Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2)

by Millie Thom

  Two months they’d been here now; two months of doing nothing. Nottingham’s defences were now impregnable, displaying clear signs of extensive restoration since Alfred had last visited the town. And, once the Danes had learned of the vast armies heading their way, intent on battle, they’d been shrewd enough to withdraw behind them . . .

  Alfred had held such hopes of victory, of finding glory to match that of his father and grandfather – even without two of the most successful of Wessex military leaders, Bishop Ealhstan of Sherborne and Ealdorman Eanwulf of Somerset, who had both so recently died. But his hopes had soon been dashed. The Danes couldn’t even be reached, let alone ousted. Their only hope now was that food supplies in the city would soon expire, and hunger would force the enemy out. Just when that would happen was anyone’s guess.

  The men were already dispirited, the fyrd particularly so, remaining inside their tents for most of the time, having seen no action whatsoever. All had forgone the Christmastide with their families. Wessex villages were too distant for travel – and Aethelred was not convinced that all the men would return, once safely in their homes. So, he’d even forbidden a rota. He needed all of his army here, at all times, he told them all. Who knows what the Danes would do if they got wind of departing armies?

  And Alfred knew he was right. There was always the possibility of a surprise raid, or full-scale attack, should the enemy detect the slightest weakening of the forces resolutely settled on their periphery.

  Alfred was pleased with the way that Saxons and Mercians had banded together during the winter siege. So far the men had gelled well, despite each group rallying to the orders of their individual ealdormen. But, should the siege last for much longer, he knew that things could easily change. Orders over the need to forego the Christmas festivities had brought the first signs of disgruntlement, the increasing cold a further cause of unrest. Though, as yet, he’d witnessed only sharp tones and raised voices, he wondered how long it would be before fists began to fly.

  And how long before Alfred himself came to blows with his scheming brother-by-marriage?

  It had been Aethelred who’d proposed that Alfred should marry, to further cement the union between Wessex and Mercia. And Burgred just happened to know the ideal woman. Alfred recalled the night with a feeling of intense vexation. On returning to the tent he shared with his brother, he’d been irritated to find Aethelred, once again, entertaining the Mercian king. The tent was warm; a brazier glowed, illuminating the faces of the kings and a handful of the two kingdoms’ ealdormen, all enjoying a cup of ale. The mood was genial, the talk not of the prolonged siege that seemed destined to end in stalemate, but of women and marriage . . . and beneficial alliances.

  Alfred’s thoughts immediately turned to his beloved sister, whose marriage had been little more than a charade from the beginning, valuable alliance or not. And the name foremost on Burgred’s lips meant nothing to him.

  ‘Of course, Lady Ealhswith is very dear to me,’ Burgred was saying. ‘A distant cousin, on her father’s side; Mucel is one of my most influential ealdormen. And her mother is a saintly creature, descended from Cenwulf, one of Mercia’s greatest kings.’ Burgred took a swig of ale and grinned around at his rapt audience. ‘But Ealhswith’s lineage isn’t her only virtue. Though still young – just sixteen, I believe – her physical beauty is undeniable. She is modest, though whether pious like her mother, I can’t say. But she is clever, and remarkably witty.’ Again Burgred smiled at the listeners, his attention momentarily resting on Alfred. ‘It’s barely six months since I saw my cousin and I doubt she’ll have changed in so short a time. Surely, a new husband could not fail to value such noteworthy qualities . . .’

  By the time Alfred realised they’d been discussing him – his future – the match had already been approved by Aethelred.

  Alfred was to marry some Mercian noblewoman called Ealhswith.

  That was two days ago and Alfred was still seething as he wandered about the camp, checking on the men. How could Aethelred do this to him – make arrangements to have his only surviving brother married off to some woman he’d never even heard of, let alone seen, even if she was such a paragon of virtue?

  How could Aethelred take the word of their lying brother-by-marriage?

  But, involuntarily Alfred was intrigued, and looked forward to meeting the young woman. After all, he could always refuse to marry her, should she not match up to his expectations. He chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. Or could he? His brother was King of Wessex, after all, and the alliance between Wessex and Mercia would be greatly strengthened by such a union. On consideration, he realised that, whether he actually liked the girl or not, soon after this siege was over, he’d likely become a married man. Yet again, he thanked God and Saint Gueirir that at least the crippling haemorrhoids had gone.

