Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (3 page)

‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’

‘True; and anyway, I’ve a better solution.’

Aethelnoth scowled at Eadwulf’s smug expression. ‘Go on then, enlighten me.’

‘It appears to me,’ Eadwulf began, with an air of pomposity just to irk his friend, ‘that these people with torches must have been strangers, come to meet someone.’

‘But we still don’t know the identity of either.’

‘You’ve forgotten one little detail, Aethelnoth,’ Eadwulf said, staring at the brooch in his friend’s hand. ‘We have a useful piece of evidence here. I just need to remember where I’ve seen it before.’

* * *

Warm rays of the setting sun slanted across the valley, casting long shadows of the horsemen and scattered patches of woodland. Beorhtwulf sighed. Not far now.

They’d left Winchester the previous morning, escorted by a dozen of Aethelwulf’s men as far as Chertsey, where they were housed overnight in the hall of a Wessex thegn. Riding again since mid-morning, they’d forded the Thames into Mercia at Kingston and followed the river downstream towards the London manor. The talks with Aethelwulf had confirmed the value of having Wessex as an ally. With the onset of May, West Saxon armies would swarm across the Thames Valley. A united front: Mercia and Wessex.

Beorhtwulf smiled at the thickset thegn riding at his side with a faraway look in his eyes. ‘We’ve been away too long, Creoda. Thinking of home?’

‘I was, my lord. Werburh’s due to give birth in a few weeks and she expected me home long before now.’

‘None of us anticipated being in London this long, Creoda – first the snows and now this Danish threat.’

‘Werburh will understand about the snows, my lord, but I’ve not sent word of the raids. How can I, so close to the birthing? A first child’s a great worry to a woman.’

Beorhtwulf nodded, appropriate words evading him, and delved into silent contemplation. Beside them the Thames flowed full after the snowmelt, rays of the setting sun bouncing on its turbulent surface. Closer to London the land along the banks became marshy, its only use being in the thick growth of reeds for roofing thatch, but immediately ahead of them a stretch of dense woodland reached down to the banks. Veering to skirt the trees, the hairs on Beorhtwulf’s neck suddenly prickled. It was too quiet; too still . . .

Too late he yelled, ‘To me!’

Extended in a drawn-out cavalcade, the Mercians didn’t stand a chance. The attackers came in waves from the concealment of the woods, their screeches obliterating the silence as they hurled themselves at his men. Vastly outnumbered, the Mercians were dragged from their mounts and brutally hacked down. As the inevitable end neared, only Creoda and young Beornred stood with Beorhtwulf for the final strike.

Creoda suddenly dropped like a winged bird, blood gurgling through his lips. The axe had come so fast that Beorhtwulf hadn’t seen it coming. Then Beornred was dragged away and Beohtwulf stood alone. Fur-clad shapes swooped on the dead to gather the spoils; like vultures stripping the very meat from their bodies. Fleeting images assailed his mind – of Morwenna and Eadwulf, and his brother, Burgred. He would never see them again.

‘Kill me now, you filthy savages,’ he screamed. ‘What in God’s name are you waiting for?’

The blow to his head sent him reeling. He retched with the pain and rolled onto his side, dizzy and disorientated. But he heard the voice.

‘God? Which god would that be? Do you think the Christian god has been looking after you well today? No? Perhaps you should try Odin, the Danish god of kings. Thor is better suited to warriors, I’m told. But you resemble neither king nor warrior today, grovelling down there in the dirt.’

Beorhtwulf gaped, speechless, as Burgred loomed over him, hatred bright in his eyes.

‘You can take that look off your face, Beorhtwulf. It truly is me, here to witness your long-awaited demise. And that young upstart, Beornred, can convey the sad news to Morwenna. No need to worry on my account,’ he said, his voice thick with mock concern. ‘Beornred will say naught of my presence at this unfortunate skirmish. He was moved well out of the way before I put in my appearance . . .

