Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (6 page)

‘Your charges . . .?’ Aelle enquired as they halted and lowered the baskets.

‘. . . are warm, lord,’ the oldest woman assured. ‘And the pit is bathed in sunlight.’

‘Then there’s nothing more to be said.’

The women eased their baskets onto the ledge, tugging off the lids by the attached ropes as they tipped them forward, allowing their contents to plummet into the pit.

Ragnar recoiled in horror as a dozen vipers tumbled onto him but, too proud to expose the depth of his terror, he did not cry out. Eadwulf stared at the coiling mass of reptilian horror, the zigzagged backs and Y-marked heads bearing testament to the agonising, lethal bites they could inflict. The vipers drew their sinuous bodies into the S-shape that preluded attack and their raised heads struck out, their sharp fangs finding Ragnar’s bare flesh a ready target.

As the deadly poison coursed through him, Ragnar reeled at the intensity of his pain, scratching frantically at the angry, red swellings covering his skin. He slumped on the rock-strewn earth, the vipers slithering and curling across his fading body, their venom spent. He clutched at his retching stomach, vomiting green bile. But from the depths of his warrior-being he summoned some reserve of strength and yelled:

‘How the little pigs would grunt if they knew how the old boar suffers!
’

The crowds close enough to hear hooted at the amusing image as Ragnar reached out to embrace something seen only by him, an expression of utter joy transforming his agonised face as he quoted:

‘It gladdens me to know that Balder’s father makes ready the benches of the
banquet hall.
Soon we shall be drinking ale from the curved horns
. . .’

Eventually the heart of the infamous Ragnar surrendered to the overwhelming power of the venom. His lips and tongue were now grossly engorged and he clutched at his throat, gasping for breath. His body convulsed, then went limp; his eyes closed in peaceful acceptance that he would never see Midgard again. Aelle nodded in grim satisfaction and gestured for their mounts to be returned. Leaving guards to keep order amongst the crowds the royal couple returned to the hall.

‘The Valkyries came for him, Ulf,’ Olaf said, staring up at the blue sky. ‘He killed an enemy before his death and has gone to Valhalla. Odin did not abandon him. Your death will not go unavenged my friend,’ he murmured into the pit. ‘This king will pay dearly for what he’s done this day.’

Charged with raw emotion they made their way back to the knarr in silence.

*****

Leoflaed unravelled herself from Eadwulf’s beefy arms and pushed herself up on one elbow to glower down at him. ‘You mean to tell me you’ve a young brother and half-sister living with the Danes – and your mother didn’t die in London but of some pestilence as a slave in the Danish lands? You deliberately lied to me?’

Eadwulf closed his eyes. The true means of his mother’s death was too terrible to recount. A new lie had simply replaced the old.

‘And why are you telling me this now?’

The last thing Eadwulf wanted was a blazing row, as generally happened when his wife was annoyed. ‘Why not now?’ he said, reaching to push a lock of auburn hair from her face. ‘You’re usually in a good mood after–’

‘Don’t you dare bring lovemaking into this,’ Leoflaed spat, jerking her head away and heaving herself into a sitting position. ‘Making love has nothing to do with the fact that you’ve kept such things from me for five whole years . . .’ She pulled the furs up to her neck in a gesture of outraged modesty. ‘Does the fact that you’ve eventually brought the subject up mean you intend to do something about it?’

‘I’m not sure what to do about it, yet,’ he replied, sitting up beside her in their bed. ‘I’ve searched for a way to tell you for a long time, but feared you’d react badly – just as you have done.’ He held up his hand to stay another harsh rejoinder. ‘No need to justify your feelings. I accept that I’m in the wrong here.’

Leoflaed turned towards him, opening her mouth to reply, but closing it again. In the candlelight he could read the anxiety in her hazel eyes – and knew that her main concern would be that he might be going away without her again. He stared ahead, waiting for her to speak. Beyond their bedchamber, Wigstan’s hall was silent. Even the servants had retired to their beds. Aethelred had been asleep in his own chamber for hours, and rarely woke in the night.