  *****

  By March the situation at Nottingham had not improved, although thankfully, the snows had been light and short-lived that year. The Danes remained doggedly behind the ample defences, seeming none the worse for having outside food and water supplies cut off throughout the winter. Eadwulf knew that wells were plentiful in the town and many households kept a few livestock He also knew, only too well, that Danish warriors were very adept at night-time pillaging, sneaking in and out of the town unseen, unheard. Finding extra food supplies would not cause them undue concern. Their own armies would run out of supplies long before the enemy did. And the fyrd could not stay away from their farms for much longer without the threat of starvation next year. He confided to Aethelnoth and Wigstan that this siege would doubtless end with Mercians and Saxons withdrawing, and the Danes still indomitably holding Nottingham.

  Like the West Saxons, Mercian armies had hastened to Burgred’s call in mid October. Wigstan had already summoned the fyrd and the thegns in his domain, and arrived at Nottingham before the end of the month. In Burgred’s presence, Eadwulf kept well in the background, careful not to draw attention to himself or catch his uncle’s eye. His thick, red hair was pulled well back, and the stubbly beard he’d allowed to sprout disguised his features. Aethelnoth, too, kept his bushy, straw-coloured hair tied back. Loose, it might trigger memories of Thrydwulf in Burgred.

  The deep-rooted hatred that had festered for so many years scoured Eadwulf’s stomach as he stared at the loathsome face. But his emotions would be held securely in check, at least until after this siege. Then he could reconsider his options; evaluate the possibility of gaining access to Burgred unseen. He had no desire to risk his life needlessly; he had Leoflaed and his children to consider, after all. Images of their laughing faces filled his thoughts as he lay down to sleep each night.

  But his dreams seemed destined to belong to Freydis forever.

  Eadwulf had caught Alfred’s eye on several occasions, but, as yet, no conversation between them had ensued. Alfred recognised him, he felt certain; the appraising amber gaze lasted just a little too long on each occasion. But there had always been others around, and Eadwulf somehow knew that Alfred declined to speak because of that.

  Though Danes constantly lined the defensive ramparts, Eadwulf hadn’t even caught a glimpse of Ivar or Halfdan. If, at intervals, Danish warlords had appeared to assess the encircling foe, they were too distant to recognise. It seriously rankled him to be so close to men he was itching to get his hands on, but couldn’t.

  *****

  As the end of March neared it seemed that Burgred had come to the same conclusion as Eadwulf regarding the siege: it was achieving nothing. His uncle rode with an air of aplomb toward the nearest city gate, flanked by two of his men – one of whom carried the white flag of truce – to offer negotiations for a peaceful resolution. The Danes evidently reached a decision quickly; Burgred seemed to have been gone for barely moments.

  Over the following few days, talks proceeded within Nottingham’s defences. Burgred kept the Wessex king and his own men informed of developments, and Wigstan, one of Mercia’s few select ealdormen permitted to accomp
any their king, apprised Eadwulf and Aethelnoth daily of the finer details. Eventually, wrangling over an acceptable tribute came to an end, and Burgred dispatched a contingent of men to Tamworth, his capital, with a letter bearing his seal. The missive instructed the counsellors he’d left in charge of the manor to release the specified sum to his messengers.

  The journey there and back took them over a week, the wagon bearing the heavy bags of silver coin slowing them down considerably. Then, whilst the details of the ‘peace treaty’ were finalised, Aethelred’s armies struck camp and left for Wessex. The pact was between Mercia and the Danes, and did not involve Wessex in any way at all.

  In the second week of April the Danes made a mass return to York. Nottingham was free, at last, and Mercian armies could also go home.

  *****

  Elston, Mercia: late April 868

  Eadwulf handed the bawling infant to the outstretched arms of her mother, the look of such panic on his face causing fits of laughter to erupt from those still gathered in the hall after the morning meal.

  ‘Leofwynn’s cutting another tooth, that’s all,’ Leoflaed assured him with a smile. ‘Don’t worry, she hasn’t taken aversion to you yet.’

  Eadwulf attempted to return his wife’s smile. ‘Does that mean she may well do so before long?’

