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

Aethelberht greeted the Kentish lords looking every inch the king. Although travel-stained and crumpled from hours in the saddle, his clothing shouted of the highest quality, from his soft leather boots to his heavy woollen cloak. He held his tall, lean frame straight, his pointed chin and wispy beard thrust out in a manner that signified he was accustomed to both issuing orders and having them obeyed. From the moment he arrived, Aethelberht had established his indisputable authority.

Alfred kept his eyes and ears open, taking in the company and assessing each man’s worth. Ealdorman Dryhtwald, he noted, was smartly attired in a dark blue tunic and cross-gartered breeches, but not overly adorned in jewellery. He seemed a gracious and open-natured man, perhaps ten years older than Aethelberht in his thirtieth year, and a respected leader with a confidence that the many years as ealdorman had instilled.

In Archbishop Ceolnoth, Alfred saw another well-seasoned leader, the silver hair and over-slack jaw suggesting he could boast seniority to Dryhtwald by at least ten years, despite his still muscular physique. Ceolnoth was one of the many ‘warrior bishops’ who could lead their flocks in both secular and spiritual matters. Alfred recalled the duplicitous nature of another such bishop, convinced that, unlike Ealhstan, Ceolnoth was not only a skilful warrior, but a man who truly cared for the welfare of his followers rather than personal gain. The archbishop’s plain woollen tunic gave no hint that he held the most superior of positions in the Saxon Church, only the silken stole suggesting a clerical calling at all.

‘The Danes’ strike out of Thanet hit us like a thunderbolt!’ Dryhtwald’s eyes flashed as he addressed the men assembled round the trestles early that evening. In the ensuing silence Alfred watched from his seat at the end of the royal table, where Aethelberht had placed him with instructions not to interfere. From beyond the palisade the clatter of the fyrd setting up camp for the night carried through the doorway as servants entered with food and ale for the meal. A cauldron of pottage simmered over the firepit, the fierce heat bringing beads of sweat to their brows, whilst dark shadows cast by the flames danced on the tapestried walls.

‘We had a peace treaty after all, willingly signed by the cursed Danes,’ Dryhtwald continued at last, directly addressing the king seated opposite to him. ‘We’d even given a huge payment in coin to ensure they kept to it. How could we have been so naïve?’ He sighed deeply and shifted his focus to the archbishop at his side.

‘We’ll not make the same mistake twice, Dryhtwald,’ Ceolnoth said, patting the ealdorman’s arm before focusing his attention on Aethelberht. ‘Just the once was enough to see hundreds of our people killed. We made a grave error in crediting the Danes with more than a modicum of honour. Treachery is the only facet of human behaviour those men favour.’

Aethelberht nodded slowly. ‘We saw the results of their treachery . . . and Canterbury may take years to restore.’ He stared solemnly down at his hands, fingers splayed on the table top.

‘Might I suggest that we conceive strategies for the most effective deployment of our forces, my lords,’ Osric said after some moments of silence, his dark gaze sweeping the men. ‘Our combined numbers are undeniably impressive, though we’ve probably no more than a hundred men more than the Danes. But. . .’

‘. . . if the Danes raid as a single unit, we’ll undoubtedly have a major battle to face,’ Aethelberht interposed, eventually raising his eyes to meet Osric’s. ‘But, from what we’ve been told, the Danes move out in bands . . . ?’ He registered the nods of the Kentish leaders. ‘Then our task will involve fragmented skirmishes throughout the shire.’

Dryhtwald rested his chin on his steepled fingers, frowning in thought. ‘We now know there to be five, possibly six, bands that have moved out in different directions, my lord. At first they hit coastal settlements, until they’d taken enough horses to enable them to raid further afield.’

‘As soon as the first reports of isolated attacks reached us we sent out a company of our own to combat them,’ Ceolnoth continued from where Dryhtwald had left off. His steady grey eyes held the king’s pale blue, as though he were willing him to understand their chosen course of action. ‘You see, my lord, we believed that only a small number of Danes – a single band – had moved out from Thanet and that the majority of them would be honouring our treaty.’ He shook his head at their own folly. ‘But, apart from those remaining on Thanet with their ships, the rest had spread deep into our lands and by the time we realised as much, extensive damage had already been done.’

