To the Death, page 12
part #2 of Viking Chronicles Series
‘All done,’ she said a moment later. She smiled at him. He thought she seemed completely unaware of her effect upon him.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ he managed to say.
‘You’ll be fine. Just don’t drink too much at the feast tonight. And don’t get into any more fights.’ She patted his hand and left.
Once she had gone he raised his hand to his head. He felt the touch of her fingers still, it was as if they would linger upon his skin for ever.
‘You fancy her then?’ Leif said, sitting down beside him.
Edgwulf gave him a filthy look, angered that he had noticed and used such a low term.
‘She’s married,’ he said. ‘To an ealdorman.’ He could not disguise the bitterness from his voice.
‘In name,’ Leif said, ‘but little else. The old man is still in love with his first wife Cuthberg, a nice, chubby, good-natured woman but unfortunately barren. He divorced her some years ago to get an heir on the sweet young elf-child. But he shares his bed with the old woman, to everyone’s astonishment. Leoflaed, poor girl, is wife in title but really a chattel. Or rather, she’s like one of your Christ-nuns. Untouched and now untouchable.’
He punched him gently on his wounded shoulder. ‘So, my friend, a hero like you can only watch and lust. Hard luck.’
Edgwulf gave him a vengeful look as he went in search of his friends.
The feast was magnificent for Æthelwulf spared nothing in food and ale. He calculated that the deaths of so many men at Englefield meant there was now more food for the rest of his folk. And besides, this a more bitter thought, there was every likelihood that the Vikings would plunder again. Better to fill bellies now, while he still could.
‘We should send message of the victory to King Æthelred,’ Ingild said to him as they feasted.
‘As long as it doesn’t seem like boasting. In truth, Ingild, it was not so mighty a victory. A raiding party scattered, most slain but at huge cost to ourselves. And the plunder has still been taken to the heathen kings in Reading.’
‘Nevertheless, the king must be told.’
‘I will tell him,’ Edgwulf said. ‘I can leave at first light.’
‘But you’re wounded,’ Æthelwulf said.
‘I will heal as well on horse-back as eating and drinking too much here,’ Edgwulf said. ‘I’ve been well-tended.’
It was the thought of the woman who had tended him which made him so anxious to leave. Every time he glanced at her he felt his heart hammer wildly. It felt as likely to be the death of him as his wound. And besides, there was great danger in looking at her too often.
Leoflaed appeared not to have noticed his reactions. This innocence made him yearn for her more. He glanced at Æthelwulf. What was the old man thinking? How could he be wed to such a wife and yet prefer the company of his previous one? Leif had gleefully pointed the older lady out to him and she did, indeed, seem warm and kindly. But not enough, surely, to make Æthelwulf shun Leoflaed’s bed?
‘Edgwulf’s right,’ Ingild said. ‘King Æthelred knows him well and the message will come better from him.’
Æthelwulf thought for a moment longer and nodded.
Ingild leaned over to Edgwulf. ‘And tell the king of the ealdorman’s wisdom and prowess,’ he whispered. ‘He is ever too modest.’
‘And take that knave Leif with you,’ Æthelwulf said. ‘I don’t trust him an inch and want him away from me. And take his long-nosed friend as well, the sight of him irritates me. I’ll keep the others here and find out what they know about the army at Reading.’
So, next morning, Edgwulf, Leif and Asgrim saddled up to make the journey west. Æthelwulf, fearing foul play from the Vikings, had given Edgwulf an escort of half a dozen warriors.
They went at a gentle pace, because of Edgwulf’s wounds.
Leif took the opportunity to ride beside him and needle him. It was a perilous game but it might just work. With luck it would make the Saxon watch him less carefully.
‘She’s a beautiful woman, the elf-child,’ he said.
‘Shut up about her,’ Edgwulf snapped.
Leif chuckled. ‘I’ve touched a sore point there, I see. Whereas your wound, I guess, is no longer sore due to her soft touch.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Oh what I would do to feel that touch.’
Edgwulf glared at him.
‘But not on my wounds,’ he said. ‘Not there at all.’
‘Shut your mouth or you’ll have still more wounds. You won’t be able to smirk without lips.’
