by Jayne Castel
“Enough monk! I have built you a church, what more do you want?”
“A king must set an example for his people,” Seaxwulf pressed on doggedly. “How will your subjects follow god, if you allow them to continue their heathen ways.”
“Ēostre does no harm,” Paeda replied, his voice now dangerously low. Alchflaed recognized this as a sign that her husband was about to lose his temper. “There is no reason why beliefs cannot co-exist side-by-side. Why is the Christian god right and all others wrong?”
Alchflaed glanced at Paeda, surprised by his comment. She knew he had agreed to be baptized as part of her father’s agreement to let him marry her, but she had not realized he had given any thought to the difference between his new religion and the old one.
Seaxwulf gaped like a landed trout, suddenly at a loss for words. Seeing the monk’s confusion, Paeda pressed his advantage.
“Leave us, Seaxwulf,” he ordered, waving the monk away. “Go to your church that I have so generously given you, and decorate it as you see fit for the coming days. Those who wish to can join you. However, if I hear one more whining complaint about Ēostre, I will have you flogged and sent north to your brothers at Lindisfarena. Is that clear?”
Seaxwulf flushed. He now shook like a reed in the wind; such was the force of his anger and indignation. However, he was not a foolish man, and so he held his tongue. Stiffly, he nodded. Then, giving the king one more reproachful look, he turned and strode from the hall.
When Seaxwulf had gone, Aethelred was the first to break the heavy silence.
“The monk grows tiresome. Why don’t you rid yourself of him? I can take care of it, if you want?”
Paeda glanced over at his brother and frowned. “That won’t be necessary.”
Aethelred smirked. “No need to worry. You can just tell Oswiu and that pious bitch he married that the monk had an unfortunate accident.”
“And they would merely send another to replace him,” Paeda growled. “Don’t be a fool, Aethelred. As long as he doesn’t anger me further, Seaxwulf stays.”
The prince’s mouth thinned and Alchflaed saw he wished to say more. Her gaze rested upon Aethelred then. After what Maric had told her, she now looked at the ealdormen and thegns surrounding the king differently.
Which ones were plotting against him?
She had not included Prince Aethelred in her observations but seeing the scorn in his gaze, she realized he was the perfect candidate. He could even be plotting with the exiled Wulfhere to topple Paeda from the throne.
***
On the morning of the spring solstice, the Great Hall of Tamworth was a hive of activity. Slaves set up long tables, either side of the fire pits, and decorated the hall with daffodils and sprays of cherry blossom. They placed baskets of freshly boiled eggs upon the tables, and prepared a rich hare stew to serve alongside roast lamb, bread and braised spring vegetables.
Alchflaed oversaw the mixing of the dough for the Ēostre buns: small, rich breads enriched with milk, butter and dried blackcurrants. Once the dough had proved, she incised a cross upon the top. The mark did not signify the Christian cross – like that which Seaxwulf wore about his neck – but instead the four seasons and the rebirth of the sun after the winter. Once she had brushed the tops of the buns with egg, the slaves baked them in a huge clay oven outside. The scent of the baking breads wafted over the stable yard, calling all the men working there to the Ēostre feast.
Slaves carried in barrels of mead from the stores, and lined them up against the wall, ready for the feast. There were also barrels of sloe wine, made from last autumn’s harvest. The king usually drank mead or ale, but sloe wine was his favorite and brought out only on special occasions.
As noon approached, men, women and children poured into the king’s hall. Alchflaed took a seat next to the king upon the high seat and watched the folk take their seats. As well as the king’s ealdormen and thegns, a number of ceorls took their places upon the low benches that ran either side of the long tables. Dressed in their best tunics, many of their wives were flushed with excitement; it was only on special occasions that the king welcomed free folk to feast with him.
Alchflaed’s gaze moved around the room. Although she was dressed in her best green woolen gown, with flowers in her hair, she did not feel remotely festive. She was on-edge and unhappy, her stomach knotted with apprehension.
