Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (31 page)

The Danes gave pursuit in a frenzy of stabbing and slashing. Men on both sides continued to fall, but not until the Saxons reached the forest did Alfred realise their pursuers were eventually turning back. Bitterness burned his throat as he thought of the funeral pyres they would build for their fallen comrades. For their own dead, they could do nothing.

Retrieving their mounts from the forest’s edge, Alfred and Aethelred set off on the twenty-mile trek back to Salisbury. Defeated and demoralised, and many gravely wounded, the fyrd straggled out for some distance behind. In the darkness it was impossible to know how many had survived, but Alfred guessed they had lost over half their men. His heart ached for a victory so quickly stolen from them. So keen to believe they had out-fought the Danes, no watch had been kept on the darkening Plain.

They’d been played for fools – yet again.

*****

Alfred soon realised they would not reach Salisbury that night. The number of wounded was high, and men with leg wounds relied on comrades to help them along. Progress was desperately slow. Some of the uninjured thegns offered their horses to men who could barely walk, but there were many others who could not be helped.

Two things became apparent to Alfred as they rode. The first was that Bishop Heahmund was not amongst them. The second was that Aethelred was also wounded.

It was impossible to determine the severity of Aethelred’s wound in the dark. Although it bled profusely, the spear thrust he had taken to his shoulder did not seem particularly deep. Alfred cut a strip of cloth from the bottom of his tunic and folded it into a pad, pressing it against the gaping wound to stem the flow. Aethelred said little, other than to assure his brother he’d be well enough once the bleeding stopped.

For almost ten miles they kept going, their flight so piteously slow that Alfred feared they would still be within enemy reach by daybreak. But, without respite the wounded could travel no further and Alfred ordered a halt. For three hours they rested. Some men slept; others moaned in pain. During brief periods of moonlight from behind the heavy clouds, Alfred tended his brother’s shoulder and changed the cushioning pad. Like many of the men, Aethelred had lost a lot of blood, although now the heaviest bleeding was beginning to lessen. But more worryingly to Alfred was the fact that the king was growing increasingly weak.

Once again they moved on towards Salisbury, a far different army to the one that had passed in the opposite direction less than one short day ago. Then, most of the men had been full of hope; others full of bluster, convinced that victory in the battle ahead was assured.

What of the proud Wessex army now?

Yet Alfred knew that the Saxons would rally to fight another day. Their losses were high, but Danish losses were equally so. Both sides needed time to recover and refortify their armies – although exactly how Saxon forces could be bolstered he simply did not yet know. All the Great Heathen Army needed was another fleet to arrive, and Alfred had no doubt that one would be spotted on the Thames very soon.

The night sky was beginning to pale as they straggled into Salisbury. Aethelred was taken into the hall of an ageing thegn whose own two sons had fought at the battle. Only one of them had returned.

‘You have our deepest condolences, Lord Erwig,’ Alfred said once his brother was settled into the thegn’s own sleeping chamber. ‘Your son gave his life trying to keep our kingdom free.’ He gestured to the tall young man who had taken Brihtnoth’s place at Alfred’s side. ‘You have every right to be proud of both of your sons. Ceolric here fought like a wolf. His swordsmanship is commendable.’

Erwig nodded, too grief-stricken to speak, and Alfred laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘We’ll speak again, my lord. But now I must leave Ceolric to give you comfort. Our king has need of me. I thank you for the use of your bedchamber and pray that a further rest will enable us all to head back to Winchester.’

As Alfred entered the thegn’s bedchamber he sensed that Aethelred was sleeping. Propped up on several thick pillows, his brother’s eyes were closed and he looked at ease. A young woman, who quietly introduced herself as a midwife and nurse, ushered Alfred aside. ‘The king’s injury is deep, though the worst of the bleeding has now stopped,’ she said. ‘I have re-dressed the wound as a temporary measure.’ Alfred nodded, knowing the woman had not yet finished. ‘He has been given a cup of mead with a few drops of belladonna to kill the pain. It also helps to induce a deep sleep.’

‘I thank you, lady. Sleep is beneficial whilst the healing takes place.’

The young nurse nodded. ‘It is indeed, my lord. But I fear the king’s painful wound will not permit him to sleep for long, despite the belladonna.’

*****

The Saxons remained in Salisbury for a further two days, during which time the wounded men were treated and bandaged. Some found accommodation in people’s homes, storage sheds and workshops; others relied on sheltered nooks between. Good fortune kept the rains at bay, and simple meals were provided by many of the townsfolk – supplemented by generous contributions from Thegn Erwig’s own kitchens.