‘Oh please not my lips,’ Leif said. ‘I want to keep them soft for Lady Leoflaed.’
Edgwulf spurred his horse and rode ahead. Leif winked at Asgrim who shook his head doubtfully. After a suitable pause, Leif cantered after Edgwulf.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I’m married and have no more than a healthy man’s lust towards the girl.’ He leaned over and gazed at Edgwulf. He seemed no longer amused or mocking. ‘In truth, Edgwulf, I feel sorry for her.’
‘A Viking feeling sorry for a Saxon?’
‘A man feeling sorry for a maid. For she is like a maid, poor chit. Just imagine it. A young woman has as much life flowing through her veins as we men do, as much juice, as much capacity for love. And all is denied to her, merely because Æthelwulf prefers his fat old lady.’
He paused and shook his head ruefully. ‘And if that wasn’t the case then it would be worse. Leoflaed would have to suffer his attentions. Can you imagine that, Edgwulf, such a fresh young girl being pawed and slavered over by an old man like Æthelwulf?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Of course not, of course not. Forgive me.’ Leif fell silent again but only for a short while.
‘Still it’s not a pretty picture is it. Her naked and soft and yielding, the ealdorman a horny-handed brute ploughing her. Her tears, her sighs, her groans, and not ones of pleasure. I wonder if she yearns for another man inside her.’
‘I’ll have your tongue in a moment,’ Edgwulf cried.
Leif put his fingers to his lips and mumbled an apology. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. But it all seems so sad. And such a waste of beauty and youth.’
He darted away but not quite in time to escape Edgwulf’s fist. It’s working, he thought, as he rubbed his cheek.
But it did not work enough. Edgwulf ordered his men to keep close watch on the Vikings. He was so angry he began to pick up pace, heedless of his wound. Æthelwulf’s men grumbled at the pace but took out their anger on the captives. Asgrim grumbled at Leif for his plan going awry.
Edgwulf’s wound ached more with each passing mile but he was more concerned about the turbulence in his heart. He hoped he would never see Leoflaed again and then immediately hoped that she would come galloping down the track behind him. He gritted his teeth and pressed on.
The day was clear and bright and as the afternoon wore on they could make out the downs a mile to the north. The king had ordered the Ealdormen of Devon, Somerset, Dorset, Wiltshire and Hampshire to assemble with their followers at Swinbeorg, two miles west of Pewsey. They heard the noise of the camp before they saw it, a loud humming in the air. Edgwulf smiled to himself, grateful that he had made the journey without slumping in his saddle.
There were about fifteen hundred men there, the ealdormens’ household-warriors and the greatest thegns of the three shires. The rest were fyrd-men from Somerset and Wiltshire.
Alfred and Ethelnoth strode towards him as he dismounted.
‘You’re wounded,’ Alfred said. The blood was oozing through the bandage which Leoflaed had tied.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ Edgwulf said, giving a grimace rather than a grin.
‘Let’s get it seen to,’ Alfred said, ‘then you can give us your report.’
‘I have captives as well,’ Edgwulf said.
Alfred turned towards the two men he indicated. His eyes widened with pleasure. ‘Leif the Skald,’ he said. ‘We meet again.’
‘Prince Alfred,’ Leif said, bowing low. ‘This is one of my men, Asgrim.’
‘Your men,’ Alfred said. ‘Do even skalds have their own men in the Viking army?’
‘He is no longer a skald,’ said Asgrim, with heat. ‘He is Jarl Leif.’
Alfred inclined his head. ‘We had heard rumour of this but were uncertain of it.’
‘He was made jarl because he won the victory in East Anglia,’ Asgrim said. ‘He put an arrow in King Edmund’s throat.’ His eyes burned with glee. ‘He is no respecter of kings.’
‘That is not news to me,’ Alfred said. ‘We know well his insolence.’ He called to one of his warriors. ‘Bind their hands and bring them to the king.’
THE WITAN AT SWINBEORG
January 871
The king and his counsellors greeted the news of the victory at Englefield with joy, more joy than Edgwulf felt it warranted.
‘It was dearly bought, my lords,’ he said, ‘with many dead and even more wounded. And the heathens made off with their plunder.’
‘But we won the field,’ the king said. ‘And we beat the Danes. That is good news.’
