Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (12 page)

He took a deep breath, attempting to regain some composure. Eadwulf’s sympathy went out to him. Though he’d craved the death of the spineless Aelle himself, he’d not wished to see the Northumbrian people harmed.

‘The kings picked March the twenty-third for their attack. Bloody Palm Sunday!’ Durwin shook his head. ‘Perhaps they tried to use the Danes' own tactics and catch them off guard. An attack by Christians wouldn’t have been expected on such a holy day. But whatever . . . it didn’t do them much bloody good. The Danes retreated behind the walls, and though the kings’ forces found little difficulty in getting through them, once they were inside they didn’t stand a chance–’

‘They wouldn’t have,’ Aethelnoth threw in. ‘In my experience, the maze of streets and alleys in York would well suit the Danes’ method of attack.’

Eadwulf’s lips twitched as Durwin stared at Aethelnoth, as though fathoming how he could have acquired that experience, but not daring to ask.

'They wiped out most of our army,’ Durwin went on, ‘as well as most of us who'd been held in the city since November.’

‘York was your home, I take it?’

‘It was, my lord,’ Durwin replied to Wigtan’s query. ‘I’m a potter, and York was a good place to be for a tradesman, what with all the ships coming up the Ouse. I’ve never lived anywhere but York. And since my wife died two years ago, there’s just me and my son, Eric here. . .

‘We took cover in a cellar with a couple of others,’ he explained with a glance at his son, ‘which, by some fluke, wasn't noticed during the fighting. When it was all over the Danes just put us back to work, cooking and running after them. They'd killed eight of our ealdormen, as well as King Osberht. But they’d taken Aelle alive – and claimed
his
end would be worse than that of the Danish jarl in the viper pit two years ago.’

‘I can think of no worse way of dying than that,’ Eadwulf declared in response to the heads turned his way.

Durwin shrugged. ‘You might change your mind when you’ve heard me out, my lord. The four of us left alive were forced to watch – something we’ll not forget as long as we live.’ Eric’s harrowed face confirmed his father’s words. ‘Aelle was given to a pagan lord called Ivar–’

The intakes of breath again stopped him in his tracks.

‘Word of this Ivar has reached us from others sources and we’re merely surprised to hear it again in connection with your king,’ Wigstan offered.

Durwin’s head tilted at the limited explanation but, again, he did not question. ‘The day of the execution was too cold for early April,’ he went on, his brow creasing in concentration. ‘The sky was like lead and the bitter wind made it feel like late January. Ivar and his hordes filled the stretch of open ground overlooked by the great minster–’

‘The same place Ragnar met his end in that vile pit. No offence intended, Durwin,’ Eadwulf put in quickly, ‘but reports of that incident left us appalled. I can understand why the Danes would want to take their revenge in the same place.’

‘I believe that was why they chose the site,’ Durwin replied, his scowl displaying his annoyance at the many interruptions. But, keen to tell his tale, he ploughed on. ‘Aelle and his handful of men were hauled out, dressed only in breeches and without their shoes.’

The Northumbrian glanced at Eadwulf as he flinched but no further interruption ensued. ‘They were lined up before the pagan lords, in front of the wall to the pit you mentioned. We four were shoved to one side, close to two stout posts fixed into the earth, each nigh on four feet high and five feet apart, with a moveable bar across the top. I admit I trembled at the sight, my lords, knowing that this structure would be used for something evil. And our closeness to Ivar made my heart race with fear . . .

‘I've yet to see an uglier man,’ he digressed, grimacing at the recollection. ‘Seems unable to stand on his own, and his body’s stunted and twisted. But they say his temper’s something to be feared. He has some sort of power over his men, and none dare disobey him. Just the look in his eyes can set a man trembling. I’ve never been a religious man, you understand, but that day I prayed harder than any monk. In truth, I believed we’d share our king’s fate.

