Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (32 page)

‘I’ll send messengers tomorrow to inform the abbot of our arrival,’ Alfred said quietly at last. ‘I’ll make it one week from today. That should give my sister time to get here and for our journey down to Dorset. We cannot leave it longer . . . the weather grows warmer by the day.’

He did not need to say more and the meeting drew to a close.

*****

Aethelswith and her daughter arrived the following day with only a small escort of a dozen guards. Burgred was not with them. Beside her frowning husband, Ealhswith watched the party ride into the large enclosure surrounding the hall and draw up outside the oaken door. Alfred stepped forward as the Queen of Mercia’s attendants helped her and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Mildrede, to dismount. The horses were led away to be stabled and brother and sister greeted each other in a fond embrace.

‘Sister, I am relieved to see you here safely. Had I known that your entourage would be so small I would have sent men to escort you through Wessex.’

‘And draw attention to ourselves, Alfred?’ Aethelswith shook her head. ‘Was it not you, dear one, who warned me of the dangers of doing so? We have ridden here without pomp to appear as a simple group of travellers. Even my guards have concealed their armour beneath their jerkins, and swords beneath their riding cloaks.’

Alfred nodded and Ealhswith could see he was impressed by Aethelswith’s reply. ‘Your appearance disguises your identity well,’ he said. ‘And will also suit our own travel arrangements. I did not mean to scold, sister. I was simply concerned for your safety and –’

‘I know. But we are here now and have much to say to each other, a little later. Now I must greet my dear sister, as I ought. And then, if you have forgiven me sufficiently,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘I shall enter the hall and speak with Wulfrida, who I imagine will be quite distraught.’

Aethelswith came to join Ealhswith whilst Alfred engaged his niece in quiet conversation.

Ealhswith could not help but notice that her sister-by-marriage looked so pale and drawn, her red-rimmed eyes betraying the fact that she had recently wept. Her dignified bearing and composed features reminded Ealhswith so much of Alfred’s battle with self control.

The two women embraced each other as warmly as would any true sisters. They pulled back a little and Ealhswith offered a small smile of sympathy. Alfred was now speaking quietly to his niece, and she realised she should offer Aethelswith her condolences.

‘I cannot imagine grief as deep as your own and Alfred’s, my lady,’ she started, knowing her words sounded trite but struggling to find something more profound, or more comforting to offer. ‘My husband has been cut to the core, and now I see that same anguish mirrored in your eyes. I can say nothing to ease the pain of your loss; perhaps only time can do that. My heart aches for you both. King Aethelred was fortunate to have a brother and sister who loved him so dearly.’

Aethelswith took Ealhswith’s hands in her own. ‘And Alfred is truly fortunate to have you for a wife. I have not seen so devoted a couple since my own parents passed away. True love in a marriage seems to be a rare thing indeed.’ Ealhswith did not miss the implicit reference to Aethelswith’s own unhappy years of wedlock. ‘And yes, sister, my grief for Aethelred will be with me for a very long time.’

Aethelswith glanced at Alfred, still deep in conversation with Mildrede. ‘The three of us have always been close. Aethelred and Alfred were my little brothers, whom I cherished. These Danish invaders have taken so many lives. And now Aethelred’s . . .

‘Forgive me, Ealhswith,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘I will not break down in public. I have had many years of practising the skill of restraint. But, as I know you will understand, in the privacy of my own room, my sorrows refuse to stay buried.’ She gave a determined nod. ‘I shall attend my brother’s funeral and say my final farewell to him. Then I shall stay to see Alfred crowned before I return to Gloucester.’

‘King Burgred, my lady . . .’ Ealhswith broached tentatively, watching Aethelswith’s expression darken. ‘He is in combat with the Welsh?’

‘He is. But of his own choice. He had already organised an army to head into Gwent without him – but decided to accompany them when the messengers came from Alfred!’

‘Do not distress yourself, sister,’ Alfred soothed, coming to her side at hearing her bitter retort. ‘Burgred will not be missed.’

Ealhswith stared at Alfred, wondering how Aethelswith would respond to that remark. Her eyes opened still wider when Aethelswith replied, ‘And I can assure you, brother, he will certainly not be missed by me.’

