by Millie Thom
Unlike most Saxon structures, the walls of the royal residence consisted of thick blocks of stone, remnants of the spacious Roman villa that had once stood on the site. Only the uppermost sections of the walls and the thickly thatched roof bore evidence of Saxon workmanship at all. The coldness of the stone, however, demanded that thick hangings covered almost every inch of the interior walls. Alfred could recall the sense of warmth and comfort he’d felt as their rich colours glowed in the firelight. But the stone also meant that the hall had largely withstood earlier Danish raids, only the very top of the building succumbing to the fires that had destroyed most of Canterbury.
Yet Alfred’s two years in Kent had not been a happy time. His father, King Aethelwulf, with his new wife, Judith, had been forced to remain in the eastern shires on their return from Rome, due to his eldest son’s treachery in seizing the West Saxon throne. Distressed beyond reason by the depth of Aethelbald’s betrayal, so soon after the death of his beloved first wife, Aethelwulf gradually lost the will to live. And Alfred and his brothers, Aethelberht and Aethelred, could do nothing but stand by and watch.
Six years had passed since that time; years of continued uncertainty within Wessex and its ruling family. After Aethelwulf’s funeral, as stipulated in his will, Alfred and Aethelred had returned to the West, to reside at the court of its new king, Aethelbald, who had subsequently married his father’s young widow, Judith. Aethelberht, meanwhile, had remained in Kent, assuming kingship over the East. But after only two years, sadness struck again. Physicians attributed Aethelbald’s death to the same, inexplicable illness that had taken his older brother, Aethelstan, at an unnaturally early age.
The threat of this ailment now hung over the heads of Aethelwulf’s remaining children like an ominous black shadow.
Since Aethelberht had assumed kingship of the entirety of Wessex, Alfred had not returned to the eastern shires until now: Aethelberht ruled from the West, and seemed content to leave the governance of the East in the capable hands of Dryhtwald and Ceolnoth. And during the four years of Aethelberht’s reign, this was the first time the West Saxons had been called to provide aid to the East.
Aethelberht greeted the Kentish lords looking every inch the king. Although travel-stained and crumpled from hours in the saddle, his clothing shouted of the highest quality, from his soft leather boots to his heavy woollen cloak. He held his tall, lean frame straight, his pointed chin and wispy beard thrust out in a manner that signified he was accustomed to both issuing orders and having them obeyed. From the moment he arrived, Aethelberht had established his indisputable authority.
Alfred kept his eyes and ears open, taking in the company and assessing each man’s worth. Ealdorman Dryhtwald, he noted, was smartly attired in a dark blue tunic and cross-gartered breeches, but not overly adorned in jewellery. He seemed a gracious and open-natured man, perhaps ten years older than Aethelberht in his thirtieth year, and a respected leader with a confidence that the many years as ealdorman had instilled.
In Archbishop Ceolnoth, Alfred saw another well-seasoned leader, the silver hair and over-slack jaw suggesting he could boast seniority to Dryhtwald by at least ten years, despite his still muscular physique. Ceolnoth was one of the many ‘warrior bishops’ who could lead their flocks in both secular and spiritual matters. Alfred recalled the duplicitous nature of another such bishop, convinced that, unlike Ealhstan, Ceolnoth was not only a skilful warrior, but a man who truly cared for the welfare of his followers rather than personal gain. The archbishop’s plain woollen tunic gave no hint that he held the most superior of positions in the Saxon Church, only the silken stole suggesting a clerical calling at all.
‘The Danes’ strike out of Thanet hit us like a thunderbolt!’ Dryhtwald’s eyes flashed as he addressed the men assembled round the trestles early that evening. In the ensuing silence Alfred watched from his seat at the end of the royal table, where Aethelberht had placed him with instructions not to interfere. From beyond the palisade the clatter of the fyrd setting up camp for the night carried through the doorway as servants entered with food and ale for the meal. A cauldron of pottage simmered over the firepit, the fierce heat bringing beads of sweat to their brows, whilst dark shadows cast by the flames danced on the tapestried walls.
‘We had a peace treaty after all, willingly signed by the cursed Danes,’ Dryhtwald continued at last, directly addressing the king seated opposite to him. ‘We’d even given a huge payment in coin to ensure they kept to it. How could we have been so naïve?’ He sighed deeply and shifted his focus to the archbishop at his side.
