Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (14 page)

Carefully, he unfolded a piece of vellum and held it up. ‘This missive will be made available to anyone who wishes to read it. But I ask that it is treated with respect: it is precious not only to me, but to Wessex. It explains that Alfred was received by Pope Leo as a spiritual son,
which
means that, from henceforth, not only will the pontiff take particular interest in Alfred’s welfare, but Wessex will be recognised as a Christian kingdom, devoted to the Holy See, as are our Frankish neighbours across the Northern Sea.’

There seemed little left to say regarding Alfred’s visit to Rome and no questions were forthcoming. Even Ealhstan appeared satisfied that a child had not come home as king. Only Alfred seemed somewhat put out. But there were more important issues on Aethelwulf’s agenda than a child’s recollections of Rome. And flattery seemed to be the best way to introduce them.

‘Around this hall, I see some of my loyal followers,’ he started. ‘Still others have been unable to attend this gathering. No matter; they have not been forgotten. My gratitude will extend to all who have served our kingdom well for many years.’

Wessex notables were used to gift-giving by their kings – grants of land being the usual way of rewarding faithful service – and faces told of hopes for generous acquisitions.

‘It is my wish to honour some of you with gifts of bookland,’ he explained. ‘I intend to issue a general privilege of one tenth of royal demesne to the Church. From henceforth this tithe will be freed from all monetary obligations to the Crown: food rents, for example will cease. Naturally some responsibilities will remain the same, including military service, the amassing of the fyrd, bridge construction, and the building and repair of fortresses.

‘I also intend the recipients of this privilege to include some members of the secular nobility,’ Aethelwulf continued. ‘Once the land is granted you may issue some portion of it to the Church, should you so wish – for example, as payment for masses to be said for your soul after your death. Whatever you decide, the land grants should benefit many of you financially, and perhaps spiritually. The charters, or “books”, as we know them, will be drawn up by Father Felix, subject to the usual conditions,’ he added as all eyes turned towards Aethelwulf’s secretary.

Felix read out the long list of beneficiaries whilst Aethelwulf prepared to present the final issue on his agenda. His most loyal nobles had been rewarded, including his brother by marriage, Osric. He hoped the flattery would serve its purpose: their gratitude would render them amenable to his decision.

He mulled over his well-made plans. In a year’s time he would journey to Rome: something he’d promised himself since the day he was crowned. Now he was ageing and had no time to delay. He must entreat the pope to offer God the repentance of Wessex for its sins. Opposition would undoubtedly focus on concern over who would rule the kingdom in his absence. He would propose the simplest of solutions: his two eldest sons would rule it between them. Aethelbald would take the greater part of Wessex, and Aethelberht the eastern shires, where, until two years ago, Aethelstan had presided as under-king.

Aethelwulf stepped forward, the movement silencing the hall. He glanced behind at his sons, for whose futures his every important decision had been made. As yet, Alfred was ignorant of Aethelwulf’s plans for the following year, plans made long before the boy’s return this Easter.

Alfred would make a second trip to the Holy City, to accompany his father.

Nineteen

Winchester: early January 855

On a cold and snow-brushed evening during the week following the twelve days of Christmas, Lady Osburh passed away peacefully in her bed. The lengthy illness had drained every modicum of her strength, rendering her so frail it seemed a puff of wind could blow her away. Aethelwulf had seldom left her bedside for days and the physician had been in constant attendance, although Osburh had rarely woken from her exhausted sleep. Bishop Swithun had shriven her and, surrounded by the family she loved so much, she had drawn her last breath.

Too choked to speak or even rise from where he’d slumped across Osburh’s lifeless form, Aethelwulf gestured with a flick of his wrist that all should leave him alone with his wife.

Aethelswith’s own overwhelming grief mingled with concern for her father and youngest brother. Alfred had not experienced death on such a personal level during the five years of his life and tears flooded down his face. So whilst others retired to the hall with Bishop Swithun, Aethelswith took Alfred’s hand and led him to the sleeping chamber he shared with Aethelred beyond the hall. On the edge of the bed she sat him on her lap, stroking his head as he sobbed into her shoulder, his tears soaking the fine wool of her gown.

