Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (13 page)

Eighteen

Wilton, Wiltshire: late April 854

Aethelwulf rose with some difficulty, wincing as pains shot through his creaking knees, and rolled his shoulders, attempting to bring his muscles back to life. He was cold and stiff, but the calming effect of prayer had served its purpose: his mind had been freed to function with greater clarity, see solutions to problems which before had seemed insurmountable. He left the solemnity of the wood-planked church, now certain his decision was the right one.

Wishing to extend his solitude, he strode towards the river, watching the raindrops of an April shower dancing on its silvery surface. Along the banks, alders and willows were coming into leaf, their catkins still prominent on their branches. Nesting birds flew to and fro. He drank in the morning air, mulling over the issues to be presented at the Assembly. He jerked his cloak more closely round his shoulders, not wishing to address his nobles in a saturated tunic, and adjusted his simple crown, ensuring the small emerald was at the front.

‘It is a most peaceful view, is it not, my lord?’

Deep in thought Aethelwulf had not heard anyone approaching. ‘Indeed it is, Theomund,’ he replied, noting that the quiet young Wiltshire reeve had taken special care with his attire for the coming meeting, his brown hair well groomed, moustache and beard neatly trimmed. ‘The sound of running water has such a soothing effect, allowing the mind to concentrate on perplexing issues.’

A proud smile lit the reeve’s face. ‘It does, my lord, and the Wylye is also of great value to our manor. Trout and grayling are plentiful, salmon favour its waters for breeding, and we have eel traps a little downstream. If you stand here long enough, you’ll likely see an otter or two, mayhap with their cubs at this time of year . . .’ His cheeks suddenly flushed. ‘I pray my boastfulness does not offend you, my lord.’

Aethelwulf patted his rapidly dampening hair and smiled at the anxious face. ‘Not at all, Theomund; it’s good to hear a man praising his own home. The Wylye is a delightful river and Wilton is one of my favourite manors. My wife is very fond of it, too. Your hospitality and generous table do you credit.’

‘Well, speaking of food, my lord, the servants are ready to serve the morning meal. The guests are assembled and Lady Osburh has joined your sons at table.’

They strolled amicably back to the hall, the April shower already diminishing. ‘It’s a pleasure to see Lady Osburh looking so much improved,’ Theomund remarked. ‘She seems greatly relieved to see Alfred safely home, and happy to have celebrated Eastertide with most of her family.’

Aethelwulf nodded. ‘The Easter services did Father Eldwyn proud, Theomund, considering the attendance of so many eminent members of the kingdom’s clergy. Although the rebuilding of the church in stone is sorely needed,’ he added with a raised eyebrow. ‘Later this year, perhaps?’

‘We anticipate the arrival of the stonemasons in June, my lord.’

‘That is good news.’

They halted as Aethelwulf silently appraised the dilapidated condition of the old wooden church. ‘We need to rebuild all our churches in stone,’ he declared, punching his palm to stress his point. ‘We’ve only to see how all those Roman structures have survived the ravages of time, some of them for well over five hundred years. Whereas our own . . . No matter how sturdy the timber, wooden buildings are susceptible to rot, not to mention fire.

‘And you’re right about Lady Osburh,’ Aethelwulf acknowledged Theomund’s previous observation as they reached the hall. ‘She’s never happier than when amidst her brood. Alfred’s absence has been a great trial for her, and Aethelstan’s death three years ago did her health no favours. Now it’s Aethelswith she frets about. Our daughter is seven months with child and Osburh constantly whittles over whether her new nurses are taking adequate care of her. If Edith were a few years younger, I do believe my wife would send her off to Burgred’s Court!

‘Now, let’s enjoy our meal,’ he said, as Theomund held open the hall’s heavy oak door for him to enter. ‘We’ll not see daylight again until this meeting’s over.’

* * *

From the centre of the raised dais Aethelwulf surveyed the gathering of some of the elite of Wessex, the hum of conversation filling the hall with expectancy and speculation. Most of the tables had been stacked away and nobles were seated along benches set in an open-ended rectangle around the firepit, all traces of April chill banished by the orange flames that crackled and spat as they devoured the hefty logs.

The reason for this gathering was ostensibly twofold, although Aethelwulf also intended to conduct further business, linked to a decision he’d made which would surprise some important people, perhaps anger others. The first reason – simply to attend the Easter services and honour the significance of Christ’s Passion – had passed with the reverence the occasion merited. Now, two days later, it was time to attend to the second reason.

