by Joan Wolf
Alfred had ridden back to Wilton once more to check for himself on Ethelred’s progress, when word came from the Ealdorman of Surrey, who was in charge of his shire’s fyrd at Reading, that shiploads of reinforcements had come up the Thames to join Halfdan at Reading. Several thousand new men, the ealdorman’s thane reported grimly. And supplies as well.
Alfred swore when he learned this news. The West Saxon army was not likely to be at full strength again this spring. The ealdormen of Wiltshire and Berkshire had been blunt about their chances of being able to call up their men yet again. “There is little point in saving the country, if you are like to starve because there is no food at home,” Ethelm of Wiltshire had said bluntly. “Myself and my hearthband you will have, but the shire thanes and the ceorls … I think not.”
Alfred rode north again, determined to slay as many of the Danes at Meretun as he possibly could. It was not possible to engage in a full-scale battle; the West Saxons instead lay in cover and fell upon the Danes whenever they emerged from their base in order to raid the countryside for food and fodder.
It was Good Friday when one of Ethelred’s thanes came to find Alfred to tell him that his brother was dying.
* * *
Chapter 20
Alfred galloped straight through from Meretun to Wilton, changing horses several times at manors along the way. Only Brand and Edgar rode with him, and the pace was too hard for conversation. But Alfred’s mind was ablaze with a wild mixture of disbelief and fear.
Dying. How could that be? Ethelred had been on the road to recovery. He was strong and young, not yet thirty-five years in age. True, the wound had been serious. But not fatal! How could he be dying?
And then the frightening thought, pushed down deep whenever it surfaced, only to resurface yet again: If Ethelred dies then I shall be the king.
It could not be, would not be. Not Ethelred. Anguish caught at the back of his throat. Make it not true, he prayed. Dear God, dear God, dear God. Not Ethelred.
Elswyth must have been watching for him, for she came running into the courtyard as soon as his horse was in through the gate. “What has happened here?” he asked her as he vaulted to the ground. “The messenger said that Ethelred was … was …”
“He is dying, Alfred,” she answered when his voice trailed away. Her face was very pale, her blue eyes looked almost black. She put her hand on his arm and began to walk with him toward the great hall. “The wound has turned sour,” she said. “It is going all through him.”
He stopped and closed his eyes. He could feel her body close beside him. She said nothing. He opened his eyes and forced himself to walk forward. “Can nothing be done?” But he knew the answer before ever she replied. Once the poison started to spread, there was nothing that could be done.
“They have tried everything. I wanted to send for you on Wednesday, but Ethelred would not have it. Then, on Thursday, he wanted you.” Her husky voice sounded even huskier than usual.
They were in the hall now. Elswyth said, “Go in to him,” and took her hand from his arm.
Alfred nodded without speaking and crossed the floor with long strides. He paused for a moment before the door to Ethelred’s room, and the thought crossed his mind, like a shiver of doom, that this was the room in which Ethelbald had died. Then he pushed open the door and went in.
Cyneburg was sitting by the bed in the very chair that Judith had once sat in. Ethelred’s household priest was on the king’s other side, chanting prayers in a low voice. Both bedside watchers turned to the door as it opened, and when they saw who it was, both Cyneburg and the priest stood up.
Cyneburg looked from Alfred back to the man in the bed. “Here is your brother,” she said to Ethelred, her voice very gentle; then she motioned to the priest, and both walked to meet Alfred at the door. Cyneburg’s face seemed very composed. “I’ll leave you alone together,” she said to Alfred. He nodded, unable to reply, and she went out, taking the priest with her. Alfred crossed the floor and stood beside his brother’s bed.
Ethelred’s face was flushed with fever, his lips blistered and cracked. But the brown eyes knew him. “Ethelred,” Alfred said.
The feverish lips moved in a small smile. “I was beginning to fear I had waited too long to send for you.”
Alfred tried to answer, and found that his throat had completely closed down.
