Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  Seventeen

  Chippenham: late May 853

  The bells of Saint Cuthburga’s church pealed their jubilation for all to hear, proclaiming the marriage of a beloved daughter of Wessex to a most eminent son of Mercia. Noble families from across the two kingdoms had come to bear witness to the union and celebrate with the royal couple at the sumptuous feast that would signify the start of their new life together.

  Aethelswith listened to the bells, knowing she could not have looked more fetching. How could she not, after the hours of preparation she’d endured at the hands of Edith and her own closest friends, her maids of honour? Even her mother, though overly pale and weak, had fussed over her, and Edith had brushed her hair for so long she could feel her scalp tingling. Now she was ready to leave for the church, where her family and guests awaited her arrival.

  And Burgred.

  Aethelswith’s four maids of honour, all unwed daughters of Wessex noblemen and of similar age to herself, perched on stools at the side of the bower, pretending not to watch her. Anxiety must be etched into her face. She gazed at the lovely flowers on the table, knowing that Edith had spent so long arranging them into such an exquisite bouquet. All she had to do now was lift them up . . .

  She bent to inhale their fragrance, the delicate scents causing a multitude of memories to surface. The spring had always filled her with such joy. The emergence of new life, and the blossoming flowers that painted the grey with magical colours, lifted her spirits and made her thank God she was alive. But today, thoughts of new beginnings filled her with dread; today she’d bid farewell to a life in which love and security were certainties, to begin a life with a man she hardly knew.

  The wedding had been arranged so quickly, barely leaving her time to think about it. Burgred had paid the bride price, the terms of their marriage had been agreed and their betrothal announced a few weeks since. All that remained to complete the marriage was the Gift – the ceremony at which she would be given to the bridegroom. And by tomorrow morning the marriage would have been consummated – a thought that filled her with dread – and Burgred would have presented her with the morning gift. Not even the prospect of a generous gift of land and manors, or considerable coin, afforded her consolation. The thought of leaving her parents’ home caused her stomach to lurch and she wrestled the urge to run to her father and beseech, Please don’t make me do this! Let me stay with you in Wessex!

  Edith, too, was watching her. Edith knew; Edith always knew how people felt. As the rotund nurse slipped a comforting arm around her waist, Aethelswith almost collapsed sobbing into her familiar embrace.

  ‘Put on your bravest face today, Lady Aethelswith,’ Edith whispered into her ear with a glance at the waiting maids. ‘I know how you’re feeling; you can’t hide your unhappiness from your old nurse.’

  Edith placed her capable hands on Aethelswith’s shoulders and turned her until their eyes met. ‘Your parents believe you to be truly over Cynric. No, do not confirm or deny that, my lady,’ she continued, raising a finger to Aethelswith’s parting lips. ‘What matters now is that you face your future with dignity and resignation to what must be. Though you do not love King Burgred, let your mind and body at least try to welcome him in. Love may grow, given time.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Your marriage is doomed before it starts if you do not.’

  Aethelswith took a steadying breath. She would never forget Cynric and would rather live her life as a maid than marry another. But, for a king’s daughter to remain unwed was not to be. And Edith had spoken the truth: her future happiness was already jeopardized unless she showed some affection towards Burgred. ‘You know I’ll do my duty to Wessex, Edith,’ she whispered, attempting a smile. ‘That Father believes Burgred will provide me with a secure home cannot be questioned. But . . .’ she paused, gnawing her bottom lip, ‘I wonder whether he’s allowed the opportunity of establishing this alliance to cloud his judgement.

  ‘Oh Edith, I don’t even know whether I like Burgred, let alone love him!’ She stifled a half-formed sob, feeling ashamed of wallowing in self-pity. ‘And Alfred – what is to be made of my little brother’s behaviour?’

  ‘He’s but a small child, my lady, and does not take well to strangers. And no doubt he frets that Burgred will take you from him.’

