Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (7 page)

His attention shifted to the waiting crowds: bishops, abbots, ealdormen and thegns; the elite of Wessex, plus one disgruntled Mercian. Po-faced, Burgred stood with his wife and daughter, patently enduring the occasion with barely restrained incivility. Alfred seethed, thankful for Osric’s thoughtfulness in moving to chat to his niece.

At the opposite side of the stone to Alfred, splendid and dignified in the formal attire of his office, the archbishop had now taken his place, suggesting the ceremony was about to begin. Ceolnoth had aged considerably since Alfred had first met him eighteen months ago, his body taking on a frailty associated with advanced age. But his senses remained alert, and he soon became aware of being under scrutiny. Steady grey eyes fixed on Alfred’s own, an eyebrow quirked and the corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. Mortified to have been caught staring, Alfred averted his eyes – just as the fanfare announced the approach of the future king.

Advancing along the aisle between his nobles, flanked by Alfrith – the Bishop of Winchester since Swithun’s death three years ago – and Bishop Ealhstan of Sherborne, Aethelred looked regal and handsome in his heavy cloak of blue velvet, trimmed with white ermine. On reaching the coronation stone, he winked at Alfred before turning to face the people, his two escorts drifting away to the sides. The archbishop stepped slowly forward to take his place beside Aethelred, and after leading the congregation in an opening prayer, he began the consecration ritual:

‘My lords of Wessex,’ Ceolnoth’s voice rang out over the silent crowd, ‘I here present to you your undoubted king: Aethelred, son of Aethelwulf, King of Wessex; grandson of the mighty Bretwalda Egbert, and of the line of Cerdic.’ Brotherly pride surged through Alfred as he listened to Aethelred’s hereditary right to kingship being established. Aethelred looked so splendid enveloped in the ceremonial cloak.

Ceolnoth moved on to assert Aethelred’s right by election: ‘The Witan has accepted Aethelred as our king, recognising in him a man trained in courtly procedure and adept at dealing with matters of State.’ The archbishop’s gaze swept his audience, allowing time for his words to sink in. ‘All possibilities have been carefully considered and the Council have found no other to have such a legitimate claim . . . ’

The archbishop’s deliberate pause was the time for any objections to the proposed accession to be voiced, and although Alfred anticipated none, he felt a tremor of anxiety. There was always the possibility that other contenders would be named.

But no opposition was forthcoming and Ceolnoth led them in a second prayer before his brother made his sacred oath. Aethelred’s voice rang out with confidence, his words and inflection perfect:

‘The Church of God and all His people shall keep true peace under our rule at all times. I shall ordain justice and mercy in all judgements . . . All this I promise.’

The archbishop anointed Alfred’s kneeling brother, touching his head, his hands and heart with holy oil, and as Aethelred sat upon the coronation stone, Alfred stepped forward, proffering the heavy crown to Ceolnoth. Lined with rich purple velvet and adorned with garnets, pearls and sapphires, the golden crown glinted in the sunlight as the archbishop held it reverently above Aethelred. Then, with solemn dignity, he lowered it onto his head. Turning again to face the people, the archbishop brought his hands together to intone a final, solemn prayer:

‘Lord God, bless and guide Your servant the king, whom we have chosen, by Your Grace, for royal authority over all Saxon peoples.’

King Aethelred of Wessex remained seated on the coronation stone, graciously acknowledging the homage of his nobles. In turn, each man knelt before him and uttered vows of allegiance, for which the king would duly reward him with gifts of land and property. At his brother’s side, Alfred watched with sombre intent. For the present these men would enjoy their lives of elegance and pleasure. Tonight they would feast as though their homes would never again face the threat of invasion.

