by Martin Lake
‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last.
‘None of is sure,’ Edgwulf said. ‘But we need to hazard a guess.’
‘But me, lord? I’m just a thegn.’
‘And I require you to think like one, like the best of them, in fact.’
Ulf blinked in astonishment and alarm, not fully comprehending what the Horse-thegn was implying.
‘You’re clever, Ulf,’ Edgwulf continued, ‘and show great promise. Unfortunately, you’re proving too stupid to realise it. So now I have to be blunt and hammer the notion into your head.’
Ulf swallowed hard. ‘Thank you, lord,’ he said quietly.
‘Besides,’ Alfred said, ‘you’re the only one who’s seen this Northman Hrólfr. So do as Edgwulf commands and tell us why you think he has come here.’
Ulf gnawed his lip. He felt more scared than if he was in a shield-wall facing a thousand foes. He tried to pummel his racing thoughts but they were as wild and unbiddable as puppies in a field.
‘I don’t think Hrólfr has come in peace,’ he said, at last. ‘If he had he wouldn’t have attacked my village.’ He searched desperately for the next thought. ‘And he left most of his fleet behind when he came to my village which suggests that he was scouting the way.’
‘So you now believe that the forty ships also belonged to Hrólfr?’ Edgwulf asked.
Ulf nodded.
‘Then why?’ Edgwulf asked. ‘Why didn’t he come with his whole fleet?’
Ulf had the uncomfortable feeling that the Horse-thegn knew well the answer to his question, that he was asking it not for information but as a test.
‘Two reasons, perhaps,’ he stammered. ‘Maybe he didn’t know the way. Or maybe he feared that we were too strong to risk his whole fleet.’
Edgwulf nodded and glanced at Alfred.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ Ulf continued, struggling to tie down the thought. ‘Maybe there’s more. Maybe he wasn’t certain how Ketil would react to seeing such a large fleet. Which means that he was uncertain of Guthrum. Or perhaps he even wanted to discover the strength of the Danes in the city.’
He fell silent, his brain whirling.
‘That is why I asked you,’ Edgwulf said quietly. ‘That is what I mean by great promise.’
Ulf’s heart surged with pleasure. His only desire was to serve the King and the Horse-thegn. He glanced at Inga and realised that she was not sharing his triumph. And he suspected why.
‘You impress us, Ulf,’ Alfred said. ‘You impress us more each day. We shall put you in the front rank for the forthcoming battle.’
‘Forthcoming battle?’
The King nodded. ‘Your news has been disquieting. It may well be that the Norsemen have arrived without Guthrum knowing. But if Hrólfr plans to attack Wessex then Guthrum will be tempted to break the peace and join him. We cannot allow this. We intend to halt them in their tracks.’
‘And we aim to strengthen our position greatly,’ said Edgwulf, ‘and send a message to Guthrum that he will heed. We mean to take the old Roman city from the Danes and hold it against them.’
Ulf’s eyes grew wide. The thought of battle inflamed his soul, the news that he was to be placed in the front row of the shield-wall even more so. That the King had chosen to tell him before informing the rest of his thegns made him almost giddy with delight.
He heard the crash of the door opening behind him and a servant approached.
‘My lord,’ he said. ‘Ealdorman Ethelnoth has arrived. With a large party of strangers.’
‘He has got here quicker than I thought,’ said Edgwulf.
Alfred smiled. ‘Ethelnoth has an instinct for arriving at the very best time.’
He turned to Inga. ‘Tell Tidhelm to find lodgings for a very important guest. And he is to bring the feast forward to this evening. And get message to my ealdormen and thegns that they will attend us in the Great Hall at dusk.’
He climbed to his feet. ‘Come, let us meet our friends from the north.’
He strode out of the lodgings, followed by Edgwulf.
‘You too, Ulf,’ the Horse-thegn called.
Ulf grinned and hurried after them.
Riding into the village came sixty mounted warriors, with Ethelnoth, Prince Edward and a stranger leading the way.