‘Oh yes, I’ve hated you as long as I can remember, dear brother, and at last I can be honest about it. You were the first born, and Father always loved you best. By the time I was born he wanted nothing to do with another snivelling brat. He actually told
me that, did you know? Don’t look at me as though I were mad; every word I say is true. And Mother was so old when I was born she was more like a grandmother, with a face like a wizened apple!’

Beorhtwulf dragged himself up on his elbows, striving to make sense of what he was hearing. ‘But
I
have always loved you, Burgred. When you were a child, I sought to develop your mind, train you in skills for later life. And haven’t I given you lands and manors in return for what I believed to be your loyalty to Mercia – and to me?’

‘No doubt such skills will be useful,’ Burgred admitted, examining his fingernails, ‘and the lands will serve me very well. I’ve built up a large number of faithful followers in the kingdom. But I always saw you as a weak-minded man, not the stuff kings are made of.’

‘And you think you can do it better, is that it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘By making yourself useful to our kingdom’s enemies. But what use are you to them, brother? What have you promised them – free rein to ravage Mercia?’

A dangerous light flashed in Burgred’s eyes. ‘You seek to anger me again. But you’re not in a position to fare well if you do, are you?’

‘You’ll burn in the fires of hell for all eternity!’

Burgred threw himself at Beorhtwulf in an uncontrollable rage. Threats of hell-fire and redemption had always caused him nightmares.

‘Enough!’ A shaggy-haired Dane with a thrice-plaited beard hauled Burgred to his feet. ‘Finish what you want to say to this cur and we’ll be on our way.’ His heavy features twisted midway between snarl and smirk. ‘We’ve a certain royal manor to raze tomorrow.’

Beorhtwulf could no more prevent his anguished howl than he could his tears of frustration and rage. ‘Dear God, Burgred, think what you’re doing! Are they all to be slaughtered, like these men who so recently gave you their trust?’

‘Chilling thoughts, eh?’ Burgred brushed down his tunic, an ugly smile on his lips. ‘But don’t worry about Morwenna. She’ll be fine – once she’s my wife.’

‘Surely all this
carnage is not solely for the purpose of rendering Morwenna a widow, so she’ll turn to you? Do you truly believe she could accept you after such betrayal?’

‘By all the pompous saints, Beorhtwulf, you must think me quite simple. Morwenna will never know of that. I shall return to the manor once Rorik has finished with it, to find Morwenna distraught in her bower, with Egil guarding her door. I’ll be heard to dispatch Egil and she’ll turn to me for support – as will the rest of Mercia, who’ll see me as a fitting king.’

‘You’re mad, Burgred! You’ve forgotten how to be a compassionate human being, a Christian.’

‘Remember, Beorhtwulf, not long ago I told that pathetic bishop that the Danes knew naught of compassion. As for being a Christian . . .’ Burgred rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘As a king, Odin will look upon me in a very favourable light.’

‘So you see yourself as one of them, do you? But do they see you the same way?’

‘They will, when their tribute comes in regularly. Silver’s a persuasive commodity.’

‘You’ll be no more than their puppet, a simpering mindless doll, taking orders from savages. Do you really believe you’ll have any power in ruling Mercia?’

‘I shall be king
–
and have much authority. I have Rorik’s word!’

Ambition and jealousy had destroyed the brother Beorhtwulf thought he knew; greed blinded him to the lies and the drastic consequences of his actions. He searched Burgred’s eyes for some glimmer of humanity but recoiled at the hatred he found. ‘What about my son? What do you intend for him?’

‘The brat will be dead by noon tomorrow.’

The second blow to Beorhtwulf’s head rendered him unconscious as he launched himself at his brother to choke the last breath from his treacherous body.

* * *

The screams inside Beorhtwulf’s head seemed to rise and fall . . . rise and fall. Searing pains shot through his skull; acidic bile dribbled from his parched lips onto cold, wet earth and he realised he was lying on his belly, shivering convulsively, his hands tied behind his back. He was soaked to the skin and so very cold. He forced his eyes to open, striving to make sense of the wretchedness of his situation. Greyness enveloped him; late evening then, or daybreak perhaps. And it was raining: a steady, cold drizzle. Tortured screams resounded again inside his head – or
were
they in his head?

