Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (23 page)

He realised how cowardly and selfish he sounded. And when he thought of eight-year-old Aethelred and little Leofwynn at only four, he knew he could not desert them now. Wigstan, too, would need every ounce of help in order to pull through this loss. Eadwulf was strong, and he loved his family too much to let his own cowardice dominate his duties to them . . .

It would be some time before life around the Elston hall returned to anything resembling normality. But Eadwulf would be here, working hard to make it happen.

Odella was watching him, as though able to read the reasoning going on behind his agonised face. ‘Eadwulf, we need to go to Wigstan.’

‘I know,’ he said, reaching for the door.

 Twenty Two

Late 870 – January 871

In the second week of December, Halfdan and Bagsecg prepared to move their forces out of East Anglia. A sizeable number of their men, many of whom had brought wives and children with them and had decided to settle in Anglia, would act as overseers of the ruling of the kingdom by the puppet king, Oswald. Halfdan abhorred the sycophantic former thegn, yet he had to admit that Oswald had displayed a degree of competence in controlling the kingdom’s subjects. However, once the bulk of the Great Army departed, rebellion might seem an appealing possibility, and inside intelligence regarding murmurings of Anglian unrest was vital to their subjugators.

Joint-leadership was already becoming a trial for Halfdan, and he knew that Bagsecg craved absolute control as much as he did. But as long as they both had their own steadfast followers, Halfdan realised that the situation was unlikely to change. To add to this, new armies were steadily pouring into Anglia from throughout the Norselands, each under the direction of powerful warlords who had no intention of succumbing to the dictate of others. Fortunately, so far, all had acknowledged the wisdom of moving into Wessex as a single unit.

‘We’ll need to send men out to the coast to sail our ships to Reading,’ Bagsecg declared one evening as though Halfdan hadn’t even considered such a move. Inside the Thetford hall, the warlords had gathered to discuss their plans for leaving Anglia, and Halfdan seethed at Bagsecg’s latest attempt to demean him. ‘If things get a little precarious in Wessex, we just might need to make a hasty retreat,’ Bagsecg went on, quaffing another great slurp of ale before flashing a yellow-toothed grin at the men. ‘Though I can’t see the Saxons being any better at swinging a sword than these piss-poor Angles, can you?’

The men agreed vociferously, and Halfdan stared down into his ale pot to hide his rage. He’d already selected men from his own forces to dispatch to the coast, but to make such a claim – albeit a true one – would make him appear a peevish child, and give the pock-faced Norwegian further cause to ridicule him.

On December 23 the Great Army left Theford, almost half their number riding for the longships beached along the Anglian coast. From there, those men would sail the vessels south to the Thames estuary before heading inland along the Great River as far as the town of Reading. The rest of the army rode southwest, crossing the Thames into Berkshire, plundering homesteads and villages for food as they went, and making camp in sheltering woodlands as daylight faded. For late December, the weather was not overly cold, and biting frosts seemed held in abeyance. And though the winds blew down from the north, they were unusually light. Halfdan realised how fortuitous that was for their ships. Winter gales and storms could result in the loss of almost half their men as well as their precious vessels.

A little after noon three days later they reached the Wessex royal centre of Reading, to find their ships already moored along the banks of the Thames. Halfdan gazed about, assessing the place, noting that it was a sizeable settlement, situated on a low rise at a point where the smaller River Kennett joined the superior Thames. He grinned as he took in the feeble attempts of the townsfolk to counter the inevitable attack. They were simple people, all of them, peering over a rickety outer wooden fence and wielding a few hastily made spears and a variety of everyday tools.

Within an hour the Great Army was in full control of the town and the jarls and warlords ensconced inside the royal hall. Most of the warriors claimed the variety of homes, storage sheds and stables in the town, reducing householders who had not perished during the town’s seizure to servitude, forced to pander to their captors’ every whim. Most were women and girls, who realised only too well that their bodies would no longer be their own.

‘Call this a royal town!’ Bagsecg sneered as they ate their first meal in the large hall. Saxon servants cooked and served, cowering in the presence of their heathen conquerors. ‘A band of pissing Christian nuns would’ve had no problem taking this place. And I’ve yet to come across a “royal” town as pathetically manned. It’s a wonder the Wessex king’s lived as long as he has done if this is the best his bloody subjects can do. Tomorrow we set about fortifying the place.’