Her gaze shifted down the table, to where Seaxwulf sat next to the healer, Glaedwine. The monk was scowling and Glaedwine was trying to draw him into conversation. Farther down the table, her father’s stewards had just taken a seat. Wada and Alfwald had brought their men with them from Bebbanburg – warriors who dined tonight at the lower tables. She imagined her father had warned them to expect trouble, and to be ready to seize control when it came.
Wada was a huge man with a mane of grizzled blond hair and a thick beard to match. He wore an embossed leather jerkin, his arm rings polished and gleaming. Alfwald was also bearded, although his was red and he wore it much shorter than Wada. His thick red hair had thin braids running through it. They were both fearsome warriors and Alchflaed noted that Paeda had as little to do with them as possible.
Sensing someone’s gaze upon him, Alfwald glanced her way. His gaze met Alchflaed’s and she saw the challenge in his eyes. He inclined his head slightly and gave a cool smile. Heart thumping, Alchflaed looked away.
He knows what father has ordered me to do. He’s waiting.
Next to her, Paeda held out his jeweled, golden cup to a passing slave to fill. No one else in the hall had yet lifted their cup. They all awaited the king’s blessing first.
Paeda, darkly handsome in a black quilted vest that showed off the breadth of his chest, got to his feet and raised his cup. Immediately, the conversation around the hall died.
“Hail Ēostre!” he called out. “Hail the spring, and the coming of summer! Hail new life!”
Everyone present, save Seaxwulf, lifted their cup high.
“Hail Ēostre!”
Paeda took a deep draught of sloe wine and spread his arms wide, in an uncharacteristic display of welcome and good humor.
“Feast!”
A roar of approval shook the rafters and the men and women fell upon the food. Alchflaed did not join them immediately; instead, she searched the perimeter of the hall for Maric. She found him, standing in the shadows, not far from the doors. As promised, he had remained nearby. The sight of him calmed her slightly, and she lifted her cup to her lips, taking a small sip.
The sloe wine was very strong and she resolved to drink sparingly. Her nerves were on edge and she would have preferred water. However, the female slave who attended their table kept refilling her cup, the moment Alchflaed replaced it upon the table. Even after a few sips, the wine made her light-headed.
The feast was in full swing now. Laughter and excited voices filled the cavernous space. Mead and wine flowed and slaves scurried back and forth, ensuring no one’s cup was ever empty. There would be more than one man vomiting on the rushes by the feast’s ending.
The feast wore on, and afternoon slipped into evening. Alchflaed ate slowly, although she found the wine had revived her appetite. It was delicious fare, and she eventually relaxed. Paeda ignored her, as he did most of the time these days. Instead, he talked with Aethelred and two of his ealdormen whom he had invited to feast at the king’s table.
Aethelred had consumed so much wine that he began to sway on his seat. His eyes had gone unfocused, and he was slurring his words. The men at the table roared with laughter when the prince fell, face down, in his stew.
“Pathetic!” Paeda roared. He had gone red in the face and his eyes had a glazed, unfocused look after all the wine he had drunk. “Take him to his bed!”
Three male slaves climbed upon the high seat and pulled Aethelred out of his stew, before carrying him off to his alcove. Laughter rang across the table and the slaves poured more wine.
The feast seemed to stretch on endlessly.
Maric, who was not supposed to be present, kept well back from the floor, in the shadow of one of the alcoves. He watched the revelry, his belly rumbling at the sight of all the rich food. His noon meal had consisted of stale bread and watery broth. His mouth watered at the aroma of roast lamb and the rich hare stew.
Despite his hunger, he kept a close watch on the faces of the feasters, looking for a sign that something was amiss. Yet, he found none.
Maric saw nothing to rouse his suspicions as he observed the Ēostre feast. Osulf and Elfhere sat at one of the long tables beneath the high seat. Unlike the king and those at his table, the warriors seemed to prefer mead to sloe wine – and Osulf was drinking copious amounts of it. As day slipped into night, the warrior was holding his cup high into the air and roaring drinking songs.