  ‘That depends on how much she sees of you over the next few months, I suppose,’ Leoflaed replied. ‘If you become a virtual stranger to her, she may well scream at the sight of you. On the other hand, she could turn out to be the kind of child that smiles at anyone who smiles at her.’

  ‘I think it’ll be the latter on that score, my friend,’ Aethelnoth consoled, ‘seeing that she always giggles at my hairy face. If anyone’s going to frighten the mite, it’ll be me.’

  Eadwulf harrumphed, not convinced. ‘Well, I hadn’t planned on going anywhere just yet, so I suppose I’ll have to see how things progress. But that’s twice Leofwynn’s screamed as soon as I’ve picked her up.’

  ‘Then there’s your answer,’ Jorund put in. ‘You’re not getting your timing right. As I recall, the last time she howled at you, she was over-tired. Remember, Eadwulf, you lifted her out of her pen because she was already chuntering? You can’t expect her to want to play if all she needs is sleep.’

  Thankful for at least one amenable offspring, Eadwulf glanced down at the smiling six-year-old sitting at his side. ‘I can’t recall Aethelred ever bawling at me,’ he grouched. ‘But perhaps boys are different . . .’

  More than a little embarrassed by the outright guffaws, Eadwulf clammed up.

  They’d been back now for over a week and life had taken on a welcomed normality. Jorund had been more than irked at not being allowed to accompany them to Nottingham. According to Odella, he’d griped about it for weeks. But on hearing that they hadn’t seen any familiar faces amongst the Danes, he was soon mollified.

  Both Eadwulf and Aethelnoth were disappointed at not having even glimpsed either Ivar or Halfdan, despite being relieved that – as far as they knew – the brothers had not spotted them either. The terms of the so-called treaty between Mercia and the Danes were a source of concern, too. The enormous payment made was obscene, particularly as Mercia was already in financial difficulty. Hostages had been exchanged, as was to be expected, but the fact that Burgred should offer friendship to the Danes was worrying. And just how far this ‘friendship’ would be stretched remained to be seen.

  Thirteen

  Winchcombe, Mercia: early May 868

  Had she but known it, Ealhswith had reacted to proposals for her forthcoming marriage with as much indignation as had her intended husband. She had gaped at Ealdorman Mucel, her father, in stunned silence. Marriage . . .? She didn’t want to get married; not yet anyway. She was happy here in Winchcombe with her parents, who tended to overlook her existence at times. This situation suited Ealhswith, since it left her free to pursue her own interests, like riding out with her older brother, Aethelwulf, exploring the lovely Cotswold countryside, or sitting quietly, hidden away in some corner of the estate, reading the texts she loved so much. Or watching snowflakes fall in the depth of winter, and dust motes dancing in the sunbeams pouring through the open windows of the hall. Or simply daydreaming . . .

  Having contemplated the situation for over a month, Ealhswith had gradually come around to thinking that marriage to the Wessex king’s brother might not be such a bad idea after all. As the daughter of an ealdorman, she already lived quite a privileged life. Yes, she had some responsibilities about the hall, especially now that she was sixteen. There were servants to direct at mealtimes, and ale and mead to be served. And sometimes she was needed to work at the looms or on a new tapestry, which she hated. But, as the wife of the second most important man in Wessex, Ealhswith would have a status to be envied amongst women. Not that she coveted power, or fine clothes and jewellery. She just didn’t like people telling her what to do all the time. If she wanted to go out riding, or take a walk, why should it cause such a palaver? As an important wife, she hoped she could simply suit herself.

  Of course, Ealhswith knew that her new husband would have designs on at least some of her time; she wasn’t such a child as to believe she would escape her responsibilities in the bed chamber. And by next year she could even be a mother. She baulked at that idea, dismissed it quickly and resumed her thoughts of Alfred . . .

  For a start, she’d heard some very uncomplimentary tales about the number of women he’d used and abandoned, and wondered what Alfred of Wessex was really like. Tittle-tattle had never interested Ealhswith. Most of it was either total fabrication or exaggeration in any case. But, perhaps there could be some small seed of truth buried in its midst. Would Alfred treat a wife with equal disdain?

  Tomorrow she would accompany her parents to Chippenham to meet Alfred and his brother, King Aethelred. Nervous as she was, she was pleased that, soon, she’d be able to put a face to the man who’d dominated her thoughts in recent weeks.

