Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (12 page)

‘How could I not? I owe her so much.’

‘A bowl of that stew is needed for both of us, if you’d fetch it, Eadwulf. Thora’s unlikely to disentangle herself for some time.’

Eadwulf ladled out the meaty stew, wondering what lies Aslanga’s evil sons were presently telling her and his heartbeat quickened.

But he glanced at Bjorn and knew that everything would be all right.

Sixteen

Wessex: mid-March 853

A strong south-westerly picked up as the day progressed, pummelling the troop of thirty-strong Mercians and making the already arduous journey even more uncomfortable. Horses, too, were tiring; they’d been pushed hard today, and by mid-afternoon on the second day of travel, Burgred’s patience was wearing thin.

‘Damnable Welsh,’ he muttered under his breath. If not for them he’d have had no cause to leave Shrewsbury and go grovelling to that old goat Aethelwulf again. But Mercian forces alone had little hope of defeating the cursed Welsh. He glowered at the churning black clouds that threatened to burst at any moment. But, rain or no rain, he’d not be stopping before he reached the Wessex Court.

‘We’ll be soaked before we even make sight of Chippenham, my lord.’ The young thegn waited for Burgred’s response, but when none ensued he ventured, ‘There’s a small village through those trees over there. Perhaps we could take shelter until the rain passes.’

‘But it may not pass over today, Godric, and we haven’t the time to waste. Do you think the Welsh will wait patiently for our return before they wreak further havoc in Mercia?’

Chastened, Godric held his tongue and drew back his horse.

Burgred loathed the wind. Rain he could cope with – but wind seemed to penetrate to his very core, exposing the enormity of his sins. His own self-loathing constantly festered and only throwing himself into his duties as king could prevent the sickness from utterly destroying him. Vivid nightmares refused to sanction peaceful sleep. Morwenna’s appalled expression on realising he’d betrayed them –
the people who loved him most
– hovered before him in his dream state, causing him to weep afresh. And the contempt in her eyes bored into the very depths of his being. But worst of all, the nightmares invariably ended with Beorhtwulf’s damning proclamation: ‘
You’ll burn in the fires of hell for all eternity
!’

He urged his sorrel into a canter. By his own reckoning they had another three hours in the saddle before they reached Aethelwulf’s Court. But dead horses would be of little use and they’d soon need to slow to a trot and eventually, a slower walk.

He cursed again as the first cold raindrops spattered his face.

* * *

The arrival of the Mercians at Chippenham took the West Saxons by surprise. The blanket of low cloud had brought an early dusk and servants scuttled about the hall in the light of oil lamps, piqued that extra food would now need preparing. Aethelwulf received the message of Burgred’s arrival with unaccustomed irritation as he sat with his wife in their bedchamber. Osburh had not risen today.

‘Guests are the last thing we need whilst you’re so unwell,’ he said with a sigh, noting how cold she felt as he took her hand, and how bruised the skin beneath her eyes. His wife had been ill for so long, though his physicians declared there to be no real sickness to treat. Osburh was simply ageing and needed rest. Aethelwulf had no reason to doubt their wisdom: there were few signs of her once lustrous dark hair amidst the grey. In truth, Osburh had been weak since the birth of Alfred over three years since.

Osburh squeezed his hand, a sensation he’d always found comforting. ‘I’ll call Edith to help me dress,’ she said. ‘I cannot greet our guests in my night-gown. We must show them Saxon hospitality–’

‘There’s no need for you to put further strain on yourself,’ Aethelwulf said, staying her hand as she made to push back the furs. ‘I want you well again, and the only way you can regain your strength is by resting. I’ll see that Edith attends you here and your meal will be brought to you when it’s ready.’ He embraced his wife, dismayed at the feel of her emaciated frame. ‘And Edith will tell me if you don’t eat it. And I mean
all
of it!’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Osburh replied with a feeble laugh. ‘I shall eat every morsel.’

