Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2)

by Millie Thom

  Eadwulf’s lips twitched as Durwin stared at Aethelnoth, as though fathoming how he could have acquired that experience, but not daring to ask.

  'They wiped out most of our army,’ Durwin went on, ‘as well as most of us who'd been held in the city since November.’

  ‘York was your home, I take it?’

  ‘It was, my lord,’ Durwin replied to Wigtan’s query. ‘I’m a potter, and York was a good place to be for a tradesman, what with all the ships coming up the Ouse. I’ve never lived anywhere but York. And since my wife died two years ago, there’s just me and my son, Eric here. . .

  ‘We took cover in a cellar with a couple of others,’ he explained with a glance at his son, ‘which, by some fluke, wasn't noticed during the fighting. When it was all over the Danes just put us back to work, cooking and running after them. They'd killed eight of our ealdormen, as well as King Osberht. But they’d taken Aelle alive – and claimed his end would be worse than that of the Danish jarl in the viper pit two years ago.’

  ‘I can think of no worse way of dying than that,’ Eadwulf declared in response to the heads turned his way.

  Durwin shrugged. ‘You might change your mind when you’ve heard me out, my lord. The four of us left alive were forced to watch – something we’ll not forget as long as we live.’ Eric’s harrowed face confirmed his father’s words. ‘Aelle was given to a pagan lord called Ivar–’

  The intakes of breath again stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Word of this Ivar has reached us from others sources and we’re merely surprised to hear it again in connection with your king,’ Wigstan offered.

  Durwin’s head tilted at the limited explanation but, again, he did not question. ‘The day of the execution was too cold for early April,’ he went on, his brow creasing in concentration. ‘The sky was like lead and the bitter wind made it feel like late January. Ivar and his hordes filled the stretch of open ground overlooked by the great minster–’

  ‘The same place Ragnar met his end in that vile pit. No offence intended, Durwin,’ Eadwulf put in quickly, ‘but reports of that incident left us appalled. I can understand why the Danes would want to take their revenge in the same place.’

  ‘I believe that was why they chose the site,’ Durwin replied, his scowl displaying his annoyance at the many interruptions. But, keen to tell his tale, he ploughed on. ‘Aelle and his handful of men were hauled out, dressed only in breeches and without their shoes.’

  The Northumbrian glanced at Eadwulf as he flinched but no further interruption ensued. ‘They were lined up before the pagan lords, in front of the wall to the pit you mentioned. We four were shoved to one side, close to two stout posts fixed into the earth, each nigh on four feet high and five feet apart, with a moveable bar across the top. I admit I trembled at the sight, my lords, knowing that this structure would be used for something evil. And our closeness to Ivar made my heart race with fear . . .

  ‘I've yet to see an uglier man,’ he digressed, grimacing at the recollection. ‘Seems unable to stand on his own, and his body’s stunted and twisted. But they say his temper’s something to be feared. He has some sort of power over his men, and none dare disobey him. Just the look in his eyes can set a man trembling. I’ve never been a religious man, you understand, but that day I prayed harder than any monk. In truth, I believed we’d share our king’s fate.

  ‘Well, for some time Ivar taunted Aelle with his uselessness as a king and his belief that his armies were a match for battle-trained Danes. He jeered at the ridiculous civil war and the pathetic state of York’s walls. His icy tone made my blood run cold. But then his anger seemed to get the better of him. He shrieked the glories of his famous father, Ragnar, his strength and courage, and his skills in battle. He raged at the way Ragnar was forced to meet his god – on the orders of a weak and worthless man not fit to lick his boots. The very least Aelle could have granted Ragnar was his dignity in death.

  ‘Ivar’s outburst had already silenced the crowds,’ Durwin continued with a grim nod, ‘but suddenly a deathly hush fell over the city. I could swear that even the wind held its breath.’ Echoes of that silence dominated Wigstan’s hall as Durwin frowned, seeming to order the details of the scene playing in his head. Then very slowly, the words strained through his lips.

  ‘King Aelle was dragged between the posts and forced to his knees by three of Ivar’s men. Two of them yanked his arms out wide, while the other lowered the crossbar and forced his head beneath it, so that it was pushed forward. The two holding his outstretched arms lashed his wrists to the bar . . .