  Aethelswith shook her head. ‘That he’ll miss me may well be – and God alone knows how much I’ll miss him – but it’s more than that. You know full well that Alfred’s never been shy of strangers; he sees enough of them, after all. Yet he took an instant dislike to Burgred, refusing to respond to any attempts at establishing friendship. And it’s disconcerting the way he stares into Burged’s eyes, as though he’s boring into his very soul.’ Aethelswith shuddered, but did not pursue the point. ‘But your advice, as always, is sound, Edith. I’ll not let you all down. Am I not a daughter of Wessex?’

  ‘That you are, my lady, and I applaud your courage. I’d give you such a big hug if not for fear of crushing your lovely gown. Now, I believe you are ready.’

  Aethelswith could delay no longer. She scooped up the beautiful flowers and her maids fell into pairs to lead her from the bower. And with a fine, military escort of six of Aethelwulf’s finest warriors and the joyful tolling of bells, the bridal party walked sedately towards the church.

  The sight of the pretty church always had a deeply calming effect on Aethelswith and she gazed lovingly at it as she approached, remembering the many times she’d joined her family at worship inside its solid walls. Built almost two hundred years ago during one of the few periods when Saxons and Mercians were not contesting ownership of the region, it had originally been a wooden structure, rebuilt years later in blocks of the creamy stone quarried not too far away. The western side comprised the sturdy, squat tower, and in the centre was the nave. The chancel harbouring the sanctuary and altar formed the eastern side, where Father Godwine would be now, praying for the welfare of the couple about to be wed.

  The guests crowding around the porticus parted and Aethelswith envisaged the packed scene that would greet her inside. This should be the happiest day of her life, but the words of that old rhyme refused to budge from inside her head:

  Marry in the month of May and live to rue the day.

  Gritting her teeth, she walked through the church door for the last time as an unmarried woman.

  * * *

  Surrounded by guests in their finest apparel, Aethelwulf waited in the high-ceilinged nave for the ceremony to begin. He gazed proudly at his beautiful daughter who had taken her place in the centre of the guests, her head modestly downcast, rendering it impossible for him to see her face, the emotions emanating from her clear, blue eyes. Circling her golden hair was a garland of intertwined green foliage interspersed with vibrant spring flowers. Her long-sleeved underdress of pale-blue linen adorned her slender figure down to her ankles, complemented by the darker cerulean of her calf-length overdress of heavier weave, the sleeves of which flared at the elbows to reveal a silken lining of still deeper blue. A multihued, tablet-woven trim decorated the scooped necklines and lower hems of both garments, matching the belt wrapped twice around her waist, knotted loosely at the front to leave the long ends hanging free. In her arms she held a glorious arrangement of colourful May blossoms. Aethelswith did not need bright jewels to look truly radiant.

  Beside her Burgred stood erect, his richly ornamented attire indicative of his status. His dark green tunic was shaped by a black leather belt studded with rubies that matched the crimson wool of his cloak, the cloak itself lined with emerald green silk and held at his right shoulder by a brooch of elaborate gold strands. His golden crown displayed a solitary large ruby at that front. Aethelwulf felt the sudden need to adjust his own splendid crown. Although his attire was rich and well adorned, he felt quite drab compared to this bright Mercian peacock. But of more importance, for all his sparkle, Burgred did not outshine Aethelwulf’s lovely daughter.<
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  Burgred, the man to whom Aethelwulf would entrust the welfare and happiness of his beloved child, was still an enigma to him. He prayed daily that his doubts were unfounded; that Aethelswith would find happiness with this man, and her new status as Queen of Mercia. But, Aethelwulf had no doubt that forming a marriage alliance between Wessex and Mercia was an invaluable move.

  At Aethelwulf’s side, Osburh strove to appear well and hearty, but her gaunt frame could not be disguised. Her pale green overdress hung far too loosely from her shoulders, and beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. The effort of standing for so long was taking its toll, but she masked her occasional lurch into his side with a squeeze of his arm and murmured praises of their daughter and her husband to be.

  Behind them, all but the youngest of their sons displayed joviality on their sister’s special day, at ease amongst the many notable guests. Aethelbald, the eldest since Aethelstan’s death two years ago, acknowledged his father’s attention with a smile, his dark beard and thick-set features lending him a handsome ruggedness. Aethelberht, too, grinned cheerfully, his gaudy apparel and ornamentation compensating for his wispy fair hair and sparse beard. Thirteen-year-old Aethelred’s dark blond hair flicked about his face as his head turned this way and that to find some spectacle to provide amusement.

