Such was the state of Alfred's fortunes and of England's hopes in the
spring of 878. Three months before, all southern England, with the
exception of Gloucester and its surrounding lands, had been his. Now his
kingdom was a small island in the heart of a morass, his subjects a
lurking band of faithful warriors, his subsistence what could be wrested
from the strong hands of the foe.
While matters went thus in Somerset, a storm of war gathered in Wales.
Another of Ragnar's sons, Ubbo by name, had landed on the Welsh coast,
and, carrying everything before him, was marching inland to join his
victorious brother.
He was too strong for the Saxons of that quarter to make head against
him in the open field. Odun, the valiant ealderman who led them, fled,
with his thanes and their followers, to the castle of Kwineth, a
stronghold defended only by a loose wall of stones, in the Saxon
fashion. But the fortress occupied the summit of a lofty rock, and bade
defiance to assault. Ubbo saw this. He saw, also, that water must be
wanting on that steep rock. He pitched his tents at its foot, and waited
till thirst should compel a surrender of the garrison.
He was to find that it is not always wise to cut off the supplies of a
beleaguered foe.
Pages:
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36