  ‘Though we were only six paces away, the king’s face wasn't visible to us. We were facing his back you see, my lords. But he screamed for mercy, cried he’d do anything, anything at all, if they let him go. He’d serve them . . . honour their gods . . . give them Danegeld . . . raise armies for them . . .

  ‘The Danes around Ivar just stared at him, cold loathing on their faces. Then a big, brawny warrior with a hefty sword in his hand stepped out. He stood behind Aelle, staring down at his bared back while the two who had bound the king’s wrists waited at the posts.’ Durwin paused, struggling against the clutches of a violent shudder. ‘The executioner raised the sword . . . Then he struck, stabbing high in the king’s bared back and dragging the knife down to make a long slit. Screams of agony rushed from Aelle’s throat. I felt sick to the stomach and my legs seemed to turn to water. But things got steadily worse.

  ‘The warrior calmly carved the shape of two large wings on either side of Aelle’s spine and tore back his flesh. Tortured screams soared again, then they just stopped. I thought that the pain, or shock, had killed him, and I thanked God he could feel no more. The Dane continued anyway, cutting quickly to separate every rib from Aelle’s spine, until they splayed out like blood-stained wings.’

  Durwin’s eyes moved from one sickened face to the next. ‘The blood eagle, they call it. They’d given Aelle eagle wings on his back.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Then, gurgling squeals came from Aelle’s throat. He must have just passed out, in too much agony to scream when he came round. The Dane reached inside Aelle’s back and pulled out his lungs. I watched them fill up and flutter weakly . . . just twice, before they were cut right out.

  ‘As salt was poured onto the wounds the gurgling sounds stopped. And this time, Aelle really was dead. The Danes' cheers of approval filled my ears, and truly believing that we'd be next, I trembled in my shoes.'

  Silence again filled the hall. Questions remained unasked as everyone tried to make sense of the gruesome images. Eadwulf battled with his own emotions, and his loyalties.

  Had Aelle truly warranted such a death? Did one barbaric act warrant another?

  Perhaps. And Ragnar’s end, though not as bloody, had been far slower than Aelle’s.

  ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’

  Wasn’t that something taught by the pretentious Christian priests? Or didn’t they preach of turning the other cheek? How could the two ever be reconciled? Eadwulf knew too little about his own people’s beliefs to answer and, wanting to hear the rest of the tale, he turned to the Northumbrian potter. ‘Your fears were evidently unwarranted, Durwin. You are still very much alive, so tell us how the rest of that day played out.’

  ‘You’re right, my lord. It wasn’t our day to die. But the half dozen of Aelle’s men were slain – quickly though, cut down by the sword. Only Aelle suffered the blood-eagle. Me and Eric, and the other two men of York, were shoved to face Ivar, and again I thought our time was up. But no . . . Ivar held us in that evil black stare and told us to leave York. We were to spread the news that the Danes ruled the city, and if anyone felt brave enough to object they’d meet the same end as Aelle. The other two headed north, so we came south. Then I got the idea of riding to Nottingham in the hope of begging for help from King Burgred . . . Your faces tell me you don’t approve of that–’

  ‘We neither approve nor disapprove,’ Wigstan responded as Eadwulf shook his he
ad. ‘Let’s just say we don’t think you’ll meet with much success. Our king’s not one to risk his own neck, unless there’s something in it for him.’

  Durwin’s face crumpled. ‘Then our kingdom’s truly lost, since we’ve nowhere else to turn for help. We’ll just have to pray that the bloodshed stops and the Danes settle peacefully now they’ve got what they want.’

  Although sympathetic to the Northumbrian plight, Eadwulf could see no obvious course of action. ‘That may well happen, Durwin, though it may take generations for different peoples to fully accept each other. There may be years of misery and hardship ahead as the Danes take full control and subjugate the Northumbrian people. And it would take little short of a miracle to oust them from your lands.’

  At Eadwulf’s grim predictions, Durwin admitted he’d already wrestled with such dreads himself. And the Northumbrian people could never combat such a powerful army. But he still intended to try his luck with the Mercian king.

