Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  Safe and well after almost a year of travelling across the continent to Rome, and conversing with the pontiff himself, Alfred, who had reached his fifth birthday on the journey home, was bursting with news. Unsettling tales had circulated of events that had supposedly occurred in Rome – and the magnates of Wessex required verification of those tales, and the implications they carried for Wessex.

  At Aethelwulf’s sides, his four sons remained silent. Suitably garbed in fine quality tunics, they were a sight to make their father proud. To his right, the two eldest nodded affably to anyone who caught their eye. At twenty and nineteen repectively, Aethelbald and Aethelberht were well aware of courtly procedure. Glancing to his left, Aethelwulf noted Alfred’s calm appraisal of the gathering, unlike fourteen-year-old Aethelred, who’d already begun to shuffle. At Aethelred’s far side, Osric whispered a friendly word of warning in his nephew’s ear.

  Aethelwulf nodded thanks to his brother-by-marriage. Though his hair was now liberally streaked with grey, Osric was still a handsome man. It had taken him a long time to get over the loss of his only son, though he’d held no one responsible for Cynric’s death, accepting that a warrior’s life was one of daily risks.

  Also on the dais, Bishops Swithun and Ealhstan waited sedately next to Aethelberht, both attired in simpler garments than the elaborate vestments displayed during the Easter services. The frail Swithun, once Aethelwulf’s mentor and spiritual advisor and now Bishop of Winchester, little resembled the robust man whose boundless energy had once inspired so many. He wore his usual white alb with a simple cross around his neck and a white cap covering what remained of his iron-grey hair. In sharp contrast, Bishop Ealhstan of Sherborne, Swithun’s contemporary in years, had borne the passage of time with greater success, the slight salting of his dark hair only apparent at close quarters. His physique was still strong and well-muscled; Ealhstan had always been more warrior than cleric. He’d fought several battles against the Norsemen over the years and led Egbert’s army alongside Aethelwulf to conquer Kent twenty-five years ago. In a crimson tunic, the only indication of Ealhstan’s holy office was a ruby-studded cross around his neck and the faintest suggestion of a tonsure in his collar-length hair.

  Content that all were ready to begin, Aethelwulf glanced at his scribe perched at a side table. Father Felix signalled his readiness to record the events of the meeting and Aethelwulf cleared his throat.

  He welcomed the assembled, paying compliments to Theomund’s hospitality and Father Eldwyn’s Easter services before drawing attention to the sun-kissed boy at his side. ‘I realise that some amongst you fail to see the sense in sending a young child on such a journey,’ he admitted. ‘But I tell you, my decision to do so was not made lightly. We live in perilous times. The Danes attack our shores with increasing frequency, only last year over-wintering again on Thanet. Moreover, last year our armies were called upon to assist Mercia against the Welsh. You will realise, therefore, why I was reluctant to lose my eldest sons at that time.

  ‘You may ask why I should send anyone at all to Rome. Our learned clerics will doubtless understand my reasons,’ he added, gesturing to the two bishops. ‘I am convinced that the raids are God’s punishment of us.’ He noted many sceptical expressions, and several amused ones, as he’d expected: few men were as committed to their faith as he. ‘Our halls have too often become places of degenerate conduct; excessive intake of mead can lead the best of warriors away from God. I fear the only person who can help us now is Pope Leo. Having received Alfred, I believe he will add his voice to our own in seeking God’s forgiveness.’

  One or two men cleared their throats as though to comment, but nothing ensued. ‘I’m aware you are all eager to question my young son about his experiences,’ Aethelwulf went on, ‘but I urge you to remember that he is just that: young. However, I feel sure that Alfred will answer your questions with a dexterity that may seem unusual at such a tender age. If need be, I will assist with answers to any questions too complex for him to comprehend. But other than such instances, I shall leave Alfred to reply to your queries.’

  Aethelwulf seated himself, patting Alfred’s arm as he rose to his feet.

  ‘Well, young man,’ Swithun started, focusing kindly nut-brown eyes on Alfred. ‘You are truly fortunate to have been able to undertake such a remarkable journey.’ He held out his bony hands. ‘Tell us what you found the most interesting about it.’

