De Cholet threw his lance away in disgust and wrenched his mount to one side so abruptly as to cause almost certain damage from the bit to its sensitive mouth, and used his spurs on the abused beast to canter several dozen paces away.
As the Danes boarded their ships Alan sent fifty men to secure the village of Brightlingsea and instructed Swein and his men from Great Bentley that they could return home to see what damage had been wreaked by the enemy. Riders were sent to St Osyth and Frowick Hall to determine the damage suffered by those villages.
Shortly afterwards Thegn Edward, who held about one third of the land at St Osyth, the balance belonging to the Bishop of London and placed in the care of the Fleming Albyn of Bruges, rode in. Edward reported that Albyn and most of his foreign troops had been killed, as was the case with Roger de Montivilliers at Great Clacton. Geoffrey of Rouen and his men at Little Clacton had survived. The corrupt priest Engelric’s manor at Frowick Hall had been burnt to the ground but almost all the geburs had fled to safety. Given past differences Alan found no difficulty in controlling his grief about Albyn of Bruges or his men, Arnaud and Josselin, Roger de Montivilliers or Engelric’s manor.
Indeed, with his past disputes with Edsel the King’s Reeve of Brightlingsea and Edsel’s refusal to work with the thegns with a claim of special privileges resulting from the village belonging directly to the king, Alan also shed no tears about the partial devastation of the village before him. People not prepared to work together have to stand alone, and the cheorls of the village should have understood that as well as any. Alan mused that those who were still alive would certainly remember that in the future.
The Danes boarded their remaining ships with some difficulty, the press of men aboard making it difficult for the rowers to use the oars properly as they backed into Barfleet Creek, then departed south to navigate through the sandbars at the mouth of the estuary. Several mounted scouts followed along the shoreline to ensure that the Danish fleet then headed east for home to lick their wounds.
The English were busy tidying the battlefield, stripping and throwing the Danish corpses into several of the defensive ditches that had been dug and transporting the more seriously injured of the English and the few lightly wounded Danes back to Thorrington. The three dozen or so seriously injured Danes were finished with a knife across the throat or between the ribs. The villagers from Brightlingsea were drifting back from the swamps and trees to the north where many had fled the night before when the Danes had attacked, saving nothing but their lives and the clothes in which they stood.
Alan rode the short distance into Brightlingsea, noting that eleven buildings, houses and barns, had been burnt, with wisps of grey smoke still drifting in the air. Most of the livestock was gone, eaten by the Danes, but a few escaped chickens and pigs rooted amongst the vegetable gardens. The villagers gathered up their dead and placed them outside the small wooden church, over a dozen pathetic bundles, mainly men but with two women and several children and youths. Three men hanging from a make-shift gallows had not yet been cut down and Alan saw that one of these was Edsel the Reeve, the other two presumably being elders of the village. His mouth gave a twitch of a smile.
A few injured were being cared for out of the still falling rain inside the Moot-Hall and a number of women were sitting, some alone and some with others, with the frightened vacant expressions of the abused. Brother Wacian, the priest from Thorrington, was organising the survivors into groups to attend to necessary tasks. The village had been plundered of what few valuables the people had and most of its food, but the Danes had not wreaked total devastation- perhaps because they had intended to use it for shelter for another night. As Alan rode past the villagers stared at him apathetically. Even as an ox wagon arrived from Thorrington with cooked food and ale there were no smiles and no thanks.
Leaving Brother Wacian and the villagers of Brightlingsea to their own devices Alan rode back through the rain to Thorrington in the late afternoon. There the village women and the youths were busily preparing food either over their own hearths or in open cooking pits, that latter experiencing some difficulty due to the constant rain. The baker and his apprentice had been busy all day and loaves of fresh bread were being handed out and ripped into several pieces to serve every man. Meat was being roasted over the cooking pits, mainly pigs, and cauldrons of beef and vegetable stew were bubbling over cooking fires and being served in wooden bowls.
The tavern had run out of ale, but was still packed with men getting out of the rain, as was every barn and stable. The Old Hall was being used to care for the wounded and the New Hall was packed full with about 100 of the leaders and the more important men. Several tables had been set up at one end of the Hall but it was impossible to seat all of the guests and most were standing with ale mugs in hand, engaging in shouted conversation with their neighbours, fighting the battle again blow by blow. The noise was incredible. Most of the men were wearing the stained tunics they had worn under their gambesons and armour, and the woollen breeches they habitually wore. Their clothing was wet with sweat and rain. Despite the windows and doors being open to allow in the evening sea-breeze the rank smell of the solid throng was overpowering.
Servants wended their way through the mob carrying platters of food which they placed on several of the tables near the door, and at another table two men were serving ale as fast as they could pour from the barrel spigot. Another barrel was being trundled in as an empty was rolled out. Alan was sure that his store-room was taking a real beating that day, but mused that this was what it was there for. Better to be used for a victory feast by the English than by the Danes. The guests held their ale mugs in one hand and in the other an open sandwich that they had made by taking a slice of bread and topping it with the meat and sauces available on the tables. Some instead held joints of meat, fresh apples or slabs of cheese. Clearly Anne had required the kitchen staff to work hard that day producing the copious quantities of food required and Otha the cook had responded well. The food was simple but tasty and able to be eaten by hand. Hungry warriors did not require the tasty titbits expected by courtiers. In deference to it being Friday fish was available on the tables, mainly pickled herring, but most of the warriors had granted themselves dispensation to eat as they saw fit from the varied provender supplied.
Alan hurried upstairs to his bedroom and was starting the difficult task of stripping off his wet armour and gambeson when the door opened and Anne slipped in, gave him a lingering kiss and then a hug- her nose wrinkling in disgust at the rank smell of the armour and the uncomfortable feeling of being crushed against metal rings.
A moment later Leof also arrived and together he and Anne worked to undo the wet thong ties that fastened the armour and then lift the hauberk off over Alan’s head. “Make sure you dry it well and oil it,” Alan instructed Leof. “Otherwise you’ll be spending weeks burnishing off the rust!” He pulled off the padded gambeson and his under-tunic, both soaked with sweat and rain, poured cold water from a ewer into a basin and quickly washed his face and hair before wetting a towel and sponging off the worst of the sweat from his body. He then slipped on a clean plain black tunic and hose and sat on the bed to don his boots.
Still sitting, he leaned forward, put his head in his hands, sighed tiredly and cleared his mind for a moment before standing and then proceeding arm-in-arm with Anne down the stairs and to a small raised dais in the Hall.