‘Why did she have to die?’ he wailed. ‘Mother was always so good: God had no need to punish her.’

‘No, He did not, Alfred,’ Aethelswith agreed, struggling to find words to explain the inevitability of death to so young a child. ‘And you must never think He did. Death seldom comes as a punishment, sweet one.’

‘Then why does Father believe that God has sent the Danes to kill our people as a punishment for not worshipping Him properly?’

Aethelswith tucked a wisp of hair beneath the head covering she now wore to signify her married status and nodded understanding of Alfred’s question. ‘But the death of people in their own homes is quite different,’ she floundered, at a loss for a truly astute answer. ‘We must all die eventually; no one lives forever. Some of us are fortunate enough to live good, long lives; others become ill or have accidents and die earlier than they would have hoped. Some very unfortunate people do not live past childhood. Mother was lucky enough to be granted quite a long life, well past her fortieth year. And, had illness not beset her these past few years, she may have enjoyed an even longer life, like Edith here.’

She threw a grateful smile at the old nurse who had entered with Alfred’s meal: a chunk of bread with a slice of pork and a mug of goat’s milk. Edith bent to lay the tray on a low bench and straightened up with a grimace. Her eyes were red and swollen with the tears she’d shed for her beloved mistress.

‘We must remember that Mother had a happy life, Alfred, surrounded by people who loved her,’ Aethelswith stressed, as much to comfort Edith as her young brother. ‘Mother is at peace now, and would want us all to live our lives to make her proud. I’m sure we’ll meet her again in Heaven, when she’ll want to know about all the good things we’ve done.’

Alfred’s sobbing breaths steadied and he seemed to mull over what she’d said. He yawned widely and Aethelswith realised just how deeply the grief had affected him.

‘You must be hungry by now, young lord,’ Edith said, offering him the mug of milk. ‘You’ve eaten little all day.’

‘I don’t think I could manage any food,’ Alfred replied, fixing apologetic eyes on Edith as he struggled to take a few sips of milk. ‘My throat wouldn’t open wide enough to let it through – and if it did, my stomach may throw it straight out again.’

‘Then just drink the milk, Alfred,’ Aethelswith said, knowing that further persuasion would be pointless. ‘We’ll get you settled and I’ll stay with you until you nod off.

‘I hope Aethelred’s managed to eat something,’ she said quietly to Edith. ’He was putting on a very brave face – though the face does not always reflect one’s deepest feelings.’

Edith gave Aethelswith one of her most meaningful looks. ‘I daresay I could name at least one other who’s good at hiding their feelings, my lady. Believe me, it does no good to keep things bottled up. Problems often don’t seem so bad when shared with someone you trust.’

Unshed tears glistened in Aethelswith’s eyes and for some moments she stayed silent, fussing around Alfred’s bed and plumping up his pillows. If she spoke, her voice would betray her and Alfred would see through her false bravado. It seemed that Edith had already done just that. She gazed at the rotund nurse perched on Alfred’s bed, gently easing his nightgown over his head. Besides her parents and youngest brothers, Aethelswith loved Edith more than anyone else in the whole world. Her throat tightened as she fought back the tears.

‘Don’t go back to Mercia, Aethelswith,’ Alfred blurted as he settled into bed and reached his arms out to her. ‘Stay at Father’s court with us for ever. I know you’ll be happier here.’ Tears spilled down his face anew and Aethelswith sat on the edge of his bed and hugged him. If only Alfred knew how much she longed to do just that.

‘
I
need you more than Burgred does,’ Alfred sobbed. ‘He’s a man and can manage on his own: he has plenty of servants. You’re my only sister and I want you here. And I don’t like Burgred!’

‘Oh, Alfred, if only it were possible for me to stay,’ Aethelswith said, taking him by the shoulders as amber eyes searched her face. ‘We can’t always do what we want in life, which you will realise as you get older. But we must always honour the duties and responsibilities we are given, no matter how hard they may seem at times. And my duties lie in Mercia – with my husband.

