Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2)

PIT OF
VIPERS

Millie Thom

SONS OF KINGS: BOOK TWO

Contents

Copyright © 2014 by Millie Thom

The moral right of Millie Thom to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publisher.

Dedication

Pit of Vipers
is in memory of my parents.

About Book Two

Pit of Vipers
is the second book of the
Sons of Kings
trilogy. It continues the tale of Alfred of Wessex and Eadwulf of Mercia started in Book 1,
Shadow of the Raven.

Threats to the Anglo Saxon kingdoms continue to escalate. In 864, large bands overwinter again on the Isle of Thanet, breaking treaties to raid mercilessly into Kent. By now Alfred is fifteen and continuing to learn much about kingship at the successive courts of his older brothers. The following year, the Great Heathen Army lands on the coast of East Anglia, its presence in the Anglo Saxon kingdoms ultimately challenging Alfred’s considerable leadership skills.

By 864 Eadwulf has been back in Mercia for four years. His newfound contentment in the home of a Mercian ealdorman is marred only by two things: his memories of Freydis, and his relentless hunger for revenge on his treacherous uncle, Burgred. But, as the Mercian king, Burgred proves extremely difficult to kill; even more so once the Danes invade.

As in Book One, the story follows the chronological order of documented evidence, with the addition of sections attributed to Norse sagas and mythology. The invasion of the Great Heathen Army in 865, for example, is documented in both
The Anglo Saxon Chronicle
and
Asser’s Life of Alfred.
In both of these, the invasion appears to be the natural progression of increasing raids on the Anglo Saxon kingdoms. According to Asser, the great fleet arrived in Britain from the Danube. Yet the Norse sagas portray the reason for the invasion in a different light – which I have chosen to use in my book. In this version, The Great Heathen Army is led by three of the sons of the notorious Ragnar Lodbrok in response to an incident that demands reprisal . . .

Research for
Pit of Vipers
again relied on the basic information in
The Anglo Saxon Chronicle
and
Asser’s Life of Alfred,
filled out with material from several other works dealing with King Alfred’s life and events of that time. These include:
Alfred the Great
by Richard Abels;
Alfred the Great
by Justin Pollard;
The White Horse King
by Benjamin Merkle;
In search of the Dark Ages
by Michael Wood;
The Life and Times of Alfred the Great
by Douglas Woodruff.

The Characters

In Wessex:

Alfred: fifth son of King Aethelwulf of Wessex (now deceased)

Aethelberht and Aethelred: Alfred’s only surviving brothers

Osric: uncle to Aethelwulf’s sons (brother of their mother, Osburh, now deceased)

Ealhswith: Alfred’s wife

Aethelflaed and Edward: Alfred and Ealhswith’s children

Ealdorman Mucel and Lady Eadburh (both of Mercia): Ealhswith’s parents

Wulfrida: Aethelred’s wife

Aethelhelm and Aethelwold: Aethelred and Wulfrida’s young son

Ealhstan: Bishops of Sherborne

Wessex ealdormen in the story include:

Dryhtwald of Kent

Bealdric of Surrey: also Aethelred’s father-by-marriage

Radulf of Hampshire

Aethelwulf and Paega: successive ealdormen of Berkshire

Brihtnoth of Wiltshire

Unwine of Sussex

Wybert of Somerset

Oswine of Devon

Daegmund of Dorset

Wessex thegns include:

Erwig of Salisbury

Hereic of Winchester

*****

In Mercia:

Eadwulf (known as Ulf to the Danes): son of the Beohrtwulf, former King of Mercia

Leoflaed: Eadwulf’s wife

Aethelred and Leofwynn: their children

Wigstan of Elston: Leoflaed’s father, a Mercian ealdorman

Odella: nursemaid to Eadwulf and Leoflaed’s children

Aethelnoth: Eadwulf’s long-term friend

Jorund: Eadwulf’s brother

Burgred: King of Mercia

Aethelswith (formerly of Wessex): Alfred’s sister and Burgred’s wife

*****

The Danes in the Story:

Bjorn: Jarl from Aros, firstborn son of Ragnar Lodbrok (formerly Eadwulf/Ulf’s master)

Kata: Bjorn’s wife

Ivar, Halfdan and Ubbi: Bjorn’s younger (half) brothers

Bagsecg: Norwegian jarl

Hastein: Bjorn’s cousin, married to Freydis

Freydis; Bjorn’s half sister, married to Hastein

Thora: Freydis’s mother

Yrsa: Eadwulf and Jorund’s half sister

Yngvar: Jarl at Aalborg, distant cousin of Bjorn, son of Jarl Rorik (deceased)