He dragged his battered body onto his side, pulling up his knees to kneel before straightening out his trembling legs to stand. He looked around him, battling his stagnant memory. Signs of recent encampment were evident; the site deserted now, camp fires long since burned down. But laughter sounded from somewhere close.

Sunset. The last thing he remembered was a glorious red sunset, and the ambush, sickening and bloody. Then threats about razing Thrydwulf’s manor . . .

And Burgred; treacherous, insane, Burgred.

‘Where in God’s name are you now, Burgred?’ he yelled, his voice rasping in his throat.

‘No point looking for your loving brother, Mercian. He left before dark last night.’

Beorhtwulf swung to face the Dane with the thrice-plaited beard and searched the hardened eyes of winter-blue. ‘Can’t you find it in yourself to show mercy? It serves no purpose to slaughter innocents.’

The Dane shrugged. ‘Rorik must keep his subjects in fear and subservience, or they’ll deem him weak. Many of his people must die to carry this message to the rest.’

‘But these are not
his
people!’

‘Not yet, perhaps, but your brother is more pliable than soft clay, has little care for the people you show such fondness for. He’ll be most useful to us.’

The piercing scream chilled Beorhtwulf to the core. ‘In the name of all that’s holy, what is happening?’

‘So squeamish, King of the Mercians. How can your people follow a weakling?’

‘I’m no weakling! But mindless killing should give no man pleasure. My people have moved on from wanton slaughter, whereas your people have not.’

The kick to Beorhtwulf’s stomach was hard and fast and he doubled over, gasping.

‘You know nothing Mercian! Once we only raided lands close to our own, but now we are here in
your kingdom. I say we’ve moved a good way on.’ Egil’s throaty chuckle at his own jest was broken by another agonised scream. ‘He
is not a brave man either. Hauk has enjoyed hearing him scream like a woman. You Mercians have no balls.’

‘What in Christ’s name have you done to him?’ Beorhtwulf yelled as realisation struck. ‘Beornred’s but a boy!’ His outburst elicited another vicious kick, this time in the groin. Agony exploded and he dropped like a stone, retching.

‘As I was saying,’ Egil sneered. ‘You Mercians have no balls. Yours, lord
king
, won’t be much use for some time. That young whelp won’t have any at all by now. Last time I looked he did have his balls, though he squinted oddly through his one eye, causing our men some amusement. The other was smeared quite creatively across his face.

‘Hauk likes to make the operation interesting: for the benefit of the audience, if you see what I mean.’

Three

Eadwulf shoved the untouched Latin script away in disgust, keen to be outside now that the sun was shining after the light rain shower of early morning. Sigehelm had instructed him to make a start before he’d disappeared on some errand or other, but in his absence, Eadwulf had allowed his thoughts to wander.

It had taken him little time to remember where he’d seen the rubied brooch before. Burgred had been wearing it on the day of the hunt, the day before the Witenagemot. As Eadwulf had begged to be allowed to ride out with his father, his attention had been momentarily drawn to the shiny red and gold brooch fastening Burgred’s cloak. But he’d soon forgotten about it. His uncle had so many pieces of fine jewellery.

For the past two days Eadwulf had pondered over possible reasons for the brooch’s appearance in the woods, in the very area where Aethelnoth had seen the torches. Of course the brooch could simply have been lost during the hunt and impossible to find beneath the forest debris. Yet if that were
the case, Burgred would have returned to the hall that morning not wearing his cloak.
Eadwulf could clearly remember his father walking in with his
cloak across his arm, and Burgred entering moments later . . .

But was his uncle wearing his cloak?

However hard he tried, further details remained a mystery. He could hardly accuse Burgred of any crime, nor yet link the brooch to the rendezvous in the forest. Besides, a meeting of any kind – with or without Burgred – may have been quite innocent. Then why meet in the middle of the night, out of sight?