Alfred had recently arrived home.

Safe and well after almost a year of travelling across the continent to Rome, and conversing with the pontiff himself, Alfred, who had reached his fifth birthday on the journey home, was bursting with news. Unsettling tales had circulated of events that had supposedly occurred in Rome – and the magnates of Wessex required verification of those tales, and the implications they carried for Wessex.

At Aethelwulf’s sides, his four sons remained silent. Suitably garbed in fine quality tunics, they were a sight to make their father proud. To his right, the two eldest nodded affably to anyone who caught their eye. At twenty and nineteen repectively, Aethelbald and Aethelberht were well aware of courtly procedure. Glancing to his left, Aethelwulf noted Alfred’s calm appraisal of the gathering, unlike fourteen-year-old Aethelred, who’d already begun to shuffle. At Aethelred’s far side, Osric whispered a friendly word of warning in his nephew’s ear.

Aethelwulf nodded thanks to his brother-by-marriage. Though his hair was now liberally streaked with grey, Osric was still a handsome man. It had taken him a long time to get over the loss of his only son, though he’d held no one responsible for Cynric’s death, accepting that a warrior’s life was one of daily risks.

Also on the dais, Bishops Swithun and Ealhstan waited sedately next to Aethelberht, both attired in simpler garments than the elaborate vestments displayed during the Easter services. The frail Swithun, once Aethelwulf’s mentor and spiritual advisor and now Bishop of Winchester, little resembled the robust man whose boundless energy had once inspired so many. He wore his usual white alb with a simple cross around his neck and a white cap covering what remained of his iron-grey hair. In sharp contrast, Bishop Ealhstan of Sherborne, Swithun’s contemporary in years, had borne the passage of time with greater success, the slight salting of his dark hair only apparent at close quarters. His physique was still strong and well-muscled; Ealhstan had always been more warrior than cleric. He’d fought several battles against the Norsemen over the years and led Egbert’s army alongside Aethelwulf to conquer Kent twenty-five years ago. In a crimson tunic, the only indication of Ealhstan’s holy office was a ruby-studded cross around his neck and the faintest suggestion of a tonsure in his collar-length hair.

Content that all were ready to begin, Aethelwulf glanced at his scribe perched at a side table. Father Felix signalled his readiness to record the events of the meeting and Aethelwulf cleared his throat.

He welcomed the assembled, paying compliments to Theomund’s hospitality and Father Eldwyn’s Easter services before drawing attention to the sun-kissed boy at his side. ‘I realise that some amongst you fail to see the sense in sending a young child on such a journey,’ he admitted. ‘But I tell you, my decision to do so was not made lightly. We live in perilous times. The Danes attack our shores with increasing frequency, only last year over-wintering again on Thanet. Moreover, last year our armies were called upon to assist Mercia against the Welsh. You will realise, therefore, why I was reluctant to lose my eldest sons at that time.

‘You may ask why I should send anyone at all to Rome. Our learned clerics will doubtless understand my reasons,’ he added, gesturing to the two bishops. ‘I am convinced that the raids are God’s punishment of us.’ He noted many sceptical expressions, and several amused ones, as he’d expected: few men were as committed to their faith as he. ‘Our halls have too often become places of degenerate conduct; excessive intake of mead can lead the best of warriors away from God. I fear the only person who can help us now is Pope Leo. Having received Alfred, I believe he will add his voice to our own in seeking God’s forgiveness.’

One or two men cleared their throats as though to comment, but nothing ensued. ‘I’m aware you are all eager to question my young son about his experiences,’ Aethelwulf went on, ‘but I urge you to remember that he is just that: young.
However, I feel sure that Alfred will answer your questions with a dexterity that may seem unusual at such a tender age. If need be, I will assist with answers to any questions too complex for him to comprehend
.
But other than such instances, I shall leave Alfred to reply to your queries.’

Aethelwulf seated himself, patting Alfred’s arm as he rose to his feet.

‘Well, young man,’ Swithun started, focusing kindly nut-brown eyes on Alfred. ‘You are truly fortunate to have been able to undertake such a remarkable journey.’ He held out his bony hands. ‘Tell us what you found the most interesting about it.’

Alfred’s amber eyes widened. ‘I enjoyed every part of it, my lord, even the journeys there and back! And King Charles gave us a
huge army to guard us through his land. The soldiers were very friendly, and told me riddles that made me laugh. We went through really dark forests, but I wasn’t scared because our men kept a lookout for bears and wolves – and even robbers. And the Alps have snow on top of them, even in the summer.

‘But what I liked best of all was the city of Rome.’

‘Then pray tell us what was so intriguing about it.’

Alfred faced the scowling Bishop Ealhstan, his owl-bright eyes narrowing. ‘I was just going to tell everyone about the wonderful things in Rome, my lord.’

Ealhstan shuffled, breaking eye contact, and Alfred’s attentions shifted to those seated below the dais. ‘The city is such a busy place,’ he said, his high spirits returning. ‘There are people everywhere . . . and lots of stalls along the streets–’

‘Can you remember, Alfred, whether the buildings are made of wood, like our own, or stone?’ Swithun asked before Ealhstan regained sufficient composure to voice a question that seemed to be gnawing at him.

Alfred’s small brow creased in thought. ‘Most of the houses are made of stone, I think. Some are so old they’re falling down! And some of their roads are made of cob . . . cobblestones.’ He glanced at Aethelwulf, who nodded to assure him he’d used the right word. ‘I saw lots of big churches which are always full of people, and,’ he added, his eyes opening wide, ‘most of them have
really
interesting relics. Some are so old I couldn’t tell what they were.’

Bishop Ealhstan coughed, patently intending to stop Alfred’s ramblings. ‘Tell us, Alfred, when you were confirmed by His Holiness, what exactly did he say to you?’

Aethelwulf examined his hands, knowing that the answer to that question would need to be phrased extremely tactfully. But he’d declared he would not interrupt unless so asked. And Alfred didn’t ask; he simply answered the question in his usual direct and honest manner:

‘Well, Pope Leo said I was his son, so I would now have
two
fathers! Then he said some strange words about wearing the vestments of the
con . . . consulate.’ His nose wrinkled at that idea, and he gave a small shrug as he gazed round at the rapt faces.

‘Then he put some funny-smelling oils on me and made me king.’

The communal intake of breath was followed by silence. That single snippet of information was what had kept Wessex nobility speculating for days. All eyes focused on Aethelwulf in anticipation of explanation, but Ealhstan voiced his questions first. ‘Just what do you think His Eminence meant by that, Alfred? You are
not
king, are you?’

‘No, I am not king now, my lord. But I know I shall be when I’m a man.’

‘Then you’ll probably need to live to be a hundred or more,’ Ealhstan sneered. ‘Look to your sides, Alfred. Your father is still king of Wessex, and after him, Aethelbald, Aethelberht and Aethelred will each take the throne before you. And should King Aethelwulf, and then Aethelbald, live good, long lives, even Aethelberht may never become king. So why–’

‘My Lord Bishop!’ Aethelwulf barked, launching himself to his feet. I particularly requested that you show consideration of my son’s age!’

Ealhstan bristled at the reprimand and opened his mouth to protest. But Aethelwulf cut him short. ‘Is it not perceivable that a child of merely four years should feel overawed, and more than a little confused, amidst such pomp – and in the presence of so holy a man as the pope? Alfred has clearly confused the meaning of consulship with that of kingship.’ He held out his hands and feigned amusement. ‘How many here could say they fully understand the place of a consul in the society of bygone Rome?’ Pleased to see many shaking heads he continued, ‘Then how much less would a young boy comprehend the meaning of being anointed to the consulship? The phrase refers to an outdated ceremony, intended only to show respect to the person on whom the honour is bestowed.’

Aethelwulf ignored Alfred’s indignant scowl, knowing full well that the child had recalled the pope’s words quite accurately. But to stress his point and quell subsequent unrest, he could not afford further contributions from his son.

‘I have received written confirmation from His Holiness regarding Alfred’s reception in Rome,’ Aethelwulf stated. ‘As a royal son of Wessex, Alfred enjoyed a generous welcome in the Eternal City, and I have no doubt that his education in both spiritual and secular matters has benefited from the experience. Regarding Alfred’s confirmation, Pope Leo describes the ceremony as I have already done; it is customary to garb eminent visitors in the vestments of the consulate.’