Alfred had kept a careful check on his brother since their arrival. Despite the painful wound, Aethelred seemed quite well, though he worried constantly about the delay in returning to Winchester to recruit new men to his army. Scouts had already delivered news of the Danes’ return to Reading.

‘But Aethelred, we can’t move far with men who still can’t walk,’ Alfred reasoned.’ And it’s evident you’re still in a lot of pain.’

‘Both of those things are true,’ Aethelred admitted with a sigh. ‘But we simply can’t afford to stay here for several more days. We’ve been here for two already and it’s vital we get back to Winchester.’

There was no point in arguing. Aethelred was the king, and it was Alfred’s duty to obey him. Besides, he knew too well how imperative it was to reinforce their troops. April was less than a week away and Danish ships could arrive at any time. ‘I’ll speak to Erwig,’ he said. ‘We’ll need the use of several more horses in order to move out, and possibly a couple of carts. There are men with severe leg wounds . . .’ He let the thought hang, not wanting to distress his brother by describing the severity of some. ‘We’d best use the rest of today to get ourselves organised.’

Aethelred nodded. ‘You haven’t asked me how Bishop Heahmund died.’

‘I didn’t need to. Some of the men have already told me.’

‘Then you’ll know he died saving my life?’

Alfred watched his brother’s face contort at the memory. ‘There were two men bearing down on me, just before the mass retreat. One was the young warrior with the spear.’ Aethelred’s hand inadvertently rose to touch the wadding on his left shoulder. ‘The other was a well-seasoned swordsman. If Heahmund had not deflected the sword wielder’s aim . . .’

The rest of the thought seemed to lodge in Aethelred’s throat. ‘It was Heahmund’s left-handed dagger-thrust to the throat that killed the swordsman . . . but only to be cut down himself by another Dane. I killed the spearman myself.’

Alfred studied Aethelred’s ashen face and sunken eyes, certain he was in more pain than he admitted. ‘If you’re sure you’ll be strong enough to ride tomorrow, brother, I’ll set a few of the thegns to organising the men. We’re unlikely to cover the thirty miles to Winchester in a single day, and if we have a cart or two, at least you could rest overnight in one of them.’

*****

For over two weeks after their return to Winchester, the campaign to recruit more men into the Wessex fyrd gave Alfred little time to be at his brother’s side. Aethelred’s injury dictated that he remain in his bedchamber where his physicians could minister to him. Alfred had had little choice other than to leave his brother in their capable hands and take control of the recruitment campaign. Messages had been sent out to the ealdormen of the shires that King Aethelred was in desperate need of warriors, with orders to stress the dire consequences should the Danes take control of Wessex.

Yet still the initial response had been disappointing. Shires furthest away from the enemy’s Reading base were reluctant to rally when their own region was not under immediate threat. Alfred cursed the Saxon system yet again. He had no time to travel to these shires himself and order the mustering of the fyrds. Cornwall, in particular, would be hard to persuade. The Cornish were more likely to rebel to Wessex domination than rally to Aethelred’s aid. And Kent was so far away.

After the first two weeks the numbers arriving started to pick up. Alfred welcomed them all heartily and the men set up a simple camp around the city to await the call to action. Ealdormen Oswine of Devon and Daegmund of Dorset had also now rallied forces, since the Danish fleet had been observed sailing around the Cornish peninsular and heading for the Welsh coast. Numbers continued to increase during the following week, including a sizeable army from Somerset. Alfred could only hope that the influx would continue. As yet there had been no reports of Danish ships approaching Reading. But he lived in dread of the day they did.

During these weeks Aethelred’s condition gradually worsened. He was considerably weakened by the initial loss of so much blood and the gaping shoulder wound simply would not heal. It had become an angry, red crater that gave its environs no respite. Grieved beyond words to see his brother in so much pain, Alfred permitted the physicians to dispense him a regular dosage of a few drops of belladonna. There seemed to be nothing else they could do.

As Easter neared, Alfred began to fear the worst. Aethelred’s wound had begun to fester. The physicians diligently applied leeches to remove the reeking puss that now oozed from deep inside, but to little effect. Alfred sat at his brother’s bedside whenever he could, and during periods of lucid thought, Aethelred would reach out for his hand.

‘Are they here yet?’ he asked for the third time that morning. It was a fine, sunny April day, yet Alfred saw nothing but the black thunderclouds of his fears. Aethelred had been given just enough belladonna to ease his greater pain, but not enough to send him into the usual pain-free sleep. The party from Wedmore had been travelling for three days, and Aethelred had worried constantly for their safety.