‘I didn’t intend to cause distress by telling you this,’ he said after a prolonged silence. ‘Whether I have family or not doesn’t affect my love for you – though I know I should have told you long ago.’

‘But I don’t understand your purpose in telling me
now
,’ Leoflaed whispered. ‘You’re not about to tell me you’re going away again – are you?’

‘I’ve no plans to go anywhere. I’ve barely been back from York two weeks.’

‘Let’s not dwell on the Dane’s death again,’ she said, taking his hand as he shuddered. ‘The mere mention of it always distresses you. You’ve dealt bravely with those horrors, for all our sakes, but such appalling images have a habit of playing on the mind when least expected’

‘You’re right, it’s over. But now I dread to hear what the reprisals will be. Ragnar’s family has many powerful friends.’

‘There may be no reprisals at all. It would take a whole army to stand against the Northumbrian forces.’

‘And Ragnar’s sons may well manage to raise one. Perhaps not this year or next – but I fear they
will
come.’

Leoflaed sighed. ‘Well, we’ll think about that when – if – it happens. Now, about the brother and sister you seem to have forgotten to mention until today . . .’

Briefly, Eadwulf explained about Jorund and Yrsa, and Ragnar’s daughter and her husband who cared for them. Leoflaed listened, her shrewd gaze fixed on him.

‘What you really mean is that those people actually own your brother and sister, isn’t it? They’re still slaves, and that’s what bothers you.’

Eadwulf nodded, unable to deny the truth of her deduction. ‘But their master and mistress are good people,’ he tried to explain, without naming Freydis and Hastein, ‘who offered to take the children out of sympathy when our mother died. Jorund and Yrsa will be well treated, and not want for affection.’ He studied his intertwined fingers, silent awhile. ‘I dream of bringing them home one day, but how that will be possible I’ve yet no idea. But the hope won’t leave me.’

‘Then we’ll ponder on it together, Eadwulf. I would also wish your brother and sister freed and in their rightful place.’

Leaving the stub of candle to burn out, Eadwulf pulled Leoflaed down to nestle beside him. Sleep would come much more easily now.

Six

Wessex: late August – mid September, 865

On a sultry afternoon in the last week of August, King Aethelberht finally lost his battle for life. He was thirty years old and had been a respected and competent king of Wessex for the past five years. For some weeks he had withdrawn from public life and remained in his bedchamber at Wilton, his frail body captive to the ravages of the illness that had taken his two older brothers and gradually drained every modicum of his own strength.

Although Aethelberht’s death had not come as a surprise, Alfred knew that his one remaining brother was daunted at the prospect of becoming the next king. Responsibilities loomed high. But Alfred was certain that Aethelred would measure up to the challenge and rule the kingdom with wisdom and courage. And Alfred would always be there for him: together they would face threats to Wessex, from wherever they may stem.

Aethelwulf’s two youngest sons had been at their brother’s bedside on that muggy afternoon, surrounded by some of Aethelberht’s closest retainers, as well as their uncle, Osric of Hampshire, Theomund the Wilton reeve, and Bishop Ealhstan. Only Aethelswith had not arrived in time to say farewell to her dying brother. Messengers had been sent to Tamworth almost two weeks ago with the sad news that Aethelberht was barely holding on to life. Their return had brought an apologetic reply from Aethelswith, informing her brothers that Burgred was leading a campaign against the Welsh, the last news she’d received relaying that he was deep into Gwynedd and heading for the island of Mon. So it was likely that the Mercian royal party would be late in making their journey to Wilton. If they came at all.

But after fretting over the situation for almost a week, during which time there was no further news from Burgred, Aethelswith had made the decision to travel without him. With a small company of guards, she and her young daughter had set off on the long journey to Wilton. Having been forbidden by Burgred to travel for either her father’s last days or his funeral, she was determined to be there for Aethelberht.