Egil: ageing second-in-command to Rorik

*****

Other Characters:

Edmund: King of East Anglia

Aelle: King of Northumbria

Idona: his young wife

One

Kent, Eastern Wessex: mid April 864

The raiding party crested the rise and reined in to survey the substantial settlement that stretched seductively along the valley floor below. Weland’s smile widened as he noted the herd of cattle, fat after months of barn-fed inactivity, grazing in the meadows flanking the glistening stream. In the midst of the cluster of straw-thatched houses, barns and workshops, a stone chapel with a pointed spire reached up to the Christ-God.

The ageing warlord’s smile became a low, grim laugh as he thought of the plunder inside. Cups, chalices and crucifixes would soon be theirs. And in those houses, nubile young girls would be waiting to sate their lust.

In the twilight of the meadow-scented day, with the spring blossoms thick on the trees, Weland’s band of marauding Danes streamed down the hillside like a raging torrent having breached its banks. His warriors had been cooped on that cursed isle for too long. Winter inside their tents, without ale, mead or women, had been enough to make any man scream for action.

Besides, Weland could see no reason on Midgard why any self-respecting Dane should adhere to treaties with Christ-loving Saxons . . .

*****

Winchester and Kent, Wessex: late April 864

Deep in contemplation, Alfred held on to the bridle of his restless young stallion as the groom adjusted the saddle on the animal’s broad back. It would be four days before they reached Canterbury and Alfred’s pains could return at any time. On top of which, in the company of other horses, Caesar was rarely inclined to be amenable. For Alfred, the journey would doubtless become a test of endurance.

He caressed the black’s smooth neck, calculating just how many hours he’d actually be in the saddle over the next few days, absently registering the sound of approaching footsteps.

‘Alfred! What the blazes is keeping you? Athelberht won’t wait, even for you.’

Aethelred came to a halt in the stable doorway, the silhouette of the Old Minster looming in the distance behind him. ‘Surely you’re not intending to ride that unruly beast?’ he exclaimed, a look somewhat akin to horror on his face. ‘He’ll likely throw you before we’ve even left Winchester.’

Alfred frowned at his older sibling, a forefinger hovering at his lips. ‘Caesar was utterly biddable until your arrival, brother,’ he murmured, refocusing on his favourite mount, whose ears had flattened at Aethelred’s appearance. ‘You know Caesar’s not fond of strangers, especially those with anxiety in their tone. Tell our brother I’m almost ready to mount.’

Aethelred turned on his heels. ‘If I ever become king, Alfred,’ he threw over his shoulder, as he headed across the compound, ‘I hope you’ll obey my orders with a little more alacrity!’

‘Steady boy,’ Alfred soothed as he led the stallion out into the sunshine. ‘Remember our ride yesterday? Well, we’re riding out again now, but a lot further today and with more horses and riders around us. I know you normally only tolerate me and Garrett here,’ he added with a wink at the groom, ‘but I’m asking you to forget about the others today. Keep your eyes forward and walk on or gallop when I ask. I’m putting my trust in you, Caesar. This ride is very important to Wessex.’

He heaved his lithe frame into the wood and leather saddle, leaving his riding cloak to fly freely as he rode. His mail-shirt felt comfortable enough, as did the baldric across his breast, holding the sword at his waist. Caesar’s ears twitched and his long tail flicked as Alfred seated himself, but other than that the young black stood calm and still.

A worried frown replaced Garrett’s usual easy smile. ‘Will you cope with the long hours in the saddle today, my lord?’

Alfred frowned down at the sandy-haired groom, irritated that even the servants knew the details of his ailment. ‘I’m fine, Garrett,’ he replied curtly, and promptly looked away, ashamed of his own petulance. He didn’t wish to offend the well-meaning young man who, at eighteen, was just three years older than himself. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I’m experiencing no discomfort in that particular region of my anatomy.’ He flashed Garrett a reassuring grin, attempting to bring the smile back to the young man’s face. ‘By which I mean that my esteemed royal backside is having a pain-free day.’

Alfred eased on his helm and turned Caesar to face the company of riders assembled outside the hall. King Aethelberht had not yet joined them and Aethelred waited at the head of the column, engaged in light-hearted banter with the two men behind him. Alfred glared at his brother, muttering curses at his absurd obsession with promptness.