‘Then, exactly at which point did you attempt to combat the various raiding parties?’

All eyes turned toward Alfred, who held the stares, despite the smirking faces. He was accustomed to such a reaction whenever he spoke in public. ‘I imagine you
did
attempt to tackle at least some of these bands,’ he added, ‘so I’d like to know what strategies you used, in order that we undertake alternative tactics next time.’

Aethelberht glared at Alfred before bestowing an appeasing smile on Dryhtwald and Ceolnoth. ‘I’m sure my brother intends no insult, my lords. He has a directness of speech that can sometimes be misconstrued as rudeness. Given time, I’m sure Alfred will learn to voice opinions and questions in a more tactful manner.’

Alfred seethed, but affected an expression of courteous acceptance of the rebuke. A petulant response would only enforce what his brother had said of him. Yet such acceptance was becoming difficult to feign, particularly since his brother so regularly pointed out his faults in public. Aethelberht rarely credited his youngest sibling with any intelligence at all. To him, Alfred was a mere boy. He sighed and tried to tune in to what was transpiring around the table.

The discussion came to a temporary halt when the reeve’s red-cheeked wife scurried across to speak to her husband, who subsequently addressed his guests.

‘My lords, may I ask that our discussions be resumed once we’re all replete? Your stomachs are doubtless growling in agony after your long journey, with little more to fill them than dried foods.’ Above the respondent murmurs of agreement, he said, ‘Then enjoy the food and wine, and perhaps the solutions we seek may come more easily on full stomachs.’

*****

‘So, tomorrow we head out in two groups,’ Aethelred reiterated, looking down at his brother, perched on the edge of his bed in their chamber adjoining the main hall.

Alfred nodded absently and continued his perusal of the letter in his hands – which he’d already read several times. Candles on the small tables and trunks gave a warm, comforting glow and he yawned widely. It had been a long day and discussions had continued long after the meal had ended.

‘From what I gather, Aethelberht refuses to waste another day on more talks,’ Aethelred went on. ‘He wants to be out, confronting the Danes. It seems Dryhtwald’s scouts have located some of the raiding bands, so tomorrow our aim is to put an end to a couple of them. You and I will ride with Osric who’s been assigned to accompany Archbishop Ceolnoth and Ealdorman Unwine of Sussex, with a mixture of warriors from East and West–’

At the sudden cessation of Aethelred’s voice, Alfred wrenched his attention from the velum, to be greeted by his brother’s exasperated grey-eyed glare.

‘Why is it I’m addressing the top of your head, Alfred? You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?’

‘Yes, I did. Well, not all of it,’ he admitted. ‘You said something about Osric . . . and Unwine, I think. And maybe Sussex?’

Aethelred tutted. ‘You know, you can be very irritating as a brother, Alfred. Most of the time I might as well talk to myself.’

‘My apologies,’ Alfred offered, and meant it. He didn’t like to offend Aethelred. ‘I was just reading this letter from Judith again.’ Acknowledging his brother’s smile he smiled back, knowing he’d been forgiven his bad-mannered inattention. ‘Judith’s happiness in her marriage is such good news, even though we were all sorry she had to return to Francia after Aethelbald’s death. She was a good stepmother to us, and I’m sure she’ll be an excellent wife to her new husband, and a wonderful mother to their recently born son.’

Aethelred agreed, and followed Alfred with a huge yawn. ‘I suppose we should try to sleep now; we’ve an early start tomorrow.’ He fell onto his own bed against the opposite wall and yanked off his riding boots. ‘My feet were beginning to think the boots were a permanent attachment,’ he quipped, removing his tunic and breeches before climbing beneath the furs. ‘You do know what we’re doing tomorrow, I take it? I mean, you did hear what was decided?’