Seven

Kingston upon Thames: late September 865

Caesar’s stride remained steady, sufficiently fleet to maintain a lead of several paces ahead of the others in King Aethelred’s party, including four attendant falconers. The stallion strained at the reins, eager to increase his speed, but Alfred’s bridled control held firm. The day was warm for the season and he was sweating now, the gentle breeze that lifted his collar-length hair and swelled his cloak doing little to cool him. Shades of amber and gold engulfed him, glorious in their harmonies, the earth’s deference to the dying year. Exhilaration overwhelmed him and he whooped for the sheer beauty of the day, his pains temporarily forgotten.

The open plain seemed to go on forever, the meandering Thames alongside, its marshy banks and reedbeds a haven for waterfowl. The falcons had been slipped, wading herons and flocks of mallard disseminating in raucous flight, panicked at the perceived danger. Riders’ attentions fixed onto their birds.

Alfred’s beautiful peregrine soared upward, each flap of her pointed wings rendering her smaller against the expanse of open sky, her pale underside barely discernible now. He reined Caesar in, squinting into the brightness, striving to keep Bella’s ascent in focus. Soon the falcon would become a distant speck against the blue, gliding on the thermals as her finely tuned eyesight fixed onto airborne prey. Then she’d tuck in her feet and fold back her wings, enabling her streamlined body to dive at such a tremendous speed it would take Alfred’s breath away to watch.

Alfred glanced about him, allowing himself a moment to determine the progress of the others. Aethelred’s bay was alternately circling and thundering forward as his rider tracked the flight of his great gyrfalcon. Snow white, like the terrain of the far northern lands from whence she came, the bird coursed low; magnificent in her grace and power. Broad, pointed wings beat hard in rapid flight, resting as the falcon glided effortlessly over the river; long jesses trailing. A grey heron stretched its long neck and flapped its wings to take flight. And the gyrfalcon set her sights.

Bealdric’s saker was already in horizontal pursuit, a small mammal of some type fleeing from her deadly strike. Only a fraction smaller than Aethelred’s gyrfalcon and distinguishable by her brown underbelly and grey flight feathers, the saker coursed close to the ground: a ferocious hunter, unafraid of striking birds and mammals much larger than herself. Like Aethelred, the ealdorman followed the bird’s path with earnest intent, ready to retrieve the prey from the grip of the merciless talons before it could be consumed by the saker herself.

The two women were absorbed in the flights of their merlins, Aethelswith’s borrowed from Ealdorman Bealdric’s mews, Wulfrida’s her own. Though small beside the gyrfalcon and saker, the merlins were sturdy, robust birds, dark brown with white specks sprinkled across their breasts. Fierce hunters, like the saker they flew fast and low, aiming to strike at unsuspecting small songbirds or mammals. The women circled and veered, manipulating the movements of their mounts with dexterity in pursuit of their birds. Aethelswith was revelling in the freedom of the ride and the excitement of the hunt, her joy all the more since Burgred had returned to Mercia the previous day.

‘She’s in her stoop, my lord!’

The falconer’s shrill cry drew Alfred’s attentions skyward. A speck no longer, Bella’s rapid descent sent the flock of mallard flapping to evade the encounter that would result in the loss of one of their number. Singling out her prey, Bella swung into pursuit, the inevitable end nearing. Razor-sharp talons sank into the mallard’s flesh and hunter and prey fell to the ground, the mallard already dead.

‘A beautiful bird,’ Eafa gushed, as Bella relinquished her grip on her prey amidst a flurry of downy feathers and Alfred quickly offered the meaty treat she deserved. ‘The speed she reaches beggars belief, if you’ll excuse the expression, my lord. I’ve had peregrines before, but Bella . . .’

‘. . . is a treasure, Eafa,’ and all your hard work in her training has really paid off. I feel a lump in my throat whenever I see her dive. And as you say, her speed is quite unbelievable.’