‘And don’t think to feed any to the dogs,’ he ordered, grinning as he wagged a finger at her, responding to her light-hearted mood: he’d rarely heard his wife’s laughter of late. ‘As to our guests, Aethelswith can organise the meal tonight. She must prepare for the day she’ll be running her own household. It’s time she stopped pining over Cynric and moved on.’

Osburh nodded, though her eyes reflected deep concern. ‘Be gentle with her, Aethelwulf. Our daughter felt Cynric’s loss more deeply than you could know. But I believe she’s finally accepted the need to wed another.’

‘Then I’ll keep my eyes open on that score. But now, I imagine our guests will be in dire need of refreshment. I can only assume Burgred’s visit is of some importance for him to have continued on the road in this weather.

‘And don’t let young Alfred disturb you tonight,’ he said, turning as he reached the door. ‘You can’t rest if he’s jumping all over you. One of the young nurses can stay with him while Edith’s here with you. Nelda perhaps? I know what you’re thinking,’ he added at his wife’s sceptical grin. ‘I, too, hope she can cope.’

* * *

Burgred and his retinue traipsed into the West Saxon hall, their long faces displaying their fatigue and discomfort in dripping wet clothes. Grooms had led their horses to be stabled and a servant hurried off to inform Aethelwulf of their arrival. Relieved of their sodden cloaks, they were invited to sit round the hearth and slake their thirsts with the welcoming ale.

Sitting so close to the roasting food was torment to Burgred’s empty stomach and his nostrils flared unashamedly. But he basked in the blessed warmth and savoured the quenching ale as he watched the steam rise from his trouser legs. Wondering when Aethelwulf would show himself, he glanced about him. The long hall, with the rafters of its straw-thatched roof high above, was little different to most of Burgred’s own in Mercia, its walls adorned with tapestries, shields and swords. The few shuttered windows were closed, the room lighted by the blazing fire and numerous oil lamps, and the rushes covering the floor were clean and sweet-smelling. Tables had already been erected and Burgred smiled, visualising himself seated at Aethelwulf’s side. Desperately in need of Wessex aid, he’d swallow his pride and admit to Mercia’s inability to deal with the Welsh alone, stress the need for unity between their kingdoms during these turbulent times.

Servants lifted hares and game birds from around the hearth, piling them onto the waiting platters. Though no spitted boar was offered – Burgred’s arrival had been too late to forewarn the cooks – meat seemed plentiful. Trays of round loaves were carried in from the kitchens and, at the side of the hall, a table was being laden with cheeses and fruits; ale casks rolled into place beside it.

The woman ordering the servants had her back to Burgred, but he noted that her pale yellow overdress, finely embroidered with gold thread, was that of a noblewoman. Her hair hung down her back, as was customary for unmarried women, its hue almost matching that of her dress. As she turned, Burgred was transfixed by her beauty, and how her flawless skin, surrounded by its cascade of gold, glowed in the firelight. Aethelswith – yes, that was her name – Aethelwulf’s only daughter. Burgred felt a rush of pleasure as he caught her eye and she smiled. Not the shy smile of two years ago but that of a self-assured young woman of perhaps fifteen or sixteen.

‘My lord,’ Aethelswith said, offering her hand as she came to greet him, flashing a smile so bright Burgred felt that sunrise had arrived many hours prematurely. ‘I trust you’ve been made comfortable and provided with adequate refreshment? It is a wicked day for travel and the hour is late; you must be weary to the bone and quite ravenous. I can see from your persons you are saturated through.’ She laughed, looking pointedly at Burgred’s steaming legs before gesturing to the hooks around the walls. ‘Your cloaks will dry overnight in here – but we must hope that none of you catch a chill.’

Burgred relished the touch of her smooth, slender hand and could hardly take his eyes from her face as he thanked her for her kind welcome. Rarely had he seen such natural beauty, which shone brighter than a thousand sparkling gems.

‘Our meal will be served as soon as Father joins us,’ Aethelswith assured him, her bright eyes suddenly clouding. ‘He sits with Mother for hours these days. She has suffered ill health for so long, and is in our prayers constantly . . . Forgive me, my lord,’ she said, her cheeks flushing. ‘I should not burden you with our worries. I simply intended to inform you that Mother will not be joining us in the hall; she takes many of her meals in her chamber.’

