Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  Egil grabbed the man’s hair, yanking back his head. Morwenna stared at the empty eye socket: a deep hollow, black with congealed blood; then the swollen, split lips. The hideous mutilations momentarily obscured his identity; then realisation struck.

  ‘You are animals!’ she screeched, rising and stumbling forward. ‘Beornred is but a boy!’

  Rorik laughed, as though someone had just revealed the answer to some hilarious riddle. ‘I was beginning to think I’d got you pegged all wrong But I see you have got that feistiness I love in my women.’

  ‘I’ll never be your woman. I’ll kill myself first!’

  ‘I’ll take pleasure in discussing that with you later, but right now, you’ll hear what this “boy” has to say. Boy he may be, but he fought like a man against my warriors. We’ve done no more than any warriors would to an enemy taken captive.’ Rorik raised a fist, halting her intended outburst and turned to the mutilated figure. ‘Now, you were brought here for a purpose, so get on with it,’

  Between ragged breaths Beornred told of the fateful ambush and its predictable end. Tears coursed down Morwenna’s cheeks. This wretched young man could think only of ensuring that her pride in her husband lived on. Of his own, indescribable agonies, he said nothing. She accepted the truth of his words. Deep inside she’d known Rorik hadn’t lied. But now, even hope was gone. Nothing remained but the unbearable misery of her loss.

  ‘Take him out,’ Rorik snapped at his men. ‘I’ve no further use for him.’

  They would kill him now. Morwenna knew it was for the best. Beornred’s mind and spirit were dead already; his butchered body would have soon followed.

  Then Burgred stepped through the open door.

  ‘I thought they’d kill you, too,’ she choked, throwing herself into his arms. ‘They tortured Beornred so wickedly . . . And they’ve killed Beorhtwulf, and may have captured Eadwulf. Pray God my son still lives.’

  ‘He lives, lady,’ Egil growled. ‘Ask him, he’s just seen him.’

  Morwenna pulled back, searching Burgred’s eyes in hope of explanation. But he held his silence.

  ‘Speak, Mercian!’

  ‘Eadwulf lives,’ Burged admitted, his eyes flicking to the menacing jarl. ‘He’ll be taken to their lands and sold as a slave. You, Morwenna, will remain with Jarl Rorik as . . . as his concubine.’

  ‘Tell me the rest, brother. Tell me!’ she yelled as Burgred’s unforgivable treachery became clear. ‘Let me hear from your own lips why you’ve betrayed your own brother, your own people.’

  ‘Beorhtwulf had to die,’ Burgred stated, his voice devoid of all warmth, all humanity. ‘I’ll make a better king than he ever could. He was weak, hadn’t the head for ruling or the skills for policy making. Even the idea of unity with Wessex came from me. And I wanted you, Morwenna. Things have changed since you so favourably impressed the jarl – but I shall rule Mercia, our agreement on that still stands.’

  Rorik grunted. ‘How do we know we can trust a traitor to his own people?’

  Burgred opened his mouth to protest but seemed to think better of it and made to leave. ‘Goodbye, Morwenna.’

  ‘Wait! Tell me where you saw Eadwulf!’

  ‘If things had gone to plan the brat would now be dead, like his father. But I suppose a slave poses me no threat, and the few people still alive believe he died in the hall, along with his god-fearing tutor. And Thrydwulf is well and truly dead. I saw his body myself.’

  Morwenna spat in Burgred’s face. ‘I hope they dangle you up high, puppet, then cut the cords and laugh as your body lies scattered across the Mercian lands you so grievously harmed. Be gone from my sight: you are worse than they.’

  * * *

  Thrydwulf’s manor was no more. Of the proud, wood-planked hall, the small chapel, stables, kitchens and bowers, nothing remained but smouldering ash; the palisade a charred circle scarring the earth. By noon the pungency of lingering smoke mingled with the stench of roasted flesh; those who’d sought escape indoors had been given but a moment to emerge before their dwellings had become their funeral pyres. Of those who’d hoped for mercy, most had been brutally hacked down. Mutilated bodies, almost unrecognisable as people, stripped of weapons, jewellery and usable clothing, lay where they’d fallen, carrion for the scavengers.

