Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (17 page)

His father’s familiar voice rang out, banishing such disturbing thoughts and filling Alfred with pride. Aethelwulf had spent so long with Father Felix, memorising the Frankish words of the marriage vows, determined to impress the gracious Charles. His splendid blue tunic and cloak, the jewelled crown that rivalled that of Charles, and the glittering brooches and belt buckle, all contributed to the impression of the wealth and power of Wessex.

Judith was facing Aethelwulf, and though Alfred could not see her face, he knew she would be trying hard to hide the fear she felt; fear of a journeying to a strange land, of leaving her home and becoming a wife. But she faced the ceremony bravely, speaking her own vows with clarity. Then, during the nuptial mass, Archbishop Hincmar placed a ring on her finger, anointed her and lowered a golden crown set with rubies onto her head. Judith was now Queen of Wessex. And although Alfred had known this would happen, he could not prevent a shudder: the wives of Wessex kings were
never
crowned as queen. Wessex nobles were unlikely to abandon a custom they’d clung to for the past seventy years, a custom stemming from a tale that Alfred knew well . . .

Eadburh, daughter of the mighty Offa of Mercia, had married King Beorhtric of Wessex. Though beautiful, she was an evil woman who plotted the downfall of Wessex for her father. Relentlessly, she assured Beorhtric that his councillors were idlers, useless at running the kingdom, so he’d be rid of them. Beorhtric ignored her words, knowing them to be false, and in her fury Eadburh resorted to laying poison for the councillors. But the king accidentally drank the poison himself. Eadburh fled to Francia, taking much West Saxon treasure with her. Eventually she moved to Pavia, where she died a sad and lonely death . . .

The choir filled the church with such heavenly sounds that the fateful images were abandoned and Alfred followed the emperor as he led the guests through the high, arched doorway. He was hungry and the wedding breakfast an appealing prospect.

* * *

It was late in the year for crossing the Channel but the crisis in Wessex could not be ignored until spring. Fortunately, the weather held fine and the morning crossing was smooth. But by the afternoon conditions had changed, and they made a cheerless fourteen-mile journey from Dover to Canterbury in pouring rain, Judith not peeping out from inside her wagon throughout. Aethelwulf deemed this wet and dreary homecoming an inauspicious start to his young wife’s new life in Wessex.

Weary and sodden, and heavy-hearted at the prospect of what he might hear, as evening approached he dismounted to greet his fair-headed son.

Aethelberht received them with cheerful cordiality and ushered them before the roaring fire in the impressive hall. Shadows danced on the tapestries that covered most of the high walls, masking the cold aura of the blocks of stone from which they were built – a reminder of the hall’s Roman origins. Aethelwulf sighed. If not for these unforeseen events which would radically change the rest of his life, he’d be content to be entertained by his amiable son. He was thankful that Judith had cheered in the warmth of the hall and was enjoying the fresh bread and watered wine.

Content to relinquish his temporary kingship of the eastern shires, Aethelberht professed shock at his older brother’s actions. ‘I knew nothing of Aethelbald’s intentions until he’d already turned his scheming into actions,’ he proclaimed. ‘I can only speculate that he’s received unwise counsel in your absence, Father. Someone’s
put ideas into his head.’

Aethelwulf wearily massaged his temples. ‘And we don’t have to think too hard as to who that might be, do we?’ he said, glancing at Alfred who was happily chatting to Judith. ‘Bishop Ealhstan’s been a constant companion to Aethelbald for some years, and that man’s aspirations know no bounds. Nor do I have any illusions about Aethelbald’s ambitions, or his impatience.’

‘You’re right, Father. Ealhstan’s rarely left the West Saxon court since you departed for Rome. Nor has Ealdorman Eanwulf. And, of course, as king of the western shires, Aethelbald’s had the financial resources to curry favour with some of our most powerful nobles.’ Aethelberht played with his fingers, evidently uncomfortable at what he must reveal. But he took a resigned breath and said, ‘I know how much this will dismay you, Father, but Aethelbald found little difficulty in persuading them all of your unsuitability to rule. With Danish attacks increasingly likely, he’s used your age as his sharpest weapon. And I’m told he feels he should have assumed kingship of
all
the Wessex shires during your absence. So he’s more than a little disgruntled with me as well as you.’