Ulf stared at the horsemen. He had never seen Mercians before and still retained a lingering suspicion of them as the most ancient and powerful enemy of Wessex. The men looked very much like the men of Wessex although he thought their horses were smaller and their clothing and armour rather less fine.
Not so their leader.
Ulf knew that this must be Æthelred, the ruler of Mercia. He guessed he was a few years younger than Ethelnoth, in his early thirties, perhaps. He looked more of a king than Alfred did. He was dressed in costly furs with a gleaming mail breastplate shining beneath it. His helmet was made of the finest metal and bore deep engravings upon it. His face was grim and wary looking.
Æthelred was the most important man in English Mercia yet he was not its king. He looked like one, sure enough, but he was not. The last King of the Mercians had fled the Danish invaders and died in Rome.
Ethelnoth, Edward and Æthelred dismounted and approached.
‘Welcome, Æthelred, Ealdorman of Mercia,’ Alfred said.
‘I am glad to be here,’ Æthelred answered. His tone, however, suggested otherwise.
‘A feast is being prepared for you and your men,’ Alfred continued. ‘If we had known how fast the men of Mercia could ride we would have been more ready for you.’
Æthelred gave him a suspicious look, as if Alfred’s comment on their riding speed was suggesting that Mercians were swift to flee the Danes.
But Alfred gave him a broad, disarming smile and indicated his private quarters. ‘Come to my lodgings, warm yourself and take some wine. You too, Ethelnoth. You have journeyed far.’
‘And me, father?’ Edward asked.
‘I think not. Your sister is keen to see you and asked that you go to her the moment you arrive. And send Inga to me, so that she may serve wine for our guest.’
Edward gave him a thoughtful, unreadable look and went towards the hall in search of Aethelflaed.
Alfred led Æthelred towards his hut, followed by Edgwulf and Ethelnoth. Ulf hesitated for a moment and then, realising he had not been dismissed, followed.
‘It is a mean lodging in which to welcome the lord of Mercia,’ Alfred said.
‘And mean for the King of Wessex,’ Æthelred said. His voice was as grim as his look, dry and clipped, every word emphasised and cut off abruptly. Alfred chose to ignore what he said.
Ulf darted forward and placed two stools by the fire.
‘Thank you, Ulf,’ Alfred said, indicating that Æthelred take one and settling himself in the other.
‘I appreciate you coming, Æthelred,’ Alfred said.
‘A request from the King of Wessex is almost a command to me,’ Æthelred replied.
Alfred’s eyes flickered at his use of the words almost a command but again he chose not to respond immediately. He gazed into the fire and when he spoke it was as if he were addressing the flames.
‘Did Ethelnoth tell you why I summoned you?’ he said.
Ulf gaped at the word summoned. This was like swordplay between warriors. At the moment they were probing and testing. He watched enthralled, although he had little doubt how it would end.
Perhaps Æthelred had none either for when he spoke again it was in a less querulous tone. ‘He said something about Lundenwic. And the old Roman city.’
‘One of my thegns has discovered that a Norse fleet has arrived at the old city,’ Alfred said. ‘A large fleet, with many warriors. We do not know if Guthrum has allied himself with them but it can only be a matter of time before he does. And if not him, then his brother Eohric will surely seize the chance of war.’
‘Do you think they are a threat to the Mercians in Lundenwic?’
‘I do not propose to find out,’ Al
fred said. ‘I plan to attack the city of Lunden and take if from the enemy. They will be a threat to Lundenwic no longer. Whoever controls the old Roman city controls the river and that is something I can no longer ignore.’
‘The old city, like Lundenwic, belongs to Mercia,’ Æthelred said.
‘For the present it belongs to the Danes.’
There was a long and uncomfortable silence. At that moment, Inga entered the room bearing a large jug of wine. She was accompanied by Aethelflaed.
Alfred darted an angry look at his daughter but she ignored it and sat upon a stool near the wall. Æthelred noticed the look and turned towards her. It was a glance, little more. But it was a little more.
Inga poured wine for the four men and withdrew to a corner of the room.
‘As you say,’ Æthelred continued, ‘at present the old city belongs to the Danes. But if it taken from them it must return to Mercian control.’