  The handful of able-bodied spared had been herded out beyond the palisade: there were fewer than a dozen. They huddled together in one of the manor’s carts, their terror-filled eyes darting. Those who wept too loud or too long gained a lashing. Eadwulf had known these people for most of his life. His tutor, Sigehelm, and skinny Alric, one of the cooks, were the only male adults taken; the rest were women and girls, servants at the manor, or attendants of his mother. And his friend, Aethelnoth.

  Of Morwenna’s fate, Eadwulf was ignorant. All conquering warriors took slaves, he knew that; some for ransom, others as prizes of war. A king’s wife would be seen as an exceptional prize. Grief engulfed him and he squeezed his eyes shut.

  But he wouldn’t cry; he would never let the Danes see him cry.

  As the wagon moved out, he caught a flash of green, and flaxen hair, and he was certain that the man shoving someone into a wagon was one of those he’d seen outside his mother’s bower. He strained his eyes until the smoking blackness that was once a fine Mercian manor disappeared from view, promising himself that one day Burged would pay dearly for his treachery.

  Four

  Winchester: April 851

  ‘Our stomachs have been doubly assaulted, my lord. To be confronted by the butchered body of my dear brother so soon after the sickening remnants and stench of Thrydwulf’s manor . . .’

  Burgred hung his head, hand across his breast, hoping his grief-stricken stance and haggard appearance looked convincing. God, he was tired, at least that was genuine. Joining his men in the forest after he’d left Morwenna’s bower, he’d made his decision. Rorik had no intention of honouring him as king; what a fool he’d been to believe he would. His only hope now was Aethelwulf: convince the old goat he’d returned from his own manor to find the atrocities already committed.

  Despite riding like the Furies, it had taken two days to reach Winchester. He baulked at the possibility that his plans might fail, but by taking the news of Beorhtwulf’s death to Winchester himself, he hoped not only to gain Aethelwulf’s sympathy, but his support.

  ‘My men tried to shield me from the sight of Beorhtwulf’s mutilated body,’ he continued. ‘But I saw what those animals had done – and the scavengers had already begun their work. We buried Beorhtwulf by the river, my lord, but had no time for the rest.’

  Aethelwulf sat motionless on his high-backed chair, his direct blue gaze fixed on Burgred, cold and judgemental. Sweating beneath this raking appraisal, Burgred tried to focus on the court’s attendants. To the king’s right sat a young man so like Aethelwulf in build and facial features it could only be one of his sons, though the deep chestnut hair and eyes likely resembled his mother’s – as well as those of the tall, elegant man of late middle years at Aethelwulf’s opposite side.

  The uncomfortable silence was broken by a sudden commotion outside. Horses skidded to a halt, shouted words were exchanged and within moments a small group of warriors entered the hall and fell to their knees before the king, helms clutched under their arms.

  ‘Let’s hear it then, Egric,’ Aethelwulf demanded. ‘What news is so urgent it can’t wait to be told?’

  ‘The Danes, my lord. They’re in Surrey!’

  Aethelwulf shot to his feet with a rapidity that belied his years, his face thunderous.

  ‘Our patrol witnessed their attack on London,’ Egric panted. ‘They burnt it to the ground, after they’d looted it and slaughtered everything that breathed! There were hundreds of them. Most of their ships set sail down the Thames, but others ferried men and horses across the river and moored on the Wessex bank. A dozen
ships there were.’ He glanced up warily at Aethelwulf, gauging his response. ‘Then, leaving maybe half their number to guard their ships, the rest headed south into Surrey. Close on two hundred riders, I’d guess.

  ‘We were lucky not to have been spotted, my lord,’ Egric added as the king’s chest heaved. ‘The woodland’s sparse along those banks, but the Danes were busy with their ships. We kept our heads low and our horses well back – couldn’t risk them giving us away.’

  Burgred watched with interest; this timely interruption could serve his purpose well.

  Aethelwulf sank to his seat, striving for calm. ‘You’ve done well to bring us this news, Egric, unwelcome though it is. Tomorrow your patrol will head for Osmund’s hall at Guildford. My army will follow within the week.’ His glacial eyes turned to Burgred. ‘It seems the Danes had greater designs on Wessex than we’d realised. And Surrey can’t be left to fend them off alone. It comes under Aethelstan’s jurisdiction of course,’ he explained for Burgred’s benefit, ‘but my son’s depleted forces won’t stand further battering. And ultimately, responsibility for the entirety of Wessex is mine.’ His piercing stare sharpened. ‘And as the next Mercian king, Lord Burgred, I trust you’ll honour our newfound unity. I fear that darker times are yet to come.’