‘Well, for some time Ivar taunted Aelle with his uselessness as a king and his belief that his armies were a match for battle-trained Danes. He jeered at the ridiculous civil war and the pathetic state of York’s walls. His icy tone made my blood run cold. But then his anger seemed to get the better of him. He shrieked the glories of his famous father, Ragnar, his strength and courage, and his skills in battle. He raged at the way Ragnar was forced to meet his god – on the orders of a weak and worthless man not fit to lick his boots. The very least Aelle could have granted Ragnar was his dignity in death.

‘Ivar’s outburst had already silenced the crowds,’ Durwin continued with a grim nod, ‘but suddenly a deathly hush fell over the city. I could swear that even the wind held its breath.’ Echoes of that silence dominated Wigstan’s hall as Durwin frowned, seeming to order the details of the scene playing in his head. Then very slowly, the words strained through his lips.

‘King Aelle was dragged between the posts and forced to his knees by three of Ivar’s men. Two of them yanked his arms out wide, while the other lowered the crossbar and forced his head beneath it, so that it was pushed forward. The two holding his outstretched arms lashed his wrists to the bar . . .

‘Though we were only six paces away, the king’s face wasn't visible to us. We were facing his back you see, my lords. But he screamed for mercy, cried he’d do anything, anything at all, if they let him go. He’d serve them . . . honour their gods . . . give them Danegeld . . . raise armies for them . . .

‘The Danes around Ivar just stared at him, cold loathing on their faces. Then a big, brawny warrior with a hefty sword in his hand stepped out. He stood behind Aelle, staring down at his bared back while the two who had bound the king’s wrists waited at the posts.’ Durwin paused, struggling against the clutches of a violent shudder. ‘The executioner raised the sword . . . Then he struck, stabbing high in the king’s bared back and dragging the knife down to make a long slit. Screams of agony rushed from Aelle’s throat. I felt sick to the stomach and my legs seemed to turn to water. But things got steadily worse.

‘The warrior calmly carved the shape of two large wings on either side of Aelle’s spine and tore back his flesh. Tortured screams soared again, then they just stopped. I thought that the pain, or shock, had killed him, and I thanked God he could feel no more. The Dane continued anyway, cutting quickly to separate every rib from Aelle’s spine, until they splayed out like blood-stained wings.’

Durwin’s eyes moved from one sickened face to the next. ‘The blood eagle, they call it. They’d given Aelle eagle wings on his back.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Then, gurgling squeals came from Aelle’s throat. He must have just passed out, in too much agony to scream when he came round. The Dane reached inside Aelle’s back and pulled out his lungs. I watched them fill up and flutter weakly . . . just twice, before they were cut right out.

‘As salt was poured onto the wounds the gurgling sounds stopped. And this time, Aelle really was dead. The Danes' cheers of approval filled my ears, and truly believing that we'd be next, I trembled in my shoes.' 

Silence again filled the hall. Questions remained unasked as everyone tried to make sense of the gruesome images. Eadwulf battled with his own emotions, and his loyalties.

Had Aelle truly warranted such a death? Did one barbaric act warrant another?

Perhaps. And Ragnar’s end, though not as bloody, had been far slower than Aelle’s.

‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’

Wasn’t that something taught by the pretentious Christian priests? Or didn’t they preach of turning the other cheek? How could the two ever be reconciled? Eadwulf knew too little about his own people’s beliefs to answer and, wanting to hear the rest of the tale, he turned to the Northumbrian potter. ‘Your fears were evidently unwarranted, Durwin. You are still very much alive, so tell us how the rest of that day played out.’

