Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  * * *

  The two boys ran fast and free, exulting in the warmth on their backs and the vast blue sky above. They ran until their legs could carry them no further, collapsing, breathless, on a grassy slope a short distance from the forest’s edge.

  Eadwulf rolled to face his friend. ‘What was it you wanted to show me so urgently?’

  ‘Oh, that was just something to say to convince your mother I really wanted you to come with me,’ the tousle-haired boy replied, grinning. ‘And it seemed to work, didn’t it?’

  ‘Well, don’t try it a second time. Mother has a very good memory.’

  Aethelnoth hooted at Eadwulf’s grimace. ‘As a matter of fact, I did see something in the forest when everyone was snoring last night.’

  ‘Why, exactly, were you outside at that time of night?’

  ‘Going for a piss, of course. It was so dark I couldn’t see where I was treading; stubbed my big toe on a stone or something. Want to see a black toenail? It‘s hanging off . . .’

  Eadwulf wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  ‘No? Well, because it was so dark, the lights stood out.’

  ‘What lights?’

  ‘How should I know? They were over by the woods, about six of them moving about, so they could have been torches, carried by people. What do you think? You’re so clever you should be able to work it out.’

  Eadwulf stared at his friend. ‘There’s nothing to work out, stupid! It’s most likely as you said. Torches carried by people.’

  ‘Which people?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Eadwulf mimicked. ‘I was in bed, where I was supposed to be.’

  ‘Well, I reckoned we’d go and have a look round. You know, search for clues.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Eadwulf agreed. ‘But we’d better get back in time for Ocea’s instruction, or we’ll get more than earache.’

  * * *

  Burgred cursed. He’d waited for the two brats to leave their resting place, expecting them to turn back to the hall. But now they were heading straight for the forest. He hoped Egil and his men had the sense to stay hidden. The woods were expansive and the undergrowth should offer ample concealment, despite the sparse spring foliage.

  His assignation with Egil was arranged for a place some distance into the forest, where a huge, gnarled oak, struck by lightning some years ago, sprawled across the forest floor. Its trunk and branches were charred lifeless and black, like a great, contorted sculpture. Burgred recalled Egil’s sneering words as he’d stroked the blackened wood:

  ‘This is what your London will look like when Rorik is through with it.’

  From a distance he observed the boys for a while. Thankfully, they seemed to be keeping to the edge of the trees, searching through the litter of the forest floor. What strange game was this? Perhaps they were collecting insects, or looking for something they’d lost on a previous visit. But he hadn’t the time to find out. Moving in a wide arc, he entered the woods some distance from where the boys were grovelling. His mood was thunderous following his encounter with Morwenna; he’d not intended to reveal the full extent of his feelings and wondered how he’d face her again.

  But right now he must finalise details with Egil.

  * * *

  ‘What exactly did you think we might find? There’s nothing here that couldn’t be found in the rest of the forest.’

  ‘Can’t you see it’s been recently trampled?’ Aethelnoth retorted, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘There are lots of broken twigs and – yes! Just look at this.’

  Eadwulf scrambled over to his friend. ‘A firebrand of some sort,’ he deduced, pointing to the charred end. ‘So this proves you did see torches, but not who was holding them.’

  ‘Keep looking.’

  The novelty of the activity was rapidly wearing off and Eadwulf rummaged half-heartedly. He inched his way along a narrow passageway between the undergrowth, his mother’s warning about wild boars ringing in his ears. Something hard jabbed his knee and he winced. Recovering the object from the rotting leaves, he stared at it.

  ‘I’ve found something,’ he yelled.

  Aethelnoth scurried towards him. ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘A brooch,’ Eadwulf said, passing it to his friend. ‘One used to fasten cloaks. And, I may be wrong, but I think I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Really?’ Aethelnoth studied the brooch. ‘It’s gold, and I think these red stones are rubies. Not a poor man’s trinket then.’

  ‘No,’ Eadwulf agreed, trying hard to place where he’d seen the object before.

  Aethelnoth rubbed bits of soil and vegetation from the brooch. ‘Could’ve fallen from some nobleman’s cloak whilst out hunting, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s something to do with the torches you saw. Perhaps someone hid here, waiting for someone.’

