by Martin Lake
Ulf turned and watched Hrólfr’s Longships pulling out into the river.
‘Follow them, I suppose.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Hunsige asked with little enthusiasm.
‘No,’ Ulf said.
A tense silence descended on them.
‘Do you want me to come?’ asked Cuthred, at last.
Ulf considered this for a moment.
‘Yes, Cuthred, I do. Go back to the village, saddle my horse and another for yourself.’
Cuthred hurried off and Ulf turned his attention once more to Hunsige. ‘And as for you, return to the village and help the priest settle any damage. And do penance for the punch you gave to him. Penance and a fine of one silver penny. And if I ever see you harm your wife again I will have you flogged.’
Hunsige gasped but realised that Ulf was in no mood for argument. Muttering under his breath, he trudged back to the village.
Ulf turned to watch the ships moving down the river. The Northmen were not using oars or sail, content to drift with the current. That was good, that meant they would go slowly.
A few minutes later Cuthred lumbered up on his big, rough horse. He used it mostly for hauling metal and charcoal but it was an obliging beast and it suffered him to ride, despite his clumsiness. He led Ulf’s horse on a rein.
‘Let’s go, then,’ Ulf said.
‘Not too fast though, lord. Your mare is still not fully recovered.’
‘We’ll go as fast as we must.’
Ulf cantered after the Norse ships which were now more than a mile in the distance. He forced his horse faster, trying to catch up with the intruders before they reached the Swale.
There seemed a chance that he could catch them and he pushed his mare into a gallop even though he knew she would not be able to take such a pace for long. She whinnied in complaint but he ignored her and kicked hard at her flanks.
He almost made it.
He pulled his horse to a halt two furlongs from the river mouth and cursed as the Longships pulled into the Swale. They turned north which meant they were heading for the Thames instead of the open sea to their own land. They were making for the Danish stronghold in the old Roman city of Lunden.
Cuthred reached him a few minutes later and immediately leapt off his horse to take a look at Ulf’s mare. He muttered quietly, showing his disapproval of the way that Ulf had mishandled her. Ulf felt a twinge of guilt but forced himself to ignore it.
‘We can’t keep up this pace, lord,’ the smith said. ‘She’ll fall lame again, and not be able to go further. Besides, Hengist here is not as young or as fleet as he was.’ He patted his horse on the neck.
‘Hengist?’
‘Named for the first King of Kent. A Jute.’
Ulf smiled.
‘Come then, Cuthred the Jute. Let’s follow the Northmen more slowly.’
They tried to keep the Longships in sight but the path they rode was rough and marshy. Cuthred slowed his horse’s pace still further to force Ulf to do the same and the ships soon disappeared around a bend in the river. Ulf cursed to himself but he knew that Cuthred was doing the sensible thing. The last thing he wanted was for his horse to fall lame.
He wondered what to do for the best. Should he take a message to the King, telling him that he had found Viking ships sailing in the depths of Kent? Or should he press on towards Lundenwic and try to discover more about the movements of the Northmen? It did not take him long to make up his mind. The swiftest way to Alfred was to follow the old Roman road to Lundenwic and then turn south.
‘Come Cuthred,’ he said, ‘we have a forty-mile journey ahead of us.’
AETHELFLAED’S PLAN
Wareham, Dorset, March, 883
Inga pursed her lips and stared at her mistress.
‘I think it would be a good idea,’ Aethelflaed said.
‘I’m sure you do. But will your father?’
Aethelflaed gave a frown of displeasure. ‘Well he can hardly argue. He went to Rome twice and the first time he was only five years old. Edward is twelve. And I’ll be there to look after him.’
‘Yes. But who will look after you on the dangerous roads across Francia?’
Aethelflaed smiled. ‘You will, silly. You and a company of my father’s thegns.’
Inga bent to her needlework. She hoped that this latest fancy would be forgotten by the end of the day. She had lost count of all the plans and schemes Aethelflaed had conjured up in the five years she had served her. She must have a new horse, this instant, or a gown or fine brooch. She must interfere with the way the household was organised, telling one servant to swap duties with another, changing the times of meals and what was to be eaten, even to insisting that her ladies dress in certain colours.