‘Aethelbald’s been disgruntled with someone or other for most of his life, Aethelberht, so don’t take that to heart. I’ve no doubt it’s me he’s seething at.’ Aethelwulf shook his head, contemplating this web of intrigue against him. ‘You know, I can believe that Ealstan and Eanwulf have played duplicitous roles in this,’ he said. ‘But the rest, those who’ve served me so well, and dare I say, loyally, throughout my reign? How could so many turn their backs on me now, after the generous grants of land?’

Aethelberht stared silently at the spitted meats being turned over the hearth, struggling to voice the reply that Aethelwulf knew to be on the tip of his tongue.

‘Shall we discuss this now, son, or later?’

‘Walk with me to the stables, Father,’ Aethelberht said, glancing at Alfred and Judith. ‘The rain has eased and I’d like your opinion of my new stallion.’

Horses shifted in their stalls as they entered the stables, Aethelberht’s single oil lamp throwing a small circle of light into the dark building. Grooms had already gone to await the meal so they were alone, as Aethelberht had evidently wanted.

‘You needn’t fear to speak in front of Judith,’ Aethelwulf said, caressing the neck of a handsome grey. ‘She may be young but she’s no fool, and she fully understands the situation in Wessex regarding the position of a king’s wife. I’ve been honest with her in that. But try to understand, Aethelberht, the immensity of power held by her father, and his influence with the pope. The emperor would hear of no other status than queen for his daughter. This marriage was his idea in the first place. And no,’ he said, lifting a hand to stay Aethelberht’s half-formed comment, ‘I could not have declined the offer. The match has much in its favour for our kingdom. Rarely a day goes by that I don’t contemplate our resources should we face large-scale attack. Our alliance with West Francia should serve us well if we require aid.’

Aethelwulf heaved a weary sigh, knowing his long-winded explanation sounded no more than feeble excuse. ‘I am old, son, may not last much longer in this world. But I had hoped to see out my life doing my utmost for Wessex. I anticipated a degree of outrage regarding my marriage and Judith’s status as queen. I didn’t marry in the hope of producing further heirs – though God forgive me, I believe her father expects that. Judith is young and, for the time being, will be accorded the privacy of her own bedchamber.’ Aethelberht’s brows rose at hearing such an admission, but he said nothing. ‘But that I should lose my kingdom because of this marriage is proving a hard price to pay.’

Aethelberht averted his eyes and Aethelwulf sensed he was struggling to accept the idea of a Wessex queen. And, if a loyal son had condemned it, how much more so would the magnates of the kingdom?

Perhaps I should call a meeting of the Witan at Winchester?’

‘You’ll not be permitted back into the West, Father. Aethelbald has stationed men along all roads to prevent you. You’ll need to relay your intentions to him via messengers.’

Aethelberht moved away and stood in the doorway, looking out at the puddled yard. Aethelwulf stared at his straight back; grieved beyond all telling at what he was hearing. At length Aethelberht turned to face him and said, ‘I heard only yesterday that Aethelbald is prepared to face civil war in his bid to keep the western shires. He’s been preparing his armies for weeks.’

* * *

Unwilling to subject his kingdom to the horrors of civil war, Aethelwulf agreed to Aethelbald’s demands to meet with some of the most powerful nobles of Wessex. In the grim, formal atmosphere of the Winchester hall he fought desperately to present arguments in favour of retaining his own kingdom of seventeen years. But in the end it amounted to what he’d expected. Seating a queen beside him on the throne proved to be his greatest mistake: Wessex nobles had no intention of changing their practice of seventy years. In addition, Aethelbald’s condemnations of his father’s age and unsuitability to rule had done their work. Conversely, Aethelbald had impressed the magnates with his own skills of government; he was a proven leader of men who could raise an army swiftly – as he had recently proved.

Conscious of the looming possibility of battle, by the end of the harrowing day Aethelwulf was compelled to agree to a compromise. The kingdom would remain divided: Aethelbald would retain his
uncrowned
kingship of the western shires, whilst Aethelwulf and his new ‘queen’ would rule in the East. Aethelberht, Aethelred and Alfred would stay with them. On Aethelwulf’s death, however,
all
of his sons would adhere to the terms of his will.

Aethelbald had seemed unable to meet his father’s eyes during the meeting, whether through contempt or his own sense of guilt, Aethelwulf couldn’t tell. Suddenly overwhelmed by unbearable sadness he thanked God that Osburh wasn’t here to witness such betrayal by their son.