‘And one of their jarls died in the battle,’ Alfred said. ‘They will not like that.’
‘Why did you come with the message?’ Ealdorman Wulfhere asked Edgwulf. ‘Why didn’t Æthelwulf come? Surely he knew that the king had commanded him to attend.’
‘He sent his apologies, my lord,’ Edgwulf said to Æthelred. ‘He planned to follow the Danes to their camp at Reading and keep watch on them. But he won’t be able to stop them if they decide to break out. He beseeches you to follow as swiftly as you can.’
‘How long will it take us to get there?’ the king asked.
Wulfhere did a quick calculation. ‘It’s forty miles at least. Three days with the fyrd-men.’
‘Then we shall leave at first light,’ Æthelred said.
He turned to his brother. ‘We must make our dispensation now, while we still have light.’
Alfred spoke to Ethelnoth who hurried off.
‘You should rest,’ Alfred said to Edgwulf.
‘I will shortly.’ He held Alfred’s eyes. ‘Dispensation?’
Alfred took him by the arm and led him outside. Unnoticed, Leif and Asgrim followed.
Ethelnoth had wasted no time in gathering the men together. A platform had been constructed beneath an elm tree a little way to the north of the camp and the fyrd-men sat in a great semi-circle around it. There were two chairs on it and behind stood three of the king’s companions. Directly in front was an open space with nine chairs close to the platform. The thegns and household-warriors began to arrive and settled themselves in front of the fyrd-men, close to the chairs.
‘Take your place next to Ethelnoth,’ Alfred told him.
Ethelnoth had secured a log to sit upon and Edgwulf carefully lowered himself onto it, giving a low gasp of pain.
‘You need a woman to look after you tonight,’ Ethelnoth said. ‘I have just the one for you.’
Edgwulf shook his head glumly. There was only one woman he wanted and she would never be his.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked, to change the subject.
‘An announcement,’ Ethelnoth said. ‘Very important. I’ve quizzed Alfred for days but he’s giving nothing away.’
A tall figure stopped in front of them, Heahmund, Bishop of Sherborne. ‘I hear we have won a victory,’ he said to Edgwulf.
‘We have my lord, though the glory of it increases with each telling.’
‘So do the greatest stories,’ Heahmund said. ‘Sometimes that is better than bald truth.’ He took a seat and was joined by Ealhferth, Bishop of Winchester.
Shortly afterwards the ealdormen took up their seats. Wulfhere of Wiltshire led the way, followed by Cuthred of Hampshire, Ælfstan of Dorset, Odda of Devon and Cynegils of Somerset who glanced at Edgwulf’s wound with concern. He was followed by a man neither Ethelnoth nor Edgwulf had seen before. He was in his early thirties, slight of stature, with black hair streaked with grey. He was dressed strangely, with a red hat, a black tunic so long it brushed the ground, and a purple cape over his shoulders.
‘Who’s that?’ Edgwulf asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Ethelnoth said. ‘Could he be a Frank or an Arab?’
‘That my young friends,’ came a voice, ‘is Donyarth, King of Cornwall.’ The Horse-thegn Milred stared at the Cornishman a moment longer than turned to them.
‘He’s a king?’ Edgwulf asked.
Milred shrugged. ‘While we let him be. But he’s of an ancient house and we accord him respect.’
He went to take his seat but then paused. ‘Come to my tent tonight, Edgwulf. I have much I want to discuss with you.’
Edgwulf nodded but when Milred had taken his seat he turned to Ethelnoth in confusion. ‘What can he want with me?’ he whispered.
But they had no time to ponder this, for at that moment Æthelred and Alfred climbed onto the wooden platform and took their seats. They waited for the assembly to quieten and then the king climbed to his feet.
‘My friends,’ he said in a voice loud enough to carry to the furthest man. ‘We have summoned you for two purposes. One is to go to battle. The heathen Vikings are camped in Reading in the shire of Berkshire. Ealdorman Æthelwulf has just sent good tidings. He has attacked them and inflicted a mighty defeat upon them. Most of the heathens were slain and amongst them one of their jarls, a great war-leader.’
The men cheered loudly at his words.