Maric saw Alchflaed retire to her bed early, leaving the men to drink. The monk left shortly after. It appeared that Seaxwulf had consumed a goodly amount of wine for he swayed and stumbled as he made his way across the floor.
Eventually, one by one, the revelers stretched out onto the rushes and went to sleep. Maric watched some of the warriors, younger ones mostly, stumble outside to be sick. Others, too drunk to move far, lay down upon their cloaks on the rushes and went to sleep under the tables. Maric had seen Edgard leave the hall to rejoin his family, but the others – Bryni, Osulf and Elfhere – slept in the king’s hall.
Bryni still sat at the table, snoring over the remains of his meal, while Elfhere had stretched out onto the bench next to him. Osulf had managed to stumble over to the platform that ran around the edge of the hall, and he slept there, near the foot of the ladder that led up to the King’s Loft.
Paeda was one of the last to leave the revelry. He was so drunk he could barely stand. Maric watched the two ealdormen who had feasted with Paeda at his table help the king across the hall. It took Paeda an age to climb the ladder to his quarters, for he kept slipping on the rungs. Maric was surprised to see Paeda so inebriated. The king always took mead or ale with his meals, but rarely drank to excess. Clearly, he had underestimated the strength of the sloe wine.
Maric’s eyes felt gritty and stung with fatigue when he finally retired for the night. He had not truly expected Osulf to make his move during the Ēostre feast, for it would have been foolhardy in the extreme to attack the king when his loyal retainers surrounded him. Nevertheless, Maric had promised Alchflaed that he would keep watch, and he was pleased he had.
With no cloak to sleep upon, for Paeda had confiscated all his clothing save the tunic, breeches and boots he wore, the rushes were uncomfortable – and prickly – to lie upon. Still, after a long day, Maric paid little attention to the discomfort. He was exhausted. Moments after he stretched out in his spot near the doors leading from the hall, sleep claimed him.
***
Alchflaed awoke in the early hours of the morning and realized something was wrong.
Her mouth tasted foul – strangely metallic – and her head throbbed. She opened her eyes, expecting to see darkness, but instead her gaze fell upon the pitted timbers above her head. One of the clay cressets along the wall still burned, which was strange, for she had thought she had extinguished them before going to sleep.
Why does my head hurt so? I did not drink that much wine.
She had barely consumed two cups of wine, far less than others at the table had. Stifling a groan, Alchflaed massaged her aching temples. Then she sat up and turned her husband.
A scream rose in Alchflaed’s throat and she stuffed a fist into her mouth to stop it. Shuffling back on the furs, she stared at her dead husband.
In the flickering torchlight, a scene of carnage lay before Alchflaed. Paeda lay upon his back next to her, still fully dressed. Someone had slit his throat violently – for the wound gaped wide from ear to ear – before driving a seax into heart. The hilt still protruded from his chest.
Terror twisted Alchflaed’s belly and loosened her bowels as a chilling realization dawned on her. The assassin had killed the king and left her alive for only one reason.
To make it look as if Paeda had died by her hand.
Chapter Thirty-one
Escape from Tamworth
Alchflaed fought down rising panic and scrambled, shaking, off the furs. Only then, did she realize they were sodden with blood. She looked down and saw that Paeda’s blood covered the thin linen tunic she had worn to bed. It had also soaked into her hair.
Trembling violently, Alchflaed stood frozen to the spot, her bare feet sinking into the plush fur that covered the floor of the platform. Her mind whirled like a winter blizzard but there was no time to dwell on who had done this, or to give in to panic.
Instinct now drove her. If she did not move quickly, she would be as dead as Paeda.
Alchflaed stripped off the bloodied tunic and pulled on a clean linen undertunic, followed by a plain, sleeveless woolen overdress and light rabbit-skin boots. Then, she strapped the seax that she now kept close at hand, around her waist. Lastly, she donned a woolen cloak and crept to the edge of the platform.
Dawn had not yet broken and the hall beneath her lay in shadow, save for the glowing remnants of the fire pits and one or two cressets on the walls. Still, there was enough light for Alchflaed to see that everyone appeared to be slumbering. Sleeping bodies littered the floor from one end to another.
