Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2)

by Millie Thom

  ‘Forgive me, Ealhswith,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘I will not break down in public. I have had many years of practising the skill of restraint. But, as I know you will understand, in the privacy of my own room, my sorrows refuse to stay buried.’ She gave a determined nod. ‘I shall attend my brother’s funeral and say my final farewell to him. Then I shall stay to see Alfred crowned before I return to Gloucester.’

  ‘King Burgred, my lady . . .’ Ealhswith broached tentatively, watching Aethelswith’s expression darken. ‘He is in combat with the Welsh?’

  ‘He is. But of his own choice. He had already organised an army to head into Gwent without him – but decided to accompany them when the messengers came from Alfred!’

  ‘Do not distress yourself, sister,’ Alfred soothed, coming to her side at hearing her bitter retort. ‘Burgred will not be missed.’

  Ealhswith stared at Alfred, wondering how Aethelswith would respond to that remark. Her eyes opened still wider when Aethelswith replied, ‘And I can assure you, brother, he will certainly not be missed by me.’

  *****

  The journey to Wimborne passed uneventfully for the small party of mourners and Alfred felt content that he’d left Winchester well guarded. Half a dozen scouts were on constant lookout for enemy movement and Aethelred’s own dozen thegns were in attendance at the hall where his two young children and their nurse remained. And the newly amassed Wessex fyrd was still camped on the city’s perimeter, the thegns having orders to rally them should news of advancing Danes reach the city. Alfred knew there was nothing more he could do and put his trust in the experienced thegns.

  Wearing the casual clothes of huntsmen, the sixteen travellers covered the forty-mile journey in a single day, having left in the pre-dawn light, one hour before sunrise, and arriving in the early evening. Fortunately, the cart bearing the king’s body, with Wulfrida perched beside the driver at the front, suffered no loss of wheels and trundled along smoothly.

  It had been a perfect spring day for travelling. The warm sun shone bright from a clear blue sky and the newly greened land shimmered in the gentle breeze. But Alfred could see little through the veil of his sorrow and he dared not dwell on the future of Wessex without Aethelred.

  On arrival at Wimborne, the king’s body was carried into the small chapel where it would rest until the ceremony in the lovely, creamy-stoned monastery the following morning. Abbott Winfrith had ordered a substantial meal to be prepared for his royal guests and the food was gratefully received by the weary and hungry travellers before they retired.

  The morning of the burial service dawned fresh and bright, the low sun sending dappled light through the newly leafed wood, and as the small group of mourners made their way into the monastery’s impressive abbey. Alfred, Aethelswith and Wulfrida were directed to stand at the front of the small congregation as Bishop Goderic led the funeral service for the fallen king. Behind them, Ealhswith, Mildrede, Aethelhelm and Aethelwold stood with Ealdorman Radulf. Aethelswith’s men, who had accompanied them, waited outside, on constant alert to intruders.

  The bishop reverently opened the service with prayers and psalms before moving to deliver his eulogy to the fallen king. He praised Aethelred’s wise, five-year kingship, his courage in battle, and the enormous love he had felt for his family and the people of Wessex. And lastly, he commended Aethelred’s deep and unwavering faith in the Lord God.

  It was a truly moving tribute to a man who would be greatly missed by anyone who had known him, and Alfred knew that beneath their veils, the two women at his sides were weeping.

  To end the service, Goderic led the mourners in a final prayer for Aethelred’s soul before leading them to an alcove at the side of the large nave, where the king would be interred.

  Alfred watched, grief stricken beyond words, as his brother’s light wooden coffin was lowered into the prepared grave. The mourners stayed for a few moments more, silently watching the monks shovelling the concealing earth back into the grave. Against the abbey wall stood a rectangular slab of stone, which, Alfred knew, would be laid to cover the grave in a few days’ time, when the soil had settled and compacted. He’d already handed the monks the inscription to be etched upon it, which Bishop Goderic had written for him on a small piece of parchment:

  IN HOC LOCO QUIESCIT CORPUS ETHELREDI REGIS WEST SAXONUM.