The master falconer had recently arrived with his apprentice from Wilton to enable the new king and his brother to fly their falcons during their three-week sojourn at Kingston. He was a jovial man; utterly competent and tireless in his chosen profession. ‘I know what you mean, my lord,’ he said, nodding. ‘It’s a moving sight. And the king’s gyrfalcon is quite something, too.’ He gestured towards Aethelred, who stood proudly supporting the splendid falcon on his leather-gloved arm. ‘Such a powerful creature – just brought down a heron.’

‘I thought she might,’Alfred replied, grinning. ‘If I ever marry, Eafa, I hope Charles the Bald sends me one just like her. But alas, it’s not every day that Norwegian traders make their way into Francia. Unfortunately for the Franks the usual Norse visitors are marauders.’

‘Then perhaps the Frankish king will send you a saker. Now there’s another superb hunter – native to the hot, desert lands so I’m told. I’m sure the Franks trade regularly with the Moors and such like.’

Alfred nodded. ‘Bealdric acquired his falcon at the London market from traders from the north African lands.’

A sudden commotion took their attention. Aethelred had already left his gyrfalcon and her prize to the care of the falconers and was now speaking with one of Bealdric’s servants whose hard panting suggested he’d sped like lightning from the hall. And judging by his face, Aethelred was not pleased with the message.

‘We’re required to return to the hall,’ he said with an irritated sigh as Alfred and the ealdorman reached his side. ‘Riders have arrived with news from King Edmund.’

‘Then go we must, my lord,’ Bealdric replied, bowing to Aethelred and heading towards the falconers to issue instructions.

*****

Four messengers from the East Anglian Court were pacing the hall as Aethelred and his party entered. Having noted the foaming mouths of the horses outside, Alfred’s stomach knotted, and a glance at Aethelred told him his brother felt the same. The horses had been ridden to near exhaustion, suggesting this was no mere greeting from one king to another.

A brawny, fair-headed man of middle years sank to one knee as Aethelred stepped towards them. ‘King Edmund sends his salutations in acknowledgement of your ascendance to the Wessex throne, my lord, and–’

‘My thanks to your king,’ Aethelred interrupted, ‘but I think you’ve more pressing news than simply good wishes for me, do you not?’ He smiled at the troubled faces. ‘No, do not take offence; I mean no disrespect to your king. My abrupt manner is simply a reaction to the exhausted condition of yourselves and your mounts.’ He gestured to a trestle table. ‘We’ll share a mug of ale and hear this urgent news.’

‘Anglia has been beleaguered by the Danes, my lord.’ The brawny man’s words gushed forth once they were seated. ‘A great army swarmed into our kingdom a little over two weeks ago. Their ships lined our shores for miles, all carrying armed warriors – hundreds of them. And they’ve brought women and children with them.’

Aethelred’s sudden intake of breath hissed through his teeth and Alfred swallowed hard. The threat to Anglia loomed large. If the Danes intended to settle, King Edmund would not consent unless defeated in battle, and such a huge army would not be resisted easily.

A young, darker-haired Anglian broke the silence. ‘King Edmund wishes only to inform you of the situation in our kingdom, my lord. No more than that. The Danes have agreed to keep the peace.’

‘But at what price?’ Alfred asked, striving to keep his voice even. ‘Is it just the geld the Danes want, or land on which to settle as well? But, whichever, such great numbers suggest they mean to have whatever they demand.’

The young man’s face displayed unease at the sharp tone. ‘We’ve paid for peace and they’ve set up their camps in our land, my lord. But our king believes they’ll not remain in Anglia.’

Alfred held the young man’s gaze. ‘And just why is that?’

‘The Danes have sworn no blood will be spilt in Anglia if King Edmund permits them to gather as many horses as they wish,’ the older man responded to Alfred’s question, a defiant challenge in his eyes. ‘Our king will agree to anything to prevent his people being slaughtered. Is that so wrong?’

‘It is not,’ Aethelred replied before Alfred had chance to say otherwise. ‘Edmund is a God-fearing man who would always seek peaceful solutions where his people are concerned. I could wonder what I’d do myself in the same situation.’