‘So, nephew, learning your Latin like a good, future king?’

Eadwulf’s head jerked back from the smirking features so close to his face, certain his thoughts had drawn his uncle to him. ‘Delighted to see me, as always?’ Burgred chortled, pulling himself up. ‘Is that expression merely surprise, or do I detect a sprinkling of fear? Surely you don’t fear me, do you, Eadwulf? For the life of me, I can’t think why you should.’

‘Of course I don’t fear you, Uncle; you just startled me. What did you want to say to me?’

‘Nothing in particular; there just never seems to be time for little chats these days.’

‘I can’t say I’ve seen much of you lately, Uncle. Mother says you spend much of your time hunting in the forest.’

‘Ah, hunting,’ Burgred said, sitting on the bench beside Eadwulf and adjusting the leather belt around his brown tunic. ‘Now there’s a pastime to be extolled. To hunt down one’s enemy, bringing him to ground from his lofty position in his own domain, gives a man faith in his own abilities.’

Eadwulf blinked, taken aback by the odd response. He realised the hunt gave men a sense of achievement, a pride in their skills of stalking, and indeed killing. The hunt could also become a battle of wits between hunter and prey. But he’d been taught to view the hunted creature with respect, the primary aim of the hunt to provide food. The animal should be viewed as a saver of lives.

‘Do you see animals as your enemies, Uncle?’

‘Animals are like people, Eadwulf. The more important they are the further they have to fall and the greater the pleasure I experience in causing that demise.’

A shiver ran down Eadwulf’s spine. Burgred was not talking about animals at all; he had greater prey on his mind.

‘But no, nephew, I haven’t been in the forest since the hunt with your
father
soon after my arrival here, though I do intend to hunt again, very soon.’ Burgred stood to leave, an unctuous smile on his lips. ‘Now I’ll leave you to your Latin texts; you mustn’t disappoint that humourless monk, I suppose. Will you be in here all morning?’

‘I believe so. Why do you ask?’

‘Just remembering when I was your age. A morning of study seemed an eternity to me, too. I’m sure your mother will soon be here to work with her minions over there.’ Burgred flicked a hand towards the women preparing the meal. ‘I must see her first – we have one or two matters to discuss.’

‘Unfortunately, Morwenna is quite unwell today,’ a quiet voice uttered from the doorway. Sigehelm pushed the door shut and came to stand next to them. ‘Your mother sends her apologies, Eadwulf; she’ll not be joining you this morning. She was coming to work at her embroidery when I met her just now. I must say, she looked so pale and tired I persuaded her to retire to her bower to rest.’

‘Quite right, too,’ Burgred stated. ‘Morwenna has been overdoing things of late. Her bower’s the best place for her this morning.’

The door closed behind Burgred and Sigehelm took his usual seat at the end of the table, his eyes full of concern. ‘Not one of your better days, is it, Eadwulf? You can discuss your problems with me, you know. You can
trust me. Something is troubling you and your mother would worry if she knew. No, I have not burdened her with more problems. She really isn’t well and will probably not feel herself until your father returns.’

‘Thank you, Sigehelm; I never doubted I could trust you.’

Eadwulf knew he could trust Sigehelm, yet to voice suspicions of treachery involving his uncle would appear as wild imaginings. His tutor had never witnessed Burgred’s innuendos and explicitly hurtful comments, or seen the glimmer of hatred in his eyes. Eadwulf had felt increasingly more uncomfortable in Burgred’s presence as the months had passed, yet he struggled to trust his own feelings. Perhaps he just
wanted
to find something incriminating in Burgred’s behaviour.

‘Eadwulf! Did you hear what I just said? Apparently not, if I read that startled expression correctly.’ Sigehelm smiled tolerantly: not the usual reaction from his strict tutor. ‘I said perhaps we should share a story or poem. You’ll make little headway with your studies whilst your mind is elsewhere. What about one of the old Greek tales – of Heracles, perhaps? Or shall we examine events at the Siege of Troy? Do you know anything about Achilles?’ Eadwulf shook his head. ‘He was a mighty warrior who had only one vulnerable spot on his entire body. And that one weak place resulted in his downfall. Yes, we shall read his story; it will give you something else to think about, at least for a while.’