Unfortunately, she was still too late. Alfred’s heart bled for his sister whose lovely face contorted with grief on hearing of Aethelberht’s death the previous day.

‘At least he’s free of his pain now,’ she whispered to her brothers as they rose from their prayers and gazed down on Aethelberht’s serene features. The three were sombrely dressed, befitting the mood of intense sadness. It was so quiet and still in the little stone church; even Father Eldwyn had left to allow them privacy with their departed brother. In God’s comforting presence, Alfred’s turbulent emotions calmed, but for Aethelswith, the awareness of Aethelberht’s death was too recent. Even prayer offered no consolation and the tears flowed freely. ‘I’m heartbroken that I couldn’t see him for one last time,’ she sobbed. ‘If only Burgred had not–’

‘Peace, sister,’ Aethelred urged. ‘Your husband could not ignore the threat to Mercia’s safety. There’s no blame to be laid there.’

‘But knowing that his wife’s brother was so close to death, couldn’t he have trusted a competent ealdorman to lead the campaign?’

Alfred bit his tongue, realising too late that criticism of her husband may further upset his sister. But Aethelswith did not refute his words. ‘It is what I believe myself, Alfred. I was devastated when your messengers arrived and Bugred was miles away.’

Alfred enfolded her in his arms as she wept tears of sadness and regret. ‘Aethelberht knew how much you cared for him, sister. And we all realised there’d be a good reason if you didn’t get here at all.’

Aethelswith nodded bleakly, but her eyes brightened as she looked up at Alfred. ‘You’ve grown so much this last year, little brother.’

‘He has indeed. I never thought he’d end up taller than me.’ Aethelred smiled. ‘But Alfred’s right, Aethelswith. You’ve no cause to feel guilty for not saying farewell to Aethelberht. All leaders must put the welfare of their people before personal issues, no matter how difficult that may be. Burgred is doing just that.’

‘I know,’Aethelswith said with a sigh. ‘I’ve been a king’s wife for long enough.’

The pain clouding her eyes did not escape Alfred. But it was Aethelred who spoke as they left the church. ‘How is our pretty little niece keeping?’

‘Mildrede is growing fast,’ Aethelswith replied, smiling at the compliment. ‘She’s almost seven now, and very bright; probably bombarding her nurse with questions as we speak.’ She sighed, suddenly crestfallen. ‘I just wish–’

‘It’s a pity her father pays her so little attention,’ Alfred interpreted the unvoiced longing, earning him a dig in the ribs from his brother. 

‘Father loved this manor,’ Aethelred murmured, changing the subject as he gazed across the willow-lined river. ‘It’s undeniably located in a beautiful spot; so peaceful.’ He turned and gestured toward the solid, stone building with its squat, square tower. ‘It’s such a shame he never saw his little church completed. Do you remember the time we came here after you’d returned from Rome, Alfred? Bishop Ealhstan was here then, too. I remember how you quite disconcerted him by just looking at him.’

‘Our young brother has a habit of doing that,’ Aethelswith agreed. ‘Burgred still feels most uncomfortable in his presence.’

Shamefaced, Alfred averted his eyes. ‘Then I’ll attempt to be pleasant next time we meet. I wouldn’t wish the two of you to be at odds because of me.’

‘Perhaps you should have thought about that some years ago, brother.’

Aethelred’s raised eyebrows suggested his comment was not entirely reproof, and Alfred merely nodded as they walked slowly back to the hall to face the grim task of arranging for the journey to Sherborne on the morrow.

*****

The funeral service was conducted five days later by Ealhstan, Bishop of Sherborne; a sober affair in the presence of many of the kingdom’s elite, as befitted a king of Wessex. Alfred endured the service in reserved solemnity, closing his ears to the words of the bishop he deemed repugnant and scheming; saying his own silent prayers and thinking his own thoughts. Aethelberht would soon be laid to rest beneath the floor of Sherborne Abbey, beside the grave of his brother, Aethelbald.