  Only Alfred did not smile.

  Tiny at Aethelbald’s side and held firmly in his place by his tall brother’s restraining hand, Alfred glared at the Mercian king. Aethelwulf frowned. Was the boy’s behaviour simply a reaction to the thought of losing his sister, or something else? Could Alfred see something in Burgred that so eluded himself?

  Guests murmured to each other as they waited for the priest to appear and indicate the need for silence. Eventually the clear tones of the choirboys drifted from the chancel, filling the nave with an air of beauty and solemnity. Father Godwine glided towards the bridal couple, his flowing robes sweeping the rushes of the earthen floor, his hands steepled, his head reverently bowed. Then, peering at the congregation until not a sound could be heard, he ushered the couple to the church doorway to make the customary vows.

  Burgred took Aethelswith’s left hand in his own and placed the gold wedding band on her fourth finger. Gazing into her eyes he made his vows, his voice clear and unfaltering: ‘I, Burgred of Mercia, do take you, Aethelswith of Wessex as my wife. I will love you with my heart and protect you from harm. Never will you want for household comforts, nor feel the pangs of hunger. In the eyes of God, you will be my queen and mother of my children, and be recognized as such by our Mercian people.’

  Aethelswith twisted the unfamiliar ring on her finger and glanced anxiously round the nave until her attention settled on Aethelwulf. The maelstrom of emotions raging in her eyes struck him like a surging tide: loss and desperation eddied with panic and fear; she was a sinking ship, abandoned by those she loved most. Aethelwulf was engulfed by an intense sense of guilt. If only he’d paid heed to his qualms, looked deeper into the character of the man he was giving his precious daughter to, allowed more time for the betrothal . . .

  Aethelswith’s eyes momentarily closed and the calm waters of resignation returned. She turned and flashed a smile at Burgred, her eyes locked again with his and she made her vows, her dulcet tones carrying to the whole congregation: ‘I, Aethelswith of Wessex, do promise to serve you, Burgred of Mercia. I shall be a loyal and caring wife, ensuring that your domestic comforts are met wherever the Mercian court may journey. Never shall I cause harm, or bring dishonour to your family. I will be a loving mother to our children, if we are so blessed.’

  Aethelswith’s cheeks burned red and Burgred embarrassed her still further by grinning in amusement. Father Godwine blessed the ring, his mellow tones reverberating around the nave, and as Burgred enfolded Aethelswith in his arms for the marriage kiss, the choir once again lifted its voice in song. The couple then walked into the warmth of the May sunshine as man and wife.

  * * *

  Alfred wove unnoticed through the forest of legs outside the church, heading towards his sleeping chamber where he could be alone for a while before hunger drove him to seek out Edith. He’d left the church with his father’s permission and to Aethelbald’s obvious relief, with instructions to go straight to either Edith or Nelda. His father had reluctantly agreed that Alfred would be better with his nurses than scowling throughout the wedding breakfast.

  Alfred had not meant to scowl, had not wanted to spoil his sister’s day. But his mind was in turmoil. The Mercian king was virtually a stranger to him, yet his thoughts were full of bad things about the man. That Burgred was taking his sister far away from him was enough to earn Alfred’s dislike, but these upsetting thoughts caused him to detest the man.

  Alfred found it all too perplexing. He entered his room, hoping that none of the servants would disturb him. He had much to contemplate.

  Eighteen

  Wilton, Wiltshire: late April 854

  Aethelwulf rose with some difficulty, wincing as pains shot through his creaking knees, and rolled his shoulders, attempting to bring his muscles back to life. He was cold and stiff, but the calming effect of prayer had served its purpose: his mind had been freed to function with greater clarity, see solutions to problems which before had seemed insurmountable. He left the solemnity of the wood-planked church, now certain his decision was the right one.