‘Try to sleep now, Alfred,’ she soothed, stroking his cheek. ‘I’ll always love you dearly, you know that. My thoughts will rarely be away from you, and I’ll try to visit more often, if I can – perhaps for a few days before you leave for Rome in the spring.’

Alfred nodded and lay down, though Aethelswith doubted her answer had greatly pacified him. Soon, his young body unwound, his features free of the agony of his loss. Aethelswith stood by his bed, listening to his rhythmic breathing for a while before turning to leave. In the solitude outside the doorway her own grief was unleashed, and her tears spilled. She swept them away and turned toward the hall. But, hearing Alfred’s troubled mumblings, she slipped back into his chamber.

‘I’ll look after your lovely book, Mother,’ Alfred murmured, his dream-voice muffled beneath the furs. ‘And learn to read so well, you’ll be proud of me . . .’

Aethelswith swallowed hard, the suffering in Alfred’s voice triggering her own. A strange silence hung in the air and by the anguished expression on his face, Aethelswith was certain Alfred was still dreaming.

‘Yes, I will try to be brave,’ he whispered.

As will we all, Aethelswith thought, drying her eyes once again.

* * *

Later, certain that her younger brothers were asleep, Aethelswith returned to the hall to speak with Aethelbald and Aethelberht and satisfy the groanings of her own stomach. Her brothers sat by the hearth with Bishop Swithun, their cheerless murmurings affording the only sound. Servants hovered under a pall of downcast silence and Aethelwulf’s thegns hunched at the tables, staring into their ale mugs. Aethelswith toyed with her food; like Alfred, she found she could barely swallow and resorted to a mug of goat’s milk before sitting beside her brothers.

Arrangements for the funeral were broached, but in Aethelwulf’s absence little could be achieved. Conversation lapsed into infrequent trivialities and eventually, Aethelswith retired to her own sleeping chamber. Her heart ached for Alfred, whose loss was even pervading his dreams. And Aethelswith would soon be so far away in Mercia, he wouldn’t even have her to comfort him.

Mercia: her home now. The very thought caused all the unhappiness of the past two years to resurface. After her mother’s funeral in four day’s time, she’d have no excuse whatsoever to linger in her beloved Wessex. Burgred had returned to Tamworth at the start of the New Year and his men who’d remained to escort her home would be eager to be making a move. She must leave Alfred to deal with his grief alone and return to the husband who made her feel so inadequate. She slumped into a wicker chair, considering how astutely Alfred had assessed Burgred.

‘Now, my lady, you need rest just as much as do your young brothers and should be in your bed,’ Edith stated, interrupting Aethelswith’s thoughts as she entered. ‘Would you like anything fetching for the night – a mug of watered ale perhaps?’

‘Nothing, thank you, Edith,’ Aethelswith sighed. ‘I am weary, but I think sleep may evade me for some time yet.’

Edith surveyed her with such understanding that Aethelswith’s tears welled afresh. She had not felt such love emanating from a single soul since she’d left Wessex. Kneeling stiffly beside her, Edith’s protective arms enfolded her.

‘There now, my lady,’ she soothed, ‘no matter how bad things may seem today, there’s always tomorrow. The loss of a mother is a terrible blow to a woman, but don’t give up on life. There’s always so much to live for, if only for the sheer joy of being alive . . .

‘Perhaps you’d like to unburden your problems on your old nurse. I know there’s more than your mother’s passing distressing you.’

Aethelswith nodded, wondering how much to say. But Edith deserved no less than the truth. ‘I can’t bear the thought of going back to Mercia,’ she admitted as the tears flowed. ‘My life’s had no meaning since . . . since the loss of my son.’

‘I thought as much,’ Edith sighed. ‘To have a babe stillborn is enough to break the strongest of women. But, my lady, there’s always next time. Your poor, dead child is in Heaven, so do not grieve for him. But for you, life must go on, and you’ve shown yourself able to both conceive and carry a child. It was God’s will that the babe did not breathe once he entered this world. And who are we to question the motives of Our Lord?’