‘I know, Aethelred. I always listen – well, nearly always,’ Alfred responded with a grin, as he picked up his saddle pouch to tuck away the velum missive.

‘Well, I hope you sleep without the noisy dreams tonight. I need a few hours of undisturbed rest.’

‘I’m sorry, brother. If I could rid myself of these dreams, I would,’ Alfred said, closing his eyes as Aethelred’s voice drifted into nothingness.

*****

By the time Aethelberht’s forces moved into Kent, the Danes had been rampaging throughout the shire for over two weeks. Surviving villagers cowered in burnt-out homes; others still took refuge in dense woodlands, too terrified to emerge. The sad task of burying the dead had barely begun, and only once the burials were over would the rebuilding of torched homes commence. The pain of loss and suffering would remain for many years.

The company of warriors to which Alfred and Aethelred had been assigned scoured eastern Kent for three days, without news of any recent attacks. It seemed the Danes had either moved on or withdrawn to Thanet. Seated cross-legged around the campfire that night, Osric’s attention veered between Alfred and Aethelred. ‘We’ll spend one more day on this – any longer and we’ll need to hunt for fresh food,’ he said. ‘Ceolnoth wants to be sure the Danes aren’t just lying low.’

Alfred glanced at the archbishop, who was swallowing the barely palatable dried food without a word of complaint beside the Sussex ealdorman. A calmness emanated from him that Alfred decided could only come from his deep faith.

‘But we’re in agreement that the Danes have more than likely gone altogether,’ Osric went on, spitting out a lump of beef gristle and prising leathery fibres from between his teeth with his scramseax. ‘I know that if I led a raiding party, and my scouts brought news of forces such as ours heading my way, I’d order a hasty retreat!’ He grinned at their amused expressions. ‘Well, have either of you seen anything left around here worth risking a thrashing for . . .? Exactly,’ he said, as they shook their heads. ‘Time for the Danes to go home, as I said.’

‘Except that Thanet
isn’t
their home, is it?’

‘True, Alfred,’ Osric agreed. ‘But we’ve no way of dislodging them from there. They’ve built formidable defences on the isle and their numbers seem to swell by the month. No, we can’t confront the Danes on Thanet. Once they crawl back there, they’ll stay until they decide to move on – or emerge to raid Kent again.’

Not a man to give up easily, Ceolnoth insisted they should remain a further two days, following leads from ruined settlements. Scouting parties were dispatched in all directions, one led by Unwine of Sussex, which returned to camp on the evening before they were due to leave for Canterbury.

‘We met up with scouts from the king’s army sent out to find us,’ Unwine reported, dismounting and seating himself. ‘They’ve had reports of a mass retreat to Thanet by the Danes. Apparently,’ he said, looking enquiringly at the archbishop, ‘Dryhtwald had spies amongst them . . .?’ Ceolnoth confirmed the truth of that. ‘Well, it seems the arrival of our army was enough to convince Weland of the wisdom of rapidly returning to the isle.’

Osric nodded. ‘The only thing he could do in the circumstances.’

Aethelred harrumphed. ‘So our journey to Kent has been pointless,’ he said, voicing the thoughts of most of the men.

Ceolnoth surveyed Aethelred’s scowling face. ‘You may say that, young lord, but I believe your arrival in Kent has served a great purpose. The heathens will now realise that we do not stand alone. When threatened, our king will not abandon us.’

‘Then perhaps we should speed up the means of transporting our armies,’ Alfred remarked. ‘It would be a pity to get here too late on every occasion.’

Two

Elston, Northern Mercia: July 864

The small boy squatted on the rushes of Ealdorman Wigstan’s hall, playing happily with the wooden animals strewn across a woollen blanket, closely watched by his pretty young nurse, Odella. The child’s mother sat amidst her women on a nearby bench, diligently pushing a fine iron needle through the linen fabric, determined to finish her husband’s new tunic by the end of the week.

Leoflaed’s nimble fingers took a well earned rest as she watched her beaming two-year-old. Her eyes shone with pride as, with more than a little help from Odella, he sorted the animals into two groups. To one side he placed those with legs, and on the other, all the legless creatures.