“I did not want to die without seeing you again,” Ethelred said.
Alfred sat in Cyneburg’s chair and bowed his head onto the edge of the bed. “Ethelred.” It seemed to be the only word he could get out. Then he felt his brother’s hand on his hair.
“You know it must be you,” Ethelred said. “I have written it in my will, Alfred. Over there.” Then, as Alfred still did not raise his head he said, “Go and get it for me.”
Alfred raised his head. His eyes were wet. “Where?” he asked huskily.
“In the small chest. Near to the treasury chest.” And Ethelred gestured painfully.
Alfred went to the chest that contained Ethelred’s important documents and found the will on top of several charters. He brought it back to the bed. Ethelred said, “I had it written into the will some months before by one of the monks in Winchester. You are to succeed me. Do you see?”
Alfred looked through the closely written script. “Yes, I see it.”
“Show that to the witan. They would choose you anyway, but it will be well to have my word and my seal.”
“I … I will try to be as good a king as you, Ethelred.” Alfred set his teeth into his lower lip. “You have ever set me the example of what a Christian king ought to be.”
The cracked and swollen lips moved once more in a smile. “You will be a better king than I, Alfred. It eases my mind to know that I leave Wessex in such capable hands.” He moved his fingers a little and Alfred’s hand shot out to grasp his brother’s. Ethelred’s skin felt hot and dry to the touch. Then Ethelred said, “You will look after my children for me.”
It was not a question, but Alfred answered it anyway. “As if they were my own.”
“I know.” Ethelred sighed and closed his eyes. “I am tired,” he said.
“Rest, my brother.” Alfred stood, then leaned over to touch his lips to the hot flushed forehead. “I have ever loved you better than any other man in the world,” he said, and his eyes once more were wet.
His brother’s eyes flickered open. “And I you,” said Ethelred. Alfred nodded, forcibly controlled his face, turned, and walked out the door.
Ethelred died as the sun was rising on Easter Sunday. He had asked to be buried at Wimborne Abbey, and arrangements were made for his body to be carried there forthwith. Most of the ealdormen would be in attendance at the funeral, as the election and coronation of the new king would take place immediately after.
It took but a day to bring Ethelred from Wilton to Wimborne. They used horses in front of the cart carrying the coffin instead of oxen. Everyone knew that Wessex could not afford to be too long without a king.
Alfred rode behind his brother’s coffin and remembered the funeral journey of his father. Ethelred had been with him then; Ethelred had always been with him. He remembered his brother’s words to him on the day his father had died. “I will take care of you, little brother,” Ethelred had said. “I will take care of you.”
Ethelred had held to his word, had been father to him as well as brother and friend. Never again would any man be as close to him as Ethelred had been; never again would he know that deep friendship of the mind and the heart and the spirit that he had known with his brother.
Always there would be this great aching void, the place that Ethelred had filled in his heart that could be filled by no one else.
Ethelred had known him, known his weaknesses as well as his strengths, known the true Alfred in a way that none of his companion thanes ever would. It was not safe to let any of the rest of them too close.
No one must ever know how bad the headaches really were.
; No one must know. Not now, not when they were depending on him to be strong, when a whole nation was looking to him for its very survival.
He would be the king. It was a fearful prospect, one he had never ever expected to face. How could he have thought thus, he, the youngest of five brothers? How could he have expected that such a thing would ever befall him? And to have it happen now … when the Danes were at their throats … when they were fighting for their very lives.
Dear God, dear God, dear God. Where was he to find the wisdom to see them through this?
“Ethelred will help you.” It was Elswyth’s husky drawl echoing his thoughts in the uncanny way she often had. He turned to look at his wife, who was riding close beside him. Her eyes were fixed on his face. “He was a truly good and holy man, Alfred,” she said. “I think he must be very close to God. Ethelred will intercede for you.” Her eyes were a darker blue than the spring sky. “How can God not listen to such a voice as his?” she said.
