A Father's Lament: The Price of War

The Warrior's Heart: Episode 2

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This episode is part two in a new miniseries intended to depict the humanity of the individuals more often portrayed as fearless warriors. Some may truly have been fearless, but I find it more likely that most were wracked with terror as they approached the battlefield. It is this part of their lives that I am seeking to portray in this miniseries, the part that is, perhaps, most relatable to us today, as well the one rarely shared in the history books.

TRIGGER WARNING: death; battle; injury

Catch the previous episode here:

The Crown's Shadow

It turned out that the enemy had been further away than my father thought.

We rode for five full days until we noticed the glint of their armour and wisps of their fires escaping the valley floor.

Perched atop the rocky ravine, my father had silenced us simply by raising his arm, bent at the elbow joint. Everyone stopped, to the very last man. My father dropped from his horse, signalled to me and my uncle Æthelred to do the same, and beckoned us to join him on our bellies. We slithered to the edge of the ridgeline and as far down as we dared, straining for a view of the camp that wouldn’t expose us to our enemy.

As we laid motionless in the long grass, even I, as inexperienced as I was, thought it odd that the enemy had chosen to camp in such a disadvantageous location. A small company of maybe only a hundred men, we found them just beneath the summit of a long ridgeline that dominated the landscape. The road we had been travelling on wound through a dramatic, sharp-sided gully littered with scree and fallen boulders. Had we continued through the pass, we would have landed right in their laps with no way to escape; any attempt to turn back would have resulted in crushing or stampeding our own men. Perhaps that was what they had assumed, though my father was too wise in warfare to go for the obvious manoeuvre.

From the hilltop, however, it was we who had the advantage. Though steep, it would be possible to charge down on foot; in less than a minute we would be upon them no doubt.

“It’s the only way,” my father said to Æthelred and I once we had retreated to the other side of the ridge.

Æthelred nodded in agreement. “But not all the men. They’re a small company; we don’t want to waste good fighting men so early on.”

“Hmm, I agree,” my father replied. He turned to me. “It will be good for you to get your first skirmish under your belt, Edward. Æthelred will stay here and guard the troops that remain, in case of any counterattack from the other side of the ridge.” He gestured around him to the flat plains dotted with copses. “We don’t know who could be hiding around us; this may well be a rouse to get us to engage. I’ll lead the charge and you can follow up behind me. Don’t get too close to the front but remember you must be an example to the men. Show no weakness, Edward. Do you hear me?”

I nodded weakly, feeling sick to my stomach. My mouth was dry, like sand, and sticky. I had never, ever, wanted to be a warrior, even though it was the destiny I had been born into. And yet I had found myself there, poised on the edge of my first battle, fighting someone else’s war. I kept thinking of Ælfleda at home, our child growing big within her, how I couldn’t bear to leave her on her own. For I was certain, despite my success, that warfare led in only one direction, and that I would not live to see the beautiful face of my son.

Without making a sound, my father explained the plan to his men, many of whom had accompanied him before. He waited until the sun had dipped below the horizon, gifting us the cover of near-darkness as we rushed over the summit and down the hillside.

I found that I had no time to think of my fear as we began the charge towards the party’s camp. All around me was noise and chaos. Shouts, jeers, grunts, all a cacophony around me: my father’s men becoming wild savages before my eyes, transforming into bestial creatures to carry out their duty. They were in every way familiar, having populated my childhood, and yet I no longer recognised the men who charged alongside me. Eyes bulging and teeth baring, it was animals who raced down that hillside. Perhaps, battle-weary as they were, it was the only way to survive the ordeal that lay before us.

My father was foremost among them, hair waving wildly as he ran, sword in his right hand and dagger in his left. Hanging back as far as I dared, I witnessed him tear through the enemy line, who had scrambled together on our approach. He was a marvel, fending off man after man, many of whom had struggled to pull on any armour to defend themselves with.

But I wasn’t him.

I wasn’t him, and I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t do it.

The words echoed in my mind. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.