by Millie Thom
‘Try to sleep now, Alfred,’ she soothed, stroking his cheek. ‘I’ll always love you dearly, you know that. My thoughts will rarely be away from you, and I’ll try to visit more often, if I can – perhaps for a few days before you leave for Rome in the spring.’
Alfred nodded and lay down, though Aethelswith doubted her answer had greatly pacified him. Soon, his young body unwound, his features free of the agony of his loss. Aethelswith stood by his bed, listening to his rhythmic breathing for a while before turning to leave. In the solitude outside the doorway her own grief was unleashed, and her tears spilled. She swept them away and turned toward the hall. But, hearing Alfred’s troubled mumblings, she slipped back into his chamber.
‘I’ll look after your lovely book, Mother,’ Alfred murmured, his dream-voice muffled beneath the furs. ‘And learn to read so well, you’ll be proud of me . . .’
Aethelswith swallowed hard, the suffering in Alfred’s voice triggering her own. A strange silence hung in the air and by the anguished expression on his face, Aethelswith was certain Alfred was still dreaming.
‘Yes, I will try to be brave,’ he whispered.
As will we all, Aethelswith thought, drying her eyes once again.
* * *
Later, certain that her younger brothers were asleep, Aethelswith returned to the hall to speak with Aethelbald and Aethelberht and satisfy the groanings of her own stomach. Her brothers sat by the hearth with Bishop Swithun, their cheerless murmurings affording the only sound. Servants hovered under a pall of downcast silence and Aethelwulf’s thegns hunched at the tables, staring into their ale mugs. Aethelswith toyed with her food; like Alfred, she found she could barely swallow and resorted to a mug of goat’s milk before sitting beside her brothers.
Arrangements for the funeral were broached, but in Aethelwulf’s absence little could be achieved. Conversation lapsed into infrequent trivialities and eventually, Aethelswith retired to her own sleeping chamber. Her heart ached for Alfred, whose loss was even pervading his dreams. And Aethelswith would soon be so far away in Mercia, he wouldn’t even have her to comfort him.
Mercia: her home now. The very thought caused all the unhappiness of the past two years to resurface. After her mother’s funeral in four day’s time, she’d have no excuse whatsoever to linger in her beloved Wessex. Burgred had returned to Tamworth at the start of the New Year and his men who’d remained to escort her home would be eager to be making a move. She must leave Alfred to deal with his grief alone and return to the husband who made her feel so inadequate. She slumped into a wicker chair, considering how astutely Alfred had assessed Burgred.
‘Now, my lady, you need rest just as much as do your young brothers and should be in your bed,’ Edith stated, interrupting Aethelswith’s thoughts as she entered. ‘Would you like anything fetching for the night – a mug of watered ale perhaps?’
‘Nothing, thank you, Edith,’ Aethelswith sighed. ‘I am weary, but I think sleep may evade me for some time yet.’
Edith surveyed her with such understanding that Aethelswith’s tears welled afresh. She had not felt such love emanating from a single soul since she’d left Wessex. Kneeling stiffly beside her, Edith’s protective arms enfolded her.
‘There now, my lady,’ she soothed, ‘no matter how bad things may seem today, there’s always tomorrow. The loss of a mother is a terrible blow to a woman, but don’t give up on life. There’s always so much to live for, if only for the sheer joy of being alive . . .
‘Perhaps you’d like to unburden your problems on your old nurse. I know there’s more than your mother’s passing distressing you.’
Aethelswith nodded, wondering how much to say. But Edith deserved no less than the truth. ‘I can’t bear the thought of going back to Mercia,’ she admitted as the tears flowed. ‘My life’s had no meaning since . . . since the loss of my son.’
‘I thought as much,’ Edith sighed. ‘To have a babe stillborn is enough to break the strongest of women. But, my lady, there’s always next time. Your poor, dead child is in Heaven, so do not grieve for him. But for you, life must go on, and you’ve shown yourself able to both conceive and carry a child. It was God’s will that the babe did not breathe once he entered this world. And who are we to question the motives of Our Lord?’
‘But you don’t understand, Edith!’ Aethelswith’s fingertips ran down her wet cheeks. ‘Burgred blames me for our son’s death, thinks I willed it because I don’t love him. God alone knows how I’ve tried to be a loving wife!’