‘It seems the Danes want the horses in order to move inland with greater speed,’ the same Anglian resumed. ‘In which direction we can only guess; could be west into Mercia, further north into Northumbria or even south into your kingdom.’

Aethelred nodded thoughtfully. ‘Has this warning also gone to Burgred and those warring kings of Northumbria? Then we are immeasurably grateful to King Edmund for his concern,’ he responded to the affirmative reply. ‘You’ve done well to make it here at all, if your lands are so overrun.’

The beefy messenger shrugged his shoulders. ‘We left in darkness and intend to return the same way, my lord. The Danish camps are close to their ships, and they set guards only in their immediate vicinity.’

‘Then, at least let your return not be until tomorrow. Tonight I suggest you get some sleep.’ And with that, Aethelred headed for the door, throwing over his shoulder, ‘I’ll see you two in the mews.’

*****

‘Are we agreed that this Danish landing poses no immediate threat to Wessex?’

Not wishing to disturb the tethered birds in the peace of the mews, Aethelred spoke softly, his enquiring grey gaze moving between the two of them.

Bealdric concurred, but Alfred could not answer so simply. ‘Perhaps not an immediate threat . . .’ he said, pausing as he ordered his thoughts. ‘Such a huge army is surely intent on widespread conquest, and I don’t believe Wessex will completely escape onslaught over the next few years. The Danes
will
come, and they’ll try to take our lands. And the bloodshed will be heavy . . . unless, like Edmund, we swallow our pride and pay them to keep the peace.

‘As to when . . . ?’ Alfred continued, not wanting to deliberate on such dire prospects. ‘If Mercia or Northumbria draws them first, we could be spared for some time yet. But there’s still the possibility of them moving into Wessex before going north. In which case–’

‘Well, I see optimism’s not your strong point today, Alfred,’ Aethelred said, cutting him off with a wink at his future father-by-marriage. ‘Yet I must admit you’ve made a couple of valid points. And I do agree that Wessex will be threatened at some stage. However, it’s the question of
when
that bothers me
–
not to mention, what we do about it.’

Bealdric rubbed his long nose thoughtfully. ‘The Danes will likely spend considerable time in East Anglia, my lord. Since Edmund’s paid them tribute to prevent bloodshed, they’ll live off his lands whilst gathering horses for many of them to ride out across our kingdoms, raiding and wreaking havoc. Of course, some of their number will sail their ships on to their next destination, wherever that might be. It could be north along the coast, or up the Thames as they did in ’51 – or inland along any one of our many rivers, for that matter.’ Alfred and Aethelred both nodded. King Aethelwulf had often talked about the events along the Thames fourteen years ago.

‘Some of them may even choose to settle in Anglia,’ the ealdorman added. ‘Bringing women and children would suggest their intention to do that somewhere. Anglian soils are deep and rich and the terrain flat. What better lands for building settlements and growing crops?’

Aethelred chewed the inside of his cheek for some moments, and Alfred mulled over everything they’d considered whilst waiting for him to speak.

‘The only thing we can do at this stage is to alert our kingdom’s ealdormen to the situation,’ Aethelred decided at length. ‘The thegns must be constantly battle-fit and the fyrd prepared to be called at any time. The men will have no time for seeking out suitable weapons if they’re called in haste.’

‘I agree, brother . . . at least in part.’ Alfred suddenly grinned impishly. ‘But don’t you think we’ll meet a degree of complacency if such warnings prove unwarranted for any length of time? We’ll be seen as scaremongers, to say the least, and constant training and weapon care will be forgotten. Isn’t there an old Greek fable about a certain boy who called, “Wolf!” too many times?’

Aethelred glowered. ‘Not quite the same thing Alfred. We’ll make only a single call, to be heeded until we give notice to lower our defences, or to act.’

Alfred’s grin widened. ‘Now you’re revealing your petulant side, my lord.’