As he began the long trek back to Canterbury he wondered how Judith’s father would react on learning that his daughter would be queen of only a minor portion of the kingdom. King Charles was astute enough to grasp the true implications of this ‘compromise’:

Aethelwulf had, effectively, been deposed as king of the West Saxons.

Twenty Two

Aros and West Francia: April – October 857

A little after sunrise on April 16, Eadwulf sat on his sea chest at his oar port aboard Bjorn’s magnificent new ship,
Sea Eagle
,
rowing hard through the Aros estuary towards the open waters of the Kattegat. The waving arms of villagers had long since disappeared, the cheering voices carried away by the strong wind.

It was a good day for sailing.

Eadwulf admired the striking design that Ragnar’s shipwrights had created; this was a vessel well befitting the son of the powerful jarl. Along the length of the slender hull, twenty pairs of oars sliced through the water; shields hung over the uppermost strake, out of the way. Towards prow and stern the oaken strakes tapered, curving gracefully upwards, the prow ornamented by the carved eagle’s head, its hooked beak wide, yellow eyes menacing. Bjorn’s place would be at the prow for most of the journey, issuing orders that would demand immediate response.

Amidships stood the sturdy mast, the sail now collapsed until needed on the open sea. At the right of the stern sat the helmsman operating the steering oar. Already nearing his fiftieth year, Leif was one of Bjorn’s most experienced crewmen. As their eyes met, Eadwulf returned his cheery salute, feeling good to be alive. It had been months since he’d rowed anywhere and his body complained at each stroke, but the sense of freedom under clear blue skies filled him with such elation he soon forgot his nagging muscles.

The
Eagle
glided into the wide bay beyond which the Kattegat stretched east to Skåne and south to the many islands and the Baltic Sea. Sunrise shimmered across the silver water, embracing the twenty dragonships anchored there: vessels from villages throughout Ragnar’s domain, united under the leadership of their jarl’s son. Eadwulf squinted at the impressive fleet, contemplating the large force it represented. The
Eagle
alone carried over forty men, and though most of the ships were shorter – a few thirty oars, others twenty or fewer – he calculated a total nearing four hundred men. And soon that number would be doubled.

The
Eagle
took her position at the head of the fleet and the stone anchors on the waiting ships were heaved up. The sails were raised, instantly catching the southerly wind, and the sleek ships pitched forward, like demons from the fiery land of Muspelheim sweeping over the sea. Rounding the headlands of the bay, they struck north into the Kattegat Strait. Bjorn paced the deck sharing cheerful banter with his crew, his well-fitting tunic accentuating his solidly broad frame, his red hair whipping across his face. Pride and exhilaration lit his face and Eadwulf considered how handsome he looked with his splendid beard and moustache, wishing the stubble on his own chin would hurry up and grow. This would be his seventeenth summer and he longed to have a beard to signify his manhood.

‘Well, Eadwulf,’ Bjorn said, squatting beside him and glancing up at the flag atop the mast, the white-tailed erne rearing from the water, a huge fish clutched in its talons. ‘What do you think of her? Does she handle well?’

Eadwulf grinned, sharing his master’s pride. ‘She does that; she’s light as a feather. I’ve never seen a finer ship.’

‘Now I’ve seen ships in northern waters that would dwarf this one,’ Bjorn said, nodding. ‘Saw a Norwegian once, a fifty oar at least, with a huge sail. But size isn’t everything, and I’m well pleased with this beauty. Her slim lines make for speed, a great advantage at times. Enjoy the break from rowing, lads,’ he yelled, heading back to the prow. ‘Once we turn from the Kattegat your backs will get little respite.’

In the mid-afternoon they veered west into the narrow channel that opened up into the wide Limfjord – a stretch of water that reached from the Kattegat to the Northern Sea, separating the two areas of Danish mainland. The fjord provided a much shorter route than sailing further north and through the unpredictable spring-time waters of the Skagerrak. Eadwulf knew it made sense to take this route – but the mere thought of it caused his emotions to run awry. Little over ten miles inland from the Kattegat, as the channel gradually became a wider sound, the settlement of Aalborg stood proudly on its southern bank.

Aalborg was Jarl Rorik’s domain. And somewhere in that busy town could be Eadwulf’s mother.