  Alfred’s amber eyes widened. ‘I enjoyed every part of it, my lord, even the journeys there and back! And King Charles gave us a huge army to guard us through his land. The soldiers were very friendly, and told me riddles that made me laugh. We went through really dark forests, but I wasn’t scared because our men kept a lookout for bears and wolves – and even robbers. And the Alps have snow on top of them, even in the summer.

  ‘But what I liked best of all was the city of Rome.’

  ‘Then pray tell us what was so intriguing about it.’

  Alfred faced the scowling Bishop Ealhstan, his owl-bright eyes narrowing. ‘I was just going to tell everyone about the wonderful things in Rome, my lord.’

  Ealhstan shuffled, breaking eye contact, and Alfred’s attentions shifted to those seated below the dais. ‘The city is such a busy place,’ he said, his high spirits returning. ‘There are people everywhere . . . and lots of stalls along the streets–’

  ‘Can you remember, Alfred, whether the buildings are made of wood, like our own, or stone?’ Swithun asked before Ealhstan regained sufficient composure to voice a question that seemed to be gnawing at him.

  Alfred’s small brow creased in thought. ‘Most of the houses are made of stone, I think. Some are so old they’re falling down! And some of their roads are made of cob . . . cobblestones.’ He glanced at Aethelwulf, who nodded to assure him he’d used the right word. ‘I saw lots of big churches which are always full of people, and,’ he added, his eyes opening wide, ‘most of them have really interesting relics. Some are so old I couldn’t tell what they were.’

  Bishop Ealhstan coughed, patently intending to stop Alfred’s ramblings. ‘Tell us, Alfred, when you were confirmed by His Holiness, what exactly did he say to you?’

  Aethelwulf examined his hands, knowing that the answer to that question would need to be phrased extremely tactfully. But he’d declared he would not interrupt unless so asked. And Alfred didn’t ask; he simply answered the question in his usual direct and honest manner:

  ‘Well, Pope Leo said I was his son, so I would now have two fathers! Then he said some strange words about wearing the vestments of the con . . . consulate.’ His nose wrinkled at that idea, and he gave a small shrug as he gazed round at the rapt faces.

  ‘Then he put some funny-smelling oils on me and made me king.’

  The communal intake of breath was followed by silence. That single snippet of information was what had kept Wessex nobility speculating for days. All eyes focused on Aethelwulf in anticipation of explanation, but Ealhstan voiced his questions first. ‘Just what do you think His Eminence meant by that, Alfred? You are not king, are you?’

  ‘No, I am not king now, my lord. But I know I shall be when I’m a man.’

  ‘Then you’ll probably need to live to be a hundred or more,’ Ealhstan sneered. ‘Look to your sides, Alfred. Your father is still king of Wessex, and after him, Aethelbald, Aethelberht and Aethelred will each take the throne before you. And should King Aethelwulf, and then Aethelbald, live good, long lives, even Aethelberht may never become king. So why–’

  ‘My Lord Bishop!’ Aethelwulf barked, launching himself to his feet. I particularly requested that you show consideration of my son’s age!’

  Ealhstan bristled at the reprimand and opened his mouth to protest. But Aethelwulf cut him short. ‘Is it not perceivable that a child of merely four years should feel overawed, and more than a little confused, amidst such pomp – and in the presence of so holy a man as the pope? Al
fred has clearly confused the meaning of consulship with that of kingship.’ He held out his hands and feigned amusement. ‘How many here could say they fully understand the place of a consul in the society of bygone Rome?’ Pleased to see many shaking heads he continued, ‘Then how much less would a young boy comprehend the meaning of being anointed to the consulship? The phrase refers to an outdated ceremony, intended only to show respect to the person on whom the honour is bestowed.’

  Aethelwulf ignored Alfred’s indignant scowl, knowing full well that the child had recalled the pope’s words quite accurately. But to stress his point and quell subsequent unrest, he could not afford further contributions from his son.

  ‘I have received written confirmation from His Holiness regarding Alfred’s reception in Rome,’ Aethelwulf stated. ‘As a royal son of Wessex, Alfred enjoyed a generous welcome in the Eternal City, and I have no doubt that his education in both spiritual and secular matters has benefited from the experience. Regarding Alfred’s confirmation, Pope Leo describes the ceremony as I have already done; it is customary to garb eminent visitors in the vestments of the consulate.’