‘But the eyes rarely lie, my lady. Try as you may have done to be the wife Burgred wanted, your eyes would have told him he’d not captured your heart. And a man needs to know that his wife is his in mind and body.’
‘But I just can’t love Burgred,’ Aethelswith whispered, taking a deep, steadying breath. ‘He’s not an easy man to love – not an easy man to know. Oh, Edith, I would have been better entering holy orders, where my soul could have sought comfort with God. But I wanted to do my duty for Wessex.’
Edith’s face was soft with pity. ‘Then you must assure your husband you want only to be a good wife. He must realise how much the child’s death hurt you, too.’
Aethelswith hung her head, knowing the heartrending pain she felt would be reflected in her face. Then all the tortured emotions of so many months came pouring out: ‘From the start Burgred has shut me out of his life, as though I don’t exist,’ she sobbed, ‘always seeming somewhere far away, somewhere unreachable. I can’t break through the stone wall he’s set around himself. Sometimes he has such a haunted look on his face, seeming to be crying out for help to bear some inconsolable grief. Yet when I try to offer comfort he turns away and tells me not to be a nagging wife.’
She rose and moved to the shuttered window, uncomfortable about revealing the extent of her marital problems. But Edith would never disclose a confidence, and Aethelswith desperately needed to unburden her miseries.
‘There’s been no real opportunity for the two of us to speak privately since the babe’s funeral,’ she said quietly as she turned, lowering her gaze to focus on Edith, still kneeling by the chair. ‘Burgred has blatantly shunned me and I feel shamed by it. He hasn’t been to my bed once since that day. I so longed for a child to love, Edith,’ she spluttered through trembling lips. ‘I’m so very lonely in Mercia.’
‘You will get through this awful time, my lady,’ Edith said, rising awkwardly and proceeding to pull back the bed covers and lay out Aethelswith’s nightgown. ‘If only I could be with you to help you cope.’ She sighed. ‘But my duties are still with King Aethelwulf’s family. Aethelred will be my major charge when Alfred’s away in Rome. I won’t have Osberht to think about then, either: he’ll be with the king. I’ll miss my husband – but I shan’t tell him that,’ she said, smiling at the thought of him. ‘He’s quite big-headed enough as it is! And I’ll sorely miss that young rascal Alfred, even though I’ll be able to reach my own bed earlier in his absence.’
Recalling Alfred’s strange dreamlike words earlier, Aethelswith asked, ‘Does my little brother often suffer from bad dreams, or talk in his sleep?’
‘Well now,’ the nurse replied, ‘sleep has always been a problem for Alfred. Even as a babe he didn’t nod off until late. And yes, he often speaks out loud. Most times the words he mutters don’t make sense – they could be Greek for all I can tell! Sometimes he seems to be speaking with someone – like as not one of the family.’
‘He had a conversation with Mother tonight, not long after he’d fallen asleep.’
‘Understandable, after today,’ Edith said, nodding sadly. ‘Best not to wake him, my lady; his dreams don’t seem to do him any harm. And Aethelred‘s such a sound sleeper it would take a whole army marching through his chamber to rouse him!’
Aethelswith smiled at the image as Edith glanced round the room. ‘Now, your bed’s all ready for you, my lady. Tomorrow will b
e another stressful day for everyone, with the funeral arrangements and all. Your father will need all the support we can muster. It was a godsend to have his close friend Bishop Swithun here when Lady Osburh passed away.’ She cast a glance at the doorway. ‘That Bishop Ealhstan would have been of no comfort to your father, whatsoever,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not the type to offer solace to the bereaved, if you ask me, Lady Aethelswith.’
‘I agree with you there,’ Aethelswith replied, lowering her voice to match Edith’s. ‘He’s a cold natured man for a bishop. And Father told me Alfred didn’t like him at all; he stared at Ealhstan and quite disconcerted him – just as he did with Burgred.’
‘Try to put such thoughts from your mind, my lady. Let sleep refresh you ready for the morrow. I’ll be here to see to your needs, as always.’
