by Millie Thom
For some moments he stared at his long legs stretched out before him, deep in thought. ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he said, eventually, ‘and it’s not just some spur-of-the-moment idea. I’ve been considering this for some time, so here’s the thing: from now on you’ll belong to me. It may not be the freedom you so desire, but perhaps it’s marginally better than belonging to Aslanga. At least my brothers won’t have the opportunity to attempt another attack on you.’
Eadwulf said a quick prayer of thanks to whichever god was listening – until an ugly black cloud rained on his burgeoning joy. ‘Master, I fear Aslanga would never allow it.’
‘Aslanga will have no option but to agree when I threaten to tell Father the truth of her sons’ actions today. She’ll agree to anything to keep them in Ragnar’s favour. I’ll offer her Benita and Rico in exchange. So what do you say, Eadwulf?’
‘I’ll make you a good thrall and always do your bidding. I’ll keep your tunics and boots clean, and polish your sword every day . . .
‘Then you can start by carrying my bow,’ Bjorn said, chuckling at Eadwulf’s exuberance. ‘Remember, we’ll still live under the same roof as my brothers, but as you’ll be my thrall they wouldn’t dare attempt to harm you.’
‘What about when you go away on raids?’ Eadwulf asked, jogging to keep up with him.
‘I’ve thought about that, too. Next month I sail for the northern lands. Life aboard ship is truly exhilarating, Eadwulf, with the wind in your hair and the sun on your face.’ He fixed Eadwulf with a steady gaze, before his features creased into a grin. ‘But you’ll soon see as much for yourself . . .
‘If your eyebrows rise any higher, they’ll leave your face altogether! I know this is a great surprise, but you’ll soon get used to the idea. And by Thor’s bollocks, I guarantee you’ll soon love the sea as much as the rest of us. You’ll still be a thrall, but not unduly overworked. No crewman can sit idly on his buttocks for long.’
As they neared the village Eadwulf tried to make sense of his jumbled thoughts, relationships that had once seemed simple. ‘Freydis does not hate you as do your brothers, does she, Master? Nor does Freydis seem to hate me,’ he added, his cheeks burning on recollection of the doe-eyed glances.
‘True on both counts,’ Bjorn agreed.
‘And Freydis doesn’t seem very close to her mother, nor does Aslanga display any great affection for Freydis–’
‘So what does that suggest to you?’
An idea was germinating in Eadwulf’s head, which he strove to nurture. As they entered the hall, harvest time suddenly arrived. ‘I think Freydis is not only your half-sister, but that Aslanga is not her mother either.’
Bjorn grinned and Eadwulf propped the bow against the wall. Sigehelm glanced up from his usual corner, concern draining from his face. Ragnar acknowledged his son’s arrival with a mere nod as he ate, seemingly ignorant of the chase across the heath. Thora’s face lit up at the sight of them and she dropped the ladle into the stew, hastening towards them with her arms wide. But Ragnar loomed before her, pulling her to him, squeezing her buttocks and whispering something that made her giggle.
‘It seems Ragnar’s grown tired of Aslanga’s bony frame and razor-sharp tongue,’ Bjorn murmured. ‘It’s been years since he bedded his concubine.’
Discovering that Thora was Ragnar’s concubine was somehow not much of a surprise to Eadwulf: Thora had almost told him as much herself. But his next thought caught him totally unawares. ‘You must think me quite simple for not realising that Thora is Freydis’s mother.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe you to be simple, Eadwulf,’ Bjorn smirked, sitting at a table. I knew you’d catch on eventually; the likeness between them is quite uncanny. And Freydis has Thora’s knack with plants and herbs, and squirmy things that live in the soil!’
Eadwulf’s mind was racing. ‘Master, who was it told you about . . . this morning?’
‘It was Thora who roused me from my comfortable slumbers with Ingrid,’ Bjorn replied, straight-faced. ‘And you’ve Freydis to thank for alerting Thora. She saw Halfdan waking you and followed you out; saw and heard everything from behind the byre. It was a plucky thing to do,’ he said, his smile revealing his fondness for his sister, ‘considering the hound could have easily given her away. But I suppose the beast would have been focused on you at the time. Perhaps you should thank Freydis yourself.’