‘When I have taken the city I will talk with you about control.’
Alfred’s spoke quietly, his words casual and unemphatic. Yet none there could mistake the certainty of power and intent behind them.
Certainly not Æthelred. His eyes flashed with sudden anger but he masked it almost immediately. The border of Mercia was now far north of the Thames. Wessex was just across the river. The army of Mercia was weak and lacking experience; that of Wessex, triumphant and keen for battle.
‘It means that you will break the peace with Guthrum,’ Æthelred said.
Alfred smiled. ‘Does it? My thegn Ulf alerted me to the danger of a Norse fleet. It is those I shall fight.’
‘And the Danes in the city?’
Alfred shrugged. ‘I shall send Guthrum my regret if they get caught in the middle of battle.’
Inga gasped at this and Aethelflaed reached out a hand to quieten her.
‘Your servants seem vexed by this news,’ Æthelred said.
‘My servant maybe. The other girl, my daughter, has shown no such reaction.’
Æthelred stared at Aethelflaed in surprise.
‘I have heard about you, lady,’ he said. ‘But I had not realised that you were one of your father’s war-captains.’
Aethelflaed gave a wide smile. ‘Oh Ealdorman, you try to tease me. For surely even Mercians know that a young girl cannot be a war-captain.’
He could think of no reply to this so turned back to the king. ‘You spoke of a welcome feast, Alfred. My men will appreciate that.’
‘I have prepared lodgings for you,’ Alfred said. ‘Inga will take you to them. She is my daughter’s servant and also my god-daughter.’
Æthelred looked surprised and glanced curiously at Inga before following her out of the chamber.
Edgwulf waited a few moments before speaking. ‘He did not like your plan to keep the old city.’
‘At the moment I don’t much care whether he likes it or not. It will be men of Wessex who take the city from the Danes.’
‘Then why did you send me all the way north to bring him here?’ Ethelnoth asked.
‘I may wish to show more sympathy for his feelings in the future. After it is in my power.’
‘He is proud,’ Edgwulf said. ‘For a man who is not a king.’
‘Perhaps he means to be one,’ Ethelnoth said.
Alfred looked at him sharply. ‘That is something I will not allow.’
Ulf held his breath at these words. Even the King’s friends looked surprised.
‘You have not been so definite before,’ Edgwulf said.
‘I had not seen Æthelred before.’ He took a drink of wine. ‘He is a strong and noble man. If he had been weaker then I might have been content to let him rule Mercia as king.’
After a little while Ethelnoth spoke. ‘You do not want a war with Mercia?’
‘No I don’t. Which is why we must take the old city quickly and with great slaughter. And why we must do it while Æthelred is with us to observe.’
A MIGHTY GIFT
It was a warm night in the first week of June. A strong west wind was blowing and it helped speed the dozen small boats heading down the Thames towards the old Roman city. As they neared the city the men on board put flames to sheepskins and oiled bales of straw and steered their boat towards the Viking ships. Within minutes the flames had leapt to the Dragonships and they were ablaze.
The Vikings poured out of the city to try to save the ships and managed to row ten of them, a quarter of the fleet, to safety. The rest were consumed by fire.
In the last hours of night, the army of Wessex crossed the River Thames and laid siege to the old city. Edgwulf sprung the attack with such surprise that none of the warriors in the city could escape. A noose had been flung around the neck of the foe and Alfred intended to tighten it until the death.
Ten days later a miracle occurred, or so it seemed. A large party of travellers arrived at Lambehitha in search of the king. They had come from Rome, emissaries sent by Pope Marius, and they brought the most wondrous gift possible.
Everyone was agog at the sight of the visitors. The only foreigners that most had seen were Danes who came with fire and sword. Even the occasional merchant from Francia was viewed warily, for merchants could turn into pillagers or act as spies for the foe. These men, however, were friendly and courteous and conducted themselves with powerful confidence.
Alfred was busy discussing the siege with Edgwulf when he received message about the emissaries.
‘You stay here,’ he said to Edgwulf. ‘I’ll return as soon as possible.’
