The Wolf and the Raven

by H A CULLEY

  With a roar of rage Froh’s surviving hirdman, in spite of his wounds, brought his sword down hard onto Ragnar’s helmet, using such force that it snapped the blade in half. The metal of the helmet had absorbed much of the impact before it split into two halves, but the jagged remains of the sword cut through the leather cap below and struck Ragnar’s skull with enough force to kill most men.

  PART TWO – EDMUND OF BEBBANBURG

  THE WOLF

  Chapter Eight – The Humbling of Eanred

  830 to 832

  Six year old Edmund was playing with his elder brother, Ilfrid, when the messenger arrived. Full of curiosity, the two boys rushed into their father’s hall to find out what had happened, but were disappointed when the man handed their father, Eafa, Ealdorman of Bebbanburg, a letter and retired without saying anything.

  ‘What’s happened, mother?’ Ilfrid asked Breguswid quietly as soon as their father left the hall.

  ‘The king is dead and your father is summoned to a meeting of the Witan at Eoforwīc in three weeks’ time.’

  ‘King Eardwulf is dead? Who will succeed him? His son?’

  ‘Probably, but that is for the Witan to decide.’

  King Eardwulf had been an old man, so his death wasn’t unexpected. However, after nearly a century of turmoil, regicide and civil war over the throne, his reign of thirty four years, albeit with a break of a couple of years when he’d been deposed in 806, had brought stability and prosperity to Northumbria. Eardwulf’s son, Eanred, had been his father’s hereræswa for the last decade or so, ever since he reached the age of twenty. However, thanks to his father’s skill at maintaining peace with the Picts in the north and the Mercians in the south, his military prowess had never been put to the test.

  Things were changing, however. The long running battle for power in the south of England had been won by Egbert of Wessex in 829 and Wiglaf of Mercia had fled into exile, albeit briefly. He had returned in early 830 and had been restored to his throne after acknowledging Egbert as Bretwalda. Only Northumbria stood against Egbert’s mastery over all of England.

  At least the new king wouldn’t have to worry too much about his northern border. The Pictish kingdom had internal problems and both its king, Angus, and Domnall of Dalriada were pre-occupied with the encroachment of the Norse who had settled in Orkneyjar sometime previously. Now they had expanded south, capturing Skye and the northern Hebridean islands. At least King Riderch of Strathclyde had no such problems and he seemed content to rule his kingdom without interfering with his neighbours.

  Edmund was too young to understand much of this. All he knew was that his father was going on a long journey and he was taking Ilfrid with him whilst he had to stay at home with his mother. Like most children, he was impatient to grow up and had bitterly resented it when he was told that he was too young to go.

  Ilfrid had little patience with Edmund’s tantrums. He was thrilled to be going with his father, though his excitement was somewhat tempered by the knowledge that, once they returned, he would be leaving for Lindisfarne to be schooled by the monks in reading, writing, Latin and Christianity. He would stay there for over three years before being sent to train as a warrior at the hall of another noble, perhaps even that of the king himself. Edmund didn’t know that his playmate and idol was about to leave Bebbanburg for some years. Had he done so he would have been even more upset.

  As they rode through the main gates of Bebbanburg Ilfrid rode beside his father. The warrior riding behind them carried Eafa’s banner of a black wolf’s head on a yellow field. Although, once they were out of sight of the fortress and the large settlement that had grown up in its shadow, it was furled and placed in one of the wagons until they approached Eoforwīc, when once again it would proudly proclaim the presence of the lord of Bebbanburg and Ealdorman of Islandshire. Eafa’s domain stretched from the River Tyne in the south to the Twaid in the north. Beyond Berwic on the Twaid lay the province of Lothian, which was divided into three shires. Until a few years ago Lothian had been dominated by the Ealdorman of Dùn Barra and Dùn Èideann on the coast of the Firth of Forth, but the current lord was Kendric, a seventeen year old boy who was far from a powerful character. He and the other nobles of Lothian now looked to Eafa as their leader.