‘How could I not? I owe her so much.’
‘A bowl of that stew is needed for both of us, if you’d fetch it, Eadwulf. Thora’s unlikely to disentangle herself for some time.’
Eadwulf ladled out the meaty stew, wondering what lies Aslanga’s evil sons were presently telling her and his heartbeat quickened.
But he glanced at Bjorn and knew that everything would be all right.
Sixteen
Wessex: mid-March 853
A strong south-westerly picked up as the day progressed, pummelling the troop of thirty-strong Mercians and making the already arduous journey even more uncomfortable. Horses, too, were tiring; they’d been pushed hard today, and by mid-afternoon on the second day of travel, Burgred’s patience was wearing thin.
‘Damnable Welsh,’ he muttered under his breath. If not for them he’d have had no cause to leave Shrewsbury and go grovelling to that old goat Aethelwulf again. But Mercian forces alone had little hope of defeating the cursed Welsh. He glowered at the churning black clouds that threatened to burst at any moment. But, rain or no rain, he’d not be stopping before he reached the Wessex Court.
‘We’ll be soaked before we even make sight of Chippenham, my lord.’ The young thegn waited for Burgred’s response, but when none ensued he ventured, ‘There’s a small village through those trees over there. Perhaps we could take shelter until the rain passes.’
‘But it may not pass over today, Godric, and we haven’t the time to waste. Do you think the Welsh will wait patiently for our return before they wreak further havoc in Mercia?’
Chastened, Godric held his tongue and drew back his horse.
Burgred loathed the wind. Rain he could cope with – but wind seemed to penetrate to his very core, exposing the enormity of his sins. His own self-loathing constantly festered and only throwing himself into his duties as king could prevent the sickness from utterly destroying him. Vivid nightmares refused to sanction peaceful sleep. Morwenna’s appalled expression on realising he’d betrayed them – the people who loved him most – hovered before him in his dream state, causing him to weep afresh. And the contempt in her eyes bored into the very depths of his being. But worst of all, the nightmares invariably ended with Beorhtwulf’s damning proclamation: ‘You’ll burn in the fires of hell for all eternity!’
He urged his sorrel into a canter. By his own reckoning they had another three hours in the saddle before they reached Aethelwulf’s Court. But dead horses would be of little use and they’d soon need to slow to a trot and eventually, a slower walk.
He cursed again as the first cold raindrops spattered his face.
* * *
The arrival of the Mercians at Chippenham took the West Saxons by surprise. The blanket of low cloud had brought an early dusk and servants scuttled about the hall in the light of oil lamps, piqued that extra food would now need preparing. Aethelwulf received the message of Burgred’s arrival with unaccustomed irritation as he sat with his wife in their bedchamber. Osburh had not risen today.
‘Guests are the last thing we need whilst you’re so unwell,’ he said with a sigh, noting how cold she felt as he took her hand, and how bruised the skin beneath her eyes. His wife had been ill for so long, though his physicians declared there to be no real sickness to treat. Osburh was simply ageing and needed rest. Aethelwulf had no reason to doubt their wisdom: there were few signs of her once lustrous dark hair amidst the grey. In truth, Osburh had been weak since the birth of Alfred over three years since.
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Osburh squeezed his hand, a sensation he’d always found comforting. ‘I’ll call Edith to help me dress,’ she said. ‘I cannot greet our guests in my night-gown. We must show them Saxon hospitality–’
‘There’s no need for you to put further strain on yourself,’ Aethelwulf said, staying her hand as she made to push back the furs. ‘I want you well again, and the only way you can regain your strength is by resting. I’ll see that Edith attends you here and your meal will be brought to you when it’s ready.’ He embraced his wife, dismayed at the feel of her emaciated frame. ‘And Edith will tell me if you don’t eat it. And I mean all of it!’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Osburh replied with a feeble laugh. ‘I shall eat every morsel.’
‘And don’t think to feed any to the dogs,’ he ordered, grinning as he wagged a finger at her, responding to her light-hearted mood: he’d rarely heard his wife’s laughter of late. ‘As to our guests, Aethelswith can organise the meal tonight. She must prepare for the day she’ll be running her own household. It’s time she stopped pining over Cynric and moved on.’