‘He’s the double of his grandsire . . . Caesar is, I mean, not Lord Aethelred,’ the groom added, chuckling at Alfred’s confusion. ‘Old Osberht used to talk about the big black beast, Satan, all the time. We heard it all so often when he became lost in the past.’

Alfred nodded, fondly remembering his father’s long-time groom, Osberht, who had died barely weeks after the king he’d served for so long. And Edith, Osberht’s wife in his old age and Garrett’s grandmother, who had lingered in this world until only two years ago. Alfred greatly missed his old nurse.

He heeled Caesar into motion and drew up beside Aethelred, just as Aethelberht took his place at the head of the column and signalled to their uncle, Osric, the ealdorman of Hampshire, to give the order for the company to move out.

*****

The call for aid had reached Winchester three days ago. Faced with sudden assaults throughout eastern Kent by the Danes who had overwintered on the Isle of Thanet, Ealdorman Dryhtwald and Ceolnoth, the archbishop of Canterbury, had promptly sent word to King Aethelberht. Eighty thegns and over two hundred men of the Hampshire fyrd were now heading for Kent under the direction of their king and four ealdormen: a force nearing three hundred strong.

‘It seems the Danish horde is too large for the Kentish army to combat alone and Dryhtwald simply needs reinforcements. Aethelberht says that over three hundred Danes overwintered on Thanet, and once the snows cleared, another two hundred or more joined them . . .’

Alfred only half listened to Aethelred as they rode, their pace no faster than the fyrd could move on foot, following the ancient trackway along the slopes of the North Downs across Surrey. It was mid-afternoon of the second day of their journey and they’d been in the saddle since daybreak. And after spending an uncomfortable few hours trying to sleep the previous night, the morning’s drenching drizzle did little to raise their spirits. To further compound Alfred’s miseries, the pains he’d endured during the night had left him extremely tender in the area required to make contact with his saddle. Trying desperately not to draw attention to himself by constantly shuffling, his discomfort grew worse by the mile.

He knew exactly why the pains had come with such intensity. As he’d lain wrapped in his cloak last night, his thoughts had strayed to the curvaceous body of one the Winchester serving girls. He could imagine her against him as he fondled her soft flesh; feel her pelvis rising and falling to meet his own . . .

Alfred was repulsed by his weakness, his utter lack of self-control. Even his thoughts wandered defiantly wherever they chose. Every time he envisioned a woman satisfying his carnal desires, he was left with a feeling of such self-loathing he vowed never to do so again. It was an offence against God. But, within days, his resolve would crumble, his vow forgotten, and again his thoughts would stray.

If only he could close his mind – his shameless, lustful mind – then God would not punish him so severely. Yet that very punishment was no more than Alfred had asked for. Since experiencing the first sexual urges of approaching manhood, he’d been ashamed of how they’d dominated his every thought. In desperation he’d prayed to be afflicted by some illness that would curb his impious feelings. The haemorrhoids were God’s answer to those prayers. They reminded Alfred of his own sins.

‘I’m also told that the leader of the recently arrived Danes is none other than the notorious Weland who–’

‘I know,’ Alfred said, unable to disguise the irritation in his voice and wishing that if Aethelred insisted on talking, he’d at least refrain from repeating information Alfred already knew. Thankfully, Caesar seemed to be on his best behaviour, having not yet kicked out at Aethelred’s gentle-natured bay gelding, or snapped at the rump of Aethelberht’s big grey.

Aethelred adjusted his baldric, quite unperturbed by Alfred’s intolerance. ‘I’m surprised Weland dared show his face after the defeat he suffered four years ago. Remember that, Alfred? You were only eleven at the time, so perhaps you don’t.’

‘I remember, Aethelred. My head’s not completely riddled with holes.’ Caesar tossed his head at the irritated tones and Alfred said more equably, ‘I know that Weland landed in Hampshire and sacked Winchester before heading north for the Berkshire Downs, where he was dealt a severe blow by the forces of Osric and Ealdorman Aethelwulf of Berkshire . . .’

