that fat chieftain furious. He was just going to give the order to his men to charge, when Cædwalla raised his battle-axe, and instantly the whole of the West Saxon army rushed straight for the Wihtwaras.

For the next few minutes there was the awful work of destruction, hideous sounds and confused sights, axes flashing, arms rising and falling, passionate shouts, groans, and wild cries. In the midst of the battle could be seen the golden dragon of Wessex, and ever and anon the clear, ringing stentorian voice of the king, cheerily and happily cleaving a way through the struggling mass. Such battles must have been all alike, and the monotony of the death fight could seldom be relieved. The victory must go to the side who had most "last," or endurance, in it; for the idea of running away while strength remained scarcely could occur to men taught from earliest childhood that no fate in this world or the next could await any man worse than the fate of the coward. But sheer brutal strength, or capacity for fighting with the largest number of wounds, must then, as now, have been very materially modified by the moral influences of will and determination. And in this way the personal qualities of a leader were certain to affect his followers. The energy, moral as well as physical, of Cædwalla, infused itself into his men, and each man fought with a certainty of winning. Gradually the coherent mass of striking, thrusting, wrestling humanity gave way, and the scene became changed into groups of individual combatants.

The battlefield was strewn with dead and dying. Cædwalla's standard bearer was down, but the banner was still waved above the foremost ranks, and the golden crest of Wessex was foremost in the fight.

Arwald's army was being pushed back, no man looked to see where, but as the foe retreated Cædwalla pressed on. The Wihtwaras were thrust away from Wihtgaresbyryg, and were slowly retiring towards the high hills behind them. Fighting every foot of ground at first, they gradually hastened their retreat until at last it became a rout.