  At the Tyne they met up with Kendric and the other ealdormen of Lothian whilst waiting for the ferry to laboriously carry them over the river, four at a time. Each lord had brought between eight and a dozen men with him as escort and it took hours for them all to be ferried across. By the time that the last few horsemen were on the south bank it was getting late and they decided to seek shelter at Jarrow Monastery for the night.

  The guest accommodation could only house the four ealdormen and Ilfrid and so their men settled down for an uncomfortable night in the open. Ilfrid felt sorry for them when it started to rain heavily, but then the sentiment changed to smugness. He was in the dry whilst they would be wet and miserable, even inside their leather and greased wool tents. The storm raged all night but in the morning the day dawned bright and clear.

  Unfortunately for Ilfrid the weather didn’t stay fine and by the time they reached that night’s stop at Durham Monastery, he was wet, cold and the inside of his thighs had been rubbed raw by his wet saddle. He didn’t feel quite so smug now.

  The infirmarian gave one of the Bebbanburg slaves some unguent to ease the soreness and two bandages to wind around Ilfrid’s thighs to protect them from further chafing. As the slave gently rubbed the unguent into his raw skin Ilfrid felt an immediate respite from the pain he’d been suffering. When the slave had finished wrapping the bandages around his thighs, he became curious about him. He’d seen him around Bebbanburg but had never had contact with him before.

  ‘Thank you. I’m very grateful for your thoughtfulness. How did you know I was suffering?’

  ‘From the funny way you were walking when you got off your pony. Others sniggered, knowing what you were going through on your first long ride but I decided I should help you.’

  Ilfrid looked at the slave thoughtfully. He guessed him to be about fifteen and, from his accent, Welsh or Cumbrian.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Laughlin, it means servant in Gaelic.’

  ‘You’re not Welsh then?’

  ‘No, master, Irish. I was one of nine children and my father was a poor shepherd who couldn’t afford to feed all of us, so he sold me and two of my sisters as slaves when we were younger than you.’

  Laughlin’s plight left Ilfrid unmoved. It was a common story. However, he was impressed at the boy’s initiative in seeking out the infirmarian and the way he had taken care of him. That evening he approached his father as soon as Eafa was alone.

  ‘Father, am I too young to have a body servant of my own?’

  Eafa was startled; it was a peculiar question coming from a ten year old.

  ‘Yes, of course you are. Your mother’s slaves look after you and Edmund at the moment and you’ll be leaving for Lindisfarne as soon as we return. Why would you need a servant?’

  ‘Well, there is no-one to look after me until then is there?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Do you want to share Erik with me?’

  His son shook his head.

  ‘No, Erik has enough to do looking after you.’

  Ilfrid blushed; that hadn’t come out quite the way he intended it to.

  ‘What I mean is, that wouldn’t be fair on him. What about Laughlin?’

  ‘The Irish lad? He’s a stable boy who drives one of the wagons.’

  ‘I don’t need him on the march, just when we camp. Others can look after his horses surely?’

  ‘Why him?’

  Ilfrid blushed again.

  ‘I’m, er, a bit, um, sore. From riding. He got something from the monks to ease the pain.’

  Eafa was somewhat surprised, but he supposed that Laughlin had some experience of lotions and poultices from looking after horses.

&
nbsp; ‘You don’t need him for that now do you? Presumably he obtained enough to last you for a few more days? In any case, you need to get used to riding all day, day after day.’

  ‘Later, perhaps, father. But I won’t be doing much riding on Lindisfarne. There’s little point in getting thighs like leather now, is there? Besides, my clothes will need washing and drying and he can help me look after my pony. I’m sure she’s developing a bit of a limp.’

  Eafa laughed. ‘Very well. I’ll tell the head carter.’

  Ilfrid discovered that Laughlin was more than a washer of clothes and the applier of healing lotions. He was a good hunter with his slingshot and a good cook. Instead of suffering the stew of dried beef - which still tasted like leather even after being boiled for an hour – and whatever vegetables the servants could find or buy, Ilfrid and Laughlin dined on small game basted on a makeshift spit over a fire, apples, cheese and a variety of berries. Laughlin obviously harvested the wild berries locally, but Ilfrid refrained from asking where the cheese and apples came from.