Alone in her bed Aethelswith listened to the wind whistling round the roof thatch, wondering whether it would bring in more snow. A heavy snowfall would mean conditions for the funeral would be difficult and uncomfortable. But it could also mean she may have to stay at Winchester for some time longer.
Twenty
Francia – Rome – Wessex: spring 855 – autumn 856
King Aethelwulf and his six-year-old son set out from Winchester on their long pilgrimage to Rome on an unseasonably cool and blustery morning in late May. Six days later, with their large entourage of bodyguards and servants appropriate for their safety and comfort, they crossed the narrow sea to the kingdom of the West Franks. Landing at Quentovic they rested overnight at the hostel of St Judoc before embarking on the journey of over a hundred and twenty miles to the Paris court of Charles the Bald. Half a dozen wagons carried many beautiful and costly gifts, mostly for Pope Leo and St Peter; others to impress the powerful Frankish king.
Aethelwulf found difficulty in containing Alfred’s boundless exuberance. His son absorbed every sight, sound and smell along their lumbering route, inundating him with questions and observations until Aethelwulf silently screamed for respite. But, determined to ensure an interesting and memorable journey for Alfred, he put on a brave face, aided by a welcomed improvement in the weather.
‘So we need to visit the Frankish king because you want him to help us if the Danes attack?’
Aethelwulf chortled at the bluntness of the question, glancing at Alfred as they rode at the head of the lengthy cavalcade. The verdant countryside of northern Francia was intoxicating, spring sunshine warm on his cheeks. Aethelwulf felt a rare sense of peace: this pilgrimage meant much to him – and to Wessex.
‘That is true, I suppose,’ he replied honestly, ‘but I hope you’ll keep it to yourself once we’re at the Frankish court. Charles is a very important ruler – not only King of the West Franks but also a Holy Roman Emperor. It would be discourteous to pass through his kingdom without paying our respects, and the gifts will serve to convince him of our admiration and friendship.’
Alfred nodded, his face thoughtful. ‘Has Charles always been bald, Father?’
Trying hard not to roar with laughter, Aethelwulf replied, ‘I haven’t yet met the Frankish king, Alfred, but I don’t think he’s at all bald. Indeed, several accounts say he’s quite the opposite: rather hirsute. Which means hairy.’
‘So why is he called ‘Charles the Bald?’
Aethelwulf sighed, silently composing a brief and simple answer to that question. ‘I’m told the title relates to a lack of land rather than hair,’ he started. ‘You see, when the emperor, Louis the Pious, died in 840, his three surviving sons were at loggerheads over who would rule Francia. Since Charles was the youngest son – as well as being the child of Louis’ second wife – at first it was doubtful that he would have any land to rule over. But after three years of bitter civil war the empire was eventually divided between them, as Louis had wanted in the first place. The eldest son, Lothar, took the lands east of the River Rhine; Louis took the far eastern area of Bavaria, and Charles the lands west of the Rhine. Hence, Charles is the king of the West Franks.’
Alfred responded with a nod before resuming his scrutiny of the landscape.
After five days of Frankish hospitality they left Paris behind, their numbers swelled by an additional body of mounted men provided by Charles to escort them to the border that separated his kingdom from that of his warring brother, Lothar. Alfred had thoroughly enjoyed the visit, having been permitted to spend the days being entertained by the emperor’s eight-year-old son, who was also named Charles. Sometimes they played Frankish games that Alfred had never even heard of; at other times they explored the nearby woods and streams, under the watchful eye of a small troop of the emperor’s soldiers. The two boys delighted in each other’s company and, fortunately for Alfred, his new friend could converse in the Saxon tongue, albeit on a basic level.
Aethelwulf was well satisfied. The visit had been such a success that Charles had invited him to break the monotony of the journey home with another stay at his court.
As the days passed and spring ripened into summer they pressed on, south and east through Lothar’s kingdom, the towering peaks of the Alps breathtaking in their splendour. At last they turned south towards Rome. On most nights they slept beneath the vast, clear skies; on others they managed to reach one of the many Christian hostels situated along the much travelled pilgrim route. But the long days in the saddle, or inside a bumpy wagon with Father Felix and the two priests, became a trial of endurance for Aethelwulf. The hot, dry air of the southern lands seemed to sear his lungs, sapping every modicum of his strength, the rutted roads causing horses to lame and playing havoc with wagon wheels. Dust from the dry tracks clogged nostrils and coated clothing, hair and sweaty skin with a layer of grime. And clouds of biting insects followed them relentlessly, determined for a taste of blood.
