by Martin Lake
‘You shouldn’t back down, father,’ said Aethelflaed, stepping up to the circle of advisers.
Sighelm looked astonished at her interruption but the mirth died on his lips when he saw that Ethelnoth and Edgwulf were listening to her respectfully.
‘You’re the king,’ she continued, ‘but the archbishop doesn’t respect you. He should.’
Alfred smiled a little. ‘That’s true but the respect that comes with a title is not as powerful as that which is earned.’
‘But you’ve earned it more than most kings in all the world. You’re a hero.’
‘You think so, daughter, but Ethelred, it seems, does not.’
Aethelflaed snorted. ‘What does he matter. And why is he wearing a dress? Why is he dressed like a woman?’
‘It is the Roman way,’ Alfred said. ‘It is of no importance.’
Ethelnoth sighed. ‘Yet he fights to make every priest wear long skirts, instead of tunics like normal men. My priests are unhappy with it and most have refused.’
‘Not so in Canterbury,’ said Sighelm. ‘They all follow the archbishop and wear long robes.’
‘It is of no importance to me,’ Alfred said.
‘Yet maybe it should be,’ said Edgwulf. ‘Every skirmish is important in a war. If you let him win this fight he may spoil for more.’
Alfred frowned. ‘I will think on it,’ he said. ‘But to be frank, I’d let him dress his priests like harlots in exchange for the tithe.’
‘You want both,’ said Aethelflaed. ‘Priests in good English tunics and the tithe.’
Alfred waved his hand to dismiss her. He watched her depart and smiled ruefully. ‘Perhaps I should just give up my throne to her,’ he said. ‘Then I can be a priest and wear skirts.’
MEREWYN
Inga heard the sound of footsteps coming towards her. They seemed to patter, to dance, filled with some unquenchable optimism.
‘Good morning, my lady,’ Inga said.
Merewyn smiled. ‘Where’s Aethelflaed going in such a hurry?’
‘She’s fuming because she thinks her father has been insulted by the archbishop.’
Merewyn laughed. ‘I sometimes think that Alfred needs no doughty warriors when he has her to look out for him.’
Inga looked at her thoughtfully. Once again, she wondered whether Merewyn was talking seriously or in jest. Perhaps both, she thought. That was part of what made her so attractive; to men and women.
‘Where is my son?’ Merewyn asked.
‘Playing with Edward.’ She pointed to the field where Aethelflaed had now joined her brothers.
Merewyn took her by the hand and they hurried to join them.
‘Mother,’ Osferth called as they approached. ‘I’ve beaten Edward in a fight.’
Merewyn crouched down and studied his face. ‘Then you must be a very great warrior.’ She paused. ‘But are you sure that Edward didn’t allow you to win? He’s much bigger than you.’
‘No. I beat him all on my own. I’m very tough.’
Merewyn tousled his hair and smiled at Aethelflaed.
‘Inga tells me that you are angry because of words between the archbishop and your father.’
Aethelflaed looked accusingly at Inga and then gave a curt nod. ‘No one should insult my father. Even the Danes respect him.’
‘The archbishop has his own dignity, Aethelflaed. It’s sometimes wise to allow people to display it.’
‘A man in a skirt?’ Aethelflaed said with a sneer. ‘If I were my father I’d get a new archbishop.’
Merewyn eyebrows rose and she exchanged a look with Inga.
‘Look mother,’ Osferth called, jumping up and down in excitement. ‘Warriors.’
Inga’s heart lurched in fear. The four warriors guarding the boys ran towards them and others poured out of the gates of the city.
Inga stared at the approaching men, terrified that they might be Danes.
Two score of mounted warriors trotted towards the city with a similar number behind. In the centre was an enclosed carriage, drawn by two large, strong horses. It seemed an unlikely component of a Viking raiding force but Inga remained wary. So did Merewyn. She grabbed hold of Osferth’s arm and pulled Edward close to her.
But then Aethelflaed began to wave. ‘It’s my mother,’ she cried.
The carriage stopped a dozen yards from them. The door opened and one of the escort leapt from his horse to help Alfred’s wife descend.