‘We’ll not make the same mistake twice, Dryhtwald,’ Ceolnoth said, patting the ealdorman’s arm before focusing his attention on Aethelberht. ‘Just the once was enough to see hundreds of our people killed. We made a grave error in crediting the Danes with more than a modicum of honour. Treachery is the only facet of human behaviour those men favour.’
Aethelberht nodded slowly. ‘We saw the results of their treachery . . . and Canterbury may take years to restore.’ He stared solemnly down at his hands, fingers splayed on the table top.
‘Might I suggest that we conceive strategies for the most effective deployment of our forces, my lords,’ Osric said after some moments of silence, his dark gaze sweeping the men. ‘Our combined numbers are undeniably impressive, though we’ve probably no more than a hundred men more than the Danes. But. . .’
‘. . . if the Danes raid as a single unit, we’ll undoubtedly have a major battle to face,’ Aethelberht interposed, eventually raising his eyes to meet Osric’s. ‘But, from what we’ve been told, the Danes move out in bands . . . ?’ He registered the nods of the Kentish leaders. ‘Then our task will involve fragmented skirmishes throughout the shire.’
Dryhtwald rested his chin on his steepled fingers, frowning in thought. ‘We now know there to be five, possibly six, bands that have moved out in different directions, my lord. At first they hit coastal settlements, until they’d taken enough horses to enable them to raid further afield.’
‘As soon as the first reports of isolated attacks reached us we sent out a company of our own to combat them,’ Ceolnoth continued from where Dryhtwald had left off. His steady grey eyes held the king’s pale blue, as though he were willing him to understand their chosen course of action. ‘You see, my lord, we believed that only a small number of Danes – a single band – had moved out from Thanet and that the majority of them would be honouring our treaty.’ He shook his head at their own folly. ‘But, apart from those remaining on Thanet with their ships, the rest had spread deep into our lands and by the time we realised as much, extensive damage had already been done.’
‘Then, exactly at which point did you attempt to combat the various raiding parties?’
All eyes turned toward Alfred, who held the stares, despite the smirking faces. He was accustomed to such a reaction whenever he spoke in public. ‘I imagine you did attempt to tackle at least some of these bands,’ he added, ‘so I’d like to know what strategies you used, in order that we undertake alternative tactics next time.’
Aethelberht glared at Alfred before bestowing an appeasing smile on Dryhtwald and Ceolnoth. ‘I’m sure my brother intends no insult, my lords. He has a directness of speech that can sometimes be misconstrued as rudeness. Given time, I’m sure Alfred will learn to voice opinions and questions in a more tactful manner.’
Alfred seethed, but affected an expression of courteous acceptance of the rebuke. A petulant response would only enforce what his brother had said of him. Yet such acceptance was becoming difficult to feign, particularly since his brother so regularly pointed out his faults in public. Aethelberht rarely credited his youngest sibling with any intelligence at all. To him, Alfred was a mere boy. He sighed and tried to tune in to what was transpiring around the table.
The discussion came to a temporary halt when the reeve’s red-cheeked wife scurried across to speak to her husband, who subsequently addressed his guests.
‘My lord
s, may I ask that our discussions be resumed once we’re all replete? Your stomachs are doubtless growling in agony after your long journey, with little more to fill them than dried foods.’ Above the respondent murmurs of agreement, he said, ‘Then enjoy the food and wine, and perhaps the solutions we seek may come more easily on full stomachs.’
*****
‘So, tomorrow we head out in two groups,’ Aethelred reiterated, looking down at his brother, perched on the edge of his bed in their chamber adjoining the main hall.
Alfred nodded absently and continued his perusal of the letter in his hands – which he’d already read several times. Candles on the small tables and trunks gave a warm, comforting glow and he yawned widely. It had been a long day and discussions had continued long after the meal had ended.
‘From what I gather, Aethelberht refuses to waste another day on more talks,’ Aethelred went on. ‘He wants to be out, confronting the Danes. It seems Dryhtwald’s scouts have located some of the raiding bands, so tomorrow our aim is to put an end to a couple of them. You and I will ride with Osric who’s been assigned to accompany Archbishop Ceolnoth and Ealdorman Unwine of Sussex, with a mixture of warriors from East and West–’
At the sudden cessation of Aethelred’s voice, Alfred wrenched his attention from the velum, to be greeted by his brother’s exasperated grey-eyed glare.