She flashed another dazzling smile. ‘I shall oversee the serving of the meal tonight. But now, I must leave you to enjoy your ale. I hope Father can assist you in whatever the purpose of your visit may be.’

* * *

Aethelwulf savoured his meal amidst his guests, seated between the Mercian king and two of his sons. As the meal started, Aethelwulf had sensed guardedness in Aethelbald and Aethelberht, as in his thegns, so it was with some relief that he felt their mood lightening as the meal progressed. The Mercians, too, had cheered in the warmth of the hall and their wariness appeared to be abating. Such reserve was understandable: it was not so many years since Wessex and Mercia had been the most bitter of enemies.

The Mercian king ate heartily, as expected after such a gruelling journey. That his gaze constantly followed Aethelswith did not escape Aethelwulf’s notice either: few men could ignore such beauty. But eventually, his belly full and mead warming his blood, Burgred raised the issues foremost on his mind.

‘I come on no mere whim, my lord.’ he began, passing the mead horn along and laying his hands on the table before him. ‘I would not so abuse the alliance made between us before the death of my brother. But the Welsh grow stronger with the years. Rhodri Mawr inspires unity between their kingdoms, and in that unity they find strength. So far we’ve been able to hold them back, though their constant raids along our borders take heavy toll on the morale of my warriors and our people, and drain our resources. I come to you as a last resort, my lord, for I know that Wessex is sorely taxed by Danish raids along her shores.’

At Aethelwulf’s slow nod, Burged continued, ‘Yet I know that Wessex is strong and – as Mercia’s true ally – you will consider our plea for aid, knowing the value of demonstrating our unity to all would-be marauders. I merely pray that the timing is right and Wessex can presently provide a strong force to add to our own. I believe the great increase in our numbers, and the knowledge that our alliance is strong
,
will make Rhodri Mawr think carefully about his designs on our lands.’

Aethelwulf tried to read the character of this man. Those green eyes seemed sincere; certainly more so than on the previous occasion they’d met, when he’d found it difficult not to compare the man to his upright brother. But, kingship can make a man overcome selfish desires. Perhaps Burgred had grown in spirit as his ability to lead had developed. Aethelwulf firmly believed that the Danes could only be overcome by the unification of Saxon and Angle peoples. And now it seemed a joint offensive was needed to counter the Welsh . . .

By the end of the meal, orders were issued to be dispatched to Aethelwulf’s ealdormen. Without delay, armies would be mustered throughout Wessex. Burgred would return to Mercia to do likewise, and by the end of March all must be ready.

* * *

The fighting was fierce, often deep into Welsh territory, where the mountainous and heavily forested terrain favoured Welsh tactics of surprise attack and ambush. Their ingenuity impressed Aethelwulf, who had fought many battles in his time, most of them on open ground, with strategies well planned, armies well ordered and positioned. Against the Welsh, strategies were meaningless. Aethelwulf’s respect for Rhodri Mawr rose immeasurably. The Welsh were making full use of their own mountainous terrain. And why not? Aethelwulf would have done the same, had his kingdom been thus endowed.

No one
could anticipate the next move of the Welsh. They were an almost invisible foe, the surveillance of unseen eyes a source of constant discomfort as they rode. Aethelwulf’s men were ill at ease in unfamiliar territory, facing an enemy whose unorthodox tactics left them feeling much too vulnerable. No one knew where the bastards were until ungodly shrieks rang out from behind some rocky outcrop or forested slope. Many a night-time raid resulted in loss of Saxon lives, horses, and provisions.

But on open ground the Welsh were no match for the well ordered forces of Saxons and Mercians, nor were the Welsh prepared for the vast array of men that faced them. By mid-April the Welsh had retreated into the mountains, though undoubtedly that was a temporary measure. But Aethelwulf felt the offensive had served its purpose: the Welsh had suffered immeasurable losses and would take some time to recover. And Rhodri Mawr was now aware of Saxon and Mercian unity.