Eadwulf had known of Rorik’s whereabouts for some years – Bjorn had not kept that secret from him – but they’d never had cause to sail this way before. Bjorn generally headed north to the Norwegian lands, or west to the coast of Skåne. But his master had promised that one day, they’d pay Rorik a visit.

Their first night was spent on one of the fjord’s many islands, and by late-morning the next day, they had reached the Northern Sea, following the Danish coastline south. They kept moving throughout most of that night, eventually casting anchor at the mouth of the River Ribea to await sunrise, and the arrival of the second fleet, under the command of Bjorn’s cousin, Hastein.

Eadwulf had only vague recollections of sailing to the port of Ribe six years ago and he didn’t dwell on that time. He drifted into a shallow sleep, to be wakened seemingly moments later by raised voices. His sleep-filled eyes were greeted by the glare of the rising sun, and the sight of Hastein’s approaching fleet.

The
Jormungandr
swung alongside the
Sea Eagle.
Hastein’s ship was an impressive vessel: eighteen pairs of oars compared to the
Eagle’s
twenty, her slim lines just as alluring, the finely carved reptilian head at her prow equally ornate and fear-provoking. Unable to contain his joy at seeing his cousin again, Bjorn leapt from the side of the
Eagle
with the agility of a cat, to land sure-footedly on the
Jormungandr’s
deck. The cousins embraced each other with much whooping and back-slapping. They made an interesting spectacle: the wild, red mane of Bjorn contrasting markedly with the neat gingery braid down Hastein’s back and the short fringe across his brow. And, unlike Bjorn’s hairy visage, Hastein’s chin and upper lip were clean shaven. Both men were a little shorter than Eadwulf, though Hastein was less thickly built. But his biceps stood proud, and his strength could not be doubted.

Memories of Hedeby hit Eadwulf like a slap: of being trussed like a hog for sale, sick with physical weakness and humiliation – and a young man garbed in blue, eating a flatbread from one of the stalls, and tripping over a dog. That same young man had later come back, and his party had taken Aethelnoth. Eadwulf felt certain that the youth in blue was Bjorn’s cousin. Dare he hope that Aethelnoth was still alive?

Swelled to over forty ships, the fleet struck south-west; the bright sails tacked into the bracing westerly and they made good time. By the end of the third day they were following the low-lying coastlands of Frisia. The wind dropped and they rowed through the night until daybreak, when the wind once more picked up. Under sail again they headed for Francia.

The weather was warming daily and Eadwulf’s spirits were high when they sighted the Seine estuary late in the afternoon. As afternoon merged into evening and the western sky blazed crimson, they were sailing up the meandering, unpredictable river that would lead them to the heart of West Francia. But to navigate unknown waters in darkness would be foolhardy, and before long forty ships lined the banks of the Seine.

Eadwulf dumped down the sacks of supplies and made to return to the ship for more when he noticed Hastein squatting to sort through his belongings – and saw his chance to ask about Aethelnoth. Hastein’s head jerked up at the unfamiliar voice and he cocked an eyebrow as their eyes met. Eadwulf waited for the verbal tirade to start: for a thrall to question a jarl’s son could be construed as insolence. But Hastein grinned and rose to his feet.

‘Your voice tells me you’re not a Dane, and you could be the double of . . .’ He tilted his head and grinned even wider. ‘You could almost be his twin!’

‘I am Bjorn’s thrall,’ Eadwulf said, taking in the cheerful Dane’s appearance at close quarters. Hastein’s skin was fair, pinking after the days of warm sunshine, with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. A glint of humour played in his hazel eyes, the corners of his mouth seeming to be naturally turned up. ‘Bjorn is a good master, and very considerate.’

Hastein hooted. ‘Well, I’ve heard my cousin described as many things, some complimentary, some not quite so gracious. But
considerate?
That’s a new idea. I wonder what his many women friends would think of it. Now, what was it you wanted? Oh yes, you wondered whether I remembered someone called Aethelnoth. Friend of yours was he?’