‘They’ll be here before nightfall, brother, so we must be patient a little longer. You know I sent thirty men to escort them, so they’re well guarded. It’s over eighty miles to Wedmore – a long way with wagons to consider.

‘I know how far it is to Wedmore, Alfred.’ Aethelred’s lips turned up in an attempted smile, but dropped again just as quickly. ‘I must see my wife and sons again before I . . . before I become too ill to speak to them. Promise me you’ll bring them to me when they arrive; wake me up if you need to.’

‘You know I will.’ Alfred’s chest ached at the thought of losing the brother he’d loved so dearly all his life. How he’d cope without him he couldn’t bear to think.

He felt Aethelred’s fingers close round his own, a feeble attempt at a brotherly gesture. ‘When I am gone, Alfred, you will make a far better king than I or any of our brothers could ever have done; probably even better than King Aethelwulf. Our father was right in sending you to Rome all those years ago. He recognised something about you from the time you were small. Pope Leo must have seen it too. Why else would he tell you that one day you’d be king?’

‘Rest easy, brother,’ Alfred urged. That had been the longest speech Aethelred had made in many days. ‘The physicians still have faith in their leeches. You will be with us for some time yet.’

Alfred knew his words to be false. But, surely, false hope was better than no hope at all?

Twenty Eight

Ealhswith placed the sleeping babe in the waiting arms of his attentive nurse. His appetite sated, Edward was now content to sleep for a few hours and Agnes gently placed him in his crib in her mistress’s sleeping chamber. Adjusting her gown, Ealhswith rose from the wide chair she had selected for nursing her son and smiled down at the little dark head. Edward was a contented babe, quite unlike Aethelflaed had been at a mere three months. Even now, at almost two, her daughter was demanding and overly active, if truth be told. But once Edward’s stomach was full he was happy to sleep until hunger pangs roused him again

Leaving Agnes to deal with Edward and Aethelflaed, Ealhswith headed for the hall, hoping to speak quietly with her husband. Their party had arrived less than an hour ago and the need to feed Edward had meant she’d had little time to speak with Alfred. He looked so pale and tired she feared his own health was suffering with Aethelred’s steady decline

She smiled at him as she came to sit at his side, her attention again drawn to the purple circles beneath his eyes and the aura of fatigue that surrounded him. She wanted so much to ease his pain, but knew that she could not. Even Alfred’s first meeting with his new son had been dulled by the agonising prospect of losing his beloved brother.

It was early evening and dusk was just beginning to close in. The spring day had held a delicious freshness as they had made the thirty-mile journey, leaving Salisbury at first light this morning. For a short while her own fears for her brother-by-marriage had been pushed to the back of her mind – only to return with a thudding pain.

It seemed as though she had been travelling for ever inside that bumpy wagon. Having left Wedmore three days ago, they had made two overnight stops, the first at the hall of a Somerset thegn some twenty miles east of Glastonbury, the second night at Salisbury. Ealhswith wanted nothing more than to scrub herself clean and to sleep. Yet she was here for Alfred, and by his side she would stay until Edward needed her. She took his hand in hers.

‘Wulfrida and her sons are still with the king?’

Alfred nodded. ‘Aethelred wanted to explain about the succession . . .’

‘I thought that might be the case. I just hope the king can make Wulfrida understand. She’s been more than a little frosty with me since she heard of the outcome at Swinbeorg. And before you start telling me the reasons for it, I know, and fully understand, the necessity of choosing you. But Wulfrida is livid that her sons have been overlooked.’

‘Surely she sees the need for a king to lead the men . . .? Now, I mean, not in another fifteen years or more when her sons are grown. The Danes are here
now
, and armies must be raised.’

‘And you are the one to do it, Alfred, the only one the men will trust enough to follow into battle.’

Ealhswith touched his cheek, desperate to hold him close, but in front of the servants it would not be proper. ‘Though the thought of losing you turns me to ice, in my heart I know you will never rest until you see Wessex freed from these invaders.’

She smiled as she noticed the tears glistening in his eyes. ‘Alfred, my love, I am your wife and I will never stop loving you. But I have known since the day we met that you are also utterly devoted to Wessex.’

Alfred’s head came down to rest on her shoulder and she felt his body trembling as he silently wept.

*****

Easter Day fell on April 15 that year, two days after the women and children had returned from Wedmore. Aethelred was too ill to attend the service at the Old Minster and Alfred accompanied the household to the grand building, to give thanks to God for the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and say their own prayers for their beloved king. Afterwards, Goderic, the Bishop of Winchester, joined them at the royal hall in order to perform a private service for the ailing king.