‘But you don’t understand, Edith!’ Aethelswith’s fingertips ran down her wet cheeks. ‘Burgred blames me for our son’s death, thinks I willed it because I don’t love him. God alone knows how I’ve tried to be a loving wife!’

‘But the eyes rarely lie, my lady. Try as you may have done to be the wife Burgred wanted, your eyes would have told him he’d not captured your heart. And a man needs
to know that his wife is his in mind and body.’

‘But I just
can’t
love Burgred,’ Aethelswith whispered, taking a deep, steadying breath. ‘He’s not an easy man to love – not an easy man to
know
. Oh, Edith, I would have been better entering holy orders, where my soul could have sought comfort with God. But I wanted to do my duty for Wessex.’

Edith’s face was soft with pity. ‘Then you must assure your husband you want only to be a good wife. He
must
realise how much the child’s death hurt you, too.’

Aethelswith hung her head, knowing the heartrending pain she felt would be reflected in her face. Then all the tortured emotions of so many months came pouring out: ‘From the start Burgred has shut me out of his life, as though I don’t exist,’ she sobbed, ‘always seeming somewhere far away, somewhere unreachable. I can’t break through the stone wall he’s set around himself. Sometimes he has such a haunted look on his face, seeming to be crying out for help to bear some inconsolable grief. Yet when I try to offer comfort he turns away and tells me not to be a nagging wife.’

She rose and moved to the shuttered window, uncomfortable about revealing the extent of her marital problems. But Edith would never disclose a confidence, and Aethelswith desperately needed to unburden her miseries.

‘There’s been no real opportunity for the two of us to speak privately since the babe’s funeral,’ she said quietly as she turned, lowering her gaze to focus on Edith, still kneeling by the chair. ‘Burgred has blatantly shunned me and I feel shamed by it. He hasn’t been to my bed once since that day. I so longed for a child to love, Edith,’ she spluttered through trembling lips. ‘I’m so very lonely in Mercia.’

‘You
will
get through this awful time, my lady,’ Edith said, rising awkwardly and proceeding to pull back the bed covers and lay out Aethelswith’s nightgown. ‘If only I could be with you to help you cope.’ She sighed. ‘But my duties are still with King Aethelwulf’s family. Aethelred will be my major charge when Alfred’s away in Rome. I won’t have Osberht to think about then, either: he’ll be with the king. I’ll miss my husband – but I shan’t tell
him
that,’ she said, smiling at the thought of him. ‘He’s quite big-headed enough as it is! And I’ll sorely miss that young rascal Alfred, even though I’ll be able to reach my own bed earlier in his absence.’

Recalling Alfred’s strange dreamlike words earlier, Aethelswith asked, ‘Does my little brother often suffer from bad dreams, or talk in his sleep?’

‘Well now,’ the nurse replied, ‘sleep has always been a problem for Alfred. Even as a babe he didn’t nod off until late. And yes, he often speaks out loud. Most times the words he mutters don’t make sense – they could be Greek for all I can tell! Sometimes he seems to be speaking with someone – like as not one of the family.’

‘He had a conversation with Mother tonight, not long after he’d fallen asleep.’

‘Understandable, after today,’ Edith said, nodding sadly. ‘Best not to wake him, my lady; his dreams don’t seem to do him any harm. And Aethelred‘s such a sound sleeper it would take a whole army marching through his chamber to rouse
him
!’

Aethelswith smiled at the image as Edith glanced round the room. ‘Now, your bed’s all ready for you, my lady. Tomorrow will be another stressful day for everyone, with the funeral arrangements and all. Your father will need all the support we can muster. It was a godsend to have his close friend Bishop Swithun here when Lady Osburh passed away.’ She cast a glance at the doorway. ‘That Bishop Ealhstan would have been of no comfort to your father, whatsoever,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not the type to offer solace to the bereaved, if you ask me, Lady Aethelswith.’

‘I agree with you there,’ Aethelswith replied, lowering her voice to match Edith’s. ‘He’s a cold natured man for a bishop. And Father told me Alfred didn’t like him at all; he stared at Ealhstan and quite disconcerted him – just as he did with Burgred.’