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

by Frank Cowper

All round deeds of "derring-do" were being performed, and Cædwalla cheered his men on to the pursuit with words of praise and encouragement. The king was followed by the main part of his army, and pressed hard upon the retreating Wihtwaras.

"Unless we kill Arwald, we have done nought," shouted Cædwalla, urging on his horse to fresh exertions.

They had now reached the foot of the down, whose ample slope rose from the valley in wooded clumps up to a height of some five hundred and fifty feet above them. Pursued and pursuers were alike becoming exhausted. Arwald and the few that were left of his personal following kept on their way up the hill. Cædwalla's horse, which had received several severe wounds, was clearly incapable of following much further, and the king got off, resolving to follow on foot. Arwald still bestrode his black horse, but that powerful animal was fast becoming distressed. Seeing that he could not escape from his pursuers, Arwald, who had now reached a grassy knoll, drew up and turned to look at his enemy.

Below him he could see the golden dragon and the broad shoulders of the West Saxon king, the centre of a little band of determined warriors, among whom the weather-beaten face of old Ceolwulf looked hard set and enduring, like a grey lichen-covered rock amid the saplings of the forest.

"By the golden hair of Freya," muttered Arwald "but they shall die as well as we, if die we must. Here, my men, we will wait them; and let each man fight as he never fought before."

So saying, the Wihtwara chieftain dismounted from his tired horse, and prepared for the fight. The scene was a fitting one for the arena on which the sovereignty of the island was to be finally decided between the rival chiefs. It was very near the summit of the lofty down, now known as Newbarn, or Chillerton Down. From the spot where Arwald stood he looked right down the lovely valley of the Medene; eastward and northward, his eye roamed over swelling down and wooded valley, and here and there the silver streak of the distant sea. The lovely scene lay spread out in mellow haze, for the sun was getting low behind the chieftain, and great shadows stretched from his feet far over the valley below; while patches of grey mist were rising here and there over the basins of the Medene and the Yare.

Grimly Arwald looked at the scene, but none of its peaceful beauty struck him. All he thought of was hatred of the man who had dared to come to disturb him in the enjoyment of his tyranny and power, and satisfaction at the thought of how he could take him at disadvantage, breathless as Cædwalla would be when he reached the summit of the knoll, and dazzled with the setting sun level with his eyes.

Arwald mustered about thirty adherents, most of them wounded, and not more than a dozen of whom were able-bodied. The chief of the Wihtwaras himself had not received any serious wounds, seeming to bear a charmed life in the midst of the battle; and owing to this immunity from wounds, he himself, as well as many of his followers, believed that he was not destined to lose his life on the battle-field. Full of these hopes, he waited for his antagonist.

Cædwalla, seeing that his enemy was resolved to await him, and that now there was to be no more retreat, but that here either he or Arwald was to leave his bones for ever, bid his men to take it easily and regain their breath. The West Saxons, therefore, paused a little below the summit of the knoll, and gazed back at the land behind them, where many of their comrades could be seen drawing together and advancing after their king. Many others were visible, lying on the ground; for them no more fighting remained. Of the Wihtwaras no coherent body existed. The victory was evidently complete, and Cædwalla could plainly see that there was no need for him to fight Arwald now. The Wihtwara must fall to superior numbers; he could fly no further, and the desperate nature of his situation was evidently known to himself. Ceolwulf urged waiting for the rest to come up, pointing out the folly of risking such a life as that of Cædwalla, now undoubted king of Wihtea, as of Wessex and the South Saxons.

"Leave this swine to be dealt with by thy faithful ceorls and eorls, my lord. Why risk thy life needlessly? Dost thou think thou must do more to show all men thy valour? Who does not know of Cædwalla?"