The ealdorman’s daughter smiled, thinking as she always did when looking at her son, how much like his father he was. Aethelred’s thick red hair curled about his neck and the expression in his emerald eyes could change from merriment to irritation within moments.

Pulling himself up on his sturdy little legs, Aethelred toddled over to her, grasping her saffron-coloured over-gown and yawning widely. Leoflaed placed her needlework on the table behind her and hoisted him onto her lap, stroking his head as he snuggled into her breast. ‘I’m not surprised you’re tired, Aethelred, you’ve done so much today. Why, you’ve just organised your little animals, and this morning you walked all the way across the meadow with Odella to pick those lovely red flowers.’

‘Poppies,’ he corrected flatly, twisting to point a chubby finger at a large storage chest at the side of the hall, upon which sat a hefty earthen jar, full of the red flowers.

Leoflaed grinned and gave him a cuddle. ‘Indeed they are poppies, and it’s very clever of you to remember the name. They look quite beautiful over there – so bright and cheerful.’

The child momentarily beamed at the praise, before his young face creased into a frown. ‘No Papa.’

‘Aethelred was more concerned with scanning the horizons for Lord Eadwulf than picking wild flowers, my lady,’ Odella explained, coming to perch her petite frame beside them. ‘He does miss his father.’

‘I know he does – as do we all, Odella. But I think my husband will be back within a few days.’ Leoflaed hoped the uncertainty in her own prediction would not be written on her face. ‘He said he’d be away for three weeks at the most, and three weeks will be up in four days’ time.

‘Now,’ she whispered over the head of her already sleeping son, ‘if you’d take Aethelred for his afternoon nap, Odella, I must get on with this shirt. Eadwulf is in dire need of it, although he wouldn’t say so himself. He pays little heed to his appearance and still prefers to wear his old tunics and breeches.’ She smiled as her husband’s handsome face filled her thoughts. ‘Yet he insists on keeping his face hairless; not a trace of beard since the day after he arrived here.’

Manoeuvring the solidly built child into the arms of his nurse, Leoflaed swept her braids behind her shoulders and settled back to her needlework, her thoughts drifting to the past . . .

It was four years ago when Eadwulf had first arrived at her father’s hall. It was one of those hazy days of midsummer when Leoflaed had first seen him, riding in as though he’d always belonged here. The first thing she’d noticed as he dismounted was how tall he was – much taller than her father – before taking in the rest of his appearance. His long hair was a vibrant red, much more fiery than her own deep auburn, and held in tight braids, whilst his equally red beard and moustaches straggled freely down his throat. His tunic and cloak were old and grubby, and he had a leather bag, of sorts, slung across his back. He seemed neither lord nor simple cottar, for though his tattered clothing implied the latter, his whole bearing belied it. His unconventional appearance left her gawking.

‘Norse,’ he said, gesturing to his clothing, his roguish grin bringing an involuntary smile to her lips. ‘From the Norwegian lands . . .?’

‘Oh, I see,’ Leoflaed replied, inanely. ‘Are you in our lands to raid?’ She glanced nervously about in case there were others like him waiting to strike. Feeling utterly ridiculous at his loud guffaw, she pulled her shoulders back and attempted a self-important stance. ‘Then I’ll take you to my father. He is the ealdorman and will know how to speak to you better than I.’

‘Why so? I speak perfectly good Saxon, though I may look like a Norseman.’

Flummoxed and burning with embarrassment at being so teased, Leoflaed turned on her heels and fled to the hall, leaving the chuckling man trailing behind her.

Extremely tired, hungry and dirty after many days of riding from the Northumbrian coast, and intent on reaching Nottingham, a further twenty miles to the south-west, this unusual stranger simply offered another pair of hands to be turned to the hard work of reaping. In return, he asked for no more than the use of the barn for his slumbers and daily rations of bread and pottage. He’d intended only to stay for a few days . . .

But the days had become weeks, the weeks months and the months, years.