  Alone, Alfred lingered at the graveside for some time, saying his own last farewell to his beloved brother. From this day on, King Aethelred of Wessex would rest for all eternity beneath the floor of this most holy of monasteries, in the middle of this glorious wood.

  *****

  ‘They struck at the town of Reading on the day you set out for Wimborne, my lord. A fair-sized band of them, pillaging homes for food and anything else they could find. Our scouts brought news of the strike soon after, but assured us the Danes showed no subsequent signs of heading south. They just returned to their base and shut themselves in again.’

  Alfred nodded wearily. They’d been back at Winchester for what seemed like a mere few moments when the old Hampshire thegn, Hereic, had informed him of recent developments.

  So the Danes were stirring again. And the prospects of new fleets arriving filled Alfred with dread. His grief still weighed heavily upon him and all he wanted to do was remain with his family until the worst of the heartbreak eased.

  ‘My thanks, Hereic,’ he replied. ‘We’re fortunate that Danish reinforcements haven’t yet arrived, or events could have turned out quite differently. But Halfdan will be fully aware of the army we have here, and without more men to boost his numbers, he’ll realise he wouldn’t stand a chance. Until such troops arrive, local pillaging is all I anticipate from him.’

  ‘About your coronation, my lord . . .’ Hereic said, tentatively. ‘My comrades and I were discussing the urgency of holding the ceremony as quickly as possible, before the –’

  ‘Before any Norse reinforcements do arrive. I know, Hereic, and it’s already arranged. We just need to give Bishop Goderic a day or two to recover from the journey and prepare for the ceremony. But I assure you,’ he added, his eyes sweeping the gathered thegns, ‘it will be no pompous occasion. As King Aethelred’s burial, it will be a small affair, with only those already at Winchester attending. We dare not summon our noblemen from elsewhere. They could be needed at any time where they are.’

  Hereic gave a grim smile. ‘We had not assumed otherwise, my lord.’

  *****

  Four days later, Alfred was crowned King of Wessex in the stately Old Minster at Winchester. As the small congregation filed in for the ceremony, the voices of the Minster choir filled the building, the notes soaring high to resonate in the great space above. Around the walls, scores of candles burned brightly, warming the pale, cold stone and playing on the biblical scenes engraved upon them. Ealhswith took her place at the front, beside Aethelswith, Mildrede and Wulfrida, close to where the Bishop of Winchester waited in his stately robes of office beside an impressive high-backed and decoratively carved chair. The tall mitre drew Ealhswith’s immediate attention and the kindly old bishop greeted her with a warm smile.

  Though the gathering was small, all were garbed in their finest robes for the occasion, and Ealhswith knew that Alfred would consider even that level of pomp to be too much, considering the kingdom’s present state of invasion. Beside the bishop, Ealdorman Radulf proudly held the royal crown of Wessex on its crimson cushion. But at Ealhswith’s side, Wulfrida’s scowling face could not be missed. No children were present, all being too young to withstand the lengthy service, and the remainder of the congregation consisted of Aethelred’s dozen thegns.

  The choristers’ voices gradually faded, to be replaced by a blaring fanfare that heralded Alfred’s arrival. Having no escort at his sides, Alfred advanced alone, moving slowly from the lofty doorway toward the altar and Bishop Goderic.

  Ealhswith smiled as he drew near, thinking how very much a king he looked. The heavy blue velvet cloak trimme
d with white ermine hung from Alfred’s square shoulders as though it had never sat upon another, and his collar-length wheaten hair had been neatly trimmed. Love and pride filled her heart, tempered only by the worry for him that overwhelmed her so much at times. Alfred had only just recovered from another bout of that strange illness that plagued him so randomly. It had taken him to his bed on the night of their return from Wimborne and compelled him to stay there for almost two days.

  That was two days ago now, and Alfred had insisted the coronation could wait no longer. Only yesterday a report of longships in the Thames had reached Winchester, and Ealhswith knew that Alfred needed to prepare his forces for imminent battle. She thought of Aethelred, lying cold on his bed, and a shudder of fear passed through her.

  Alfred turned to face those gathered and Bishop Goderic stepped beside him to open the ceremony with a prayer. Ealhswith watched, entranced, having never witnessed a crowning before, although Alfred had explained the general order of the service to her. Then Goderic stepped sideways and held out his arm, gesturing to Alfred.