*****

The journey to Wimborne passed uneventfully for the small party of mourners and Alfred felt content that he’d left Winchester well guarded. Half a dozen scouts were on constant lookout for enemy movement and Aethelred’s own dozen thegns were in attendance at the hall where his two young children and their nurse remained. And the newly amassed Wessex fyrd was still camped on the city’s perimeter, the thegns having orders to rally them should news of advancing Danes reach the city. Alfred knew there was nothing more he could do and put his trust in the experienced thegns.

Wearing the casual clothes of huntsmen, the sixteen travellers covered the forty-mile journey in a single day, having left in the pre-dawn light, one hour before sunrise, and arriving in the early evening. Fortunately, the cart bearing the king’s body, with Wulfrida perched beside the driver at the front, suffered no loss of wheels and trundled along smoothly.

It had been a perfect spring day for travelling. The warm sun shone bright from a clear blue sky and the newly greened land shimmered in the gentle breeze. But Alfred could see little through the veil of his sorrow and he dared not dwell on the future of Wessex without Aethelred.

On arrival at Wimborne, the king’s body was carried into the small chapel where it would rest until the ceremony in the lovely, creamy-stoned monastery the following morning. Abbott Winfrith had ordered a substantial meal to be prepared for his royal guests and the food was gratefully received by the weary and hungry travellers before they retired.

The morning of the burial service dawned fresh and bright, the low sun sending dappled light through the newly leafed wood, and as the small group of mourners made their way into the monastery’s impressive abbey. Alfred, Aethelswith and Wulfrida were directed to stand at the front of the small congregation as Bishop Goderic led the funeral service for the fallen king. Behind them, Ealhswith, Mildrede, Aethelhelm and Aethelwold stood with Ealdorman Radulf. Aethelswith’s men, who had accompanied them, waited outside, on constant alert to intruders.

The bishop reverently opened the service with prayers and psalms before moving to deliver his eulogy to the fallen king. He praised Aethelred’s wise, five-year kingship, his courage in battle, and the enormous love he had felt for his family and the people of Wessex. And lastly, he commended Aethelred’s deep and unwavering faith in the Lord God.

It was a truly moving tribute to a man who would be greatly missed by anyone who had known him, and Alfred knew that beneath their veils, the two women at his sides were weeping.

To end the service, Goderic led the mourners in a final prayer for Aethelred’s soul before leading them to an alcove at the side of the large nave, where the king would be interred.

Alfred watched, grief stricken beyond words, as his brother’s light wooden coffin was lowered into the prepared grave. The mourners stayed for a few moments more, silently watching the monks shovelling the concealing earth back into the grave. Against the abbey wall stood a rectangular slab of stone, which, Alfred knew, would be laid to cover the grave in a few days’ time, when the soil had settled and compacted. He’d already handed the monks the inscription to be etched upon it, which Bishop Goderic had written for him on a small piece of parchment:

IN HOC LOCO QUIESCIT CORPUS ETHELREDI REGIS WEST SAXONUM.

Alone, Alfred lingered at the graveside for some time, saying his own last farewell to his beloved brother. From this day on, King Aethelred of Wessex would rest for all eternity beneath the floor of this most holy of monasteries, in the middle of this glorious wood.

*****

‘They struck at the town of Reading on the day you set out for Wimborne, my lord. A fair-sized band of them, pillaging homes for food and anything else they could find. Our scouts brought news of the strike soon after, but assured us the Danes showed no subsequent signs of heading south. They just returned to their base and shut themselves in again.’

Alfred nodded wearily. They’d been back at Winchester for what seemed like a mere few moments when the old Hampshire thegn, Hereic, had informed him of recent developments.

So the Danes were stirring again. And the prospects of new fleets arriving filled Alfred with dread. His grief still weighed heavily upon him and all he wanted to do was remain with his family until the worst of the heartbreak eased.

‘My thanks, Hereic,’ he replied. ‘We’re fortunate that Danish reinforcements haven’t yet arrived, or events could have turned out quite differently. But Halfdan will be fully aware of the army we have here, and without more men to boost his numbers, he’ll realise he wouldn’t stand a chance. Until such troops arrive, local pillaging is all I anticipate from him.’