* * *

Perched on cushions of straw in a corner of the stables, Eadwulf and Aethelnoth listened enthralled to the story of Achilles. It had been Sigehelm’s suggestion that Aethelnoth should join them, a suggestion that made Eadwulf smile. His tutor’s motives were as transparent as water. But he was grateful, nonetheless. His friend’s presence had helped to lift his spirits.

Eadwulf had known exactly where to find Aethelnoth, since the boy spent so much time with the horses he loved so much. Aethelnoth had witnessed his first foaling at the age of six, and helped his own mount into the world two years ago. But Aethelnoth was much less keen on his studies and consistently shirked his morning lessons. His face had lit up when Eadwulf entered the stables, only to darken rapidly when Sigehelm trailed in.

Yet Aethelnoth shared Eadwulf’s captivation at Sigehelm’s tale of the battle of Troy, the idea of the wooden horse leaving him dumbfounded. ‘
My
father wouldn’t have fallen for such a cheap trick,’ he scoffed. ‘King Priam was obviously not a very wise man. Father says that to out-think the enemy, we must keep one step ahead, get inside their heads or something.’

The snorting and stomping of the horses was the first indication that anything was amiss, then the panicked shouts; the reek of smoke assailing their nostrils only moments later. They hurtled to the stable door, aware that it could take barely minutes for wood and thatch to burn to a crisp, and reeled in horror. Searing waves of heat smacked into them. The hall was ablaze, its heavy thatch ready to collapse; angry red flames lashed at the wood-planked walls. People collided with each other, precious water slopping from their pails as they raced to quell the towering flames. Yapping, terrified dogs added to the pandemonium.

Sigehelm crossed himself, uttering a prayer for anyone trapped inside the blazing hall. ‘Eadwulf; Aethelnoth; stay close to me,’ he ordered, grabbing Aethelnoth’s arm as the boy turned to lead the horses to safety. ‘The stables are far enough away to be safe for now. If need be, I’ll loose the horses when you’re both safe with Morwenna. But may the Lord help these other buildings. The kitchens will probably soon be ablaze. We must hurry. I must help to fetch water.’

It was then that the Danes struck.

Yowling men stampeded through the palisade’s main gate, their entrance unchallenged as people fought to control the blaze. Yet they had needed neither to burn down nor scale the palisade wall. The gates must have already been open – contrary to Thrydwulf’s insistence that they be kept locked and guarded.

Frenzied screams escalated. Sigehelm yanked Eadwulf and Aethelnoth behind the kitchens and, stooping low, they headed for the women’s bower. Suddenly Eadwulf froze. Burgred stood outside the bower’s door – and something about that was so very
wrong . . .

‘Eadwulf, in God’s name, child, we cannot stand and stare. We must reach your mother and try to flee from the manor.’

‘Burgred’s
a traitor, Sigehelm!’ Eadwulf spat. ‘He was meeting them in the woods! And he
must have started the fire: the hall was ablaze before the Danes came through the gate. He must have opened that for them too.’

Sigehelm gasped. ‘He’s betrayed us to these savages? But why would he?’

‘I don’t know exactly, yet. But I won’t let him get to my mother!’

Eadwulf struggled to break free of Sigehelm’s grip, just as two Danes joined Burgred: one tall, with flaxen hair and plaited beard, the other bull-shaped with straggling brown hair and beard. Sigehelm shoved the boys behind a wattle fence.

‘Look, Burgred didn’t run from them,’ Eadwulf spat. ‘He’s talking
to them!’

But Burgred slunk away, just as the bull-shaped man reached for the door. The other stood resolute, grinning at Burgred’s glowering retreat.

‘No!’ Eadwulf yelled, bursting forward again. ‘Leave my mother alone!’