  ‘My lords and ladies of Wessex . . . and Mercia,’ he began, smiling at Aethelswith as he referred to her and Mildrede. ‘I here present to you your undoubted king, Alfred, son of King Aethelwulf, grandson of the Bretwalda Egbert, and of the noble line of Cerdic’

  Ealhswith recognised this as the beginning of the consecration ritual, and a manner of establishing her husband’s hereditary right to kingship. She listened as the bishop next put forward Alfred’s right by election.

  ‘A mere few weeks ago, the Witan met at Swinbeorg,’ Goderic stated. ‘There, the nobles of our kingdom unanimously voted for Alfred to succeed his brother, King Aethelred, in the event that the king be taken from this life before his brother, and while our kingdom is still besieged. Since this sad state of affairs has arisen, and no other has a legitimate claim, Alfred is now declared the rightful heir . . .’

  At Wulfrida’s rapidly indrawn breath, both Ealhswith and Aethelswith turned their heads to stare at her. Although it was not protocol for a woman to interfere in political decisions, as the former king’s wife, Ealhswith thought that Wulfrida would probably be listened to. But, at the bishop’s questioning gaze, Wulfrida’s mouth set into a defiant line and she averted her eyes.

  Goderic led them in another prayer before calling upon Alfred to take the sacred oath. Ealhswith watched her husband nod, then recite clearly and precisely:

  ‘The Church of God and all His people shall keep true peace under our rule at all times. I shall ordain justice and mercy in all judgements . . .’

  Alfred knelt before the holy bishop, who then anointed his head, hands and heart with the holy oil, and as Alfred sat on the magnificent chair, Radulf stepped forward with the Wessex crown.

  The magnificent, golden object with its lining of purple silk and adornment of garnets, pearls and sapphires, glinted in the candlelight as the bishop lifted it from its red velvet cushion and held it above Alfred’s head. Slowly and reverently Bishop Oswine lowered the Wessex crown onto Alfred’s head.

  Ealhswith could only stare at the husband she loved so dearly, feeling an overwhelming desire to weep. Beside her, Aethelswith swept her fingers across her cheeks and the two sisters shared a tearful smile.

  Alfred, the fifth son of Aethelwulf, was now King of Wessex.

  As they followed him out into the sunlight, Aethelswith put her arm around Ealhswith’s shoulders and whispered, ‘Alfred will be the greatest king our people have ever known.’

  ‘I know he will,’ Ealhswith replied.

  Twenty Nine

  Elston, Mercia: May, 871

  Four-and-a-half-year-old Leofwynn’s piercing scream brought silence to the Elston hall. Servants ceased their chores and Odella tossed aside her embroidery to hasten to lift the blubbering child from the straw-bestrewn floor.

  ‘He pushed me down!’ Leofwynn wailed, pointing a chubby finger at her brother. She swiped the back of her other hand across her wet face, leaving streaks like cartwheel tracks across her grubby cheeks. ‘He never lets me play with him any more . . .’

  ‘Hush now, little one,’ Odella soothed, drawing the child into her arms. ‘Your brother’s perhaps not feeling like playing today.’ She turned to the nine-year-old boy. ‘It was unkind of you to push your sister like that, Aethelred. You don’t seem to be doing anything of importance right now, so couldn’t you spare her a few moments? Perhaps you could play the Knucklebones game your father taught you.’

  Aethelred scowled and looked away. ‘I’d rather just sit here and wait for the men to get back from Nottingham,’ he muttered.’ He turned his head and cast a scathing look at his young sister. ‘She can’t play Knucklebones, anyway. She can’t even catch, and the bones–’

  Breaking free of Odella’s grasp Leofwynn hurled her small but compact body at her brother, sending him backwards from the bench. ‘I can catch,’ she shrieked, glaring down at him. ‘Papa said I’m good at it.’

  ‘Well then,’ Odella said, matter-of-factly as she heaved Aethelred back up to the bench, ‘I’ll fetch over the small games table and get out the bones and you two can have a nice, friendly game. And whoever impresses me the most with . . . let me see . . . with a really good effort, can have a couple of honey cakes while we wait for Lord Eadwulf to return.’