At Alfred’s side Aethelred’s face contorted in grief as the wood-carved coffin was lowered into the waiting grave, the bishop intoning prayers for Aethelberht’s immortal soul. Beside them, Aethelswith was pale-faced and dry-eyed, fresh tears held in abeyance for the while, her sombre clothing and absence of adornment tallying with the rest of the congregation. Choking in his own misery Alfred dared not contemplate the implications of the merciless illness that had claimed the lives of Aethelwulf’s three eldest sons. As yet, none of the surviving siblings displayed symptoms of this ailment. Alfred prayed they never would.

He contemplated how Aethelberht’s five-year reign had started and ended with Danish raids – that of Hampshire and Berkshire in 860, and the raids across Kent during the previous year. Between those years the kingdom had enjoyed a comfortable peace, in part due to Aethelberht’s steady government, in part to the suspension of Danish attacks. Alfred wondered whether Aethelred’s reign would be as fortunate.

*****

As the location for his coronation Aethelred chose the town of Kingston-upon-Thames, sited on the southern side of the great river in the Wessex shire of Surrey. Alfred would have preferred to see his brother crowned at one of the major Wessex cities, but Aethelred had visited Kingston on many occasions and had become enamoured by the beauty and serenity of the place. It was also the family home of a certain dark-haired lady who’d caught his eye, whose father had become the Surrey ealdorman since Osmund’s death eight years ago.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Aethelred said, grinning as they rode into the town ahead of their cavalcade. ‘You believe that Wessex has more important towns than Kingston for the coronation of a king. You’d doubtless prefer Winchester, or Wilton. But I don’t want ostentation, Alfred. The pain of Aethelberht’s death is too recent for me to cope with unnecessary pomp.’

Aethelred’s chuckle confused Alfred and he couldn’t help a smile. ‘Am I to guess what you find so funny, or will you tell me?’

‘I was merely recalling Ealhstan’s face when I told him that Archbishop Ceolnoth would officiate at my coronation. His expression was even funnier than yours when you learned the ceremony would be at Kingston. He was hoping the coronation would be at Sherborne, so he could do the honours.’ Aethelred’s smile faded. ‘I know you’ll understand when I say I couldn’t have stayed in Sherborne another day. And I certainly didn’t want Ealhstan to officiate at my coronation.’

‘Ealhstan’s not a person to inspire either faith or trust,’ Alfred agreed, shuffling in his saddle, the pains in his backside almost unbearable; he’d spent too long on horseback since leaving Sherborne two weeks ago. ‘I’m sorry to have appeared a little off-hand these past days, Aethelred. It’s just that–’

‘I know – you really like Winchester.’

‘I do, brother; and you must admit it’s sufficiently centrally sited in Wessex to make a good capital.’ Alfred grinned at his brother and joined him in waving to the people who’d gathered to greet them as they headed for the ealdorman’s hall. ‘But I can see you’re smitten with the quaint charms of Kingston.’

Aethelred nodded. ‘I’m also keen to see Wulfrida again and discuss marriage terms with her father. I’d like the ceremony to be held a few weeks after the coronation. That may partly help you to understand my choice of location, not to mention the fact that both Father and Aethelbald were crowned here. But perhaps such a trifling thing simply slipped your mind?’

Alfred grinned at Aethelred’s amused expression. ‘Perhaps I just allowed it to do so,’ he said dismissively. ‘It must be hard for married women to leave their kin,’ he mused. ‘No doubt, as your wife, Wulfrida will be permitted to make regular visits to her family in Kingston, whereas some women . . .’

‘You’re thinking of Aethelswith, aren’t you?’ Aethelred sighed. ‘We mustn’t be too hard on Burgred, Alfred; few weeks go by when Mercia’s borders are at peace. Admittedly, Burgred’s not the easiest person to like, but personality aside, his reign hasn’t been easy, and I’m certain Aethelswith understands that.’