  Eoforwīc came as something of a shock to Ilfrid, but not to Laughlin, who’d been sold in the slave market in Duibhlinn. It was far bigger than Ilfrid had imagined, sprawling outside the confines of the Roman walls, which were now in a serious state of disrepair. Once inside the city proper, the stench was overwhelming. The fortress at Bebbanburg wasn’t immaculately clean, but most of the rubbish was put into the chute which dumped it into the sea. The wind kept the place smelling sweet too.

  Here and there were all manner of detritus, dead rats, cats, and even dogs, littering the streets. Faeces lay everywhere and there was a distinct stench of urine. When they got to the Shambles – where the butchers plied their trade – the prevalent smell changed to the coppery tang of blood. Discarded bones and bits of intestine which couldn’t be used lay everywhere, being gnawed by rats, picked at by carrion birds and sucked at by a swarm of flies.

  Ilfrid wasn’t the only one who was glad when they entered the comparatively clean precincts around the king’s hall. Of course, there wasn’t space for eighteen ealdormen and their retinues in the king’s hall. The nobles and the few sons that they’d brought with them were housed there, in the monastery or in the Ealdorman of Eoforwīc’s hall, but the others had to camp wherever they could find space outside the city.

  Eafa and his son were lodged in the guest dormitory of the monastery. Gradually the original timber buildings were being replaced in stone, but their lodgings were a simple wooden hall with sleeping benches down both sides and a hearth for cooking in the middle of the building. Ilfrid was pleased to see that there was another boy there already, Rædwulf, the twelve year old son of the Ealdorman of Cumbria.

  ‘Who are you?’ Rædwulf asked brusquely as Ilfrid went up to him to introduce himself.

  Ilfrid’s eyes narrowed. He had thought that it would be nice to have another boy to talk to amongst all the adults, but Rædwulf’s brusque question made him wary.

  ‘Ilfrid of Bebbanburg. You?’

  The other boy sighed. ‘Rædwulf of Cumbria, not that there is much of the shire over which my father still rules.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? The bloody Strathclyde Britons have invaded from the north and captured our home – Caer Luel. To make matters worse, the Norse started to raid along our coast and now they are beginning to settle there.’

  ‘Couldn’t you push them back into the sea?’

  ‘No, my father is too busy trying to stop the Britons from encroaching further into his lands.’

  ‘Surely the old king would have helped?’

  ‘Huh! All Eardwulf did was to suggest that my father made peace with Strathclyde and with each of the various jarls of the Norsemen. He was too afraid to risk war. Let’s hope that his son is made of sterner stuff.’

  ‘You’re certain that Eanred will be the next king?’

  ‘Who else is there? Oh, there are plenty who claim to be descended from one of the many kings who have ruled Northumbria over the last century, but they would be at each other’s throats if any of them were elected. The ealdormen are well aware of this and know that the only way that Northumbria will remain united is if they elect Eardwulf’s only son.’

  Ilfrid was impressed by Rædwulf’s grasp of the situation and wondered, with some bitterness, why his own father hadn’t told him all of this. He supposed that he thought that, at ten, he was too young to grasp the situation, but he had understood everything that the other boy had said to him.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Cumbria, father?’ he asked later that evening when he got Eafa alone.

  ‘Cumbria? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m talking about the capture of Caer Luel by the Britons from Strathclyde and the Norse settlements along the coast. It’s part of Northumbria; why aren’t we helping to expel the pagans and push the Britons back where they came from?’

  ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’

  ‘Does it matter? Do you think that I’m still a baby to be shielded from bad tidings? Why did I have to find out from someone else?’

  ‘Because it’s got nothing to do with you, or me come to that. Eardwulf thought that the loss of Cumbria was a small price to pay for peace in the rest of his kingdom.’

  ‘And do you think he was right?’

  Eafa was beginning to realise that his son was growing up, and probably had a maturity well ahead of his years.