Two weeks after Aethelwulf’s return to Chippenham, Burgred arrived with his retinue. Although Aethelwulf had been aware of the intended visit – Burgred had previously asked permission to do so – he had not known its exact purpose, supposing it to be simply a sign of the growing unity between the two kingdoms. Yet he found he was not too greatly surprised by Burgred’s proposal regarding how that unity could be even further fortified.

Seventeen

Chippenham: late May 853

The bells of Saint Cuthburga’s church pealed their jubilation for all to hear, proclaiming the marriage of a beloved daughter of Wessex to a most eminent son of Mercia. Noble families from across the two kingdoms had come to bear witness to the union and celebrate with the royal couple at the sumptuous feast that would signify the start of their new life together.

Aethelswith listened to the bells, knowing she could not have looked more fetching. How could she not, after the hours of preparation she’d endured at the hands of Edith and her own closest friends, her maids of honour? Even her mother, though overly pale and weak, had fussed over her, and Edith had brushed her hair for so long she could feel her scalp tingling. Now she was ready to leave for the church, where her family and guests awaited her arrival.

And Burgred.

Aethelswith’s four maids of honour, all unwed daughters of Wessex noblemen and of similar age to herself, perched on stools at the side of the bower, pretending not to watch her. Anxiety must be etched into her face. She gazed at the lovely flowers on the table, knowing that Edith had spent so long arranging them into such an exquisite bouquet. All she had to do now was lift them up . . .

She bent to inhale their fragrance, the delicate scents causing a multitude of memories to surface. The spring had always filled her with such joy. The emergence of new life, and the blossoming flowers that painted the grey with magical colours, lifted her spirits and made her thank God she was alive. But today, thoughts of new beginnings filled her with dread; today she’d bid farewell to a life in which love and security were certainties, to begin a life with a man she hardly knew.

The wedding had been arranged so quickly, barely leaving her time to think about it. Burgred had paid the bride price, the terms of their marriage had been agreed and their betrothal announced a few weeks since. All that remained to complete the marriage was the Gift – the ceremony at which she would be given to the bridegroom. And by tomorrow morning the marriage would have been consummated – a thought that filled her with dread – and Burgred would have presented her with the morning gift. Not even the prospect of a generous gift of land and manors, or considerable coin, afforded her consolation. The thought of leaving her parents’ home caused her stomach to lurch and she wrestled the urge to run to her father and beseech,
Please don’t make me do this
!
Let me stay with you in Wessex
!

Edith, too, was watching her. Edith knew; Edith
always
knew how people felt. As the rotund nurse slipped a comforting arm around her waist, Aethelswith almost collapsed sobbing into her familiar embrace.

‘Put on your bravest face today, Lady Aethelswith,’ Edith whispered into her ear with a glance at the waiting maids. ‘I know how you’re feeling; you can’t hide your unhappiness from your old nurse.’

Edith placed her capable hands on Aethelswith’s shoulders and turned her until their eyes met. ‘Your parents believe you to be truly over Cynric. No, do not confirm or deny that, my lady,’ she continued, raising a finger to Aethelswith’s parting lips. ‘What matters now is that you face your future with dignity and resignation to what must be. Though you do not love King Burgred, let your mind and body at least try
to welcome him in. Love may grow, given time.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Your marriage is doomed before it starts if you do not.’

Aethelswith took a steadying breath. She would never forget Cynric and would rather live her life as a maid than marry another. But, for a king’s daughter to remain unwed was not to be. And Edith had spoken the truth: her future happiness was already jeopardized unless she showed some affection towards Burgred. ‘You know I’ll do my duty to Wessex, Edith,’ she whispered, attempting a smile. ‘That Father believes Burgred will provide me with a secure home cannot be questioned. But . . .’ she paused, gnawing her bottom lip, ‘I wonder whether he’s allowed the opportunity of establishing this alliance to cloud his judgement.