Alfred chewed this over for a while before replying. ‘Our sister’s a loyal daughter of Wessex and would never shirk her duty. But,’ he added, shaking his head sadly, ‘Aethelswith’s marriage is a loveless one.’

‘Has Aethelswith told you this herself?’

‘She doesn’t have to; I can see it in her eyes. Aethelswith yearns for affection, but Burgred has love for no one but himself. I fear she spends most of her days, and possibly all of her nights, alone.’

‘I’d like to tell you you’re wrong,’ Aethelred said with a humourless smile, ‘but I know you well enough to realise you’re rarely mistaken in your assessment of situations – or people.’ He suddenly reached out to grasp Alfred’s arm. ‘I want you to remember that when I am king, I’ll prize your counsel above that of all others. Stay at my side, Alfred; never abandon me. Together we’ll strive to make Wessex prosper.’

Surrounded by his retainers, Ealdorman Bealdric stood outside his hall to welcome his guests, his sharp-featured face exuding pride and self-importance. In three days’ time the coronation of a Wessex king would take place in his small town.

*****

The morning of the coronation dawned warm and sunny, which Alfred thought fortunate since the ceremony was to be held out of doors. He stayed with his brother for most of the morning, pleased to note that Aethelred was in jovial mood, which even continued after spending an hour with the Archbishop of Canterbury for a final rehearsal of the order of events.

Swallowing down the last of his ale, Alfred glanced round the packed hall. Nobles from across Wessex huddled in groups, sharing news and gossip before the ceremony. In their midst was Burgred of Mercia, who had virtually ignored his wife since his arrival yesterday. No doubt, had Aethelswith not taken it upon herself to travel to Wilton, Burgred would have found some excuse to forego both Aerthelberht’s funeral and Aethelred’s coronation.

Refusing to dwell further on the Mercian, Alfred turned to his brother. ‘You’re certainly taking all this in your stride. I doubt I’d be so composed in your shoes.’

‘A ceremony’s just a ceremony, Alfred. I’ve nothing to worry about as long as I remember the words of the oath – and you don’t drop the crown.’

But Aethelred’s smile did not reach his eyes and Alfred laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘It is perfectly normal to feel anxious, brother.’

‘Not much escapes you, does it? You’re right, of course, though it’s true I’m not worried about the ceremony. It’s what follows that concerns me.’

‘Aethelred, you will make a truly great king. You have all the qualities of leadership and you’re popular with the nobles – at least most of them. I’m not sure about Ealhstan since you snubbed Sherborne for your coronation.’ He grinned at his brother’s indifferent shrug. ‘And I’ll be at your side.’

‘I know, Alfred, and I’m grateful for that. But my greatest worry is the likelihood of Danish attacks. It will be my responsibility to co-ordinate both defence and attack. We’ll need to put our brains together and–’

‘But not today, Aethelred. Today’s the day on which you are hailed as king and pledged homage by the people. Today you need think only of the ceremony, even though you seem to find the prospect somewhat dull. Tomorrow will be soon enough to speak of state policies,’ he teased.

*****

Shortly after noon the dignitaries of Wessex gathered round the big coronation stone upon which Aethelred would sit to be consecrated as king. Alfred accompanied Wulfrida and Aethelswith from the hall and took his place beside the great stone, proudly holding the magnificent crown of Wessex on its crimson cushion. Aethelred was right, this venue was quite perfect. A light breeze rustled the gold-tipped leaves on nearby willows, beyond which flowed the wide River Thames. Bealdric had told them that the Romans built a settlement here because it was a fording point on the river. Centuries later, Kingston had become an important Saxon town. Alfred’s grandfather, King Egbert, had held a Church Council here, attended by many nobles and bishops, and Ceolnoth of Canterbury. Alfred wondered whether the archbishop remembered that time; it was so long ago, and he was an old man now.