He looked back into his wife’s gaze, and some of the weight on his heart lifted. She was right, he thought. If ever mortal man deserved to be saint, that man was Ethelred. Ethelred would help him. He nodded, unaware of the shadowy look below his eyes that was so worrying her. “Yes,” he said. “That is true.”
She smiled. Her eyes were so beautiful, he thought. Then: I am not alone, after all. I have Elswyth.
“His love will give you strength,” she said.
“Yes.”
She was right, he thought, facing front and letting his eyes rest on the tapestry-covered coffin on the cart before him. Ethelred had always given him strength.
Then, with a gut twist of anguish that no faith, however sincere, could completely relieve: Oh Ethelred, I shall miss you so.
Cyneburg broke down during the funeral Mass. Her audible, brokenhearted sobbing made it much harder for Alfred to bear. He would have to settle some manors on Cyneburg, he thought, trying to distract himself, horribly afraid that he would break down also. Ethelred had left all the royal property in his hands. Alfred did not look forward to talking privately with Ethelred’s wife. He feared she might be bitter that the kingship had been taken from her son. Surely she had expected that the boy would succeed his father.
So had Alfred,
He met with Cyneburg late in the afternoon, after Ethelred had been interred within the abbey grounds. The sky was still light when he requested an interview with his sister-by-marriage and they went together into the abbey garden to talk.
“You must tell me which of the manors you would like most to live at,” Alfred said, “and I will see them made over to you by charter.”
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice expressionless.
“Cyneburg …” He looked at her helplessly. They had ever been friendly, but never close, and he felt the distance between them now most sorely, “Ethelred’s children are as dear to me as my own,” he said at last. “You must never hesitate to ask me for aught that they might need.”
They were standing facing each other before a small clump of flowering apple trees. The scent of the blossoms was sweet on the air. “I understand that the kingship must go to you, Alfred,” Cyneburg said now tonelessly. “Ethelred explained it to me and I understand. Ethelhelm is too young to take command of the country at such a perilous time. I see that. But …”
She looked at him directly for the first time since they had left the guest hall. “I want you to promise me you will name Ethelhelm as your heir,” she said.
He looked at her, his face very grave. “He is still too young, Cyneburg. If I should die in battle, it will fall to the witan to name a king who is of full age to lead the country. I cannot name a child to succeed me. Even if I did, it would not be heeded by the witan.”
“I mean …” She bit her lip. “I mean for later, for when the children are grown up.” She set her jaw and said it. “I want you to promise me you will name Ethelhelm over your Edward.”
He was surprised by the anger he felt at her request. How could she think to bind him so at such a time as this? “When the time comes to name my heir, be sure I will name the one I think is best fit to serve the country, Cyneburg,” he said. His face had a look about it that caused her to take a step back, away from him. “That is something I learned from Ethelred. And from my father. A king must ever put the good of the country above his own personal ambition.”
She looked away from him. It had seemed such a good idea when she had thought of it . , , to protect Ethelhelm’s future as best she could.
“Ethelred would be ashamed to hear his wife speaking so,” the stern, clipped voice of her brother-by-marriage said now, and tears sprang to her eyes again. She began to cry bitterly.
“I am sorry.” His arm came around her. “I did not mean to make you cry, Cyneburg. I know you are not yourself. I know how much you miss him. I … I miss him too.”
She knew he did. She knew that Alfred had truly loved Ethelred. She was ashamed, and that made her weep all the harder. She leaned against the slender body that felt so surprisingly strong. His arm tightened and she let her head fall onto his shoulder,
“Come,” he said gently. “Let me take you to your women.”
The witan met the following morning in the monks’ refectory at Wimborne. Athelred, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, was there, as were the bishops of Sherborne and Winchester, and Ealhard, the Bishop of Dorchester, too. The religious head of Wimborne was not present. Wimborne was a double monastery, housing both men and women religious, and its head was an abbess. Women were not permitted to join the councils of the witan.