She would bicker with Merewyn, her father’s mistress, and then the following morning forget the quarrel completely and act like her greatest friend and confidant. Worst of all she would insist on taking part in the debates between her father and his counsellors, adopting positions, taking sides, putting forward ideas of her own. The wonder of it was that the king and his lords allowed her to do so. But then, they well knew how clever she was and, on many occasions, how wise.
‘But why do you want to go to Rome?’ Inga asked, noticing Aethelflaed begin to pout, a sure sign of a display of petulance.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she answered, placing her hand emphatically upon her breast in a futile attempt to deceive Inga.
‘I certainly don’t want to go,’ she continued. ‘But I am forced to because I believe that Edward needs to go there. So that the Pope can make him a consul, like he did with my father. So that he can anoint Edward as my father’s successor.’
‘But the Pope can’t do that.’ Inga ceased her sewing. ‘The great lords of the kingdom decide who will be the next king.’
‘I don’t trust half the members of the Witan,’ Aethelflaed said. ‘Some of them want Æthelhelm and Æthelwold to be king.’
Inga sighed. This had become Aethelflaed’s latest and rather long lived obsession. Her cousins were older than Edward and, being the children of Alfred’s older brother, had as good a claim to the throne or better. If Alfred were to die in the next few years, the lords of the Witan would be likely to proclaim one of the brothers as King of Wessex and not the young Edward.
So this latest plan was to take Edward to Rome to give him an advantage in any contest for the throne. It was not a bad idea except for one thing; Francia was full of Viking armies.
‘You’ll have to discuss it with your father.’
‘I know that,’ cried Aethelflaed. ‘It’s just that I need to think of a way of persuading him.’
Inga returned to her sewing. There was no way that the king would be persuaded to let Aethelflaed leave Wessex. She was the apple of his eye, more important to him than even his son, his wife or his mistress. Only the safety of the kingdom held equal sway in his heart. Inga glanced up at that. Aethelflaed knew these things better than her, better even than her father. She was no doubt already concocting some argument that would prove to him that the security of the kingdom could only be assured by a journey to the Pope.
Aethelflaed began to tap her fingers on the table, indicating that she was lost in her own world, hunting the hares of her imagination swifter than any eagle.
‘No,’ Alfred said. ‘Not until the sun ceases to rise every morning.’
‘But why not?’ Aethelflaed pleaded. ‘It would show that Edward is your choice to succeed you. That he is the Pope’s choice. God’s choice.’
Edgwulf, Alfred’s Horse-thegn could not hide a grin. Alfred glared at him but Edgwulf smiled still more broadly.
‘You tell her why not,’ Alfred challenged him. ‘This is no laughing matter, man. You tell her.’
Edgwulf blinked in surprise, caught off guard.
‘Well,’ he said, desperately trying to get time to think. ‘It’s a very long way to Rome.’
‘Father went there when he was three,’
Aethelflaed said.
‘Six,’ Alfred said. ‘I was six.’
‘But it’s more dangerous now.’ Edgwulf continued. ‘Far more dangerous. The Kingdom of the Franks is near overrun with Viking armies. And every Viking chieftain would slaver at the thought of taking captive two children of the King of Wessex.’
‘As if they’d dare.’
‘Oh, they’d dare right enough. Be certain of it. Put all thought of journeying to Rome out of your mind.’
Aethelflaed looked at the Horse-thegn with grim face. A few years before she would have poked her tongue out at him. But she knew that while she could cajole almost anything from her father she would have no such luck with his friend. She crossed her arms and contented herself with a sulk. But she would not give up the idea, not by any means.
‘If you desire a journey then come with me to Winchester,’ Alfred said. ‘I mean to celebrate Easter there. And the Archbishop will join us and lead the prayers.’
‘That old —’ Aethelflaed began but her father held up his hand to silence her.