He tried to hide his excitement. Thoughts of his two childhood visits to Rome flooded his mind. He mounted his horse and galloped off to Lundenwic, jumped into a ferry and crossed the river, pondering all the while what could have brought these men so far.
He was pleased to see that Merewyn and Aethelflaed had made the emissaries welcome, providing them with water to wash in, food and wine.
There were half a dozen of them. Their travelling clothes had been discarded and they were dressed in the finest clothes, marvellous to behold. Their leader, the legate from the Pope, was an elderly man with silver hair, dressed in a white silk robe adorned with a richly embroidered stole and a long gold chain bearing a jewel encrusted crucifix. He was a man of utmost importance, a prince of the church, and he looked and acted like it.
He spoke a few words in Latin and as he did so a little, fat priest stepped up beside him and translated his words into English. He had come bearing a gift from the Holy Father, a gift beyond compare and wonder, a greater gift than any Pope had ever bestowed upon a king.
At a sign from the legate, a priest unfolded a linen cloth to reveal a box of wood so ancient it was almost black. His hands shook with anxiety as he lifted the box and placed it on a table.
The legate bade King Alfred approach, gave a deep bow, and indicated that he should open the lid.
A gift from the Pope was rare indeed, charged with potency. As he bent to open the box his lips became dry with anticipation. He wanted to moisten them but realised that if he did he would look like a glutton, hungry for the choicest cuts.
He took a deep breath, pulled back the lid and peered inside.
The box smelled of costly perfumes, as gorgeous as a comely queen might wear. It was padded with the softest, deepest fabric, cool and yielding to the touch. Resting on this was a yet smaller box made of cedar wood, inlaid with gold.
‘You should open it,’ said the little priest.
Alfred did so, a terrible sense of trepidation gripping him as he did.
Nestling within was a piece of wood, perhaps four inches long.
Alfred looked at the legate, perplexed. He had expected something different, gold or jewels to provision his army, a papal banner to enthuse his men. But a piece of wood?
‘What is it?’ he asked, his eyes wide with confusion.
‘A piece of the True Cross,’ the legate answered. ‘The very wood which Jesus Christ laid himself upon, from which he promised everlasting life t
o all mankind and on which he died.’
The emissaries, including the legate, fell to their knees and Alfred’s people did the same.
Alfred barely noticed. His hand shook as he lifted out the fragment. For a moment he was surprised at how rough and coarse it felt, expecting it to be of the finest quality, smooth, worked by skilled craftsmen, suitable for the Son of God.
But of course, it could not be so. Jesus had died upon a Roman crucifix and it would have been roughly made, hewn carelessly from local timber. As he lifted it closer to his eyes he perceived that the Cross would have been used in countless other crucifixions, that this wood bore the pain not only of the Lord himself but of scores of other men before.
Ordinary men, he thought. Like my people. People Jesus had sacrificed himself for. A solitary tear ran down his face. He laid his lips upon the wood and gave it the most fleeting yet most heartfelt of kisses.
‘This is a gift beyond compare,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion.
He wondered whether to fall on his knees before the legate. His mind raced, wondering what his friends would advise. Most would say kneel in thanks and submission. Yet, he considered, Edgwulf and his oldest friend Ethelnoth would shake their heads. He took a deep breath and remained standing.
‘You are a king beyond compare,’ the legate said. ‘So the Holy Father says, and so he has instructed me to tell you so. You do great work, holy work. You must never waver from your path.’
Alfred nodded though in truth he needed no such words to know this.
My path is that of a King of Wessex, he thought. My path is already set for me.
His eyes fell on Ealdorman Æthelred.
Not only the King of Wessex. The King of the English.
At the exact same moment, the legate got to his knees and lifted his voice high to the heavens. ‘Ave Rex Anglorum,’ he cried. ‘Hail to the King of the English.’
Alfred clenched his hand tightly upon the fragment of the cross. A wondrous gift indeed.
The emissaries left the following morning.
‘Perhaps they thought it too dangerous to stay,’ Ethelnoth said.