‘You’re right, my lord. It wasn’t our day to die. But the half dozen of Aelle’s men were slain – quickly though, cut down by the sword. Only Aelle suffered the blood-eagle. Me and Eric, and the other two men of York, were shoved to face Ivar, and again I thought our time was up. But no . . . Ivar held us in that evil black stare and told us to leave York. We were to spread the news that the Danes ruled the city, and if anyone felt brave enough to object they’d meet the same end as Aelle. The other two headed north, so we came south. Then I got the idea of riding to Nottingham in the hope of begging for help from King Burgred . . . Your faces tell me you don’t approve of that–’

‘We neither approve nor disapprove,’ Wigstan responded as Eadwulf shook his head. ‘Let’s just say we don’t think you’ll meet with much success. Our king’s not one to risk his own neck, unless there’s something in it for him.’

Durwin’s face crumpled. ‘Then our kingdom’s truly lost, since we’ve nowhere else to turn for help. We’ll just have to pray that the bloodshed stops and the Danes settle peacefully now they’ve got what they want.’

Although sympathetic to the Northumbrian plight, Eadwulf could see no obvious course of action. ‘That may well happen, Durwin, though it may take generations for different peoples to fully accept each other. There may be years of misery and hardship ahead as the Danes take full control and subjugate the Northumbrian people. And it would take little short of a miracle to oust them from your lands.’

At Eadwulf’s grim predictions, Durwin admitted he’d already wrestled with such dreads himself. And the Northumbrian people could never combat such a powerful army. But he still intended to try his luck with the Mercian king.

There seemed little more to be said and Durwin and his son headed for the stables to check their horses before the evening meal. Once they’d gone, Wigstan repeated his earlier concerns. ‘If Ivar and his hordes set their sights on Mercia, I just hope that Burgred will act in the interests of his own people, if not to help the Northumbrians. I’ve had no orders yet to ready our thegns, or the fyrd. And since the Danes are so close, I think it’s time to do so.’

‘I doubt that Burgred cares for a single one of his subjects, Wigstan. You know our feelings about the man,’ Eadwulf said, glancing at Aethelnoth, who was nodding at his side. ‘He’d sooner run and hide and leave them all to their own devices. Of course, the fact that his wife is sister to the Wessex king could prove useful to him there. Burgred could seek help from Wessex. We know he’s done so before to counter the Welsh. If another request is made, I can’t see King Aethelred refusing.’

Eadwulf barely registered Wigstan’s reply as his thoughts returned to a day in Nottingham – almost three years ago now – when he’d encountered the Wessex royal family. Alfred’s bright, amber eyes had seemed to penetrate to his innermost thoughts. What was it he’d said as he leaned low in his saddle . . .?

‘Your disguise is a little thin on close inspection . . . the mud in your hair is well cracked. A little uncomfortable on the scalp . . . But whatever your purpose, I don’t feel you to be a threat . . . I’ve a strong feeling that one day we’ll meet again.’

The words bounced inside Eadwulf’s head as the conversations in the hall buzzed around him. He was convinced that the ‘one day’ referred to by Alfred was fast approaching.

Twelve

Wessex: Autumn 867

In late September, Bishop Ealhstan died at his Episcopal See of Sherborne. The interment was a solemn affair, attended by members of the Wessex Court and many of the kingdom’s notables. At Aethelred’s side, Alfred stood with due reverence as Ealhstan’s coffin was laid to rest beside that of their brother, King Aethelbald.

Although he’d never liked the manipulative, dour-faced cleric, or truly forgiven his complicity in Aethelbald’s treachery against their father, King Aethelwulf, all those years ago, Alfred had come to accept that Ealhstan’s actions may have been guided by his concerns for Wessex. Perhaps the bishop had seen Aethelwulf as a spent force – a feeble, ageing king whom Norse raiders would see as an easy target – compared to the young, robust Aethelbald.
Perhaps
. Or perhaps his only motive was personal gain. Whichever . . . it was too late to speculate. Yet Alfred couldn’t deny that Ealhstan’s military record was impeccable. As Bishop of Sherborne for fifty years, he’d never shirked his duty to Wessex.