The only ealdorman not present was Godfred, Ealdorman of Dorset. There were, as well, a number of the higher-ranking king’s thanes, those who had sat on the witan often before. In total, the council numbered near thirty men.
The Archbishop of Canterbury, premier cleric in the land, headed the meeting. “We are met, my lords,” he intoned solemnly after the opening prayer, “to choose a successor to our dearly loved Ethelred.” The men of the witan, all seated at the simple wooden tables whereon the monks ate their meals, looked back impassively, Alfred sat within the circle of nobles. Ethelred’s will lay on the table before him, and his eyes remained fixed on the parchment as the ponderous opening of the witan continued. Then finally the archbishop was saying, “The king has left us a will, which we by rights must hear before we proceed further.” All eyes swung to Alfred, and he picked up the parchment and rose from his bench.
He was so young, Ethelnoth of Somerset thought as he listened to the precise, perfectly pitched voice reading Ethelred’s wishes in regard to the succession. But twenty-one years old. And the task before him was staggering in its enormity. The only English kingdom with a hope of standing against the Danes was Wessex. And should Wessex fall … should it fall, then would England be no more. The Danes would control the entire island. Everything the Anglo-Saxons had done since first they landed here so many hundreds of years ago would be gone, obliterated under the heel of the pagans from the north.
It did not bear thinking of.
Not for the first time did Ethelnoth curse the loss of Ethelbald. There was a king who would have been able to face the Danes!
And yet … Alfred was a valiant youngster. Ethelnoth had seen that well at Ashdown. Nor did he shrink from making a decision. There was talk of some illness that hampered him, but Ethelnoth had never seen sign of it. And he was a prince of Wessex’ royal line. He traced his ancestry back to Cerdic and Ceawlin. If Wessex would follow any man, it would follow Alfred.
The prince had finished reading and now the archbishop was speaking again. Suddenly a man to Ethelnoth’s left was getting to his feet. “My lord bishop.” Heads swung to see who was speaking. It was Cenwulf, Ethelnoth saw, king’s thane of Dorset. “My lord,” the thane was going on, “there is another with a better claim to the kingship than Prince Alfred, and I put his name before you now.”
A hum of surprise rose from the benches. Cenwulf raised his voice ab
ove the sound. “Athelwold, son of Ethelwulfs eldest son, Athelstan, He it is whose name I place before you, my lords. This prince is full old enough to take up the kingship, as he was not when his father so untimely died.”
So, Ethelnoth thought. That was why Godfred of Dorset was not here. He had not wanted to find himself caught between two loyalties.
“How old is Athelwold?” barked the Bishop of Sherborne.
“Twenty, my lord,” Cenwulf replied strongly. “But one year behind Prince Alfred.”
Ethelnoth’s eyes went to Alfred. The prince had seated himself and was looking now at Cenwulf, his face perfectly calm, perfectly sealed.
“Athelwold has the right over Alfred,” Cenwulf was continuing. “He is the son of the eldest son of Ethelwulf. It is Athelwold whom we should name to be our next king.”
“How many battles has he fought?” It was Ethelm of Wiltshire’s harsh voice ringing out. “We have fought with Alfred all this spring. We know his mettle. He is a battle leader we can trust. Now is not the time to name an untried boy to lead Wessex.”
“Aye!”
“That is so!”
“Truly spoken!”
“My lords, my lords.” The Archbishop of Canterbury struggled to regain control of his meeting.
“Athelwold has the right!” Cenwulf shouted over the archbishop’s protesting voice.
“There is no right to the throne of Wessex.” Now Ethelnoth himself was on his feet. He looked around at the faces of his peers and saw they agreed with him. “In Wessex the right to name the king falls to the witan,” he continued, his hard gray stare now alighting on Cenwulf, who was standing just down the table from him. “It is our right and duty to name the prince of the royal line who seems to us best fit to serve the country. And I say that man is Alfred.”
A roar of approval went up from the benches.