  ‘No, I don’t. If you appear weak, others stronger than you will prey on you.’

  He paused and regarded his son thoughtfully.

  ‘I brought you with me because I felt that we were growing apart. I wasn’t going to take you to the Witan tomorrow because I thought that you were too young. I was wrong. Would you like to come?’

  Ilfrid’s eyes sparkled with interest and excitement.

  ‘Yes please, father. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. It’ll be pretty boring. I expect we’ll elect Eanred, swear loyalty to him and he’ll appoint a new ealdorman to replace him in his shire, and then we’ll all go and get drunk – not you, of course.’

  As it turned out, Eafa was quite wrong.

  Several ealdormen and a number of senior churchmen were already present in the king’s hall when Eafa and Ilfrid entered, shaking the rain off their cloaks. The grey, dank weather matched the sombre mood in the hall. Ilfrid saw Rædwulf standing next to a tall, rather gaunt man with grey hair and a livid scar on his cheek, presumably Rædwulf’s father. Unusually in these days when men grew long moustaches as soon as they were old enough, he was unshaven like the clerics.

  Ilfrid nodded at the other boy and smiled but Rædwulf ignored him. Ilfrid felt his face flush with embarrassment and annoyance. Eafa had noticed and was puzzled by the boy’s aloofness; he’d assumed that the Cumbrian boy was the source of his son’s new found knowledge so his failure to greet his son seemed odd.

  There was another boy in the hall – one that neither Eafa nor Ilfrid had seen before. He looked to be about fourteen and was standing beside Wulfsige, Archbishop of Eoforwīc, who was talking to the Bishop of Hexham. At that moment Kendric and the other two Lothian ealdormen joined Eafa and Ilfrid took the opportunity to slip away to approach Rædwulf.

  ‘Are you ignoring me?’ he asked the other boy bluntly.

  ‘What? No, that is I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, you mean about the Britons and the Norse?’

  ‘No, well yes, but I’m more concerned about Ælle and his brother Osberht.’

  ‘Who? I’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘Well, you will shortly,’ the other boy replied curtly. ‘That’s Ælle over there talking to the two bishops. He’s an ætheling, or so he claims. So is his brother, the older boy who’s just entered the hall.’

  Ilfrid turned and glimpsed a boy about Rædwulf’s age enter the hall just before he disappeared behind a group of nobles. He re-appeared again as he joined Ælle.


  ‘How is it that they are æthelings? I thought that Eanred was the only contender for the throne.’

  Rædwulf snorted. ‘They’re not. At least no more than I am. They can trace their descent back to Ida, but only through the female line, just as my father and I and lots of other nobles can.’

  ‘Including me. In fact one of my family was the king at one stage.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Eadwulf. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘It must have been. I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Ask your father. Anyway, forget about him; why are you troubled about Osbehrt and Ælle?’

  ‘Let’s just say that I don’t like them and they don’t like me.’

  ‘And you’re afraid that the Witan might acknowledge their claim to the throne?’

  ‘Yes, not now obviously - they’re too young – but their uncle, the Ealdorman of Luncæstershire, supports them, as do a few of the other nobles. Eanred isn’t married and, if anything should happen to him in a few years’ time, they could be elected if they can establish their claim now.’

  ‘So that’s why they are talking to the bishops and abbots?’

  The two brothers had moved on from Wulfsige and were now talking to the abbots of Melrose and Ripon.

  ‘Isn’t Bishop Heathwred of Lindisfarne here?’ Rædwulf asked suddenly.

  ‘No, or he would have travelled down with us. He’s seriously ill and likely to die soon. I expect that the Prior, Egfrid, will be chosen to succeed him. I hope so anyway, as I’m to be educated at the monastery as soon as we return and I rather like him.’

  At that moment the archbishop, who was presiding over the meeting of the Witan, banged his crosier on the wooden floor and asked everyone to take their seats.

  ‘Well, that was a surprise,’ Eafa said to his son after the Witan was over.

  ‘You mean the fact that Ælle and Osbehrt were accepted as æthelings?’