Eadwulf had become so much a part of her family, so much a part of Leoflaed herself, yet somehow she still felt that her husband would never completely belong to her. An intrinsic part of him seemed to be locked away in the past, hidden from all who had so recently come to love him. Whether that part remained in the Danish lands, in Mercia as a king’s son so long ago, or even somewhere beneath the vast heavens as he’d sailed the seas, Leoflaed didn’t know. She had loved Eadwulf since the earliest days of his arrival, seeing through his rugged and unkempt appearance to the combination of strength and gentleness beneath, and lived in hope that the sadness deep in his eyes would fade as their friendship developed into so much more.

And now, she believed it had, for most of the time. That Eadwulf respected and loved her, she didn’t question for one moment. But that he loved her more than any other, she doubted – despite his joy in his marriage and child being evident for all to see. For although Eadwulf professed to have put his past behind him – and Leoflaed knew how hard he’d tried to do so – she was certain that many details of that past would continue to fester inside him. She was equally certain that those details included someone who still held a part of his heart.

Leoflaed’s father had quickly realised that this striking-looking stranger was a man who’d endured more than most in his life, and readily accepted the story of his true heritage and years of slavery. Wigstan was well aware of the Danish raid on London thirteen years ago, which had – so it had been believed – resulted in the deaths of King Beorhtwulf’s entire family, including his young son, Eadwulf. Beorhtwulf’s brother, Burgred, had also survived, due to his absence from the London hall at the time, and had readily stepped into his brother’s shoes.

Having attended many meetings of the Witenagemot with King Beorhtwulf, Wigstan recalled him as an honourable man. And having met Burgred on a number of occasions, he’d believed Eadwulf’s account of his uncle’s treachery in betraying his own family to the Danes. Besides, Eadwulf’s similarity to his father was indisputable.

So, having formed his own opinion of the young man, Wigstan had been happy to observe the growing attachment between him and his daughter – and had welcomed Eadwulf’s request for her hand only a year later.

It had been a quiet ceremony at the estate’s little chapel. Leoflaed had noted Eadwulf’s deliberate evasion of any reference to God in his vows. From the very start, he’d been honest about his lack of belief in any deity. And it seemed that the omission had passed unobserved by all, including the priest. If her father had noticed, he’d never remarked. Several of Wigstan’s thegns had attended with their families, and villagers had showered the newlyweds with flower petals. No one questioned ‘Lord’ Eadwulf’s identity or past, the joy on his face seemingly enough to satisfy any misgivings regarding his suitability as a husband.

But his prolonged absence had caused confusion and doubt to set in. Leoflaed hadn’t even had the chance to wish him safe journey, let alone ask where he was bound. He must have risen well before dawn on the morning he’d left, since not even the servants had seen him go. The gentle touch of his hand against her cheek had roused her, but still enmeshed in the remnants of a dream, she’d barely registered the tender kiss that followed. His words of farewell and promise to return in three weeks had seemed a part of the dream. Only later had the hazy images resolved into the realisation that Eadwulf had gone.

Determined not to dwell on his likely destination and resort to morose brooding, Leoflaed had filled her days with maternal and domestic activity. And although she’d thought it strange that her father seemed to accept Eadwulf’s disappearance for three weeks as normal, she’d pushed it to the back of her mind.

But today, a half-formed suspicion seemed to be hovering. Suddenly, she stopped in mid-stitch . . .

Her father had not questioned Eadwulf’s whereabouts because he already knew!

Leoflaed threw down her needlework, ignoring the stunned stares of the women. How dare her husband and father share secrets? How dare they exclude her from knowledge that had caused her to question Eadwulf’s feelings for her?

Without a word she strode from the hall, gulping down the afternoon air as she leant against the wood-planked wall. It was cool here, shaded from the sun by the tall barn opposite, and she closed her eyes, allowing equanimity to return. In her mind’s eye she saw the farmland and meadows beyond the outbuildings, and Eadwulf riding towards her, his face filled with joy at being home again. But on opening her eyes it was not Eadwulf she saw but her father, riding towards the stables with his brother, Selwyn, and a handful of retainers.