‘Oh Edith, I don’t even know whether I
like Burgred, let alone love him!’ She stifled a half-formed sob, feeling ashamed of wallowing in self-pity. ‘And Alfred – what is to be made of my little brother’s behaviour?’

‘He’s but a small child, my lady, and does not take well to strangers. And no doubt he frets that Burgred will take you from him.’

Aethelswith shook her head. ‘That he’ll miss me may well be – and God alone knows how much I’ll miss him – but it’s more than that. You know full well that Alfred’s never been shy of strangers; he sees enough of them, after all. Yet he took an instant dislike to Burgred, refusing to respond to any attempts at establishing friendship. And it’s disconcerting the way he stares into Burged’s eyes, as though he’s boring into his very soul.’ Aethelswith shuddered, but did not pursue the point. ‘But your advice, as always, is sound, Edith. I’ll not let you all down. Am I not a daughter of Wessex?’

‘That you are, my lady, and I applaud your courage. I’d give you such a big hug if not for fear of crushing your lovely gown. Now, I believe you are ready.’

Aethelswith could delay no longer. She scooped up the beautiful flowers and her maids fell into pairs to lead her from the bower. And with a fine, military escort of six of Aethelwulf’s finest warriors and the joyful tolling of bells, the bridal party walked sedately towards the church.

The sight of the pretty church always had a deeply calming effect on Aethelswith and she gazed lovingly at it as she approached, remembering the many times she’d joined her family at worship inside its solid walls. Built almost two hundred years ago during one of the few periods when Saxons and Mercians were not contesting ownership of the region, it had originally been a wooden structure, rebuilt years later in blocks of the creamy stone quarried not too far away. The western side comprised the sturdy, squat tower, and in the centre was the nave. The chancel harbouring the sanctuary and altar formed the eastern side, where Father Godwine would be now, praying for the welfare of the couple about to be wed.

The guests crowding around the porticus parted and Aethelswith envisaged the packed scene that would greet her inside. This
should
be the happiest day of her life, but the words of that old rhyme refused to budge from inside her head:

Marry in the month of May and live to rue the day.

Gritting her teeth, she walked through the church door for the last time as an unmarried woman.

* * *

Surrounded by guests in their finest apparel, Aethelwulf waited in the high-ceilinged nave for the ceremony to begin. He gazed proudly at his beautiful daughter who had taken her place in the centre of the guests, her head modestly downcast, rendering it impossible for him to see her face, the emotions emanating from her clear, blue eyes. Circling her golden hair was a garland of intertwined green foliage interspersed with vibrant spring flowers. Her long-sleeved underdress of pale-blue linen adorned her slender figure down to her ankles, complemented by the darker cerulean of her calf-length overdress of heavier weave, the sleeves of which flared at the elbows to reveal a silken lining of still deeper blue. A multihued, tablet-woven trim decorated the scooped necklines and lower hems of both garments, matching the belt wrapped twice around her waist, knotted loosely at the front to leave the long ends hanging free. In her arms she held a glorious arrangement of colourful May blossoms. Aethelswith did not need bright jewels to look truly radiant.

Beside her Burgred stood erect, his richly ornamented attire indicative of his status. His dark green tunic was shaped by a black leather belt studded with rubies that matched the crimson wool of his cloak, the cloak itself lined with emerald green silk and held at his right shoulder by a brooch of elaborate gold strands. His golden crown displayed a solitary large ruby at that front. Aethelwulf felt the sudden need to adjust his own splendid crown. Although his attire was rich and well adorned, he felt quite drab compared to this bright Mercian peacock. But of more importance, for all his sparkle, Burgred did not outshine Aethelwulf’s lovely daughter.

Burgred, the man to whom Aethelwulf would entrust the welfare and happiness of his beloved child, was still an enigma to him. He prayed daily that his doubts were unfounded; that Aethelswith would find happiness with this man, and her new status as Queen of Mercia. But, Aethelwulf had no doubt that forming a marriage alliance between Wessex and Mercia was an invaluable move.