  Aethelwulf’s meaty fists clenched tight and he sprang again to his feet, almost toppling his chair. ‘I swear I’ll not rest until I put an end to their rampaging in my kingdom!’

  ‘Father, won’t you sit and take refreshment?’

  The young woman had entered unnoticed and, as she approached the king, Burgred noted she was scarcely more than a girl, a comely one at that. So, this was Aethelwulf’s only daughter, Aethelswith; fair haired and complexioned, like her father. Her blue tunic followed the curves of a body that had the slimness of youth.

  ‘I just thought you didn’t seem quite yourself, Father, when I peeped in,’ she said tentatively, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I wondered whether a little wine might help you to . . . to think.’

  Aethelwulf’s taut muscles loosened and he smiled. ‘It’s good to know you’ve a care for your old father, daughter. But I am well; it’s just the task ahead that fills my thoughts. And yes, I do forgive your interruption, though only you or your mother would be forgiven such a sin.’

  The young man at Aethelwulf’s side winked at the girl and Burgred noted the many smirking faces. The king’s soft spot for his family was evidently well known. Aethelwulf seemed to be a many-faceted character.

  ‘Shall I fetch you that drink then, Father?’ Aethelswith’s cheeks glowed still brighter at the laughter her question caused.

  ‘What you can do,’ Aethelwulf said, placing a fatherly arm round her shoulders, ‘is go to the kitchens and inform the servants that ale for all of us wouldn’t go amiss.’ He bent down, allowing his daughter to kiss his cheek. ‘Then, I think you should see if your mother would like some company. She isn’t in the best of health and old Edith isn’t as sprightly as she was. And young Alfred’s quite a handful.’

  ‘Say no more, Father,’ Aethelswith replied, laying a hand on his arm. ‘I know what my little brother can get up to. Edith would appreciate some help.’

  ‘Then be off with you. That drink is well needed and we have plans to make.’

  Aethelswith scurried off in pursuit of her errand, nodding politely as she detected a stranger at Court. The flash of her blue eyes caused a stab of guilt-laden misery in Burgred’s chest. Only two days since he’d longed to look into the blue eyes of another. But he must move on. Aethelswith was a very pretty girl indeed, one he’d remember – once he ruled Mercia, with Aethelwulf as his staunch ally.

  Hadn’t that been his advice to Beorhtwulf all along: keep on the right side of Wessex?

  * * *

  Already mustered at Winchester in preparation for moving into Mercia at the beginning of May, Aethelwulf’s army was ready to move out within a day of Burgred’s unexpected arrival. Aethelwulf surveyed the scene beyond the palisade, pleased with the impressive numbers. Over three hundred fighting men, comprising the ealdormen of Hampshire, Dorset, Wiltshire and Berkshire, with over a hundred thegns and two hundred men of the Hampshire fyrd.

  ‘The ceorls will be pleased to see action earlier than expected,’ Osric remarked, coming to stand next to him. ‘They’re desperate to get back to their homes. Spring sowing’s been left to the women and the men fret they’ll be greatly overtaxed. Our system of raising an army from the villages, and only when the need arises, is far from satisfactory. Though most ceorls are fit from working the land, they lack military skills and need training each time: not always possible in an emergency.’

  They watched the men sparring for a while, many wielding shields as they’d been taught. ‘Our present system is inadequate,’ Aethelwulf eventually agreed with his brother-by-marriage. ‘But to maintain a permanent army has never been our custom. We couldn’t force free men to join an army.’

  ‘I’m not sure they’d all need to be forced, Aethelwulf. There must be hundreds of able-bodied ceorls who’d be proud to serve their king, for a regular income, of course.’

  ‘The idea certainly has its possibilities, and is one to be considered at some future stage. But for the present we continue as always, trusting our ealdormen to do their best. Now, I know we needn’t go over our plans again, Osric, and your men know what’s expected. If all goes well you could cover the sixty-odd miles to London in a little over two days, with several hours for rest before you strike.’