He reached out and grabbed the wrist of a young serving girl as she placed a bowl of fruits beside him on the trestle table, yanking her over his lap and pinning her down, jeering at her frantic attempts to free herself. ‘Now there’s a sight to make a man’s cock stand to attention,’ he said, pulling her thin woollen skirts up to her waist. His free hand squeezed her bare buttocks before slipping down between her legs as she screeched and wailed. Lustful groans filled the room, and the men eyed the rest of the women, ready to pounce should Bagsecg give the word.

‘You can look forward to the rest later,’ Bagsecg snarled, tossing the distraught girl to the straw-covered floor and thrusting a forefinger at her face. ‘And when I take you, if you so much as utter a squeak, I’ll slit your throat.’

‘In the name of God, have mercy, lord,’ a woman cried out from the side of the hall, moving tremulously forward and falling to her knees beside the girl. ‘My daughter is but thirteen-years-old, lord. I beg you . . . take me instead.’

Bagsecg threw back his head and roared, then glowered down at the attractive, dark-headed woman, who could not have been more than thirty herself. ‘Woman, I have every intention of taking you, and probably most of the women here, after I’ve tired of this plump young chick. Now, get back to your work, whore, before I pump your precious daughter here and now, in front of this overly captive audience.’

'And you, girl, can sit there till I’m ready to play.

The woman slunk back to the serving table as the girl whimpered, trembling at Bagsecg’s feet.

Halfdan had watched these activities with interest, feeling no sympathy for the girl, or her mother. He looked forward to enjoying a few of the women himself, later. After all, these Saxon sluts were only fit for one thing. Clothed in those stinking rags they revealed nothing to stir a man’s lust. . . but the sight of that girl’s well-rounded arse had set his groin aching.

Wondering at Bagsecg’s control with a semi-naked girl across his knee and his hand roaming at will, Halfdan tried to put the image out of his mind. He considered the advantages of having chosen Reading as the Great Army’s base in this pox-riddled kingdom. For a start, the hall was as fine as the one in Thetford, and the eight or nine women around the place would give the warlords a good romp, as long as the men were prepared to join the queue. He glanced round at the sixteen hardened warriors. Two men to every woman; not such a long wait then . . .

And the town’s location could not be better. Sited where the Thames and Kennet met, its position was perfect for the construction of strong defences. And the Thames provided the vital means of escape out to the open sea should any plan misfire. Their longships were securely moored along the river’s banks, under constant surveillance, day and night.

Halfdan’s perusals were abruptly interrupted by the realisation that Bagsecg was now pontificating on the very same theme:

‘. . . let’s not forget that the Roman roads and ancient tracks in these parts will seem Odin-sent when our warbands ride out. I’m also told there’s a very useful place for crossing the Thames at Wallingford.’ Bagsecg’s leathery face creased into a wolf-like grin. ‘It seems that at least travellers are well catered for in this ill-defended kingdom.’

Halfdan nodded avid agreement to the Norwegian’s words – just to let the men know he was well informed regarding what was being voiced. But now it was time to shift the focus of attention to himself.

‘Then there’s the fact that this
is
a royal centre,’ he said, his gaze sweeping the nodding men. ‘The obliging bumpkins hereabouts have kept this vill nicely stocked with winter supplies to feed the pathetic king and his court when they’re here. I’ve never seen so much food and ale in one soddin’ place! And if what those two miserable curs over there tell me is correct,’ he added, tilting his head toward two old male servants who were turning cuts of venison on the stones around the hearth, ‘we’ve some rich Christian monasteries and more royal estates not too far away that could also provide us well.

‘Yes, comrades, this place will do very nicely indeed.’

*****

Three days after their arrival, Halfdan and Bagsecg sent out a party of some two hundred men, under the direction of two important jarls, with orders to take stock of the area around Reading and forage for further food supplies. With so large an army to feed, even the substantial provisions at the vill would soon be exhausted.

In their absence the rest of the men continued with the task of digging out a deep, fifteen-foot-wide ditch from the Thames to the Kennet, effectively forming a water-filled channel linking the two and thus completely detaching the town. The dug-out earth would create a formidable rampart behind it, with a wooden palisade along the top as a further line of defence.

‘The bloody Saxons won’t have a clue how to breach these fortifications,’ Bagsecg proclaimed as he and Halfdan inspected the work in progress. ‘No pissin’ idea of how to defend themselves, so I don’t expect they’ll know the first thing about attacking a properly fortified place. Not that I’m complaining,’ he added, flashing the wolverine grin that Halfdan so detested. ‘It should make our job a lot easier when they do eventually try.’