Wigstan’s round face beamed as she neared. He dismounted stiffly and handed the reins of his blue roan to the waiting groom before embracing her warmly. Pulling himself away he removed his heavy cloak and wiped the back of his hand across his damp forehead. He looked so tired, his face pale and drawn, his creaking knees seeming to baulk at the prospect of supporting his body weight after hours in the saddle. She held out her hands to support him, her determination to question him before he’d rested wavering. Her father was not a young man and he undertook his duties as ealdorman conscientiously, which gave him little time for rest.

‘Missed me so much, you can’t wait until I reach the hall?’

Leoflaed smiled at the jest, watching her father stroke his balding pate – a habit that invariably drew attention to what he deemed ‘a most unfortunate condition.’

‘Should have some good harvests this year,’ he remarked, ‘provided the rains are light until August and the days stay warm.’

‘Not asking for much, then,’ she responded, struggling to keep the smile on her face.

Wigstan gently pushed a stray lock of her hair beneath her head veil, his concerned hazel eyes locking onto her own. ‘Come on, daughter, out with it. Something’s bothering you; you can’t fool me with false joviality.’ Taking her hand he led her to sit on an old bench beside the hay barn. ‘Now, how about starting at the beginning and telling me all about it?’

‘Father, it’s Eadwulf . . .’

‘I wondered when you’d get round to asking me about him.’

‘But why, Father? I mean, why
should
I need to ask you about him? There’s something you know that I don’t, isn’t there?’ Realising that a reply was not readily forthcoming, she continued, ‘I think you know where Eadwulf’s gone and why – though I don’t understand why you’ve not told me.’

Wigstan lowered his eyes, his lengthy silence giving credence to the truth of her accusation. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last, his eyes again meeting hers. ‘I know how you’ve agonised over Eadwulf’s absence – and I do know where he’s gone.’ He let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘I should have told you but . . . What I mean is, I haven’t done so because I didn’t wish to upset you.’

Leoflaed leapt to her feet, her hands on her hips. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that I might be more worried by
not
knowing? And I am Eadwulf’s wife!’ She turned her back to hide her welling tears. ‘Doesn’t that give me the right to know his whereabouts?’

‘Daughter, surely it hasn’t escaped your notice that Eadwulf himself said nothing of his destination to you?’ Wigstan stood and placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. ‘Do you believe Eadwulf loves you?’

She stared at him, confused as to the reason behind the question.

Wigstan smiled. ‘A simple yes or no will suffice.’

‘Then yes, I believe he loves me. But I don’t understand the need for this secrecy. Perhaps he doesn’t trust me enough to–’

‘Put such ideas right out of your head,’ her father said, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Eadwulf loves you and Aethelred dearly, so much so that he agonised for days over the need to leave you both for these weeks.’ He touched her cheek in a way that was as familiar to her as his encouraging smile. ‘And regarding trust . . . Eadwulf trusts no one more than you.’

‘Then why has he not told me . . . told me anything?’

‘Is the reason not obvious?’

‘Yes, It is quite obvious, Father,’ she admitted, holding the intensity of his stare. ‘But that doesn’t mean I agree with that reason.’ Her anger was rising again and she snapped, ‘I’m not a child to be treated so! Why must you both seek to protect me from what any wife should know? Do you think I’d crumble like a piece of charred bread beneath the slightest pressure?’

Wigstan simply shook his head, so Leoflaed surged on, her emotions in full swing. ‘Loving someone . . . trusting someone . . . should surely mean that problems can be shared with that person. What good am I as a wife if Eadwulf refuses to tell me anything for fear of upsetting me? I’m stronger than that, Father, and I resent the fact that you’ve both tried to wrap me in swaddling bands.’

She scowled at his amused grin, annoyed that he found her reasoning so funny.

‘You
are
strong, Leoflaed; you’ve had to be since your mother died – you’ve had to run my household almost single-handedly for eight years, after all. And you definitely have her temper as well as her lovely auburn hair.’