‘Why is it I’m addressing the top of your head, Alfred? You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?’
‘Yes, I did. Well, not all of it,’ he admitted. ‘You said something about Osric . . . and Unwine, I think. And maybe Sussex?’
Aethelred tutted. ‘You know, you can be very irritating as a brother, Alfred. Most of the time I might as well talk to myself.’
‘My apologies,’ Alfred offered, and meant it. He didn’t like to offend Aethelred. ‘I was just reading this letter from Judith again.’ Acknowledging his brother’s smile he smiled back, knowing he’d been forgiven his bad-mannered inattention. ‘Judith’s happiness in her marriage is such good news, even though we were all sorry she had to return to Francia after Aethelbald’s death. She was a good stepmother to us, and I’m sure she’ll be an excellent wife to her new husband, and a wonderful mother to their recently born son.’
Aethelred agreed, and followed Alfred with a huge yawn. ‘I suppose we should try to sleep now; we’ve an early start tomorrow.’ He fell onto his own bed against the opposite wall and yanked off his riding boots. ‘My feet were beginning to think the boots were a permanent attachment,’ he quipped, removing his tunic and breeches before climbing beneath the furs. ‘You do know what we’re doing tomorrow, I take it? I mean, you did hear what was decided?’
‘I know, Aethelred. I always listen – well, nearly always,’ Alfred responded with a grin, as he picked up his saddle pouch to tuck away the velum missive.
‘Well, I hope you sleep without the noisy dreams tonight. I need a few hours of undisturbed rest.’
‘I’m sorry, brother. If I could rid myself of these dreams, I would,’ Alfred said, closing his eyes as Aethelred’s voice drifted into nothingness.
*****
By the time Aethelberht’s forces moved into Kent, the Danes had been rampaging throughout the shire for over two weeks. Surviving villagers cowered in burnt-out homes; others still took refuge in dense woodlands, too terrified to emerge. The sad task of burying the dead had barely begun, and only once the burials were over would the rebuilding of torched homes commence. The pain of loss and suffering would remain for many years.
The company of warriors to which Alfred and Aethelred had been assigned scoured eastern Kent for three days, without news of any recent attacks. It seemed the Danes had either moved on or withdrawn to Thanet. Seated cross-legged around the campfire that night, Osric’s attention veered between Alfred and Aethelred. ‘We’ll spend one more day on this – any longer and we’ll need to hunt for fresh food,’ he said. ‘Ceolnoth wants to be sure the Danes aren’t just lying low.’
Alfred glanced at the archbishop, who was swallowing the barely palatable dried food without a word of complaint beside the Sussex ealdorman. A calmness emanated from him that Alfred decided could only come from his deep faith.
‘But we’re in agreement that the Danes have more than likely gone altogether,’ Osric went on, spitting out a lump of beef gristle and prising leathery fibres from between his teeth with his scramseax. ‘I know that if I led a raiding party, and my scouts brought news of forces such as ours heading my way, I’d order a hasty retreat!’ He grinned at their amused expressions. ‘Well, have either of you seen anything left around here worth risking a thrashing for . . .? Exactly,’ he said, as they shook their heads. ‘Time for the Danes to go home, as I said.’
‘Except that Thanet isn’t their home, is it?’
‘True, Alfred,’ Osric agreed. ‘But we’ve no way of dislodging them from there. They’ve built formidable defences on the isle and their numbers seem to swell by the month. No, we can’t confront the Danes on Thanet. Once they crawl back there, they’ll stay until they decide to move on – or emerge to raid Kent again.’
Not a man to give up easily, Ceolnoth insisted they should remain a further two days, following leads from ruined settlements. Scouting parties were dispatched in all directions, one led by Unwine of Sussex, which returned to camp on the evening before they were due to leave for Canterbury.