  Carefully, he unfolded a piece of vellum and held it up. ‘This missive will be made available to anyone who wishes to read it. But I ask that it is treated with respect: it is precious not only to me, but to Wessex. It explains that Alfred was received by Pope Leo as a spiritual son, which means that, from henceforth, not only will the pontiff take particular interest in Alfred’s welfare, but Wessex will be recognised as a Christian kingdom, devoted to the Holy See, as are our Frankish neighbours across the Northern Sea.’

  There seemed little left to say regarding Alfred’s visit to Rome and no questions were forthcoming. Even Ealhstan appeared satisfied that a child had not come home as king. Only Alfred seemed somewhat put out. But there were more important issues on Aethelwulf’s agenda than a child’s recollections of Rome. And flattery seemed to be the best way to introduce them.

  ‘Around this hall, I see some of my loyal followers,’ he started. ‘Still others have been unable to attend this gathering. No matter; they have not been forgotten. My gratitude will extend to all who have served our kingdom well for many years.’

  Wessex notables were used to gift-giving by their kings – grants of land being the usual way of rewarding faithful service – and faces told of hopes for generous acquisitions.

  ‘It is my wish to honour some of you with gifts of bookland,’ he explained. ‘I intend to issue a general privilege of one tenth of royal demesne to the Church. From henceforth this tithe will be freed from all monetary obligations to the Crown: food rents, for example will cease. Naturally some responsibilities will remain the same, including military service, the amassing of the fyrd, bridge construction, and the building and repair of fortresses.

  ‘I also intend the recipients of this privilege to include some members of the secular nobility,’ Aethelwulf continued. ‘Once the land is granted you may issue some portion of it to the Church, should you so wish – for example, as payment for masses to be said for your soul after your death. Whatever you decide, the land grants should benefit many of you financially, and perhaps spiritually. The charters, or “books”, as we know them, will be drawn up by Father Felix, subject to the usual conditions,’ he added as all eyes turned towards Aethelwulf’s secretary.

  Felix read out the long list of beneficiaries whilst Aethelwulf prepared to present the final issue on his agenda. His most loyal nobles had been rewarded, including his brother by marriage, Osric. He hoped the flattery would serve its purpose: their gratitude would render them amenable to his decision.

  He mulled over his well-made plans. In a year’s time he would journey to Rome: something he’d promised himself since the day he was crowned. Now he was ageing and had no time to delay. He must entreat the pope to offer God the repentance of Wessex for its sins. Opposition would undoubtedly focus on concern over who would rule the kingdom in his absence. He would propose the simplest of solutions: his two eldest sons would rule it between them. Aethelbald would take the greater part of Wessex, and Aethelberht the eastern shires, where, until two years ago, Aethelstan had presided as under-king.

  Aethelwulf stepped forward, the movement silencing the hall. He glanced behind at his sons, for whose futures his every important decision had been made. As yet, Alfred was ignorant of Aethelwulf’s plans for the following year, plans made long before the boy’s return this Easter.

  Alfred would make a second trip to the Holy City, to accompany his father.

  Nineteen

  Winchester: early January 855

  On a cold and snow-brushed evening during the week following the twelve days of Christmas, Lady Osburh passed away peacefully in her bed. The lengthy illness had drained every modicum of her strength, rendering her so frail it seemed a puff of wind could blow her away. Aethelwulf had seldom left her bedside for days and the physician had been in constant attendance, although Osburh had rarely woken from her exhausted sleep. Bishop Swithun had shriven her and, surrounded by the family she loved so much, she had drawn her last breath.

  Too choked to speak or even rise from where he’d slumped across Osburh’s lifeless form, Aethelwulf gestured with a flick of his wrist that all should leave him alone with his wife.

  Aethelswith’s own overwhelming grief mingled with concern for her father and youngest brother. Alfred had not experienced death on such a personal level during the five years of his life and tears flooded down his face. So whilst others retired to the hall with Bishop Swithun, Aethelswith took Alfred’s hand and led him to the sleeping chamber he shared with Aethelred beyond the hall. On the edge of the bed she sat him on her lap, stroking his head as he sobbed into her shoulder, his tears soaking the fine wool of her gown.