Osburh nodded, though her eyes reflected deep concern. ‘Be gentle with her, Aethelwulf. Our daughter felt Cynric’s loss more deeply than you could know. But I believe she’s finally accepted the need to wed another.’
‘Then I’ll keep my eyes open on that score. But now, I imagine our guests will be in dire need of refreshment. I can only assume Burgred’s visit is of some importance for him to have continued on the road in this weather.
‘And don’t let young Alfred disturb you tonight,’ he said, turning as he reached the door. ‘You can’t rest if he’s jumping all over you. One of the young nurses can stay with him while Edith’s here with you. Nelda perhaps? I know what you’re thinking,’ he added at his wife’s sceptical grin. ‘I, too, hope she can cope.’
* * *
Burgred and his retinue traipsed into the West Saxon hall, their long faces displaying their fatigue and discomfort in dripping wet clothes. Grooms had led their horses to be stabled and a servant hurried off to inform Aethelwulf of their arrival. Relieved of their sodden cloaks, they were invited to sit round the hearth and slake their thirsts with the welcoming ale.
Sitting so close to the roasting food was torment to Burgred’s empty stomach and his nostrils flared unashamedly. But he basked in the blessed warmth and savoured the quenching ale as he watched the steam rise from his trouser legs. Wondering when Aethelwulf would show himself, he glanced about him. The long hall, with the rafters of its straw-thatched roof high above, was little different to most of Burgred’s own in Mercia, its walls adorned with tapestries, shields and swords. The few shuttered windows were closed, the room lighted by the blazing fire and numerous oil lamps, and the rushes covering the floor were clean and sweet-smelling. Tables had already been erected and Burgred smiled, visualising himself seated at Aethelwulf’s side. Desperately in need of Wessex aid, he’d swallow his pride and admit to Mercia’s inability to deal with the Welsh alone, stress the need for unity between their kingdoms during these turbulent times.
Servants lifted hares and game birds from around the hearth, piling them onto the waiting platters. Though no spitted boar was offered – Burgred’s arrival had been too late to forewarn the cooks – meat seemed plentiful. Trays of round loaves were carried in from the kitchens and, at the side of the hall, a table was being laden with cheeses and fruits; ale casks rolled into place beside it.
The woman ordering the servants had her back to Burgred, but he noted that her pale yellow overdress, finely embroidered with gold thread, was that of a noblewoman. Her hair hung down her back, as was customary for unmarried women, its hue almost matching that of her dress. As she turned, Burgred was transfixed by her beauty, and how her flawless skin, surrounded by its cascade of gold, glowed in the firelight. Aethelswith – yes, that was her name – Aethelwulf’s only daughter. Burgred felt a rush of pleasure as he caught her eye and she smiled. Not the shy smile of two years ago but that of a self-assured young woman of perhaps fifteen or sixteen.
‘My lord,’ Aethelswith said, offering her hand as she came to greet him, flashing a smile so bright Burgred felt that sunrise had arrived many hours prematurely. ‘I trust you’ve been made comfortable and provided with adequate refreshment? It is a wicked day for travel and the hour is late; you must be weary to the bone and quite ravenous. I can see from your persons you are saturated through.’ She laughed, looking pointedly at Burgred’s steaming legs before gesturing to the hooks around the walls. ‘Your cloaks will dry overnight in here – but we must hope that none of you catch a chill.’
Burgred relished the touch of her smooth, slender hand and could hardly take his eyes from her face as he thanked her for her kind welcome. Rarely had he seen such natural beauty, which shone brighter than a thousand sparkling gems.
‘Our meal will be served as soon as Father joins us,’ Aethelswith assured him, her bright eyes suddenly clouding. ‘He sits with Mother for hours these days. She has suffered ill health for so long, and is in our prayers constantly . . . Forgive me, my lord,’ she said, her cheeks flushing. ‘I should not burden you with our worries. I simply intended to inform you that Mother will not be joining us in the hall; she takes many of her meals in her chamber.’
She flashed another dazzling smile. ‘I shall oversee the serving of the meal tonight. But now, I must leave you to enjoy your ale. I hope Father can assist you in whatever the purpose of your visit may be.’