  *****

  Chippenham, Wessex: mid May, 868

  Afternoon sunlight beamed down on the royal hall at Chippenham, affording the approaching Mercians a cheerful welcome. Waiting in anxious anticipation, the West Saxons adopted cordial smiles and emerged from the straw-thatched hall, King Aethelred at the fore. A pace behind his brother, beside Brihtnoth, the Wiltshire ealdorman, Alfred struggled to appear cheerful. Having not yet resigned himself to the idea of becoming espoused, he felt his affable expression slip entirely as the visiting party came to a halt.

  Battling the sensation of pending doom, he watched the escort of warriors dismount, and two of them head for the back of the covered wagon to assist the ageing Ealdorman Mucel and his wife and daughter to alight. His expression morphed into a puzzled frown when he realised that Ealhswith had not emerged.

  Did he feel affronted or relieved that she hadn’t come . . . ?

  Before Alfred’s deliberations could progress further, two riders trotted into view. One of them was a young woman, her gold-brown hair glinting in the sunlight. The pair reined to a stop beside the wagon and smiled down at the gaping faces.

  ‘My sister and I beg pardon for our late arrival, my lord,’ the young man said, addressing King Aethelred. Beside him, the smiling girl’s gaze suddenly locked with Alfred’s, who quickly looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. ‘We were delayed by an encounter with a young deer, struggling at the side of the path, a mile or so from here,’ the young man continued. ‘The creature’s forelegs had become entangled in a length of discarded twine and we couldn’t just leave it to suffer. By the time we’d disentangled it, our party had moved some distance ahead.’

  ‘Such kindness to a stricken animal does you both credit . . . Lord Aethelwulf?’ Aethelred said, raising his eyebrows. The young man replied politely in the affirmative. ‘And a moment or two’s lateness is quite understandable in this instance.’ Aethelred suddenly grinned. ‘At this point it seems appropriate to add that you have a very commendable name, o
ne very dear to our family.’ He did not have to explain further. King Aethelwulf’s name and reputation reached far and wide. Once the murmurs of agreement abated, he turned to address the young woman. ‘And you must be Lady Ealhswith . . .’

  Ealhswith jumped nimbly down, and stepped toward him to accept the welcome. Aethelred’s grin at her proficient dismount caused her smile to widen considerably, and the two embraced warmly, as though they’d known each other for years. Seeming to suddenly remember his manners, Aethelred moved to shake Ealdorman Mucel’s hand. ‘You are most welcome to Chippenham, my lord,’ he said, and turned to include the mature lady at Mucel’s side in his greeting. ‘As are you, Lady Eadburh.’ Meeting only a frosty stare and stiff curtsy, Aethelred bowed and returned his attentions to the smiling ealdorman. ‘We hope you’ll find our hospitality favourable and that the arrangements we’re here to discuss can be completed to everyone’s satisfaction.’

  Aethelred gestured to Alfred to join them and, grinning at his brother’s affronted expression at Lady Eadburh’s snub, Alfred stepped forward to be introduced to his future parents-by-marriage.

  ‘Lord Mucel and Lady Eadburh, may I present my brother, Alfred,’ Aethelred said. Alfred bowed courteously and offered his own polite welcome to the seemingly mismatched pair as Ealhswith came to join them.

  ‘I believe you’ve already been introduced to our daughter, my lord,’ Mucel said, grinning at Aethelred before returning his attentions to Alfred. ‘So, Lord Alfred, might I present our daughter, Ealhswith to you . . .’

  Ealhswith curtsied most elegantly, Alfred noted, and he offered a flamboyant bow in response. Her amused smile at his obvious play-acting lit up her face, and Alfred was becoming increasingly intrigued by this vivacious creature.

  Of medium height for a woman, the top of Ealhswith’s head reached up to Alfred’s chin. She looked fit and well toned. Her simple riding gown clung alluringly to supple curves beneath her short riding cloak and her lovely hair gleamed as it flowed, sheet-like, down her back, its golden hues complemented by the creamy tones of her skin. Big, expressive eyes dominated her face, at this moment reflecting appraisal of him, much in the same way, Alfred imagined, as his own eyes would reflect his own assessment of her.