Burgred’s reaction was swift. He turned in his tracks, his face contorted with rage, and charged at his nephew.

* * *

Fitful and nauseous, Morwenna curled in a wicker chair, a blanket pulled up to her chin. The air in the bower’s hall was chill after the night’s rain, despite the glowing brazier. She had insisted her women leave her to rest and she relished the peace and quiet. If only she could sleep. Perhaps when she woke the debilitating nausea would have eased; perhaps Eadwulf would tell her what was disturbing him; perhaps Beorhtwulf would have returned . . .

She realised how feeble she sounded, but this wretched sickness rendered her so physically drained, at a time when it was crucial to stay strong. But it would likely be several weeks before the sickness left her.

The high-pitched screams struck terror into Morwenna’s breast. She hurtled to the window and wrenched back the shutters, recoiling at the chaos before her eyes. Orange flames and thick, black smoke billowed from the hall and people scattered from fur-clad savages hacking freely at moving targets.

Eadwulf . . . ! Eadwulf was inside the burning hall!

She flung back the door but a huge, terrifying shape loomed before her, barring her way: a giant of a man, with matted brown hair and a barrel of a chest.

‘Not you, my lovely,’ he leered through repulsive black teeth. ‘It’s not safe for a lady out there.’

‘Let me get to my son!’ she screamed, scrambling to dodge round the massive bulk. But for one so big he was nimble on his feet, and he caught her wrists to restrain her.

‘Now that isn’t part of the plan. You’re to be kept safe from the fun outside. We’re going to make our own fun in here, just you and me.’

The callused hand clamped across her mouth, cutting short her horrified scream. She kicked out wildly, but he jeered at her feeble antics. ‘Now this can be nice and easy, or rough and wild, and you could end up covered in bruises. Either way I
shall
have you . . .

For a few, terrifying moments Morwenna prayed she’d waken from the ghoulish nightmare. Then the brute shoved her against the wall, unfastening his belt and dropping his breeches before throwing up her skirts. ‘By Odin you’ve a beautiful arse,’ he drooled, his huge hands kneading her flesh. ‘A man could stay abed forever next to that arse.’

Morwenna’s panic rose almost to hysteria as he thrust into her. But she could barely move.

‘The name’s Jarl
Rorik, by the way,’ he slavered into her neck, once his lust was sated, ‘leader of this excellent foray into Mercian domain. I shall enjoy taking these lands if all its women are soft and fair like you.’ His dark eyes narrowed. ‘But just remember, if you’re not extra friendly the next time I have you, I may decide to share your considerable charms with my men.’

‘Beorhtwulf won’t let you do this!’ she croaked as he pulled back, turning to leave.

Rorik snorted. ‘I can tell you, my lovely, King Beorhtwulf is no more.’

Morwenna choked back a horror-struck sob. ‘You can’t have killed him! He’s not yet returned from–’

‘From the court of that old fart, Aethelwulf, you mean? We know all about that little scheme to garner aid. But like I said, your husband is no more.’

‘What about my son?’ she hurled at his back as he reached the door. ‘Is he dead, too? And Burgred? Are they all dead?’

Rorik turned and fixed her with a cold stare. ‘Of your son, I can’t be certain. Some of your people
may
have been spared – thralls are always needed on our homesteads. But I still have need of the king’s loving brother. I shall enjoy playing with him.’

Morwenna fell to the floor, feeling utterly defiled. The Dane’s foul stench filled her nostrils and she could feel his rough hands pawing her, taking away every shred of dignity. Yet her plight seemed little compared to that of others. She pictured the earth scarlet, strewn with lifeless bodies – including that of her beloved husband.

* * *

Eadwulf bolted, knowing Burgred would kill him if he caught him. He dodged frenzied people and pillaging Danes, feeling no panic, no hysteria, only cold determination that his uncle would not bring down his intended prey this
time. He sped towards the palisade, seeking the place where the dogs had tunnelled through to the outside, just big enough for him to wriggle through.