Throughout the following week, Aethelred sank into deep despair, frantic to cling on to those he loved to the very last moment of his life. During his wakeful periods he made repeated requests to see his family. But Wulfrida, with her sons, Aethelhelm and Aethelwold, would make only brief and reluctant visits to his bedchamber. Aethelred’s wife, it seemed, could not abide to be anywhere near the sickroom.

On the Friday, the physicians informed Alfred that his brother’s wounds had turned septic and he was now succumbing to bouts of delirium. They did not expect him to live for many more days and advised the household to pray for his soul. Distraught to the very core, Alfred summoned Bishop Goderic. The ageing cleric would remain with the family, ready to read the last rites to the dying king. Alfred, himself, spent most of the following two days at his brother’s side. Though the stench in the room was now overwhelming, he was determined to be there for him until the very end. Wulfrida peeped round the door occasionally, a kerchief pressed firmly to her nose. She had made it quite clear that the reek of putrid flesh in her husband’s room made her physically sick and was unable to enter. That suited Alfred; he could bear no audience whilst his tears flowed.

By Sunday the delirium had become almost total. Sometimes Aethelred’s speech became rambling and incoherent; sometimes he could get no words out at all. He ranted and raved about things only he could see, sobbing, then laughing hysterically. His physicians remained in the hall, should they be needed, though they shook their heads, sadly. Alfred knew, only too well, that there was nothing they could do, except to administer the regular dosage of belladonna. When the stricken king eventually succumbed to sleep, Alfred wiped his stream of drool and sponged his fevered brow. When he awoke, Aethelred would stare at him as if he were a stranger . . . and the raving would start all over again.

On Sunday night, Alfred fell asleep, exhausted, by Aethelred’s bed, his head cradled on his folded arms on the furs. The physicians had dispensed the belladonna in a small cup of mead and, for a few hours, his brother had slept, propped up on his thick pillows. But then he roused and cried out, waking Alfred with a start. In the light from the single candle, Alfred watched as Aethelred lifted his undamaged arm and reached out across the room.

‘Father,’ he said, so quietly that Alfred could scarcely hear. ‘I’ll be with you soon.’

Compelled to turn his head, Alfred could see only his own shadow cast by the candlelight. He drew breath to assure his brother there was no one there . . . then chose not to destroy the comforting image his brother’s mind had created. And who was he to know what others saw as their mortal lives drew to a close?

‘I know, Father,’ Aethelred murmured again. ‘Alfred is beside me now, as he has always been.’ Aethelred’s voice was steady, his words precise; the deranged rantings of earlier seeming to have vanished. His gaze moved from the dancing shadows to focus on Alfred’s face. ‘My brother, my friend, my advisor and my support,’ he said, reaching to take Alfred’s hand. ‘I would not have ruled so well without you at my side. You have truly been my rock. But now I must leave you behind . . . Father is waiting for me.’

Alfred’s throat was too swollen to speak. He felt the hot tears run down his cheeks and he leaned over to embrace his beloved brother.

‘You will make the greatest king of us all, Alfred,’ Aethelred whispered, stroking Alfred’s head, lying gently against his chest. ‘Remember my words when you feel everything is lost. You will not let Wessex fail. You will keep the promise you made to our father all those years ago.

‘But now I am weary and must sleep. We will talk again . . . another time and place.’

Alfred lifted himself up, afraid of what he might see. But, although Aethelred’s eyes were closed, his shallow breathing was regular. Death had not yet claimed him.

*****

After the gruelling days of pain, fever and delirium, King Aethelred of Wessex died peacefully in his sleep in the early morning of April 23. He had not woken since his resigned conversation with Alfred the previous night.

At dawn, Alfred had ushered Bishop Goderic into the bedchamber to read his brother the last rites in the presence of those in attendance at the Winchester hall. Shortly after, Alfred watched his beloved brother draw his last breath. Around him, Radulf, the Hampshire ealdorman, and some of Aethelred’s closest thegns, watched in sorrowful silence, whilst Wulfrida and her sons hovered some distance back, she with the kerchief held to her face.

At her husband’s side, Ealhswith held on to his arm by way of showing her support. She watched him fight back the tears, proud that he held himself with such dignity. He could not afford to crumple before critical eyes. As the future king, Alfred needed to show self-control and inner strength.

The bedchamber eventually emptied, leaving Alfred once more alone with his brother. His strict control collapsed and he sank to his knees and wept. When at last he composed himself, he prayed for Aethelred’s soul: the soul of a loving son, brother, husband and father; the soul of a fine king and defender of the Wessex people from slaughter and oppression at an enemy’s hand. And above all else, Alfred prayed for the soul of a truly devout Christian.