‘But they will try, Bagsecg,’ Halfdan snapped, tired of hearing Bagsecg’s constant boasts. Although he agreed with what the man said, his loud-mouthed proclamations grated on his nerves. ‘No man worthy of the title of “king” would sit by whilst an army rode in and commandeered his kingdom.’

Bagsecg harrumphed at that. ‘Ah, but this particular king’s just a whippersnapper. If he can’t come up with a better plan than to just sit outside our gates all winter like he did at Nottingham, we can safely say this kingdom’s already ours. Besides,’ he added with another show of yellow-brown teeth, ‘they’re right in the middle of their bloody Christian holy time. Christmastide, they call it . . . All that praying to the Christ-God and getting drunk at the same time! They won’t be in a fit state to confront us for at least another week. ’

*****

Tamwoth, Mercia: Late December 870

Christmastide was a dismal affair at the royal hall in Tamworth that year. Aethelswith and her daughter, twelve-year-old Mildrede, had worked tirelessly beside the servants to make the hall bright and festive. Evergreens adorned the walls and table tops, holly berries blood-red in the light from the glowing Yule log. The meats could not have been more succulent, the desserts and honey-cakes no more tantalising. Services in the hall’s small chapel were seasonally moving . . .

Yet the days dragged by in miserable silence. Burgred had invited none but a handful of his closest councillors to pass the holy period in the royal hall, preferring to spend most of his days in his own company, glowering into the bottom of successive empty ale mugs. Worsened by the drink, his foul temper kept everyone out of his way, including his wife and child.

It was mid afternoon on December 29 when messengers from Wessex reached Tamworth. The short winter day was already drawing in as the three men were ushered in to kneel before the king, their helms in the crook of their arms. Aethelswith stared at them as conversations around the hall abruptly ceased. It was evident that the men had ridden hard for several hours: the news could not be good.

‘My lord, we have ridden with all haste to deliver this news,’ the dark-headed young spokesman for the trio said, his eyes flicking from Burgred to the ale jug on the table beside him. Aethelswith stepped forward to offer refreshment, only to be stayed by Burgred’s abruptly raised hand. He’d been quaffing ale since mid morning and she knew he’d be in no mood to be courteous to uninvited strangers. ‘Wessex is besieged by the Great Army of Norsemen. They reached Reading three days ago, and–’

‘On whose authority do you deliver this news?’ Burgred demanded brusquely, cutting across the spokesman’s explanation.

‘On my father’s authority, my lord. Thurstan is King Aethelred’s reeve at Reading and as the vast army drew close, he charged me and two of his own men with the task of riding here with the news. I am Thurstan’s son, Brinn.’ The young man hesitated as Burgred’s expression blackened, but pushed on when no words passed through the king’s tight lips. ‘My father knew you would wish to be informed of the enemy’s invasion of Wessex–’

‘And just how would he know
that
?’

Burgred’s uncivil retort startled Brinn and he glanced uncertainly at his two companions. Aethelswith’s sympathy went out to him, but he was only one amongst many who’d cringed beneath the king’s hostility. She glared at her husband and, feeling compelled to speak out, stepped forward to face him.

‘My lord, in view of our alliance with Wessex, Reeve Thurstan would undoubtedly have sent word to you in the hope that you would honour the treaty and rally our–’

Burgred heaved himself to his feet from his high-backed chair, his forefinger targeting Aethelswith’s nose. She stepped back, fearing that in his present mood he might strike her, despite the presence of the few guests. But he stood immobile for some moments, as though frozen in time; a glowering statue of stone with outstretched arm.

Then life returned to his motionless form and he inhaled deeply. ‘Woman, I am sick of telling you not to interfere with matters that are none of your concern! To the kitchens with you, we need more ale.’

Aethelswith was incensed at being spoken to in such a derogatory manner and stood defiant, her chin thrust out. ‘I am your
wife
, my lord, not a serving girl. The wife of a king, and the daughter of a king. As such, I am entitled to be treated with respect.’ She held his bleary-eyed gaze for a few moments until he swayed and a servant helped him to his seat.

In the deafening silence, Burgred waved Aethelswith away as though swatting a fly. Mildrede tugged at her arm, entreating her to move back, and she did so to please her daughter. She was sickened that her marriage – her life – had come to this: to be so belittled in her own hall. The councillors were watching her; she could feel their eyes upon her. One or two smiled, their sympathy apparent. Aethelswith had often witnessed Burgred subjecting his councillors to similar contempt.