‘But this is only the beginning,’ Æthelred continued. ‘The larger part of the heathen army still sits in Reading. We shall march there and destroy them.’
Again the men cheered, louder than even the first time.
Æthelred waited for the noise to quieten then looked at Alfred. He too got to his feet and stood beside his brother.
‘And now we must tell you of something else,’ Æthelred continued.
There was something in his voice which made the hair on the back of Edgwulf’s neck prickle. The rest of the assembly must have felt something similar for the quietness became utter silence. Not a man spoke, nor coughed nor moved.
‘The times are perilous,’ Æthelred said. ‘Three kings have been slain in these islands, Aelle and Osberht of Northumbria and last month, Edmund of East Anglia. Two kingdoms have thereby fallen under the sway of the Danes. And those of you who journeyed with my brother and I to Nottingham know that Burgred of Mercia saw fit to buy peace from them.’
Now there was some murmuring for many men had lost friends in the battle at Nottingham and thought that Burgred had betrayed them by treating with the Danes.
‘Yes,’ Æthelred continued, ‘the times are perilous.’
He paused and surveyed the crowd, his eyes seeming to gaze at every man there.
‘Because of this peril, my brother and I have come to an agreement. Alfred is my last living brother, loyal, steadfast and wise. He is also a skilled warrior and leader of men.’
Again the hairs on Edgwulf’s neck rose, but this time accompanied by a shiver of anticipation.
‘I have two sons,’ Æthelred said, ‘and in normal times they would be my heirs. But these are not normal times. We march to battle tomorrow and I do not, for one moment, believe that this will be the last time we will have to fight the Danes. There is a chance, a risk, that in this conflict I shall come to grief, be dreadfully wounded or, even slain.’
There came a new sound now, of men shuffling uneasily, their faces anxiously staring at the king.
Æthelred waited for what seemed an age now, waited until the silence had deepened and every man strained his ears and eyes in order not to miss a thing.
‘If I am slain,’ Æthelred continued, ‘my sons, young children, will not be able to lead our people in war. So I hereby proclaim my brother Alfred as my heir. If I die he will, if the Witan agrees, become King of Wessex. He will inherit all the royal lands and treasure, saving only the parts given us by our father King Ethelwulf.’
He glanced at his brother to continue.
‘But Æthelred’s personal wealth,’ Alfred said, ‘shall go to Æthelred’s children. As was the case when we were young and, with three elder brothers, had no expectations of becoming king.’
He said the last words with measured emphasis. He was making it clear that, should he become king, Æthelred’s children would no longer have a claim to the throne.
‘But the royal treasure,’ said Æthelred, ‘the royal lands and the rule of the kingdom will go to Alfred.’
There came a sigh from the assembled men, as long as a winter’s wind.
Then Bishop Heahmund got to his feet. ‘This is a wise decision,’ he said, ‘for who can foretell what these dark times may bring. I hope and pray that you stay alive, our king, but applaud you for taking steps to safeguard the kingdom should you die.’
‘But this is not right,’ Wulfhere said, leaping to his feet. ‘Your sons, Æthelred, are your heirs. The kingship should go to Æthelhelm and, should he die, to Æthelwold. Two sons, my lord, two boys who will grow swiftly to become men and ready for kingship.’
‘But not swiftly enough,’ Æthelred said. ‘We cannot run the risk of having Wessex ruled by a child-king. The heathens are skilled in sniffing out weakness and will pounce like wolves.’
‘But Alfred is not your heir.’
‘Not yet,’ Æthelred said. ‘I agree with you. But the ealdormen here, the two bishops and the great thegns make a Witan. My brother and I have told you what we think best. It is now up to you to agree to it or otherwise.’
At this the ealdormen all rose and formed a circle. Several of the greatest thegns, men of renown, wealth and authority joined them, as did the Horse-thegn, Milred and the two bishops.
They spoke together for a while, earnest and intent. Edgwulf could see that Wulfhere was loudest in talk and most active in gesture and one or two of the thegns with him.
But very soon, all discussion ceased and the Bishops Heahmund and Ealhferth stepped forward.
‘The Witan has decided,’ Heahmund called in a voice which carried to every last man. ‘If Æthelred is killed, Alfred will become King of Wessex.’