  The thought of honey cakes seemed to do the trick for Aethelred, and he brightened up immediately. Odella watched the pair sit down quietly facing each other on the low stools as she placed the small pieces of sheep bones on the table between them. She knew exactly what Aethelred’s problem was, but was unable to do anything about it, except to keep him otherwise amused.

  The boy had so wanted to go to Nottingham with the three men. But Odella knew that their trip would be no place for a child. It was not like the usual visit to Nottingham, to purchase goods from the big market there. Eadwulf, accompanied by his brother, Jorund, and her own husband, Aethelnoth, had simply gone to learn of news regarding events developing in Wessex. Little information had reached Elston during the winter months, except that a number of battles had been fought, some won, others lost. And Eadwulf . . .? Well, she thought with a worried frown, it was obvious that his real intent was to discover the whereabouts of the Mercian king.

  Odella’s thoughts returned yet again to her mistress who had died, nine months ago now, and a sad time it had been for all at Elston. If Leoflaed had still been here, her husband’s intentions to kill King Burgred would have worried her to distraction.

  She sank wearily to the bench, ready to watch the children play and generally keep the peace between them. Both had been tetchy today. The constant rain had certainly not helped matters. They had wanted to walk to the little church to put flowers on their mother’s and grandfather’s graves . . . Her hand automatically moved to rest on her swelling abdomen. The babe was active today. In another two months she’d have a young one of her own to care for, as well as the two she already loved so dearly.

  Now, at least, the game was progressing and Aethelred was even showing patience with his little sister’s attempts to catch the bones. Odella reflected on the losses they had had to face in less than a year. Leoflaed’s death had left everyone in the hall in a state of misery for so long. Nothing was the same without her and her cheerful, if sometimes bossy, voice around the hall. And dear old Ealdorman Wigstan had simply wasted away following the loss of his beloved daughter. He had made out his will in January, as though he’d known he was going to die little more than a month later. The Elston hall was Eadwulf’s now, bequeathed to him as the husband of Wigstan’s daughter and father of his grandchildren. Eadwulf had written to King Burgred with the news of his ealdorman’s death, stressing that he would be unable to assume the responsibility of ealdorman in his stead due to a debilitating injury. He had signed it simply, ‘Eadwulf of Elston.’

  ‘I see you have the pair well amused today,’ Selwyn whispered with a grin as he came to join her, having just entered the hall.


  Odella nodded, returning the smile. ‘You’d not have said that had you been here a short while ago.’ She gave a mock grimace. ‘Pandemonium, you’d have called it, more like. But yes, they’ve been quite content since I bribed them with honey cakes.’

  Wigstan’s brother had been such a support since his older brother’s death, organising much of the estate during the months when Eadwulf had struggled to cope with the loss of Leoflaed. The spring sowing was done, for the most part, lambs abounded in the meadows and cattle were out to pasture. Spring was a delight on the estate, and once again Odella’s thoughts drifted to her dead mistress, who had loved the season so much.

  ‘The men should be back later on,’ Selwyn remarked. ‘Give them three days, they said, and this is the third. It’s not long till dark, so it could be any time now.’

  Odella glanced round to check that the servants were busy with the meal and turned to nod at Selwyn. ‘Since Jorund is with them, I can only agree. When a meal’s about to be served, I can always count on Jorund to be lurking close by. Not much ever seems to put him off his food.’

  ‘I won!’ Aethelred yelled. ‘I told you you couldn’t best me,’ he hurled at his scowling sister. ‘But you played better than I’ve ever seen you play before, Leofwynn,’ he added quickly, noticing Selwyn and Odella glaring at him. ‘You’re definitely getting much better at Knucklebones and . . .’ He paused, evidently thinking of something else complimentary to say in order to impress the adults. ‘And it won’t be long before you can beat me, flat.’

  Leofwynn’s small face lit up and she walked round the little table a give her brother a smacking kiss on his cheek.’ Aethelred opened his mouth, a shriek of disgust hovering on his tongue, but decided to swallow it instead. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled and hugged her back.