  Leaving Osric to supervise the men, Aethelwulf headed for the paddock, needing to be alone with his thoughts. His feisty black stallion, Satan, trotted up to the fence and he caressed the smooth neck, mulling over his carefully laid plans:

  He’d divided his forces into two: Osric, with the other three ealdormen, would lead twenty thegns and almost two hundred of the fyrd, the latter mostly on foot. Amongst them would be Osric’s son, Cynric, a broad-backed young man whose battle skills matched those of the most hardened Wessex warriors. They would leave at dawn tomorrow and head to the Thames, where the waiting Danes guarded their ships. The attack was planned for the shadowy light of pre-dawn, when all but the enemy lookouts would be sleeping. Their orders were simple: spare no lives and fire the cursed ships.

  Aethelwulf himself would lead the pursuit into Surrey, from where further reports confirmed that minor raids on homesteads were all that had occurred – so far. His army would be swelled by whatever numbers Osmund, the Surrey ealdorman, could muster, plus the twenty men of Egric’s patrol, and consist only of mounted warriors: men on foot could not pursue mounted, fast-moving Danes. His second-eldest son would accompany him, the only one of his brood with the dark hair and eyes of his beloved wife, Osburh, and her brother, Osric. Like Cynric, eighteen-year-old Aethelbald had seen nothing of battle yet, but his leadership skills were evident. Aethelbald addressed the men with an easy style and his robust appearance and skilful handling of the fyrd ensured respect. Aethelbald would make an excellent king, provided he controlled the temper and impetuosity that so often resulted in inopportune or inappropriate action.

  Aethelwulf closed his eyes, contemplating the days ahead. ‘I’m all right, boy,’ he murmured as Satan nuzzled his shoulder. ‘Preparing for battle always rouses troubled thoughts. Pray God we all survive.’

  * * *

  The evening meal was a sombre affair, the absence of the king and most of his warriors leaving the Winchester hall in whispered silence. The men left to guard the manor were morose but resigned to follow their orders. Aethelwulf had entrusted them with the safety of those still in residence, and as true Wessex noblemen, they knew their duty. The events at London would not be repeated here.

  April daylight had faded early. Ominous black clouds had scudded across the afternoon sky, bringing a steady downpour which now seemed set for the night. The warm glow from
the firepit and flickering lamps did little to alleviate the anxious mood; even most of the shields from around the walls had gone: yet another reminder of events about to unfold.

  Aethelswith gave up trying to eat and pushed her bowl away. By tomorrow her father could be dead; a thought too terrible to contemplate. And Cynric too; dear, wonderful Cynric, who could make her laugh and fill her with such joy. A feeling of warmth engulfed her whenever she thought of him. She’d heard people speak of ‘love’ and could only guess that it was love she felt for Cynric.

  Catching Edith’s eye she attempted a smile. The ageing nurse’s expression reflected Aethelswith’s own anxiety, and beside her, Aethelwulf’s loyal old groom, Osberht, stared into his pottage as though something slimy had fallen into it. Two of the loveliest people Aethelswith had ever known, who’d long since lost their respective spouses; they had made a wonderful couple since their marriage eighteen months ago.

  ‘I noticed you taking Mother’s meal to her room again, Edith,’ she said, moving to sit opposite them. ‘Worrying about Father will be so hard for her to bear.’ She choked back the tears, held so well in check all afternoon.

  Osberht reached across the table and patted her hand. ‘It’s all right to be upset, my lady. We all feel the same. Just remember, your father’s an experienced leader. He will succeed, and soon be back with you.’

  Aethelswith nodded, meeting the grey eyes that inspired such trust. ‘I’ve never doubted Father’s leadership, Osberht, or his bravery, but battles are battles and men can be lost. And having three of her family out there to worry about will do Mother’s health little good. I’ve offered to take Alfred for a while but she insists he’s happy where he is.’

  ‘Your mother never rests while Alfred’s awake,’ the rotund nurse confirmed with a fond smile. And believe me, he sleeps little. By rights a child of two should be fast asleep by now, but I’ll wager he’ll be extremely active for some time yet – and wake before the songbirds in the morning. Lady Osburh’s been weak since giving birth to young Alfred, if I’m honest, though at times she seems full of energy. Some things fill her with such pleasure, like Alfred cutting a new tooth, or Aethelred’s progress with his Latin. Now it is you, my dear, who fills her mind, and the way you’re blossoming into womanhood. No, don’t you go blushing now, ’tis naught but the truth – as any of the young men of the Court would tell you, if they’d be so bold. Your mother’s keen to see a good marriage arranged for you.’