At Aethelwulf’s side, Osburh strove to appear well and hearty, but her gaunt frame could not be disguised. Her pale green overdress hung far too loosely from her shoulders, and beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. The effort of standing for so long was taking its toll, but she masked her occasional lurch into his side with a squeeze of his arm and murmured praises of their daughter and her husband to be.

Behind them, all but the youngest of their sons displayed joviality on their sister’s special day, at ease amongst the many notable guests. Aethelbald, the eldest since Aethelstan’s death two years ago, acknowledged his father’s attention with a smile, his dark beard and thick-set features lending him a handsome ruggedness. Aethelberht, too, grinned cheerfully, his gaudy apparel and ornamentation compensating for his wispy fair hair and sparse beard. Thirteen-year-old Aethelred’s dark blond hair flicked about his face as his head turned this way and that to find some spectacle to provide amusement.

Only Alfred did not smile.

Tiny at Aethelbald’s side and held firmly in his place by his tall brother’s restraining hand, Alfred glared at the Mercian king. Aethelwulf frowned. Was the boy’s behaviour simply a reaction to the thought of losing his sister, or something else? Could Alfred see something in Burgred that so eluded himself?

Guests murmured to each other as they waited for the priest to appear and indicate the need for silence. Eventually the clear tones of the choirboys drifted from the chancel, filling the nave with an air of beauty and solemnity. Father Godwine glided towards the bridal couple, his flowing robes sweeping the rushes of the earthen floor, his hands steepled, his head reverently bowed. Then, peering at the congregation until not a sound could be heard, he ushered the couple to the church doorway to make the customary vows.

Burgred took Aethelswith’s left hand in his own and placed the gold wedding band on her fourth finger. Gazing into her eyes he made his vows, his voice clear and unfaltering: ‘I, Burgred of Mercia, do take you, Aethelswith of Wessex as my wife. I will love you with my heart and protect you from harm. Never will you want for household comforts, nor feel the pangs of hunger. In the eyes of God, you will be my queen and mother of my children, and be recognized as such by our Mercian people.’

Aethelswith twisted the unfamiliar ring on her finger and glanced anxiously round the nave until her attention settled on Aethelwulf. The maelstrom of emotions raging in her eyes struck him like a surging tide: loss and desperation eddied with panic and fear; she was a sinking ship, abandoned by those she loved most. Aethelwulf was engulfed by an intense sense of guilt. If only he’d paid heed to his qualms, looked deeper into the character of the man he was giving his precious daughter to, allowed more
time for the betrothal . . .

Aethelswith’s eyes momentarily closed and the calm waters of resignation returned. She turned and flashed a smile at Burgred, her eyes locked again with his and she made her vows, her dulcet tones carrying to the whole congregation: ‘I, Aethelswith of Wessex, do promise to serve you, Burgred of Mercia. I shall be a loyal and caring wife, ensuring that your domestic comforts are met wherever the Mercian court may journey. Never shall I cause harm, or bring dishonour to your family. I will be a loving mother to our children, if we are so blessed.’

Aethelswith’s cheeks burned red and Burgred embarrassed her still further by grinning in amusement. Father Godwine blessed the ring, his mellow tones reverberating around the nave, and as Burgred enfolded Aethelswith in his arms for the marriage kiss, the choir once again lifted its voice in song. The couple then walked into the warmth of the May sunshine as man and wife.

* * *

Alfred wove unnoticed through the forest of legs outside the church, heading towards his sleeping chamber where he could be alone for a while before hunger drove him to seek out Edith. He’d left the church with his father’s permission and to Aethelbald’s obvious relief, with instructions to go straight to either Edith or Nelda. His father had reluctantly agreed that Alfred would be better with his nurses than scowling throughout the wedding breakfast.

Alfred had not meant to scowl, had not wanted to spoil his sister’s day. But his mind was in turmoil. The Mercian king was virtually a stranger to him, yet his thoughts were full of
bad things
about the man. That Burgred was taking his sister far away from him was enough to earn Alfred’s dislike, but these upsetting thoughts caused him to detest the man.

Alfred found it all too perplexing. He entered his room, hoping that none of the servants would disturb him. He had much to contemplate.