by Jayden Woods
*
They crowned him at Kingston, where his brother and many kings before him had been crowned, and the people gathered in a great church and sang, their voices resounding against the tremendous walls.
“Glory be to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” they chanted. Some of them turned their eyes heavenwards, hands clasped in supplication; others peered at him from dirty faces, mumbling the prayer with lazy lips. Sometimes their eyes were curious and piercing, sometimes they were simply blank. Ethelred tried not to look at them, for they made his heart race and his palms sweat. He could not afford for his hands to be slippery, for both of them were clasped to the hands of the bishops on either side of him, leading him to the altar.
“Let thy hands be strengthened,” chanted the bishops.
Ethelred tried to stare straight ahead, ignoring all the rest, trying to think of the crown and none of the responsibilities that went with it. He should be proud, his mother had said. He should be grateful. In any case, it was God’s will, he told himself. He must accept it, just like the people here, who accepted him as King even though their eyes and voices lacked love or devotion. So he tried to focus on the kingship alone, the glory of the coronation; but then he saw Archbishop Dunstan, standing at the altar, and even though he had known the archbishop would be there, he thought he might vomit from fear.
Archbishop Dunstan: the same old man who had baptized him as a baby and claimed that he would be a miserable man all his life. The man stared at him now with a blank expression, but Ethelred thought he detected the cold hatred behind the blue discs of his eyes. He was so very old, his shoulders stooped, his skin sagging, and yet he seemed to radiate with power. His heavy pallium glowed with the colors of a distant stained glass window, and glittered with golden pins and brooches.
For a moment, Ethelred feared that this man was more of a king than he was. He looked down at himself: at his soft flowing robes, at the golden-thread embroidery, at the thick brooch on his chest made of gold, blue glass, and garnet stone. Did all these fancy things make him a king? The thought filled him with doubt.
Hands pushed at him, and he realized these were the bishops, nudging him to perform his next act. Remembering his script, he let go and prostrated himself on the floor, fancy robes and all.
“We praise thee, oh God,” sang the people.“We acknowledge thee to be the Lord.”
His cheek pressed against the filthy floor, Ethelred felt inclined to agree with them. As long as the Lord was truly the one in power, all would be well, he thought.
At last the bishops helped lift him from the floor, and he knelt before Dunstan and the great coronation stone at the altar. All of the church fell silent, knowing that his turn came to speak. He took a deep breath and did so, trying not to let his voice waver, trying to fill it with the strength of a king.
“In the name of Christ, I promise three things to the Christian people my subjects. First, that the Church of God, and all the Christian people, shall always preserve true peace through our arbitration. Second, that I will forbid rapacity and all iniquities to every condition. Third, that I will command equity and mercy in all judgments, that to me and to you the gracious and merciful God may extend his mercy.”
“Amen,” said the people, and he exhaled with relief.
The prayers went on, and the smoke of the candles made him dizzy, and his ears rang with the never-ending words. All the while he stared at the foot of Dunstan’s robes, as unwavering and steady as the man himself. Then the bishop held the crown over his head, and Ethelred could hardly find the strength to breathe. He thought he could feel the weight of the large metal piece, though it had not yet descended.
“Almighty Creator, everlasting Lord, Governor of heaven and earth, the Maker and Disposer of angels and men, look down propitiously on our humble prayers, and multiply the gifts of thy blessing on this thy servant, whom with humble devotion we have chosen to be King of the Angles and the Saxons: surround him everywhere with the right hand of thy power, that, strengthened with the faithfulness of Abraham, the meekness of Moses, the courage of Joshua, the humility of David, and the wisdom of Solomon, he may be well pleasing to thee in all things, and may always advance in the way of justice with inoffensive progress.”
All the words followed the script his mother had described to him; they were all normal and ceremonious statements. But Ethelred heard them now as if he had never heard them before, and they filled his head with a heavy burden. After a short while, he seemed to cease hearing them altogether, for it was too much to endure. How could he do all these things? How could all these people expect him to?
His lips continued to move, playing their expected role; so did his hands, accepting the gifts bestowed upon him. Dunstan continued to hold the crown high while Ethelred received the sword, a great heavy thing which sagged in his fingertips, sparkling with a gilt pommel.“May all the strength of his enemies be broken by the virtue of the spiritual sword, and may thou combat with him, so they may be utterly destroyed,” Dunstan prayed.
And then, at last, the archbishop lowered the crown, glittering as it descended to Ethelred’s head. The breath of the entire congregation seemed to catch and hold.
“May God crown thee with the crown of glory,” Dunstan intoned, “and with honor and justice, and the strength of fortitude, that by virtue of our benediction, and by a right faith of the various fruits of good works, thou may attain to the crown of the everlasting kingdom, through his bounty, whose kingdom endures forever.”
At last the crown fell upon Ethelred’s hair, and he breathed deep, closing his eyes. It was only a thing, he knew; and yet for a moment, he felt as if it filled him with strength, energizing and empowering him.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Dunstan leaning down, the fire of his holy gaze boring into him, and his blood ran cold. When next he spoke, Ethelred did not know if it was loud enough for all the gathering to hear. And yet to him, the words seemed louder than any spoken yet.
“Since you have taken the kingdom by the death of thy brother, hear the word of God.”
Ethelred could only stare up at the archbishop in horror. This was not part of the script, and this did not sound like something that had been said to any other king before.
Dunstan straightened up, eyes scanning the congregation. His voice rose, making the stone pillars tremble.“Thus saith the Lord God: the sin of thy mother, and of the accomplices of her base design, shall not be washed out but by much blood of the kingdom’s wretched inhabitants; and such evils shall come upon the English nation as they have never suffered from the time they came to Engla-lond until then.”
People murmured and whispered to each other; a general wave of moans seemed to float over the room. The sweat of Ethelred’s hands dripped down the precious metals of his new sword. His mother’s sins could “not be washed out but by much blood of the kingdom’s wretched inhabitants.” What could it possibly mean?
Whatever it meant, Ethelred knew it would be terrible.
**
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Read the Lost Tales in any order you’d like, whether before or after reading the novel Eadric the Grasper, or completely alone as quick glimpses into an ancient world. For more news and updates on the Sons of Mercia series, visit www.jaydenwoods.com.
The First Lost Tale: Golde the Mother
The Second Lost Tale: Ethelred the King
The Third Lost Tale: Aydith the Aetheling
The Fourth Lost Tale: Athelward the Historian
The Fifth Lost Tale: Alfgifu the Orphan
The Sixth Lost Tale: Hastings the Hearth Companion
The Seventh Lost Tale: Hildred the Maid
The Eighth Lost Tale: Canute the Viking
The Ninth Lost Tale: Runa the Wife
The Tenth Lost Tale: Edmund the Aetheling
(The Lost Tales are available in print at many online retailers)
SONS OF MERCIA series
EADRIC THE GRASPER
Lost T
ales of Mercia
GODRIC THE KINGSLAYER
Last Tales of Mercia
EDRIC THE WILD
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, as compiled by various monks until the year 1140, were my primary sources of information. So, too, were the Chronicles of Florence of Worcester and the Chronicles of the Kings of England as written by William of Malmesbury. Without the devotion of these men to chronicle the chaotic events of their time, so little of the Dark Ages would be known. Other important sources are listed below. A full list of consulted sources is posted on https://talesofmercia.wordpress.com.
WORKS CITED
Freeman, Edward A. Old English History for Children. London, MacMillan and Co., 1869.
(*) Silver, Thomas. The Coronation service or Consecration of the Anglosaxon Kings as it Illustrates the Origins of the Constitution. Baxter, Printer, Oxford. 1831