  There seemed little more to be said and Durwin and his son headed for the stables to check their horses before the evening meal. Once they’d gone, Wigstan repeated his earlier concerns. ‘If Ivar and his hordes set their sights on Mercia, I just hope that Burgred will act in the interests of his own people, if not to help the Northumbrians. I’ve had no orders yet to ready our thegns, or the fyrd. And since the Danes are so close, I think it’s time to do so.’

  ‘I doubt that Burgred cares for a single one of his subjects, Wigstan. You know our feelings about the man,’ Eadwulf said, glancing at Aethelnoth, who was nodding at his side. ‘He’d sooner run and hide and leave them all to their own devices. Of course, the fact that his wife is sister to the Wessex king could prove useful to him there. Burgred could seek help from Wessex. We know he’s done so before to counter the Welsh. If another request is made, I can’t see King Aethelred refusing.’

  Eadwulf barely registered Wigstan’s reply as his thoughts returned to a day in Nottingham – almost three years ago now – when he’d encountered the Wessex royal family. Alfred’s bright, amber eyes had seemed to penetrate to his innermost thoughts. What was it he’d said as he leaned low in his saddle . . .?

  ‘Your disguise is a little thin on close inspection . . . the mud in your hair is well cracked. A little uncomfortable on the scalp . . . But whatever your purpose, I don’t feel you to be a threat . . . I’ve a strong feeling that one day we’ll meet again.’

  The words bounced inside Eadwulf’s head as the conversations in the hall buzzed around him. He was convinced that the ‘one day’ referred to by Alfred was fast approaching.

  Twelve

  Wessex: Autumn 867

  In late September, Bishop Ealhstan died at his Episcopal See of Sherborne. The interment was a solemn affair, attended by members of the Wessex Court and many of the kingdom’s notables. At Aethelred’s side, Alfred stood with due reverence as Ealhstan’s coffin was laid to rest beside that of their brother, King Aethelbald.

  Although he’d never liked the manipulative, dour-faced cleric, or truly forgiven his complicity in Aethelbald’s treachery against their father, King Aethelwulf, all those years ago, Alfred had come to accept that Ealhstan’s actions may have been guided by his concerns for Wessex. Perhaps the bishop had seen Aethelwulf as a spent force – a feeble, ageing king whom Norse raiders would see as an easy target – compared to the young, robust Aethelbald. Perhaps. Or perhaps his only motive was personal gain. Whichever . . . it was too late to speculate. Yet Alfred couldn’t deny that Ealhstan’s military record was impeccable. As Bishop of Sherborne for fifty years, he’d never shirked his duty to Wessex.

  Alfred endured the ceremony in extreme discomfort. His backside seemed to be on fire. Sitting was an agony he could barely tolerate, and standing was little better on shaking legs. It took every shred of self-control to hide his misery, particularly from his brother, the Wessex king. Aethelred would be sorely disappointed should Alfred decline to accompany him to Cornwall. The hunting trip had been arranged some weeks ago, and Alfred himself would be more than disappointed to miss it.

  Four days later, Alfred and Aethelred, with their large company of well-armed warriors, were welcomed into the court of King Dungarth, under-king of the most south-westerly of the Wessex shires. Alfred felt Dungarth’s affable hospitality to be somewhat forced, particularly considering the region’s long resistance to becoming part of Wessex. Many of the Cornish people were still hostile to their Saxon overlords, the reason for Aethelred’s large escort, and Alfred sensed the underlying antagonism behind the many superficial smiles.

  But the week passed most agreeably. The autumn days were pleasantly warm and hunts were successful. Roasted harts and wild boar, seasoned with exotic spices and herbs, delighted their palates each evening. The joys of the hunt overrode Alfred’s pain, and though he suffered from sleepless nights, tossing in an agony of hot sweats and throbbing innards, he deemed them fair exchange for his daily pleasure. Yet the week came to an end all too soon and the journey back to Wilton began.

  After barely three hours in the saddle they reached the small monastery of Saint Neot, close to the bleak, rolling expanse of Bodmin Moor.

  ‘Rest here and take refreshment,’ Aethelred threw over his shoulder to his men. ‘We move on within the hour.’ To Alfred he murmured, ‘You can’t ride another mile without a rest, brother. I’ve been watching you grimace for some time . . . And you’re sweating like a hog. Besides, I’m told there’s a shrine to some ancient saint here: Saint Gueirir, Dungarth called him. Anyway,’ he added, with a roguish grin, ‘this saint is known to listen to pleas from gutless sinners like you.’