So it was with immense relief in late July that Aethelwulf saw the towering wall of the Leonine City. Named after the pope responsible for its construction, the wall enclosed a suburb of Rome on the right bank of the Tiber; the opposite side to the ancient city on the Seven Hills inside the old Aurelian Wall built nearly six hundred years ago. The Leonine City included the Basilica of St Peter’s and the pope’s residence, the Lateran Palace. Several churches, convents and pilgrim hostels for Saxons, Franks, Lombards and Greeks were also located inside the new walls.
‘They’ve finished the wall!’ Alfred yelled, dropping his reins and flinging his small arms wide, gesturing to the imposing new structures. ‘Pope Leo had just started building the last time I was here.’
‘I’m told the defences were designed to help safeguard the holy buildings from Saracen raids, Alfred. Many of our own towns, particularly coastal ones, would benefit greatly from similar fortifications,’ he said, admiring the thick stone wall and sturdy towers. ‘Such projects are unlikely to be undertaken in my lifetime,’ Aethelwulf admitted, ‘but perhaps during the reigns of my sons . . .’
He let the thought hang as they entered the Leonine City through the Saxon Gate and their long procession clattered through the cobbled streets, heading for the quarter known as the Schola Saxonum – the Saxon School. Situated next to the portico of the magnificent basilica of St Peter, the Saxon School resembled most villages in Aethelwulf’s homeland: a collection of wooden huts and stables around a communal hall and a simple wooden church. Run by Saxon monks, the Schola had been in existence for many years, its purpose simply to provide a place for all Saxon pilgrims to stay. Aethelwulf was pleased to note the buildings had been well restored following two fires that had reduced the hostel to little more than ashes in previous years. He’d sent a goodly sum towards its repair with Alfred two years ago and fully intended to donate further funds for its upkeep on this occasion. Elation filled him. After years of longing he was finally here, soon to meet the holiest man in Christendom . . .
But, the news awaiting them on entering the Schola severely tempered his euphoria.
‘You’re sad because Pope Leo�
�s dead, aren’t you, Father?’ Alfred said as they settled into the hut reserved for visiting nobility. Aethelwulf slumped on the low cot, in need of rest and a change of clothing. It was so long since he’d worn anything that wasn’t caked in layers of dust. ‘He was a very kind man,’ Alfred continued at his father’s nod. ‘But the new pope will probably be kind as well.’
‘He is is called Benedict the Third, I’m told. And you’re right; he’s likely to be just as compassionate. It’s just that–’
‘You believe Pope Leo would have been more likely to help you because he’d already welcomed me,’ Alfred supplied.
Aethelwulf nodded and pulled himself to his feet with a weary sigh. ‘Now, before I throw off these stinking clothes I need a word with Osberht. The stabling here didn’t look too generous and we’ve a lot of horses to house. Satan needs a wide berth or there’ll be mayhem, and little of the stables still standing by morning. And don’t think I’m joking either.’
It was almost a month later by the time Aethelwulf was received by Pope Benedict in the Lateran Palace. It was a brief encounter, after which he and Alfred, Father Felix and the two priests were politely ushered out as Benedict made his way to the council chamber for an urgent engagement with the notables of Rome. Though disappointed to have his long-awaited audience terminated so abruptly, Aethelwulf wasn’t surprised. It was common knowledge that the city’s appointment of the new pontiff was not proceeding smoothly.
Benedict was an austere man, unquestionably devout in his beliefs and the promotion of the Church but, unfortunately for Aethelwulf, Benedict was embroiled in conflict with Lothar and Louis, the brothers of Charles the Bald, who refused to approve him as pope. Consequently, Benedict had not yet been consecrated. But, refusing to give way to the two Holy Roman Emperors, Benedict spent much of his time with members of the Roman nobility, clergy and senate, determined to find a way to win this battle for the papacy.