Aethelflaed threw herself into her mother’s arms while Edward, conscious of the warriors nearby, allowed her to give him only the briefest of hugs before extricating himself, red-faced.
Ealswith examined her children searchingly for a good long minute. ‘You look well,’ she said at last.
She turned to the carriage and gestured. ‘You can come out,’ she said.
Two young children jumped from the carriage, Aethelweard and Aelfthryth, Alfred’s youngest children, twins conceived when Alfred had been a fugitive on Athelney. They had been born three months before Osferth, to Ealswith’s grim satisfaction.
The twins looked up shyly at the figures surrounding them. Aethelweard was small for his years and skinny, the bones of his elbows and shoulders sharp against his skin. His sister was noticeably bigger than him and as chubby as any four-year-old could be. They were dressed in sumptuous clothes, with costly rings upon their fingers. It was clear that Ealswith lavished all her love on them.
She turned a very different emotion on Merewyn. The younger woman curtsied but Ealswith did not bid her rise for an uncomfortably long time.
‘Still only the one pup then?’ Ealswith said, gesturing dismissively at Osferth.
‘Yes, my lady.’ Merewyn paused. ‘He thrives but can be a handful.’
Ealswith shot an angry glance at her, thinking she was making an unfavourable comparison with her sickly youngest boy. Inga swallowed nervously, thinking this was almost certainly the case. She prayed that Aethelflaed would dismiss her so that she could escape the cold fury flowing from Ealswith.
Aethelflaed, however, seemed unlikely to do any such thing. She watched the silent battle between her father’s wife and his mistress as if she were watching two warriors striving for mastery, fascinated by the stroke and counter strokes.
‘Where is your father?’ Ealswith asked Edward at last.
‘He’s in the Feast Hall,’ Edward said. ‘He’s waiting for you there.’
‘Something at least,’ she muttered and returned to the carriage.
‘Can we stay and play with Edward,’ Aethelweard asked.
Ealswith hesitated, her mind suspicious and wary.
‘I’m taking Osferth for a walk,’ Merewyn said. ‘Before the Easter Blessing.’
Ealswith weighed her words and then nodded. ‘You can stay,’ she said softly to the twins. ‘But do as Aethelflaed and Edward tell you.’
The two youngsters squealed in delight and the carriage moved off. Four of Ealswith’s warriors dismounted and stood close by.
Merewyn took her son by the hand and led him away. He immediately started wailing at his enforced separation from the others. Edward looked anxiously towards him but his attention was soon taken by the chatter of his little sister, who seemed to be able to talk without pausing for breath.
Inga relaxed, thankful that Merewyn had absented herself and allowed the atmosphere to ease.
Then she felt a sharp nudge her in the side. ‘I’m not the only one whose mother has journeyed here,’ Aethelflaed said.
Inga yelped at the bony elbow but then she saw what Aethelflaed was referring to. Her mother and father had had been at the rear of the party and now they ran towards her. Brand swept her into the air, his face beaming with pleasure, then deposited her on the ground for Hild to clasp her fiercely in her arms.
‘Are you well, daughter?’ Hild asked. Her face was wet with tears.
‘I’m very well, mother. And even better for seeing you both here. I had no idea you were coming.’
�
�Where Ealswith goes, so do I,’ Hild said. ‘I serve her exactly as you do Aethelflaed.’
‘I hope you are a better servant than your daughter,’ Aethelflaed said. ‘She is lazy and disrespectful.’
Hild looked distraught at the news, her mouth open in astonishment.
‘I’m only jesting,’ Aethelflaed said, realising her mistake. ‘I couldn’t ask for a better servant or friend.’
Hild sighed. ‘I’m relieved to hear it, my lady. Very relieved.’
‘And how is your father?’ Hild asked. ‘Well, I pray God.’
‘He’s very well. He’ll be pleased to see you.’
Hild beamed although Brand looked doubtful. A wary accommodation might have grown between himself and the king but he believed it would never be anything more than that. He could never forget that Alfred had been willing to sell him and his sons into slavery, even though he understood the reasons for it. He had slain one of the king’s thegns and could not pay the wergild to the man’s kin. Were it not for Edgwulf and Ethelnoth paying the debt, they would be slaves still.