  Disregarding Alfred’s protestations at being tagged a sinner, or gutless, Aethelred gestured to a dark-robed figure hobbling their way. ‘I’m sure the good monk will point you in the direction of the shrine.’ His grin suddenly dropped. ‘Pray for help, Alfred. Let the holy saint ease your pain.’

  The small shrine was no more than a shoulder-high, stone-built structure resembling a shallow cave. On a low, stone altar inside stood a simple, but sturdy, crucifix, and a wooden box containing the bones of what appeared to be a human finger and a wispy lock of faded hair. Relics, Alfred decided; relics of a holy man he’d never even heard of. But the place, small as it was, emanated such an overwhelming sense of peace he fell to his knees in silent prayer.

  He prayed to the saint that the painful, debilitating haemorrhoids would be replaced by some other ailment, one that would enable him to pursue his duties to Wessex without appearing weak and vulnerable to others. A leader could afford no such flaws. And yet, he begged Saint Gueirir, let the new affliction continue to help him control his insatiable sexual lust.

  As they left Cornwall far behind, Alfred felt waves of the saint’s power coursing through him, quenching the fiery agony in every part of his stricken, royal backside.

  The nature of his new affliction remained to be seen.

  *****

  Shrewsbury, Mercia: mid October 867

  Burgred swallowed down yet another mug of ale, still seething from his most recent row with his wife – and adamant he’d not be the first to make amends this time. Aethelswith’s stubbornness always left him furious. Oh, she could weep as well as any woman, but with her, tears seemed to strengthen her resolve. When she was all cried out, she’d start with her constant nagging again.

  Why couldn’t the woman see reason? All she ever thought about was her pathetic brothers in Wessex. She was still angry he’d forbidden her to travel to Sherborne for the funeral of that fusty old bishop, Ealhstan, two weeks ago. And now, he was absolutely adamant he wasn’t going all the way to Dorset just so she could be with her odious brothers. Admittedly, she hadn’t seen either of them for the past two years, but, as a king’s wife she had responsibilities to Mercia as much as he did. The Welsh were massing across the borders in Powys and could move into Mercia at any time. That’s why they’d come to Shrewsbury with their armies ready to move out, for Christ’s sake. And all Aethel
swith could do was whine about going to Dorset!

  It wasn’t until several hours later that Aethelswith returned to the hall, with Mildrede clinging to her skirts. Burgred had spent most of the afternoon downing ale and was in no mood to talk. But it seemed that neither was Aethelswith, or his pouting daughter.

  The entrance of the three messengers afforded a welcomed distraction, and Burgred directed them to a table away from his aggrieved family.

  But the news they relayed left him numb to the core.

  *****

  ‘So, we’re agreed then?’ Burgred nodded at his three counsellors, the decision regarding yesterday’s news eventually made. The Danes appeared to have grown bored of their sojourn in York and, with the onset of October, had stormed into Mercia to take Nottingham. As the Mercian king, Burgred was obliged to act.

  ‘We send to King Aethelred and request assistance in this. I doubt he’ll refuse, since he values the unity between our kingdoms so highly.’ He glanced about, checking that Aethelswith was not in the room, but lowered his voice regardless, ‘Nor would he deny aid to his only sister, whom both he and that obnoxious younger brother positively adore.’

  His counsellors shared disapproving glances, which Burgred chose to ignore. ‘At daybreak tomorrow we dispatch messengers to Edlington, where I’m told the Wessex Court will reside until the Advent. And whilst we wait for Aethelred’s reply, we send word to our ealdormen to rally our own forces and head for Nottingham.’ He paused, recalling with bravado how effectively joint Mercian and West Saxon forces had dealt so successfully with the Welsh in the past, confident that such success could be theirs again. ‘It’s time the Danes realised that these kingdoms are not theirs for the taking.’

  *****

  Nottingham, Mercia: early January 868

  A piercing north-easterly whistled through the expansive camp of Saxons and Mercians, carrying the hint of first snow. Inside the tent he shared with Aethelred, Alfred huddled beside the brazier and contemplated their situation.