  ‘But it was dark,’ Aethelnoth reminded him, ‘and miles away from anywhere. Why would he need to hide? He couldn’t be seen in the woods.’

  ‘Maybe he needed to be sure the people arriving with the torches were the ones he was expecting.’

  ‘Who, at that time of night?’

  ‘Well, I suppose poachers after our livestock could be about at night,’ Eadwulf surmised, sagely nodding his head. ‘But I doubt that a nobleman would be meeting such people.’

  ‘And poachers wouldn’t carry torches. They couldn’t risk being seen.’

  ‘Who’d be there to see them in the middle of the night?’

  ‘People going for a piss, like me.’

  ‘Well, people staggering around in the pitch black aren’t generally looking at the woods, Aethelnoth. They’re usually watching where they’re going so they don’t tread in pig shit, or bump their big toes on hard rocks.’

  ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’

  ‘True; and anyway, I’ve a better solution.’

  Aethelnoth scowled at Eadwulf’s smug expression. ‘Go on then, enlighten me.’

  ‘It appears to me,’ Eadwulf began, with an air of pomposity just to irk his friend, ‘that these people with torches must have been strangers, come to meet someone.’

  ‘But we still don’t know the identity of either.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten one little detail, Aethelnoth,’ Eadwulf said, staring at the brooch in his friend’s hand. ‘We have a useful piece of evidence here. I just need to remember where I’ve seen it before.’

  * * *

  Warm rays of the setting sun slanted across the valley, casting long shadows of the horsemen and scattered patches of woodland. Beorhtwulf sighed. Not far now.

  They’d left Winchester the previous morning, escorted by a dozen of Aethelwulf’s men as far as Chertsey, where they were housed overnight in the hall of a Wessex thegn. Riding again since mid-morning, they’d forded the Thames into Mercia at Kingston and followed the river downstream towards the London manor. The talks with Aethelwulf had confirmed the value of having Wessex as an ally. With the onset of May, West Saxon armies would swarm across the Thames Valley. A united front: Mercia and Wessex.

  Beorhtwulf smiled at the thickset thegn riding at his side with a faraway look in his eyes. ‘We’ve been away too long, Creoda. Thinking of home?’

  ‘I was, my lord. Werburh’s due to give birth in a few weeks and she expected me home long before now.’

  ‘None of us anticipated being in London this long, Creoda – first the snows and now this Danish threat.’

  ‘Werburh will understand about the snows, my lord, but I’ve not sent word of the raids. How can I, so close to the birthing? A first child’s a great worry to a woman.’

  Beorhtwulf nodded, appropriate words evading him, and delved into silent contemplation. Beside them the Thames flowed full after the snowmelt, rays of the setting sun bouncing on its turbulent surface. Closer to London the land along the banks became
marshy, its only use being in the thick growth of reeds for roofing thatch, but immediately ahead of them a stretch of dense woodland reached down to the banks. Veering to skirt the trees, the hairs on Beorhtwulf’s neck suddenly prickled. It was too quiet; too still . . .

  Too late he yelled, ‘To me!’

  Extended in a drawn-out cavalcade, the Mercians didn’t stand a chance. The attackers came in waves from the concealment of the woods, their screeches obliterating the silence as they hurled themselves at his men. Vastly outnumbered, the Mercians were dragged from their mounts and brutally hacked down. As the inevitable end neared, only Creoda and young Beornred stood with Beorhtwulf for the final strike.

  Creoda suddenly dropped like a winged bird, blood gurgling through his lips. The axe had come so fast that Beorhtwulf hadn’t seen it coming. Then Beornred was dragged away and Beohtwulf stood alone. Fur-clad shapes swooped on the dead to gather the spoils; like vultures stripping the very meat from their bodies. Fleeting images assailed his mind – of Morwenna and Eadwulf, and his brother, Burgred. He would never see them again.

  ‘Kill me now, you filthy savages,’ he screamed. ‘What in God’s name are you waiting for?’

  The blow to his head sent him reeling. He retched with the pain and rolled onto his side, dizzy and disorientated. But he heard the voice.

