He could not deny that he would much rather be taking deep draughts of ale or mead, while listening to wondrous tales of adventure and heroism spun expertly in verses from the lips of a gleeman. An approaching evening would be an anticipation to savor if it were to be occupied listening to the notes of a well-played harp, or putting his mind to games of riddles, as the central hearth fire blazed vibrantly.
While all of that was true, it simply did not do any good to dwell upon such thoughts. Neither could he pity himself, as the burdens were not his alone. Those that went and those that remained behind were both being laden with a very ponderous burden.
Yet despite the unfortunate nature of all of it, there was nothing that the great thane of Wessachia felt the need to question, justify, or regret in regards to what he had to do.
He was grimly resolved. The sudden turn of events in his life was not completely a surprise to him. Aethelstan had long felt the subtle dread common to many Saxans, that even the warmth of life itself was simply a short passage from one vast darkness to another. The good moments in life always had to be cherished and remembered, as no man could stop whatever had been destined for him to face.
A few spear-bearing guards were walking slowly along the inner walkways, running along the top of the timber walls that crowned the earthen rampart ringing the entire market-town, or burh. The walls had been fashioned with wooden crenellations, its outer facing of horizontal wooden planking set between a framing of tall, timber posts. The embankment that the wall surmounted sloped far down into a successive series of three deep, outer ditches.
His eyes swept around the square, stone towers erected at several points along the oval-shaped perimeter. Four held large, iron-banded oak gates set within arches. The other four were placed at even distances in between the gate-towers, providing additional lookout positions and strong-points for defense.
As a whole, the defenses were capable enough, but only if there were enough fighters to man them. Once the column had departed and gathered up other musters, there would be scant few left to defend the burhs of Wessachia, such as Bergton, and even fewer for the outlying villages and hamlets.
Most every man who could bear weapons from the immediate region was now assembled in the masses arrayed all about him.
A number were on horseback, well-prepared for the journey and its considerable demands. These included the men of his immediate household retinue, and warriors from the garrison of the burh itself.
Others similarly equipped and with horse were lesser thanes from smaller, fortified estates who were mustering at Bergton, having come along with their own bands of household followers.
Still others had been equipped collectively, some on horse, and some to travel on foot, to fulfill military obligations to Ealdorman or thane. While not thanes, these men, the ceorls, were qualified for the more commonly utilized Select Fyrd.
All these principal groups would have been expected for a campaign or normal army summons. They were not the elements of the muster that had bestowed Aethelstan with the deep misgivings that he was feeling.
Rather, it was the much larger element of the gathering whose presence at Bergton troubled the great thane, and it was one that was far from common within a Saxan muster.
This larger group was entirely on foot, and included weathered farmers, lifelong craftsmen, simple laborers, and all manner of commoners. They came from within the lands surrounding Bergton, as the territory’s populations of able-bodied men had been summoned almost in their entirety to the unprecedented call to arms.
A greater proportion of these men had never gone far beyond their village areas, some having never before even seen the market town that they were now standing within. Rarely did they stray to other villages and hamlets in their vicinity, with the exceptions of special occasions and necessity. There was a great nervousness within this portion of the force already. Aethelstan could see it reflected in their eyes, and feel it coalescing in the air.
A great number of women, children, and older men had gathered to see the massive throng off. They had come in from all the surrounding farm villages, isolated farmsteads, hamlets, and the burh of Bergton itself.
A great trepidation hung over them all.
Aethelstan could not fault them for their anxiety and distress, as he knew in his heart that they had great reason to fear. A General Fyrd was not something that was idly called, and everyone knew it.
A burly man stood near to the front of the massed force. His face was pensive, as he stared out over the gathering. The reeve of the town, assigned to represent the King’s authority, Berhtwald would be one of the few able-bodied fighting men remaining behind. With Aethelstan’s confidence and insistence, Berhtwald would see to maintaining some semblance of order within the burh, despite the depletion of the overwhelming majority of the able-bodied menfolk.
A fair number of carts and wagons had been readied, piled high with extra weapons, mail shirts, helms, sacks, chests, and barrels of provisions. Helms rested upon the tops of vertical posts in the frames of the wagons, and mail byrnies were carried suspended, with horizontal poles running through their sleeves of circular, iron links. Bundles of spears were tied together and leaning against the sides of the wagons.
Stout oxen with bulging muscles were already yoked and tethered. The creatures waited patiently for the signal to begin pulling their substantial loads forward. The occasional bellow came from the stalwart beasts, as if they periodically sensed the anxiety looming in the air around them.
A good number of horses were standing idly, near to the carts, their backs loaded with leather packs filled with further supplies. A number of men who would be leading and tending to them were busy making last minute checks on metal buckles and ties on hempen rucksacks.
Aethelstan pulled his gaze from the massed supplies, and looked towards a trio of men from his retinue who were mounted on their steeds nearby.
One bore aloft a large banner that displayed a field of red trees set against a white background.
The second carried a spear-mounted pennon, whose right end had been cut into three triangular extensions. The tapering extensions were red, with the rest of the pennon’s body white, reflecting the color pattern of the larger banner.
Both the banner and the pennon were flapping within the clutches of the steady breeze.
The third man carried no banner or pennon, but instead had a large ox-horn. The horn was resting at his right side, hanging from a strap placed over his neck, running across the front of his chest down to his waist.
All three were meticulous men when it came to matters of campaigns and war. Where the three of them could have had their chain mail shirts and helms carried on the wagons, they had the former rolled up behind their saddles, and the latter hanging from the wide pommels of their saddles.
Disciplined, and always keeping in a state of readiness, they were very valued warriors. Their influence would be welcome among a host whose greater number would soon be longing greatly for their homes and hearths.
The great thane slowly nodded to them, as the moment that all of them dreaded could be put off no longer.
The banner and pennon-bearing warriors then turned their horses about at Aethelstan’s signal, and started their steeds forward. They cantered down the hard-packed dirt path that led from the open square within Bergton. The path continued out through one of the square tower gates, through an expanse of cleared land, and on into the depths of the surrounding forests.