Alfred endured the ceremony in extreme discomfort. His backside seemed to be on fire. Sitting was an agony he could barely tolerate, and standing was little better on shaking legs. It took every shred of self-control to hide his misery, particularly from his brother, the Wessex king. Aethelred would be sorely disappointed should Alfred decline to accompany him to Cornwall. The hunting trip had been arranged some weeks ago, and Alfred himself would be more than disappointed to miss it.

Four days later, Alfred and Aethelred, with their large company of well-armed warriors, were welcomed into the court of King Dungarth, under-king of the most south-westerly of the Wessex shires. Alfred felt Dungarth’s affable hospitality to be somewhat forced, particularly considering the region’s long resistance to becoming part of Wessex. Many of the Cornish people were still hostile to their Saxon overlords, the reason for Aethelred’s large escort, and Alfred sensed the underlying antagonism behind the many superficial smiles.

But the week passed most agreeably. The autumn days were pleasantly warm and hunts were successful. Roasted harts and wild boar, seasoned with exotic spices and herbs, delighted their palates each evening. The joys of the hunt overrode Alfred’s pain, and though he suffered from sleepless nights, tossing in an agony of hot sweats and throbbing innards, he deemed them fair exchange for his daily pleasure. Yet the week came to an end all too soon and the journey back to Wilton began.

After barely three hours in the saddle they reached the small monastery of Saint Neot, close to the bleak, rolling expanse of Bodmin Moor.

‘Rest here and take refreshment,’ Aethelred threw over his shoulder to his men. ‘We move on within the hour.’ To Alfred he murmured, ‘You can’t ride another mile without a rest, brother. I’ve been watching you grimace for some time . . . And you’re sweating like a hog. Besides, I’m told there’s a shrine to some ancient saint here: Saint Gueirir, Dungarth called him. Anyway,’ he added, with a roguish grin, ‘this saint is known to listen to pleas from gutless sinners like you.’

Disregarding Alfred’s protestations at being tagged a sinner, or gutless, Aethelred gestured to a dark-robed figure hobbling their way. ‘I’m sure the good monk will point you in the direction of the shrine.’ His grin suddenly dropped. ‘Pray for help, Alfred. Let the holy saint ease your pain.’

The small shrine was no more than a shoulder-high, stone-built structure resembling a shallow cave. On a low, stone altar inside stood a simple, but sturdy, crucifix, and a wooden box containing the bones of what appeared to be a human finger and a wispy lock of faded hair. Relics, Alfred decided; relics of a holy man he’d never even heard of. But the place, small as it was, emanated such an overwhelming sense of peace he fell to his knees in silent prayer.

He prayed to the saint that the painful, debilitating haemorrhoids would be replaced by some other ailment, one that would enable him to pursue his duties to Wessex without appearing weak and vulnerable to others. A leader could afford no such flaws. And yet, he begged Saint Gueirir, let the new affliction continue to help him control his insatiable sexual lust.

As they left Cornwall far behind, Alfred felt waves of the saint’s power coursing through him, quenching the fiery agony in every part of his stricken, royal backside.

The nature of his new affliction remained to be seen.

*****

Shrewsbury, Mercia: mid October 867

Burgred swallowed down yet another mug of ale, still seething from his most recent row with his wife – and adamant he’d not be the first to make amends this time. Aethelswith’s stubbornness always left him furious. Oh, she could weep as well as any woman, but with her, tears seemed to strengthen her resolve. When she was all cried out, she’d start with her constant nagging again.

Why couldn’t the woman see reason? All she ever thought about was her pathetic brothers in Wessex. She was still angry he’d forbidden her to travel to Sherborne for the funeral of that fusty old bishop, Ealhstan, two weeks ago. And now, he was absolutely adamant he wasn’t going all the way to Dorset just so she could be with her odious brothers. Admittedly, she hadn’t seen either of them for the past two years, but, as a king’s wife she had responsibilities to Mercia as much as he did. The Welsh were massing across the borders in Powys and could move into Mercia at any time. That’s why they’d come to Shrewsbury with their armies ready to move out, for Christ’s sake. And all Aethelswith could do was whine about going to Dorset!