‘About your coronation, my lord . . .’ Hereic said, tentatively. ‘My comrades and I were discussing the urgency of holding the ceremony as quickly as possible, before the –’

‘Before any Norse reinforcements do arrive. I know, Hereic, and it’s already arranged. We just need to give Bishop Goderic a day or two to recover from the journey and prepare for the ceremony. But I assure you,’ he added, his eyes sweeping the gathered thegns, ‘it will be no pompous occasion. As King Aethelred’s burial, it will be a small affair, with only those already at Winchester attending. We dare not summon our noblemen from elsewhere. They could be needed at any time where they are.’

Hereic gave a grim smile. ‘We had not assumed otherwise, my lord.’

*****

Four days later, Alfred was crowned King of Wessex in the stately Old Minster at Winchester. As the small congregation filed in for the ceremony, the voices of the Minster choir filled the building, the notes soaring high to resonate in the great space above. Around the walls, scores of candles burned brightly, warming the pale, cold stone and playing on the biblical scenes engraved upon them. Ealhswith took her place at the front, beside Aethelswith, Mildrede and Wulfrida, close to where the Bishop of Winchester waited in his stately robes of office beside an impressive high-backed and decoratively carved chair. The tall mitre drew Ealhswith’s immediate attention and the kindly old bishop greeted her with a warm smile.

Though the gathering was small, all were garbed in their finest robes for the occasion, and Ealhswith knew that Alfred would consider even that level of pomp to be too much, considering the kingdom’s present state of invasion. Beside the bishop, Ealdorman Radulf proudly held the royal crown of Wessex on its crimson cushion. But at Ealhswith’s side, Wulfrida’s scowling face could not be missed. No children were present, all being too young to withstand the lengthy service, and the remainder of the congregation consisted of Aethelred’s dozen thegns.

The choristers’ voices gradually faded, to be replaced by a blaring fanfare that heralded Alfred’s arrival. Having no escort at his sides, Alfred advanced alone, moving slowly from the lofty doorway toward the altar and Bishop Goderic.

Ealhswith smiled as he drew near, thinking how very much a king he looked. The heavy blue velvet cloak trimmed with white ermine hung from Alfred’s square shoulders as though it had never sat upon another, and his collar-length wheaten hair had been neatly trimmed. Love and pride filled her heart, tempered only by the worry for him that overwhelmed her so much at times. Alfred had only just recovered from another bout of that strange illness that plagued him so randomly. It had taken him to his bed on the night of their return from Wimborne and compelled him to stay there for almost two days.

That was two days ago now, and Alfred had insisted the coronation could wait no longer. Only yesterday a report of longships in the Thames had reached Winchester, and Ealhswith knew that Alfred needed to prepare his forces for imminent battle. She thought of Aethelred, lying cold on his bed, and a shudder of fear passed through her.

Alfred turned to face those gathered and Bishop Goderic stepped beside him to open the ceremony with a prayer. Ealhswith watched, entranced, having never witnessed a crowning before, although Alfred had explained the general order of the service to her. Then Goderic stepped sideways and held out his arm, gesturing to Alfred.

‘My lords and ladies of Wessex . . . and Mercia,’ he began, smiling at Aethelswith as he referred to her and Mildrede. ‘I here present to you your undoubted king, Alfred, son of King Aethelwulf, grandson of the Bretwalda Egbert, and of the noble line of Cerdic’

Ealhswith recognised this as the beginning of the consecration ritual, and a manner of establishing her husband’s hereditary right to kingship. She listened as the bishop next put forward Alfred’s right by election.

‘A mere few weeks ago, the Witan met at Swinbeorg,’ Goderic stated. ‘There, the nobles of our kingdom unanimously voted for Alfred to succeed his brother, King Aethelred, in the event that the king be taken from this life before his brother, and while our kingdom is still besieged. Since this sad state of affairs has arisen, and no other has a legitimate claim, Alfred is now declared the rightful heir . . .’

At Wulfrida’s rapidly indrawn breath, both Ealhswith and Aethelswith turned their heads to stare at her. Although it was not protocol for a woman to interfere in political decisions, as the former king’s wife, Ealhswith thought that Wulfrida would probably be listened to. But, at the bishop’s questioning gaze, Wulfrida’s mouth set into a defiant line and she averted her eyes.

Goderic led them in another prayer before calling upon Alfred to take the sacred oath. Ealhswith watched her husband nod, then recite clearly and precisely: