Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (15 page)

‘Try to put such thoughts from your mind, my lady. Let sleep refresh you ready for the morrow. I’ll be here to see to your needs, as always.’

Alone in her bed Aethelswith listened to the wind whistling round the roof thatch, wondering whether it would bring in more snow. A heavy snowfall would mean conditions for the funeral would be difficult and uncomfortable. But it could also mean she may have to stay at Winchester for some time longer.

Twenty

Francia – Rome – Wessex: spring 855 – autumn 856

King Aethelwulf and his six-year-old son set out from Winchester on their long pilgrimage to Rome on an unseasonably cool and blustery morning in late May. Six days later, with their large entourage of bodyguards and servants appropriate for their safety and comfort, they crossed the narrow sea to the kingdom of the West Franks. Landing at Quentovic they rested overnight at the hostel of St Judoc before embarking on the journey of over a hundred and twenty miles to the Paris court of Charles the Bald. Half a dozen wagons carried many beautiful and costly gifts, mostly for Pope Leo and St Peter; others to impress the powerful Frankish king.

Aethelwulf found difficulty in containing Alfred’s boundless exuberance. His son absorbed every sight, sound and smell along their lumbering route, inundating him with questions and observations until Aethelwulf silently screamed for respite. But, determined to ensure an interesting and memorable journey for Alfred, he put on a brave face, aided by a welcomed improvement in the weather.

‘So we need to visit the Frankish king because you want him to help us if the Danes attack?’

Aethelwulf chortled at the bluntness of the question, glancing at Alfred as they rode at the head of the lengthy cavalcade. The verdant countryside of northern Francia was intoxicating, spring sunshine warm on his cheeks. Aethelwulf felt a rare sense of peace: this pilgrimage meant much to him – and to Wessex.

‘That is true, I suppose,’ he replied honestly, ‘but I hope you’ll keep it to yourself once we’re at the Frankish court. Charles is a very important ruler – not only King of the West Franks but also a Holy Roman Emperor. It would be discourteous to pass through his kingdom without paying our respects, and the gifts will serve to convince him of our admiration and friendship.’

Alfred nodded, his face thoughtful. ‘Has Charles always been bald, Father?’

Trying hard not to roar with laughter, Aethelwulf replied, ‘I haven’t yet met the Frankish king, Alfred, but I don’t think he’s at all bald. Indeed, several accounts say he’s quite the opposite: rather hirsute. Which means
hairy.
’

‘So why is he called ‘Charles the
Bald
?’

Aethelwulf sighed, silently composing a brief and simple answer to that question. ‘I’m told the title relates to a lack of
land
rather than hair,’ he started. ‘You see, when the emperor, Louis the Pious, died in 840, his three surviving sons were at loggerheads over who would rule Francia. Since Charles was the youngest son – as well as being the child of Louis’ second wife – at first it was doubtful that he would have
any
land to rule over. But after three years of bitter civil war the empire was eventually divided between them, as Louis had wanted in the first place. The eldest son, Lothar, took the lands east of the River Rhine; Louis took the far eastern area of Bavaria, and Charles the lands west of the Rhine. Hence, Charles is the king of the
West
Franks.’

Alfred responded with a nod before resuming his scrutiny of the landscape.

After five days of Frankish hospitality they left Paris behind, their numbers swelled by an additional body of mounted men provided by Charles to escort them to the border that separated his kingdom from that of his warring brother, Lothar. Alfred had thoroughly enjoyed the visit, having been permitted to spend the days being entertained by the emperor’s eight-year-old son, who was also named Charles. Sometimes they played Frankish games that Alfred had never even heard of; at other times they explored the nearby woods and streams, under the watchful eye of a small troop of the emperor’s soldiers. The two boys delighted in each other’s company and, fortunately for Alfred, his new friend could converse in the Saxon tongue, albeit on a basic level.

Aethelwulf was well satisfied. The visit had been such a success that Charles had invited him to break the monotony of the journey home with another stay at his court.

As the days passed and spring ripened into summer they pressed on, south and east through Lothar’s kingdom, the towering peaks of the Alps breathtaking in their splendour. At last they turned south towards Rome. On most nights they slept beneath the vast, clear skies; on others they managed to reach one of the many Christian hostels situated along the much travelled pilgrim route. But the long days in the saddle, or inside a bumpy wagon with Father Felix and the two priests, became a trial of endurance for Aethelwulf. The hot, dry air of the southern lands seemed to sear his lungs, sapping every modicum of his strength, the rutted roads causing horses to lame and playing havoc with wagon wheels. Dust from the dry tracks clogged nostrils and coated clothing, hair and sweaty skin with a layer of grime. And clouds of biting insects followed them relentlessly, determined for a taste of blood.

So it was with immense relief in late July that Aethelwulf saw the towering wall of the Leonine City. Named after the pope responsible for its construction, the wall enclosed a suburb of Rome on the right bank of the Tiber; the opposite side to the ancient city on the Seven Hills inside the old Aurelian Wall built nearly six hundred years ago. The Leonine City included the Basilica of St Peter’s and the pope’s residence, the Lateran Palace. Several churches, convents and pilgrim hostels for Saxons, Franks, Lombards and Greeks were also located inside the new walls.

‘They’ve finished the wall!’ Alfred yelled, dropping his reins and flinging his small arms wide, gesturing to the imposing new structures. ‘Pope Leo had just started building the last time I was here.’

‘I’m told the defences were designed to help safeguard the holy buildings from Saracen raids, Alfred. Many of our own towns, particularly coastal ones, would benefit greatly from similar fortifications,’ he said, admiring the thick stone wall and sturdy towers. ‘Such projects are unlikely to be undertaken in my lifetime,’ Aethelwulf admitted, ‘but perhaps during the reigns of my sons . . .’

He let the thought hang as they entered the Leonine City through the Saxon Gate and their long procession clattered through the cobbled streets, heading for the quarter known as the
Schola Saxonum
– the Saxon School. Situated next to the portico of the magnificent basilica of St Peter, the Saxon School resembled most villages in Aethelwulf’s homeland: a collection of wooden huts and stables around a communal hall and a simple wooden church. Run by Saxon monks, the Schola had been in existence for many years, its purpose simply to provide a place for all Saxon pilgrims to stay. Aethelwulf was pleased to note the buildings had been well restored following two fires that had reduced the hostel to little more than ashes in previous years. He’d sent a goodly sum towards its repair with Alfred two years ago and fully intended to donate further funds for its upkeep on this occasion. Elation filled him. After years of longing he was finally
here
, soon to meet the holiest man in Christendom . . .

But, the news awaiting them on entering the
Schola
severely tempered his euphoria.

‘You’re sad because Pope Leo’s dead, aren’t you, Father?’ Alfred said as they settled into the hut reserved for visiting nobility. Aethelwulf slumped on the low cot, in need of rest and a change of clothing. It was so long since he’d worn anything that wasn’t caked in layers of dust. ‘He was a very kind man,’ Alfred continued at his father’s nod. ‘But the new pope will probably be kind as well.’

‘He is is called Benedict the Third, I’m told. And you’re right; he’s likely to be just as compassionate. It’s just that–’

‘You believe Pope Leo would have been more likely to help you because he’d already welcomed me,’ Alfred supplied.

Aethelwulf nodded and pulled himself to his feet with a weary sigh. ‘Now, before I throw off these stinking clothes I need a word with Osberht. The stabling here didn’t look too generous and we’ve a lot of horses to house. Satan needs a wide berth or there’ll be mayhem, and little of the stables still standing by morning. And don’t think I’m joking either.’

It was almost a month later by the time Aethelwulf was received by Pope Benedict in the Lateran Palace. It was a brief encounter, after which he and Alfred, Father Felix and the two priests were politely ushered out as Benedict made his way to the council chamber for an urgent engagement with the notables of Rome. Though disappointed to have his long-awaited audience terminated so abruptly, Aethelwulf wasn’t surprised. It was common knowledge that the city’s appointment of the new pontiff was not proceeding smoothly.

Benedict was an austere man, unquestionably devout in his beliefs and the promotion of the Church but, unfortunately for Aethelwulf, Benedict was embroiled in conflict with Lothar and Louis, the brothers of Charles the Bald, who refused to approve him as pope. Consequently, Benedict had not yet been consecrated. But, refusing to give way to the two Holy Roman Emperors, Benedict spent much of his time with members of the Roman nobility, clergy and senate, determined to find a way to win this battle for the papacy.

The carefully planned ceremonies, during which Aethelwulf had intended to present the pope with his lavish gifts, were therefore postponed. On reflection, Aethelwulf considered that to be no bad thing. Benedict may not sit in the pontifical chair for much longer, and the costly gifts could be put to better use with the duly consecrated pontiff. So he resigned himself to viewing the sights of the Leonine City and the substantial remains across the Tiber of that bygone age of Empire, now interspersed with the shabby residential areas where most of Rome’s population lived. His visits to the awe-inspiring churches and shrines strengthened his love of God, filling him with a profound sense of regret at his decision to leave the Church after his early education at Winchester. But regrets were futile and he rapidly dismissed them. As King of Wessex, Aethelwulf had been blessed with a wife he’d deeply loved, and sons who would continue to make the kingdom great.

Alfred was in a reverie of his own as the days passed in the wonderment of learning. At the tomb of the Apostle he said prayers for his mother, the simple act serving to ease the deep pain of bereavement that Aethelwulf knew he still felt.

The uncomfortable heat and humidity of summer with its swarms of buzzing insects gradually faded, giving way to the fresher air of autumn. By early October the uncertain occupancy of the pontifical chair seemed finally resolved. Though Aethelwulf had seen little of Pope Benedict, he knew from the gossiping Romans that Louis of Bavaria had sent a cardinal priest named Anastasius to be installed as pope. Anastasius’s men had stormed the Lateran Palace and for a week Benedict had suffered the indignity of imprisonment. But the senate, nobles and clergy of Rome simply refused to consecrate the priest as pope. Anastasius’s position was hopeless and Benedict was released to reclaim his position.

Following Pope Benedict’s consecration on October 6, the people were in festive mood; the pontiff of their choice sat in his rightful seat, albeit without the approval of the Holy Roman Emperors.

Weeks stretched into months, the lingering warmth and blue skies of the Roman autumn gradually marred by the rains and cooler air of winter. The West Saxons unpacked thicker cloaks and dodged the heavy showers. Yet compared to the biting winds and freezing fog and ice of a Wessex winter, Rome seemed to embrace the perpetuity of a spring paradise. By the time spring did blossom again, Aethelwulf began making plans for the return journey. Since mid October he’d been received in the Lateran Palace on several occasions. Exquisite gifts were carried in by his retainers and Father Felix stood by to record the joyous events. Golden chalices and gilded silver candlesticks, robes elaborately decorated with gold and silver thread, a beautiful ornamental sword and chests of gold and silver coin were amongst the offerings that delighted the new pontiff – and paved the way for amicable and constructive discussions between them. Aethelwulf would leave Rome with the knowledge that Pope Benedict would remember Wessex in his prayers.

At the end of May all was in readiness for their departure.

‘When do we see His Holiness to say goodbye?’ Alfred popped another grape into his mouth, looking expectantly at his father. They’d eaten a hearty meal of roasted pork, with pastries from the market and a variety of colourful fruits, and the hostel’s hall buzzed with cheerful conversation. Beyond the open door, daylight was fading as the sun sank to the horizon across the stretch of sea the Greeks had called the Tyrrhenian. Alfred reached for an orange. ‘Will you give it to him then?’

‘In two days’ time, and yes,’ Aethelwulf answered the two questions, watching juice squirt into Alfred eye as he peeled the orange’s thick skin with his small scramseax.

‘So we meet with the pope in two days and you’ll give him the last of the gifts then,’ Alfred said, trying to avoid cutting his fingers. ‘I can’t wait to see his face.’

* * *

Inside the huge Basilica of St Peter’s on the first day of June, Pope Benedict held the magnificent crown of solid gold above his head. His lips moved in silent prayer as he lowered his arms to place the crown on the altar, beneath which lay the tomb of the Blessed Apostle. Aethelwulf felt truly humbled as the congregation of Romans and Saxons knelt together to be led in prayers by His Holiness the Pope. His gift had been well received; recognised as a true representation of his devotion to the Church and his deep love of God.

With Alfred and Felix at his sides and his retinue behind, Aethelwulf stepped from the solemnity of the basilica, feeling as though the hand of God had enveloped him. But silence ended as cheers erupted from the gathered crowds. Shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun he waved to the smiling faces below the wide steps and gestured to a dozen of his guards. The men disappeared into the basilica as Aethelwulf held up his hands to quieten the crowd.

‘People of Rome,’ he yelled in perfect Latin once he could make himself heard. ‘You have heard that tomorrow we return to our own lands and wish to say farewell to you all. Thank you for allowing us to do so. The year we have spent amongst you has been one of the most enjoyable of my life and I thank you all for your generosity and hospitality to my companions. We will remember Rome’s splendour, her wines, fruits and pastries for many years. But we’ll remember Rome’s people for ever!’