‘You must content yourself with seeking blessing by the Pope’s representative,’ Alfred continued, ‘and not by him.’
Aethelflaed gave a snort of derision and stormed out.
CHURCH AND STATE
Winchester, Easter 883
Inga watched Edward hide the toy sword from Osferth and wondered whether to intervene. Edward, after all, was twelve years old, eight years older than his half-brother. Yet the two boys adored each other, were inseparable in games, adventures and fights.
Inga long ago realised that most of the disputes would be over and forgotten in minutes. The only time she came rushing was when they fought in silence, rage having temporarily overcome brotherhood, giving way to grim and desperate struggle.
A sudden thought pierced her like a needle. How is he? How is Ulf?
She tilted her head as if she could listen for her brother’s heartbeat, as if he were close to her rather than on the other side of the kingdom.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud, clear voice calling her name. But for a moment, her mind filled with thoughts of Ulf, she did not respond.
‘My sister wants you,’ Edward said.
‘I know.’
He stared at her curiously. ‘Then why aren’t you going to her?’
Inga laughed. ‘I don’t always jump to do what Aethelflaed wants.’
Edward looked uncertain for a moment and then he laughed. ‘That’s probably a good idea. Though a brave one.’
Inga smiled at him and ruffled his hair. She turned in Aethelflaed’s direction but as she did so she caught Osferth’s eye and pointed to the bush.
He scampered over to it and retrieved the sword, laughing with joy.
Edward opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He clapped his hands and grinned. ‘Very clever, little brother. I can’t fool you.’
‘Play nicely,’ Inga said. ‘No fighting.’
Inga found Aethelflaed pacing up and down outside her father’s hall. She wore a long green gown picked out with yellow thread. A servant had dressed her hair in two long plaits which swayed as she moved.
She looks like a colt, Inga thought.
‘Where have you been?’ Aethelflaed said. ‘I want to go for a walk.’
‘But it’s almost time for the Easter Blessing,’ Inga said. ‘And Archbishop Ethelred is giving the sermon.’
‘I hate the Archbishop. And my father doesn’t like him either.’
‘That can’t be true.’
Aethelflaed gave her a doubtful look.
‘And even if it were,’ Inga continued, ‘it doesn’t mean you can refuse to worship.’
Aethelflaed crossed her arms angrily.
‘You look like a child,’ Inga said.
‘I feel like one whenever the Archbishop looks at me. He despises me just as he does father.’
‘He does not despise your father. How could he?’
Aethelflaed sniffed. ‘He does and I know it.’ She took Inga’s hand. ‘A short walk then, in sight of the church so that we know when to return.’
Aethelflaed led them along the ridge which rose to the south of the hall. It was a cool morning though Inga could feel that the world was poised between winter and spring. Daisies sprinkled the meadow and catkins were breaking out on the hazel trees. The woods to the south were already brushed with the first swathes of blue-bells.
Inga glanced down to where the two princes were playing. Four warriors watched over them a hundred yards away. The boys were oblivious of their presence, never realising the strangeness of being constantly guarded. As far as they were concerned the men were adjuncts to their games, huge toys which could sometime be cajoled into joining their games. Most would humour them for a little while before returning to their ceaseless watch.
‘There’s nothing to see up here,’ Aethelflaed announced. She turned and raced down the hill towards the hall, shouting for Inga to keep up.
Inga followed, shaking her head at Aethelflaed’s contrariness. She was more skittish than any colt and getting worse by the day.
The guards at the door bowed to Aethelflaed as she approached. She gave them a smile, saucy, provocative, revelling at being on the cusp of womanhood, fascinated by the strange power she was discovering in herself.
The older guard ignored her but the younger one shuffled uneasily and glanced away.
The King was sitting at a table with several other men. Inga knew most of them, Ealdorman Ethelnoth of Somerset who had bought her father from slavery, the Horse-thegn Edgwulf, and Ealdorman Daeglaf of Wiltshire. But the other two were unknown to her.