*****

The site for Aethelred’s burial was discussed throughout the afternoon. Wulfrida had little to contribute, seeming overwrought at the loss of her husband. Alfred was inclined to believe her grief to be genuine and her behaviour over the past days simply an inability to cope in the face of imminent death and the fetid stench in the sickroom. Aethelred’s sons, too, were in great need of comfort, and Alfred wondered how they would all bear up at the funeral. But in many ways it was of some consolation to him to know that his brother had, indeed, been truly loved.

Bishop Goderic stayed in the hall for the discussion, as did Ealdorman Radulf and Aethelred’s resident thegns. With the Danes in Wessex, the choice of site for the king’s burial was of utmost importance. It was also imperative that the ceremony be performed in secret, some distance from Reading. Should the Danes discover the whereabouts of the king’s burial place, it was possible they would desecrate the grave, taking up Aethelred’s body to display as some kind of hideous trophy out of sheer wrath – and as an insult to the Christian God.

Alfred had agonised over the need to inform Aethelswith of their brother’s impending death, though he knew his sister would be truly grieved if he did not. For one thing, a convoy coming from Mercia could be spotted by enemy scouts, alerting the Danes to something unusual occurring in Wessex. But the journey would also put Aethelswith’s life at great risk. Alfred would never forgive himself if anything happened to the sister he loved so dearly. As for the loathsome Burgred, he wasn’t likely to show his cowardly face, not after denying his ally the aid it desperately needed.

A week ago, Alfred had sent messengers to Aethelswith at Gloucester, where the Mercian Court was residing for the Eastertide, with details of Aethelred’s tragic condition. He pictured his sister’s lovely face, and the way she would have crumpled on hearing that Aethelred was so close to death. He had warned her of the perils of travelling into Wessex and begged her to stay in Gloucester. And yet, as Aethelred’s sister, Aethelswith had a right to make her own decision. Alfred knew she would make every effort to be here for the funeral.

Gloucester was over eighty-five miles away, and the riders had taken two days to get there. They arrived back three days ago with the return message that the Mercian queen would be heading for Winchester as soon as arrangements could be made. She had made no mention of her husband.

‘So, may I suggest Wimborne, near the south coast of Dorset as a suitable place?’

Bishop Goderic’s gentle voice cut across Alfred’s thoughts of Aethelswith, who was probably somewhere on the road at this very moment. He stared at the bishop as the words took shape.

‘Yes,’ he replied, rubbing his aching eyes. He had not slept more than a few hours in days. ‘I can see the sense in that. It’s certainly far enough away from Reading.’

‘And Wimborne is one of our most revered monasteries,’ Goderic added, nodding thoughtfully, ‘a sacred place indeed, and truly worthy of becoming the burial place of a king. It is also in a secluded spot, surrounded by woodland; quite delightful in the summer months. Our beloved king will rest peacefully there.’

‘Then I suggest we make plans for the funeral at Wimborne,’ Alfred said, the pain of loss making all this too difficult for him to talk about. Yet it had to be done, and the burial must be within the next week. ‘And my Lord Bishop, I ask that you travel with us to officiate.’

‘I would be deeply honoured,’ the kindly Goderic replied, his voice cracked with emotion. ‘I have known the king since he was a boy . . .’

Then Radulf said, ‘What we must consider is how we can make the journey to Wimborne without arousing suspicion in any enemy scouts as to our purpose or destination. If we move as a long cavalcade, news of it will be sure to get back to Reading.’

‘There won’t be enough of us for a cavalcade,’ Alfred replied. ‘This funeral will not be well attended, our situation with the Danes does not allow for that. But I’m determined my brother will be interred with the reverence due to him. The gathering will be family and close attendants only. And we must endeavour to make our travelling party appear as something quite different.’

‘Like a hunting party, my lord?’

‘Hmm,’ Alfred murmured as he thought about it. ‘Yes, quite possibly, Radulf. And the king’s body will travel in a simple wagon – or perhaps just a cart; nothing to draw undue attention. Ealhswith will be happy to ride, and so will my sister. Lady Wulfrida . . .?’

‘No. If I must, I shall travel at the front of the wagon, or whatever means of transport you choose for my husband. My sons will ride. But I agree that Wimborne sounds the perfect spot for . . . for . . .’

Alfred averted his eyes as Wulfrida fought to control her sobs, her distress rekindling his own. She rose, nodded to the group of men and hastened from the room to grieve in private. For some moments no one spoke, each silently thinking their own thoughts and coping with their own sorrow.