* * *
Aethelwulf savoured his meal amidst his guests, seated between the Mercian king and two of his sons. As the meal started, Aethelwulf had sensed guardedness in Aethelbald and Aethelberht, as in his thegns, so it was with some relief that he felt their mood lightening as the meal progressed. The Mercians, too, had cheered in the warmth of the hall and their wariness appeared to be abating. Such reserve was understandable: it was not so many years since Wessex and Mercia had been the most bitter of enemies.
The Mercian king ate heartily, as expected after such a gruelling journey. That his gaze constantly followed Aethelswith did not escape Aethelwulf’s notice either: few men could ignore such beauty. But eventually, his belly full and mead warming his blood, Burgred raised the issues foremost on his mind.
‘I come on no mere whim, my lord.’ he began, passing the mead horn along and laying his hands on the table before him. ‘I would not so abuse the alliance made between us before the death of my brother. But the Welsh grow stronger with the years. Rhodri Mawr inspires unity between their kingdoms, and in that unity they find strength. So far we’ve been able to hold them back, though their constant raids along our borders take heavy toll on the morale of my warriors and our people, and drain our resources. I come to you as a last resort, my lord, for I know that Wessex is sorely taxed by Danish raids along her shores.’
At Aethelwulf’s slow nod, Burged continued, ‘Yet I know that Wessex is strong and – as Mercia’s true ally – you will consider our plea for aid, knowing the value of demonstrating our unity to all would-be marauders. I merely pray that the timing is right and Wessex can presently provide a strong force to add to our own. I believe the great increase in our numbers, and the knowledge that our alliance is strong, will make Rhodri Mawr think carefully about his designs on our lands.’
Aethelwulf tried to read the character of this man. Those green eyes seemed sincere; certainly more so than on the previous occasion they’d met, when he’d found it difficult not to compare the man to his upright brother. But, kingship can make a man overcome selfish desires. Perhaps Burgred had grown in spirit as his ability to lead had developed. Aethelwulf firmly believed that the Danes could only be overcome by the unification of Saxon and Angle peoples. And now it seemed a joint offensive was needed to counter the Welsh . . .
By the end of the meal, orders were issued to be dispatched to Aethelwulf’s ealdormen. Without delay, armies would be mustered throughou
t Wessex. Burgred would return to Mercia to do likewise, and by the end of March all must be ready.
* * *
The fighting was fierce, often deep into Welsh territory, where the mountainous and heavily forested terrain favoured Welsh tactics of surprise attack and ambush. Their ingenuity impressed Aethelwulf, who had fought many battles in his time, most of them on open ground, with strategies well planned, armies well ordered and positioned. Against the Welsh, strategies were meaningless. Aethelwulf’s respect for Rhodri Mawr rose immeasurably. The Welsh were making full use of their own mountainous terrain. And why not? Aethelwulf would have done the same, had his kingdom been thus endowed.
No one could anticipate the next move of the Welsh. They were an almost invisible foe, the surveillance of unseen eyes a source of constant discomfort as they rode. Aethelwulf’s men were ill at ease in unfamiliar territory, facing an enemy whose unorthodox tactics left them feeling much too vulnerable. No one knew where the bastards were until ungodly shrieks rang out from behind some rocky outcrop or forested slope. Many a night-time raid resulted in loss of Saxon lives, horses, and provisions.
But on open ground the Welsh were no match for the well ordered forces of Saxons and Mercians, nor were the Welsh prepared for the vast array of men that faced them. By mid-April the Welsh had retreated into the mountains, though undoubtedly that was a temporary measure. But Aethelwulf felt the offensive had served its purpose: the Welsh had suffered immeasurable losses and would take some time to recover. And Rhodri Mawr was now aware of Saxon and Mercian unity.
Two weeks after Aethelwulf’s return to Chippenham, Burgred arrived with his retinue. Although Aethelwulf had been aware of the intended visit – Burgred had previously asked permission to do so – he had not known its exact purpose, supposing it to be simply a sign of the growing unity between the two kingdoms. Yet he found he was not too greatly surprised by Burgred’s proposal regarding how that unity could be even further fortified.