It would be difficult to leave without disturbing anyone.
Alchflaed’s heart hammered like a battle drum as she drew her seax and climbed over the edge of the platform. She needed two hands to descend the ladder, so she placed the seax-blade between her teeth until she reached the platform below. Then, she gripped the weapon tightly in her right hand, ready to use it as Maric had taught her, if anyone attacked her.
Stepping off the ladder, Alchflaed nearly tread upon a warrior. He was a heavy-set man with auburn hair and an eye-patch, who lay upon his back snoring loudly. Although she did not know his name, she recognized the warrior; she had often seen him with Maric over the past months.
She edged around the warrior and made her way along the platform, past alcoves where folk slumbered. It was slow going, as Alchflaed had to pick her way over a carpet of sleeping bodies. Fortunately, it appeared that everyone had overindulged during the feast, and slept deeply as a result.
Alchflaed pushed down panic with every step. All it would take would be one person to wake and raise the alarm. She wagered the assassin was here and had fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning. Whoever it was, had not expected her to wake so early.
This was her only chance. If she did not take it, she was doomed.
Eventually, she reached the far end of the hall, where she saw Maric sleeping. He lay upon his side, his breathing light and easy, for he had not eaten and drunk to excess like everyone else.
Alchflaed bent over Maric, and shook him gently. His eyes flicked open but she placed her fingers to her lips and shook her head. Their gazes fused for a moment and Alchflaed watched the fog of sleep clear from Maric’s eyes.
He rolled to his feet, as nimble as a cat, and took the seax she passed him. Unspeaking, he retrieved a woolen cloak that covered a sleeping ceorl nearby and quickly donned it. They both pulled up their hoods to conceal their faces. Maric then took hold of her hand and led her to the doors.
Outside, the first glow of dawn was rising in the east. Alchflaed broke out in a cold sweat at the sight of the lightening sky; they needed to move quickly or it would be too late for them both. There was only one guard outside the doors, and he was slumped against the wall, dozing.
Maric showed no sign of panic as he led her across the stable yard. He moved with purpose, his grip on her hand firm and reassuring.
“What happened?” he whispered.
“Paeda is dead,” she replied. “They have made it look as if I killed him.”
Maric glanced at her, and she saw his face change, his gaze harden. However, he asked nothing more.
They reached the high gate, which was sti
ll barred. The door to the gatehouse was open, and inside two guards slumbered, their gentle snores the only sound in the early dawn.
Alchflaed let out the breath she had been holding. Wyrd shone upon them this morning, for it was clear both men had taken part in last night’s feasting and drinking. They appeared to be sleeping deeply. She then peered up at the ramparts but could not see any guards up there this morning.
Maric unbarred the gate and pulled it open wide enough for them to squeeze through. Then, they were out in the paved street beyond and hurrying down the hill. There was no one about this early, and no light peeked through shuttered windows. Only the baker was awake, and Alchflaed caught the scent of baking loaves as they hurried past.
They traveled farther down the hill but Maric did not lead her to the low gate, as she expected, but left, down a network of narrow lanes.
“Where are we going?” Alchflaed asked, breathless from the fast pace Maric set.
“To the east gate,” he replied, not looking her way. “It is a safer route out of Tamworth.”
They reached the gate, which led out onto meadows where the folk of Tamworth held games in the summer, and found a cluster of merchants already there, waiting for the guards to let them out.
“You are my wife, and we are farmers,” Maric whispered to her, as they waited in the milling crowd, watching the sky lighten above the wooden palisade encircling Tamworth. “We’ve just sold all our fowls at market.”
Alchflaed nodded, her heart in her throat. She glanced back at the Great Tower and immediately regretted it; the rising sun stained its grey walls red and its tiny windows stared down at her like angry, blind eyes.
Any moment now, they will discover me gone.
The wait for the gate to open felt eternal. The guards ignored the crowd of merchants for as long as they could, and only swaggered out to unbar the gate when some of the men impatiently called out to them.