She guessed that one was Archbishop Ethelred, an elderly man with stern face and upright posture. The other was a man of middle years, richly dressed, his chin resting in his palm, his eyes moving slowly but purposefully, taking in everything.
‘The church must pay its share,’ Alfred said. He stared at the archbishop intently. His voice was firm and calm but Inga knew him well enough to realise that he was only just keeping his anger in check. ‘It must help pay for the army, for the new burghs and for fighting ships.’
The archbishop held his hands out in a gesture which suggested that he felt powerless. But when he spoke his voice said otherwise. It seemed sorrowful but beneath it there ran a cold strength.
‘The church bleeds,’ he said. ‘We have borne the brunt of the heathen depredations. We need to rebuild our churches and monasteries, maintain and improve our farms, succour and train our holy men. We have no money to spare for matters of war. No money for soldiers and fortifications.’
‘These soldiers and fortifications keep the people safe,’ Alfred said. ‘They keep the church safe.’
‘The Lord God keeps the church safe.’
Alfred blinked rapidly. ‘God keeps the church safe by providing soldiers. Soldiers who have to be fed, armed and paid for.’
‘Our prayers keep the church safe, not swords.’
For once, Alfred seemed lost for words. Ethelnoth spoke instead.
‘But, Archbishop, you just said that the church has suffered more than others from the heathen attacks. Maybe your prayers are less powerful than you think.’
The archbishop looked at him with disdain but did not reply.
‘I must tithe the church,’ Alfred said.
‘Tithe?’ the archbishop said in horror. ‘That is unacceptable.’
Alfred did not answer for a little while. The room fell silent. The air prickled with tension.
Finally, Ethelnoth leaned forward, picked up his goblet and drank loudly from it. Inga could see his eyes over the rim, watching Alfred intently.
‘There will be no more argument,’ Alfred said. ‘The church must pay a tenth of its treasure to defend the Kingdom. No more argument.’
The archbishop’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your brother would not have been so grasping,’ he said.
Inga gasped at the comment and glanced at the king to see his
reaction.
He stared at the archbishop, holding him eye to eye until the churchman looked away.
‘Perhaps he wouldn’t,’ Alfred said at last. ‘But he is dead and I am alive. I am King of Wessex. And I command you to proclaim a tithe to your brethren.’
The archbishop rose, bowed his head swiftly and made to depart.
‘Ethelred,’ Alfred said quietly.
The archbishop paused at the door.
‘I did not give you permission to leave.’
‘My pardon, Alfred,’ he said. ‘I am giving the Easter Blessing shortly. Jesus Christ is lord of all: ealdormen, warriors, priests and kings. He is also the lord of time and does not brook delay.’
Alfred stared at him for a few moments longer and then gestured for him to leave.
The atmosphere lightened immediately. Yet Alfred leaned forward on his stool, his hands clenching and unclenching as if he were washing them in an invisible basin.
‘He tries my patience,’ he said at last. ‘He goads me beyond patience.’
He shot a glance at the well-dressed man. ‘What do you say, Sighelm? You are Ealdorman of East Kent.’
‘Canterbury is in my shire,’ he said. ‘But I doubt it is in my jurisdiction. I have little control over Canterbury.’
‘All of Wessex is in my jurisdiction.’ Alfred said. ‘I am King.’
Sighelm sighed. ‘Yet I fear that the archbishop gives fealty to another lord, one who resides far to the south of Wessex.’
‘The Holy Father?’
Sighelm nodded.
‘Then I shall send message to Rome to persuade the Holy Father of the justice of my case.’
‘I would not advise that,’ said Edgwulf.
Alfred frowned, perplexed.
‘Why give the Pope advantage in this manner?’ Edgwulf continued. ‘Why acknowledge he has any power or influence in Wessex? If once you let him think he has, then Ethelred will claim the same.’
‘But surely the Holy Father already claims such power?’ said Sighelm.
‘I doubt he will wish to antagonise the only King standing between Christ and Odin,’ Ethelnoth said.