‘. . . who cut off the Danes’ retreat to their ships and relieved them of the booty they’d gained,’ Aethelred finished off, beaming at the thought of such a strike. He peered behind at their ageing uncle, riding amidst his thegns. ‘Osric said he can’t wait to confront Weland again. He met him, you know, and thought him a totally unsavoury–’

‘Then it seems you’re both well apprised of events to date,’ Aethelberht interjected, allowing his grey to fall back between them. ‘A little prickly today, are we, Alfred?’ The expression in Aethelberht’s eyes suggested he’d guessed the cause of Alfred’s ill humour, but he didn’t question further. ‘Lack of sleep has done none of us any favours,’ he said instead. ‘And we’ve two more nights under the stars before we reach Canterbury.’

Aethelberht turned from one brother to the other, his expression grave. ‘Once we get further east we’ll likely see sights to make us all baulk. The Danes leave little behind them; the death toll will be high . . .

‘And still they rampage through Kent!’ He paused, a worried look creeping over his face. ‘And if we simply allow them to raid unchallenged in the East, it won’t be long before they try their luck further west. They’ll undoubtedly believe our West Saxon shires to be equally easy pickings. I’m sure you can both understand the need to stop these heathens in their tracks . . .’

Aethelberht again glanced from one brother to the other and, in turn, Aethelred and Alfred nodded. Aethelberht urged his grey forward, assuming his usual position at the head of the column. The gravity of his older brother’s words had given Alfred something else to worry about, as well as serving to silence Aethelred’s incessant chatter.

The journey from Winchester to Canterbury was almost a hundred and twenty miles and Aethelberht pushed them to cover thirty miles a day. Alfred’s pain was excruciating at times, his insides feeling as though they’d been scoured raw, and remounting after resting almost caused him to cry out. But he made no murmur; nor did he allow his features to betray him.

As afternoon of the fourth day wore on and they reached further into Kent, the true horror of the raids became manifest. Homesteads smouldered and village chapels had been sacked for their few treasures, the bodies of their priests strewn across the altars or tossed outside for the scavengers to strip. Some of the attacks appeared to have been quite recent.

‘Everyone on the alert,’ Osric yelled, spurring his horse into a canter alongside the moving convoy. ‘An ambush could be waiting around any hill or clump of woodland, and I don’t want to be the only one to see it coming!’

*****

The West Saxon army eventually reached its destination and, as Alfred entered the hall, he felt the anxieties of the last few miles gradually lessen. For some moments he stood still, just inside the doorway, as memories of his time here flooded back. It had been years since he’s set foot in the place he’d once called home, barely a mile from the ransacked city of Canterbury.

Unlike most Saxon structures, the walls of the royal residence consisted of thick blocks of stone, remnants of the spacious Roman villa that had once stood on the site. Only the uppermost sections of the walls and the thickly thatched roof bore evidence of Saxon workmanship at all. The coldness of the stone, however, demanded that thick hangings covered almost every inch of the interior walls. Alfred could recall the sense of warmth and comfort he’d felt as their rich colours glowed in the firelight. But the stone also meant that the hall had largely withstood earlier Danish raids, only the very top of the building succumbing to the fires that had destroyed most of Canterbury.

Yet Alfred’s two years in Kent had not been a happy time. His father, King Aethelwulf, with his new wife, Judith, had been forced to remain in the eastern shires on their return from Rome, due to his eldest son’s treachery in seizing the West Saxon throne. Distressed beyond reason by the depth of Aethelbald’s betrayal, so soon after the death of his beloved first wife, Aethelwulf gradually lost the will to live. And Alfred and his brothers, Aethelberht and Aethelred, could do nothing but stand by and watch.

Six years had passed since that time; years of continued uncertainty within Wessex and its ruling family. After Aethelwulf’s funeral, as stipulated in his will, Alfred and Aethelred had returned to the West, to reside at the court of its new king, Aethelbald, who had subsequently married his father’s young widow, Judith. Aethelberht, meanwhile, had remained in Kent, assuming kingship over the East. But after only two years, sadness struck again. Physicians attributed Aethelbald’s death to the same, inexplicable illness that had taken his older brother, Aethelstan, at an unnaturally early age.

The threat of this ailment now hung over the heads of Aethelwulf’s remaining children like an ominous black shadow.

Since Aethelberht had assumed kingship of the entirety of Wessex, Alfred had not returned to the eastern shires until now: Aethelberht ruled from the West, and seemed content to leave the governance of the East in the capable hands of Dryhtwald and Ceolnoth. And during the four years of Aethelberht’s reign, this was the first time the West Saxons had been called to provide aid to the East.