‘And is Ulf here?’ Hild asked. ‘We are only staying in Winchester for the Easter blessing and I’d hoped to see him here.’
Inga shook her head. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to. The king has given him more land, in Kent, and he went there to a few months ago.’
Brand looked disappointed at the news, though he tried to hide it. Hild touched Inga on the arm.
‘Is Ulf alright? Is he in good health and well?’
Inga hesitated for the briefest moment. She recalled the sudden needle sharp fear which had struck her earlier. She forced down her sense of panic.
‘Of course he’s alright,’ she lied.
LUNDEN
Easter, 883
It was late in the afternoon of the following day when they saw the old Roman city across the river. The five Longships were drawn up on the bank just below the walls. There was no sign of any crew, presumably they gone into the city. Hrólfr must have been confident for he had set no watch on his ships.
Cuthred took the horses to the river to drink while Ulf scrutinised the city. The Roman walls were still intact although parts were in a state of disrepair. Much of the wall remained twenty feet high, impossible to conquer. But a few sections had fallen prey to time or demolition and were only ten or so feet above the ground.
Even so they were still a formidable defence and this was why the Danes had built their fortress here rather than the old Mercian town of Lundenwic a mile to the west. The West Saxons were not sure how many Danes dwelt in the fort but it had already eclipsed the older settlement in terms of wealth and trade.
He gave a curse and led the way towards Lambehitha. The sooner he got warning to the King, the better.
Lambehitha was a small settlement on the south bank of the river, opposite Lundenwic. It was still a place where herds of sheep were corralled before being taken across the Thames. It also served a more warlike purpose.
The Thames had long been the boundary between the rival kingdoms of Wessex and Mercia. When Wessex took control of Kent fifty years before, Lambehitha had become the eyes and ears of the West Saxon kings, enabling them to keep watch on Mercia’s most important port. Now, with half of Mercia conquered by the Danes, this task was even more vital.
Which was why Ulf was baffled that Tidhelm remained Lord of Lambehitha.
They made their way through the village towards Tidhelm’s hall. It was large and well-made which showed the importance of his position here. The village houses were also on a grand scale, made so to give the Mercians and now the Danes a sobering impression of the might and wealth of Wessex.
‘What kept you?’ came a familiar voice as he approached the hall. ‘I was growing weary of waiting.’
Ulf glanced in the direction of the call. ‘Nothing kept me,’ he said, ‘except a desire to avoid your company for as long as possible.’
Holdwine grinned and clapped Ulf on the back.
‘Don’t imagine I was waiting for you,’ Holdwine continued. ‘I came out here for some fresh air. It grows hot and stale in Tidhelm’s hall.’
The two young men released their embrace and grinned at each other. Holdwine had taught Ulf most of what he knew about being a warrior. He had no better friend in all the world.
‘I don’t know why the king still leaves Tidhelm as lord here,’ said Ulf. ‘He’s a lazy old fool.’
‘Lazy and old, maybe,’ Holdwine said. ‘But I don’t think him a fool.’
Holdwine turned towards Cuthred.
‘This is my blacksmith,’ Ulf said.
Holdwine looked surprised. ‘Why are you travelling with your blacksmith?’ he asked.
Ulf held his hand up to silence him while a servant came to take the two horses to the stables.
Once he had gone out of earshot, Ulf drew Holdwine close. ‘I have news. Five heathen ships attacked my village in Kent.’
Holdwine looked alarmed. ‘A casual attack, perhaps? Traders taking advantage of a sleepy settlement?’
‘They were Dragonships.’
Holdwine whistled between his teeth and glanced towards the hall. ‘Should we tell Tidhelm?’
Ulf shrugged. ‘He’s charged with keeping an eye out for trouble.’
‘But not in your village. Not one so far to the east.’
‘The heathens are not there now. They’re at Lunden.’
Holdwine stared at him. ‘Were many villagers harmed?’
‘None. We fought the heathens, killing eight or nine of them. It gave the women and children time to escape.’
‘And then?’
‘I told the men to follow the women.’