  Wishing to extend his solitude, he strode towards the river, watching the raindrops of an April shower dancing on its silvery surface. Along the banks, alders and willows were coming into leaf, their catkins still prominent on their branches. Nesting birds flew to and fro. He drank in the morning air, mulling over the issues to be presented at the Assembly. He jerked his cloak more closely round his shoulders, not wishing to address his nobles in a saturated tunic, and adjusted his simple crown, ensuring the small emerald was at the front.

  ‘It is a most peaceful view, is it not, my lord?’

  Deep in thought Aethelwulf had not heard anyone approaching. ‘Indeed it is, Theomund,’ he replied, noting that the quiet young Wiltshire reeve had taken special care with his attire for the coming meeting, his brown hair well groomed, moustache and beard neatly trimmed. ‘The sound of running water has such a soothing effect, allowing the mind to concentrate on perplexing issues.’

  A proud smile lit the reeve’s face. ‘It does, my lord, and the Wylye is also of great value to our manor. Trout and grayling are plentiful, salmon favour its waters for breeding, and we have eel traps a little downstream. If you stand here long enough, you’ll likely see an otter or two, mayhap with their cubs at this time of year . . .’ His cheeks suddenly flushed. ‘I pray my boastfulness does not offend you, my lord.’

  Aethelwulf patted his rapidly dampening hair and smiled at the anxious face. ‘Not at all, Theomund; it’s good to hear a man praising his own home. The Wylye is a delightful river and Wilton is one of my favourite manors. My wife is very fond of it, too. Your hospitality and generous table do you credit.’

  ‘Well, speaking of food, my lord, the servants are ready to serve the morning meal. The guests are assembled and Lady Osburh has joined your sons at table.’

  They strolled amicably back to the hall, the April shower already diminishing. ‘It’s a pleasure to see Lady Osburh looking so much improved,’ Theomund remarked. ‘She seems greatly relieved to see Alfred safely home, and happy to have celebrated Eastertide with most of her family.’

  Aethelwulf nodded. ‘The Easter services did Father Eldwyn proud, Theomund, considering the attendance of so many eminent members of the kingdom’s clergy. Although the rebuilding of the church in stone is sorely needed,’ he added with a raised eyebrow. ‘Later this year, perhaps?’

  ‘We anticipate the arrival of the stonemasons in June, my lord.’

  ‘That is good news.’

  They halted as Aethelwulf silently appraised the dilapidated condition of the old w
ooden church. ‘We need to rebuild all our churches in stone,’ he declared, punching his palm to stress his point. ‘We’ve only to see how all those Roman structures have survived the ravages of time, some of them for well over five hundred years. Whereas our own . . . No matter how sturdy the timber, wooden buildings are susceptible to rot, not to mention fire.

  ‘And you’re right about Lady Osburh,’ Aethelwulf acknowledged Theomund’s previous observation as they reached the hall. ‘She’s never happier than when amidst her brood. Alfred’s absence has been a great trial for her, and Aethelstan’s death three years ago did her health no favours. Now it’s Aethelswith she frets about. Our daughter is seven months with child and Osburh constantly whittles over whether her new nurses are taking adequate care of her. If Edith were a few years younger, I do believe my wife would send her off to Burgred’s Court!

  ‘Now, let’s enjoy our meal,’ he said, as Theomund held open the hall’s heavy oak door for him to enter. ‘We’ll not see daylight again until this meeting’s over.’

  * * *

  From the centre of the raised dais Aethelwulf surveyed the gathering of some of the elite of Wessex, the hum of conversation filling the hall with expectancy and speculation. Most of the tables had been stacked away and nobles were seated along benches set in an open-ended rectangle around the firepit, all traces of April chill banished by the orange flames that crackled and spat as they devoured the hefty logs.

  The reason for this gathering was ostensibly twofold, although Aethelwulf also intended to conduct further business, linked to a decision he’d made which would surprise some important people, perhaps anger others. The first reason – simply to attend the Easter services and honour the significance of Christ’s Passion – had passed with the reverence the occasion merited. Now, two days later, it was time to attend to the second reason.

  Alfred had recently arrived home.