  ‘God? Which god would that be? Do you think the Christian god has been looking after you well today? No? Perhaps you should try Odin, the Danish god of kings. Thor is better suited to warriors, I’m told. But you resemble neither king nor warrior today, grovelling down there in the dirt.’

  Beorhtwulf gaped, speechless, as Burgred loomed over him, hatred bright in his eyes.

  ‘You can take that look off your face, Beorhtwulf. It truly is me, here to witness your long-awaited demise. And that young upstart, Beornred, can convey the sad news to Morwenna. No need to worry on my account,’ he said, his voice thick with mock concern. ‘Beornred will say naught of my presence at this unfortunate skirmish. He was moved well out of the way before I put in my appearance . . .

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve hated you as long as I can remember, dear brother, and at last I can be honest about it. You were the first born, and Father always loved you best. By the time I was born he wanted nothing to do with another snivelling brat. He actually told me that, did you know? Don’t look at me as though I were mad; every word I say is true. And Mother was so old when I was born she was more like a grandmother, with a face like a wizened apple!’

  Beorhtwulf dragged himself up on his elbows, striving to make sense of what he was hearing. ‘But I have always loved you, Burgred. When you were a child, I sought to develop your mind, train you in skills for later life. And haven’t I given you lands and manors in return for what I believed to be your loyalty to Mercia – and to me?’

  ‘No doubt such skills will be useful,’ Burgred admitted, examining his fingernails, ‘and the lands will serve me very well. I’ve built up a large number of faithful followers in the kingdom. But I always saw you as a weak-minded man, not the stuff kings are made of.’

  ‘And you think you can do it better, is that it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘By making yourself useful to our kingdom’s enemies. But what use are you to them, brother? What have you promised them – free rein to ravage Mercia?’

  A dangerous light flashed in Burgred’s eyes. ‘You seek to anger me again. But you’re not in a position to fare well if you do, are you?’

  ‘You’ll burn in the fires of hell for all eternity!’

  Burgred threw himself at Beorhtwulf in an uncontrollable rage. Threats of hell-fire and redemption had always caused him nightmares.

  ‘Enough!’ A shaggy-haired Dane with a thrice-plaited beard hauled Burgred to his feet. ‘Finish what you want to say to this cur and we’ll be on our way.’ His heavy features twisted midway between snarl and smirk. ‘We’ve a certain royal manor to raze tomorrow.’

  Beorhtwulf could no more prevent his anguished howl than he could his tears of frustration and rage. ‘Dear God, Burgred, think what you’re doing! Are they all to be slaughtered, like these men who so recently gave you their trust?’

  ‘Chilling thoughts, eh?’ Burgred brushed down his tunic, an ugly smile on his lips. ‘But don’t worry about Morwenna. She’ll be fine – once she’s my wife.’

  ‘Surely all this carnage is not solely for the purpose of rendering Morwenna a widow, so she’ll turn to you? Do you truly believe she could accept you after such betrayal?’

  ‘By all the pompous saints, Beorhtwulf, you must think me quite simple. Morwenna will never know of that. I shall return to the manor once Rorik has finished with it, to find Morwenna distraught in her bower, with Egil guarding her door. I’ll be heard to dispatch Egil and she’ll turn to me for support – as will the rest of Mercia, who’ll see me as a fitting king.’

  ‘You’re mad, Burgred! You’ve forgotten how to be a compassionate human being, a Christian.’

  ‘Remember, Beorhtwulf, not long ago I told that pathetic bishop that the Danes knew naught of compassion. As for being a Christian . . .’ Burgred rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘As a king, Odin will look upon me in a very favourable light.’

  ‘So you see yourself as one of them, do you? But do they see you the same way?’

  ‘They will, when their tribute comes in regularly. Silver’s a persuasive commodity.’

  ‘You’ll be no more than their puppet, a simpering mindless doll, taking orders from savages. Do you really believe you’ll have any power in ruling Mercia?’

  ‘I shall be king – and have much authority. I have Rorik’s word!’