  ‘Why did she have to die?’ he wailed. ‘Mother was always so good: God had no need to punish her.’

  ‘No, He did not, Alfred,’ Aethelswith agreed, struggling to find words to explain the inevitability of death to so young a child. ‘And you must never think He did. Death seldom comes as a punishment, sweet one.’

  ‘Then why does Father believe that God has sent the Danes to kill our people as a punishment for not worshipping Him properly?’

  Aethelswith tucked a wisp of hair beneath the head covering she now wore to signify her married status and nodded understanding of Alfred’s question. ‘But the death of people in their own homes is quite different,’ she floundered, at a loss for a truly astute answer. ‘We must all die eventually; no one lives forever. Some of us are fortunate enough to live good, long lives; others become ill or have accidents and die earlier than they would have hoped. Some very unfortunate people do not live past childhood. Mother was lucky enough to be granted quite a long life, well past her fortieth year. And, had illness not beset her these past few years, she may have enjoyed an even longer life, like Edith here.’

  She threw a grateful smile at the old nurse who had entered with Alfred’s meal: a chunk of bread with a slice of pork and a mug of goat’s milk. Edith bent to lay the tray on a low bench and straightened up with a grimace. Her eyes were red and swollen with the tears she’d shed for her beloved mistress.

  ‘We must remember that Mother had a happy life, Alfred, surrounded by people who loved her,’ Aethelswith stressed, as much to comfort Edith as her young brother. ‘Mother is at peace now, and would want us all to live our lives to make her proud. I’m sure we’ll meet her again in Heaven, when she’ll want to know about all the good things we’ve done.’

  Alfred’s sobbing breaths steadied and he seemed to mull over what she’d said. He yawned widely and Aethelswith realised just how deeply the grief had affected him.

  ‘You must be hungry by now, young lord,’ Edith said, offering him the mug of milk. ‘You’ve eaten little all day.’

  ‘I don’t think I could manage any food,’ Alfred replied, fixing apologetic eyes on Edith as he stru
ggled to take a few sips of milk. ‘My throat wouldn’t open wide enough to let it through – and if it did, my stomach may throw it straight out again.’

  ‘Then just drink the milk, Alfred,’ Aethelswith said, knowing that further persuasion would be pointless. ‘We’ll get you settled and I’ll stay with you until you nod off.

  ‘I hope Aethelred’s managed to eat something,’ she said quietly to Edith. ’He was putting on a very brave face – though the face does not always reflect one’s deepest feelings.’

  Edith gave Aethelswith one of her most meaningful looks. ‘I daresay I could name at least one other who’s good at hiding their feelings, my lady. Believe me, it does no good to keep things bottled up. Problems often don’t seem so bad when shared with someone you trust.’

  Unshed tears glistened in Aethelswith’s eyes and for some moments she stayed silent, fussing around Alfred’s bed and plumping up his pillows. If she spoke, her voice would betray her and Alfred would see through her false bravado. It seemed that Edith had already done just that. She gazed at the rotund nurse perched on Alfred’s bed, gently easing his nightgown over his head. Besides her parents and youngest brothers, Aethelswith loved Edith more than anyone else in the whole world. Her throat tightened as she fought back the tears.

  ‘Don’t go back to Mercia, Aethelswith,’ Alfred blurted as he settled into bed and reached his arms out to her. ‘Stay at Father’s court with us for ever. I know you’ll be happier here.’ Tears spilled down his face anew and Aethelswith sat on the edge of his bed and hugged him. If only Alfred knew how much she longed to do just that.

  ‘I need you more than Burgred does,’ Alfred sobbed. ‘He’s a man and can manage on his own: he has plenty of servants. You’re my only sister and I want you here. And I don’t like Burgred!’

  ‘Oh, Alfred, if only it were possible for me to stay,’ Aethelswith said, taking him by the shoulders as amber eyes searched her face. ‘We can’t always do what we want in life, which you will realise as you get older. But we must always honour the duties and responsibilities we are given, no matter how hard they may seem at times. And my duties lie in Mercia – with my husband.