Eadwulf nodded, resigned to believing that Hastein wouldn’t recall a slave from long ago. But Hastein not only remembered Aethelnoth, he couldn’t sing his praises highly enough:

‘Aethelnoth’s a fair giant of a man, half a head taller than you – and
you’re
bigger than most. Probably twice as broad as well! Legs like tree trunks, and a neck to match: a good, strong thrall to have about the village. And he’s the best horseman I’ve
ever seen; has a real way with the beasts. Once saved my father from what could have been a nasty fall from a huge, grey stallion he’d bought at Ribe – an evil-looking creature with madness in its eyes. Giermund’s no horseman, but since he’d paid for the beast, he determined to be the first person to ride it!’ Hastein chuckled at the memory. ‘Well, it reared and bucked and my father hung on for dear life. Aethelnoth just walked calmly up, cooing to the angry beast. Unbelievably, it stood still, tossing its head a bit, but quiet enough for Aethelnoth to lead it back to the stables. My father was too stunned to request to be allowed to dismount!’

Dumbfounded at what he’d heard, Eadwulf waited as Hastein bent to untie his bedroll. ‘The big man’s been one of my father’s bodyguards for some years now,’ Hastein went on, peering up at him. ‘Would’ve been with us now if Giermund could’ve spared him. So, my friend, I suppose the answer to your question could have been a simple yes: yes, I do remember Aethelnoth.’

The following morning they set sail upriver, Eadwulf’s head still awash with thoughts of Aethelnoth. They made their first base thirty miles downstream of the town of Rouen, where they stayed for three weeks. Homesteads were sacked for food and plunder, and horses rounded up to be herded along the banks once they sailed on. Wanton slaughter and rape became the daily norm. And, unlike in previous years, Eadwulf raided beside his comrades.

But the main targets of their raids were the fine Christian churches, filled with such treasures that Eadwulf revelled in their taking. The Christ-God had no need of such exquisite objects when his scheming priests preached the shunning of worldly goods and the virtues of a life of poverty! The burning of each grandiose edifice elated him, his enthusiasm amusing Bjorn considerably. His master had expected him to baulk at the destruction of buildings devoted to his people’s god, despite Eadwulf’s assurances that he would not. But the mirthful glances were irritating, and he wondered when Bjorn would voice his thoughts.

Tomorrow they’d be sailing on, but today they were content to enjoy the spring sunshine. Cheerful banter filled the camp, most of the men pitting their wits at the board game, h
nefatafl,
or the dicing game of
tabula
. Others were simply content with idle conversation. Bjorn and Hastein sat on their sea chests beside a splendid willow, and Eadwulf squatted next to them, cleaning Bjorn’s boots.

Hastein shoved his unbraided hair back from his stubbly face, swatting at a persistent bank of midges hovering too close. ‘Damned flies! I’ll be covered in red lumps by tomorrow. The beasts seem to be acquiring a taste for my blood.’

‘Can’t expect to escape bugs this close to the river, Hastein, not in this weather. Perhaps you should just cover your arms.’ Bjorn’s features shaped into a puckish grin. ‘At least that excuse for a beard you’re cultivating should keep the tykes from devouring your chin.’

Hastein huffed, but ceased his complaining. For a while the cousins reminisced about childhood summers spent at Aros or Ribe, but soon their thoughts returned to the present. The ships were already laden with loot and they gloated over their achievements, their high spirits leading them to needle Eadwulf over the Christian doctrine of his people.

‘This Christian god of yours seems only fit for women,’ Hastein declared. ‘What
real
god would ask his warriors to love his enemies? A man needs a powerful god like Odin or Thor; a god whose wrath is truly feared. How will a man defeat his enemies or cope with the hardships of winter should the gods not bless the raids?’

‘And what will you tell your tutor of your exploits this summer?’ Bjorn asked, poking him in his side with a stick. ‘Will you describe how you enjoyed bringing about the fiery demise of all those churches?’

Eadwulf flinched at the sharp jab and scowled. ‘I’ll tell Sigehelm nothing!’ he said, more tetchily than he’d intended. He opened his mouth to apologise but Bjorn waved it away, raising his eyebrows in anticipation of clarification.

‘My life doesn’t belong to Sigehelm, and I’m no Christian!’ Eadwulf blurted, hoping the two irrepressible Danes would cease the taunts. ‘Sigehelm knows how I feel. But I couldn’t lie to him. If he asks, I’ll answer truthfully.’ He looked from one gleeful face to the other. ‘Sigehelm wouldn’t press me about my role in the raids, though he’ll likely guess the truth.’

‘Well, let’s not dwell on the future right now,’ Hastein said, before the mood became downcast. ‘Tomorrow we move on. Let’s see what further treasures we can wrest from this wealthy land.’