‘We met up with scouts from the king’s army sent out to find us,’ Unwine reported, dismounting and seating himself. ‘They’ve had reports of a mass retreat to Thanet by the Danes. Apparently,’ he said, looking enquiringly at the archbishop, ‘Dryhtwald had spies amongst them . . .?’ Ceolnoth confirmed the truth of that. ‘Well, it seems the arrival of our army was enough to convince Weland of the wisdom of rapidly returning to the isle.’
Osric nodded. ‘The only thing he could do in the circumstances.’
Aethelred harrumphed. ‘So our journey to Kent has been pointless,’ he said, voicing the thoughts of most of the men.
Ceolnoth surveyed Aethelred’s scowling face. ‘You may say that, young lord, but I believe your arrival in Kent has served a great purpose. The heathens will now realise that we do not stand alone. When threatened, our king will not abandon us.’
‘Then perhaps we should speed up the means of transporting our armies,’ Alfred remarked. ‘It would be a pity to get here too late on every occasion.’
Two
Elston, Northern Mercia: July 864
The small boy squatted on the rushes of Ealdorman Wigstan’s hall, playing happily with the wooden animals strewn across a woollen blanket, closely watched by his pretty young nurse, Odella. The child’s mother sat amidst her women on a nearby bench, diligently pushing a fine iron needle through the linen fabric, determined to finish her husband’s new tunic by the end of the week.
Leoflaed’s nimble fingers took a well earned rest as she watched her beaming two-year-old. Her eyes shone with pride as, with more than a little help from Odella, he sorted the animals into two groups. To one side he placed those with legs, and on the other, all the legless creatures.
The ealdorman’s daughter smiled, thinking as she always did when looking at her son, how much like his father he was. Aethelred’s thick red hair curled about his neck and the expression in his emerald eyes could change from merriment to irritation within moments.
Pulling himself up on his sturdy little legs, Aethelred toddled over to her, grasping her saffron-coloured over-gown and yawning widely. Leoflaed placed her needlework on the table behind her and hoisted him onto her lap, stroking his head as he snuggled into her breast. ‘I’m not surprised you’re tired, Aethelred, you’ve done so much today. Why, you’ve just organised your little animals, and this morning you walked all the way across the meadow with Odella to pick those lovely red flowers.’
‘Poppies,’ he corrected flatly, twisting to point a chubby finger at a large storage chest at the side of the hall, upon which sat a hefty earthen jar, full of the re
d flowers.
Leoflaed grinned and gave him a cuddle. ‘Indeed they are poppies, and it’s very clever of you to remember the name. They look quite beautiful over there – so bright and cheerful.’
The child momentarily beamed at the praise, before his young face creased into a frown. ‘No Papa.’
‘Aethelred was more concerned with scanning the horizons for Lord Eadwulf than picking wild flowers, my lady,’ Odella explained, coming to perch her petite frame beside them. ‘He does miss his father.’
‘I know he does – as do we all, Odella. But I think my husband will be back within a few days.’ Leoflaed hoped the uncertainty in her own prediction would not be written on her face. ‘He said he’d be away for three weeks at the most, and three weeks will be up in four days’ time.
‘Now,’ she whispered over the head of her already sleeping son, ‘if you’d take Aethelred for his afternoon nap, Odella, I must get on with this shirt. Eadwulf is in dire need of it, although he wouldn’t say so himself. He pays little heed to his appearance and still prefers to wear his old tunics and breeches.’ She smiled as her husband’s handsome face filled her thoughts. ‘Yet he insists on keeping his face hairless; not a trace of beard since the day after he arrived here.’
Manoeuvring the solidly built child into the arms of his nurse, Leoflaed swept her braids behind her shoulders and settled back to her needlework, her thoughts drifting to the past . . .
It was four years ago when Eadwulf had first arrived at her father’s hall. It was one of those hazy days of midsummer when Leoflaed had first seen him, riding in as though he’d always belonged here. The first thing she’d noticed as he dismounted was how tall he was – much taller than her father – before taking in the rest of his appearance. His long hair was a vibrant red, much more fiery than her own deep auburn, and held in tight braids, whilst his equally red beard and moustaches straggled freely down his throat. His tunic and cloak were old and grubby, and he had a leather bag, of sorts, slung across his back. He seemed neither lord nor simple cottar, for though his tattered clothing implied the latter, his whole bearing belied it. His unconventional appearance left her gawking.