It wasn’t until several hours later that Aethelswith returned to the hall, with Mildrede clinging to her skirts. Burgred had spent most of the afternoon downing ale and was in no mood to talk. But it seemed that neither was Aethelswith, or his pouting daughter.

The entrance of the three messengers afforded a welcomed distraction, and Burgred directed them to a table away from his aggrieved family.

But the news they relayed left him numb to the core.

*****

‘So, we’re agreed then?’ Burgred nodded at his three counsellors, the decision regarding yesterday’s news eventually made. The Danes appeared to have grown bored of their sojourn in York and, with the onset of October, had stormed into Mercia to take Nottingham. As the Mercian king, Burgred was obliged to act.

‘We send to King Aethelred and request assistance in this. I doubt he’ll refuse, since he values the unity between our kingdoms so highly.’ He glanced about, checking that Aethelswith was not in the room, but lowered his voice regardless, ‘Nor would he deny aid to his only sister, whom both he and that obnoxious younger brother positively adore.’

His counsellors shared disapproving glances, which Burgred chose to ignore. ‘At daybreak tomorrow we dispatch messengers to Edlington, where I’m told the Wessex Court will reside until the Advent. And whilst we wait for Aethelred’s reply, we send word to our ealdormen to rally our own forces and head for Nottingham.’ He paused, recalling with bravado how effectively joint Mercian and West Saxon forces had dealt so successfully with the Welsh in the past, confident that such success could be theirs again. ‘It’s time the Danes realised that these kingdoms are not theirs for the taking.’

*****

Nottingham, Mercia: early January 868

A piercing north-easterly whistled through the expansive camp of Saxons and Mercians, carrying the hint of first snow. Inside the tent he shared with Aethelred, Alfred huddled beside the brazier and contemplated their situation.

Two months they’d been here now; two months of doing nothing. Nottingham’s defences were now impregnable, displaying clear signs of extensive restoration since Alfred had last visited the town. And, once the Danes had learned of the vast armies heading their way, intent on battle, they’d been shrewd enough to withdraw behind them . . .

Alfred had held such hopes of victory, of finding glory to match that of his father and grandfather – even without two of the most successful of Wessex military leaders, Bishop Ealhstan of Sherborne and Ealdorman Eanwulf of Somerset, who had both so recently died. But his hopes had soon been dashed. The Danes couldn’t even be reached, let alone ousted. Their only hope now was that food supplies in the city would soon expire, and hunger would force the enemy out. Just when that would happen was anyone’s guess.

The men were already dispirited, the fyrd particularly so, remaining inside their tents for most of the time, having seen no action whatsoever. All had forgone the Christmastide with their families. Wessex villages were too distant for travel – and Aethelred was not convinced that all the men would return, once safely in their homes. So, he’d even forbidden a rota. He needed all of his army here, at all times, he told them all. Who knows what the Danes would do if they got wind of departing armies?

And Alfred knew he was right. There was always the possibility of a surprise raid, or full-scale attack, should the enemy detect the slightest weakening of the forces resolutely settled on their periphery.

Alfred was pleased with the way that Saxons and Mercians had banded together during the winter siege. So far the men had gelled well, despite each group rallying to the orders of their individual ealdormen. But, should the siege last for much longer, he knew that things could easily change. Orders over the need to forego the Christmas festivities had brought the first signs of disgruntlement, the increasing cold a further cause of unrest. Though, as yet, he’d witnessed only sharp tones and raised voices, he wondered how long it would be before fists began to fly.

And how long before Alfred himself came to blows with his scheming brother-by-marriage?