‘And after this?’
Ulf blushed. ‘I stood alone against the heathens.’
Holdwine gave a look of astonishment. ‘And you live to tell the tale. How is that possible?’
Ulf frowned. It was the same question he had been asking himself ever since.
‘I think it was because their leader realised I was a King’s-thegn,’ he said at last. ‘He had no wish to antagonise Alfred.’
‘And perhaps he thought you were a brave man.’
Ulf shrugged. ‘Or a fool.’
Holdwine clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I have yet to discover the difference between the two.’
Holdwine led the way towards Tidhelm’s hall.
Cuthred hesitated. ‘I’ll go and see to the horses,’ he said. ‘I suspect the servants here don’t know how to look after beasts properly.’
Ulf nodded. No doubt Cuthred did want to look to the horses but he also had no relish for entering a strange lord’s hall.
Ulf gave the door-wards his weapons and followed Holdwine into the hall. Two benches stretched either side of a fire-pit where joints of meat were roasting. Half a dozen warriors lounged at the benches, drinking and talking, waiting for the meat to be served.
At the far end sat Tidhelm, lord of Lambehitha. He was an old man, with long white hair and neat trimmed beard. Despite the heat of the hall he wore a thick fur cloak which did not conceal a considerable paunch.
He glanced shrewdly at the two young men as they approached.
‘Welcome, young King’s-thegn,’ he said. ‘I trust all is well in your Kentish village.’
Ulf’s eyes narrowed. He suspected that Tidhelm knew he was once nearly sold to Kent as a slave.
‘My village is fine,’ he answered. ‘But my tidings are less good.’
Tidhelm bade them sit and ordered a servant to bring them ale. He listened with the utmost attention as Ulf told him that five Viking ships had appeared at his village.
‘Are you sure they weren’t traders?’ he asked. ‘It’s easy to confuse a small Longship with a large knarr.’ He watched Ulf narrowly as he spoke.
‘The ships were full of warriors,’ Ulf replied. ‘Unless they were trading in slaves and the Vikings now let their slaves work the oars.’ He felt a strange reticence to tell Tidhelm of the attack upon the villag
e and his part in it.
Holdwine had no such compunction. He briefly told of what he knew.
‘You fought bravely, young King’s-thegn,’ Tidhelm said. ‘I must get word to the King. And I shall tell him of your part in this.’
‘My part is not over yet,’ Ulf said. ‘One of the village women was taken by the Northmen. She is their captive in the old city. I must go there to try to get the heathens to release her.’
Tidhelm laughed. ‘Why would they do that?’
Ulf shrugged. ‘Perhaps their leader has a sense of honour.’
‘A wolf has no honour. And a rat has even less. No sane man goes into the den of wolves or rats.’ He paused. ‘So why do you?’
Ulf felt his cheeks flush but did not answer.
THE DANE, KETIL
The western gate of the city opened and Ulf stepped through it. He gasped in amazement. He could barely believe his eyes. Five years before, on his way to battle at Ethandun, he had first seen the old Roman town of Ilchester. He never imagined anything could be as impressive as its straight roads and well-made houses. Yet, what he saw today astonished and overawed him.
In front of him was a broad, straight street, paved with stones. It seemed to go on endlessly, until it became a narrow line lost on the edge of sight. Large brick houses stood on either side of the road. Many had fallen into a state of disrepair, broken and disfigured by centuries of neglect. But others still bore the look of ancient grandeur. They seemed timeless, defiant, impossible to vanquish.
‘Welcome to Lunden came a voice at his side. ‘My name is Ketil and I am chieftain of this fortress.’
Ulf jumped at the sound and instinctively his hand went to his sword. He had not heard the man approach. He stood a few yards away, where a narrow street joined the main road. Three Danes stood behind him, watchful and alert.
The man who had spoken was the opposite. He looked calm and relaxed, as if he were waiting in his mead-hall for the arrival of a friend. He was older than Ulf by perhaps five years, tall and lean, without the look of burly, brute strength common in so many Danes. More like a priest than a warrior, Ulf thought. Yet an impressive, strong man, confident of his own power and position.