  Ambition and jealousy had destroyed the brother Beorhtwulf thought he knew; greed blinded him to the lies and the drastic consequences of his actions. He searched Burgred’s eyes for some glimmer of humanity but recoiled at the hatred he found. ‘What about my son? What do you intend for him?’

  ‘The brat will be dead by noon tomorrow.’

  The second blow to Beorhtwulf’s head rendered him unconscious as he launched himself at his brother to choke the last breath from his treacherous body.

  * * *

  The screams inside Beorhtwulf’s head seemed to rise and fall . . . rise and fall. Searing pains shot through his skull; acidic bile dribbled from his parched lips onto cold, wet earth and he realised he was lying on his belly, shivering convulsively, his hands tied behind his back. He was soaked to the skin and so very cold. He forced his eyes to open, striving to make sense of the wretchedness of his situation. Greyness enveloped him; late evening then, or daybreak perhaps. And it was raining: a steady, cold drizzle. Tortured screams resounded again inside his head – or were they in his head?

  He dragged his battered body onto his side, pulling up his knees to kneel before straightening out his trembling legs to stand. He looked around him, battling his stagnant memory. Signs of recent encampment were evident; the site deserted now, camp fires long since burned down. But laughter sounded from somewhere close.

  Sunset. The last thing he remembered was a glorious red sunset, and the ambush, sickening and bloody. Then threats about razing Thrydwulf’s manor . . .

  And Burgred; treacherous, insane, Burgred.

  ‘Where in God’s name are you now, Burgred?’ he yelled, his voice rasping in his throat.

  ‘No point looking for your loving brother, Mercian. He left before dark last night.’

  Beorhtwulf swung to face the Dane with the thrice-plaited beard and searched the hardened eyes of winter-blue. ‘Can’t you find it in yourself to show mercy? It serves no purpose to slaughter innocents.’

  The Dane shrugged. ‘Rorik must keep his subjects in fear and subservience, or they’ll deem him weak. Many of his people must die to carry this message to the rest.’

  ‘But these are not his people!’

  ‘Not yet,
perhaps, but your brother is more pliable than soft clay, has little care for the people you show such fondness for. He’ll be most useful to us.’

  The piercing scream chilled Beorhtwulf to the core. ‘In the name of all that’s holy, what is happening?’

  ‘So squeamish, King of the Mercians. How can your people follow a weakling?’

  ‘I’m no weakling! But mindless killing should give no man pleasure. My people have moved on from wanton slaughter, whereas your people have not.’

  The kick to Beorhtwulf’s stomach was hard and fast and he doubled over, gasping.

  ‘You know nothing Mercian! Once we only raided lands close to our own, but now we are here in your kingdom. I say we’ve moved a good way on.’ Egil’s throaty chuckle at his own jest was broken by another agonised scream. ‘He is not a brave man either. Hauk has enjoyed hearing him scream like a woman. You Mercians have no balls.’

  ‘What in Christ’s name have you done to him?’ Beorhtwulf yelled as realisation struck. ‘Beornred’s but a boy!’ His outburst elicited another vicious kick, this time in the groin. Agony exploded and he dropped like a stone, retching.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Egil sneered. ‘You Mercians have no balls. Yours, lord king, won’t be much use for some time. That young whelp won’t have any at all by now. Last time I looked he did have his balls, though he squinted oddly through his one eye, causing our men some amusement. The other was smeared quite creatively across his face.

  ‘Hauk likes to make the operation interesting: for the benefit of the audience, if you see what I mean.’

  Three

  Eadwulf shoved the untouched Latin script away in disgust, keen to be outside now that the sun was shining after the light rain shower of early morning. Sigehelm had instructed him to make a start before he’d disappeared on some errand or other, but in his absence, Eadwulf had allowed his thoughts to wander.

  It had taken him little time to remember where he’d seen the rubied brooch before. Burgred had been wearing it on the day of the hunt, the day before the Witenagemot. As Eadwulf had begged to be allowed to ride out with his father, his attention had been momentarily drawn to the shiny red and gold brooch fastening Burgred’s cloak. But he’d soon forgotten about it. His uncle had so many pieces of fine jewellery.