It had been Aethelred who’d proposed that Alfred should marry, to further cement the union between Wessex and Mercia. And Burgred just happened to know the ideal woman. Alfred recalled the night with a feeling of intense vexation. On returning to the tent he shared with his brother, he’d been irritated to find Aethelred, once again, entertaining the Mercian king. The tent was warm; a brazier glowed, illuminating the faces of the kings and a handful of the two kingdoms’ ealdormen, all enjoying a cup of ale. The mood was genial, the talk not of the prolonged siege that seemed destined to end in stalemate, but of women and marriage . . . and beneficial alliances.

Alfred’s thoughts immediately turned to his beloved sister, whose marriage had been little more than a charade from the beginning, valuable alliance or not. And the name foremost on Burgred’s lips meant nothing to him.

‘Of course, Lady Ealhswith is very dear to me,’ Burgred was saying. ‘A distant cousin, on her father’s side; Mucel is one of my most influential ealdormen. And her mother is a saintly creature, descended from Cenwulf, one of Mercia’s greatest kings.’ Burgred took a swig of ale and grinned around at his rapt audience. ‘But Ealhswith’s lineage isn’t her only virtue. Though still young – just sixteen, I believe – her physical beauty is undeniable. She is modest, though whether pious like her mother, I can’t say. But she is clever, and remarkably witty.’ Again Burgred smiled at the listeners, his attention momentarily resting on Alfred. ‘It’s barely six months since I saw my cousin and I doubt she’ll have changed in so short a time. Surely, a new husband could not fail to value such noteworthy qualities . . .’

By the time Alfred realised they’d been discussing him –
his
future – the match had already been approved by Aethelred.

Alfred was to marry some Mercian noblewoman called Ealhswith.

That was two days ago and Alfred was still seething as he wandered about the camp, checking on the men. How could Aethelred do this to him – make arrangements to have his only surviving brother married off to some woman he’d never even heard of, let alone seen
,
even if she was such a paragon of virtue?

How could Aethelred take the word of their lying brother-by-marriage?

But, involuntarily Alfred was intrigued, and looked forward to meeting the young woman. After all, he could always refuse to marry her, should she not match up to his expectations. He chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. Or could he? His brother was King of Wessex, after all, and the alliance between Wessex and Mercia would be greatly strengthened by such a union. On consideration, he realised that, whether he actually liked the girl or not, soon after this siege was over, he’d likely become a married man. Yet again, he thanked God and Saint Gueirir that at least the crippling haemorrhoids had gone.

*****

By March the situation at Nottingham had not improved, although thankfully, the snows had been light and short-lived that year. The Danes remained doggedly behind the ample defences, seeming none the worse for having outside food and water supplies cut off throughout the winter. Eadwulf knew that wells were plentiful in the town and many households kept a few livestock He also knew, only too well, that Danish warriors were very adept at night-time pillaging, sneaking in and out of the town unseen, unheard. Finding extra food supplies would not cause them undue concern. Their own armies would run out of supplies long before the enemy did. And the fyrd could not stay away from their farms for much longer without the threat of starvation next year. He confided to Aethelnoth and Wigstan that this siege would doubtless end with Mercians and Saxons withdrawing, and the Danes still indomitably holding Nottingham.

Like the West Saxons, Mercian armies had hastened to Burgred’s call in mid October. Wigstan had already summoned the fyrd and the thegns in his domain, and arrived at Nottingham before the end of the month. In Burgred’s presence, Eadwulf kept well in the background, careful not to draw attention to himself or catch his uncle’s eye. His thick, red hair was pulled well back, and the stubbly beard he’d allowed to sprout disguised his features. Aethelnoth, too, kept his bushy, straw-coloured hair tied back. Loose, it might trigger memories of Thrydwulf in Burgred.

The deep-rooted hatred that had festered for so many years scoured Eadwulf’s stomach as he stared at the loathsome face. But his emotions would be held securely in check, at least until after this siege. Then he could reconsider his options; evaluate the possibility of gaining access to Burgred unseen. He had no desire to risk his life needlessly; he had Leoflaed and his children to consider, after all. Images of their laughing faces filled his thoughts as he lay down to sleep each night.