Daughters of Time

by Mary Hoffman

  “It’s just Acwald,” Osric said in relief.

  But the scout was sitting at a peculiar angle, leaning to one side. Aethelflaed gasped – one of his sleeves was soaked in blood.

  “Raiders!” Acwald groaned as he slid from the saddle. “Close behind…”

  “Fool!” snapped Osric. “He’ll have led them straight to us.”

  Aethelflaed could hear no sound of pursuers. “He rode swiftly. He meant to warn us, and he did.”

  “Even so, they’ll be here soon,” said Osric. He grasped Aethelflaed’s reins. “My lady, you must take shelter. Go deeper into the wood while we deal with them.”

  Indignantly, Aethelflaed snatched the reins back. “I’ll do no such thing!” She scanned the area, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “There! That trench, just where the ground begins to rise. There’s room for all of us in there. Get Estrid and the horses out of the way, and then we can surprise them. It’ll give us the advantage. Estrid – take care of Acwald.”

  Aethelflaed was her father’s daughter, and she was not to be disobeyed.

  As the raiders rode into the clearing a few minutes later, they saw a mass of hoofprints leading off the path deeper into the wood. Their leader, a stocky man with shoulders almost as broad as he was tall, smiled in satisfaction. At a signal from him, they all dismounted, ready to follow the tracks into the trees.

  Aethelflaed crouched silently in the trench with Osric and the others, her sword at the ready, perfectly still. Timing was everything. When the raiders had their attention firmly focused in the wrong direction – then they would swoop.

  It worked perfectly. The raiders fought fiercely, but the Saxons made the most of the advantage surprise had given them. Aethelflaed’s sword sang; she was everywhere, darting and stinging like an angry wasp, her hair flying loose.

  As yet another Viking fell, she paused to look round. To her horror, she saw the bulky shape of the raiders’ leader, arms raised, battleaxe clutched in both raised hands, poised in front of Osric, who had fallen to his knees. The chieftain was about to deal the death blow. Yelling, she leapt in front of him. In his eyes she saw first surprise, then a glint of satisfaction – she was the one he wanted.

  “You want to fight me?” he roared. “With that pretty plaything?”

  She leapt in under his guard. The startled look on his face was almost comical as the pretty plaything drove in between his ribs.

  “My lady!” gasped Osric.

  She tugged her sword out of the raider’s body. Then she helped Osric to his feet and looked round. It was over. The raiders were either dead, wounded, or fleeing. Suddenly, Aethelflaed began to feel shaky. She had never killed anyone before. She pushed the tip of her sword into the ground and leaned on it. She must be strong…

  Then the ground was pounding with the sound of more hoofbeats. “Oh, no!” she groaned. “Not more of them!”

  But the band of warriors that now galloped into the clearing was led by a tall man, a Saxon, who leapt from his horse and strode over to her, his hands held out in greeting. Just as her head began to swim and her knees to buckle, she realised that there was something familiar about him.

  A little later she opened her eyes. “We won, didn’t we?” she whispered.

  The tall man smiled. “My lady, from what I hear of all that has happened here, I think you will always win.”

  “Are you…?”

  “I am Aethelred.” He took her hands and pulled her to her feet. “And I bid you welcome to Mercia!”

  In less than an hour they arrived at Gloucester. In the centre, on a rise where the great hall stood, she looked round in silence. The Mercians and her own escort waited. She could see that this had once been a fine town. But the walls had been breached, and many of the buildings were in ruins. “Guthrum,” said Aethelred, following her gaze, “before your father humbled him. Before the last king left to seek shelter in Rome.” He looked at her. “But I shall rebuild it. We shall rebuild it. This town will one day be as safe and strong as all those burhs you once told me about.”

  His eyes were bright and blue, she saw, and they shone with energy and passion. “There is much to do. Will you help me? Will you be my Lady of the Mercians?”

  Aethelflaed smiled and held out her hands. “I will,” she said.

  And all around them their people raised a great cheer.

  Why I Chose Aethelflaed

  I became fascinated by Aethelflaed (pronounced ‘Athelfleed’) when I wrote Warrior King, which finished with the victory of her father, Alfred the Great, over the Vikings at the Battle of Edington. I was delighted to discover her, because I needed a child’s viewpoint and, at ten or thereabouts, she was the perfect age. I was also interested to find out that in later life, after her husband’s death, the people of Mercia chose her to be the leader. And she wasn’t a leader in name only – she led them into battle and became known as Myrcna Hlaefdige – the lady of the Mercians. In the Annals of Ulster, she was described at her death as ‘famosissima regina Saxonum’ – the most famous queen of the Saxons. Those same annals ignored the passing of her brother, King Edward, and even that of her great father, King Alfred.

  So, I was delighted to have the opportunity to take up her story again. Few individual women emerge from the Dark Ages – I think Aethelflaed should be better known.

  SUE PURKISS

  Aethelflaed Facts

  Aethelflaed was the eldest of Alfred the Great’s children, born in approximately 870.

  She married Aethelred, Lord of Mercia, in 886. On her journey to the wedding, her company is said to have been attacked by a raiding party. Legend has it that she coordinated the fight back. I have not been able to find a source from the time to confirm that this happened, but then, written records from this time are few and far between.

  In 911, Aethelred died, and the people chose Aethelflaed to be their ruler. Her husband had been seriously ill for at least ten years before this, and she had ruled in his place for this time. She fought many campaigns, often with her brother, Edward, who had succeeded their father as King of Wessex.

  Aethelflaed fostered her brother’s eldest son, Athelstan, who later became king in his turn. It was a common custom for the sons of noblemen to be fostered in the household of a trusted friend or relative. However, it’s also true that Edward’s wife was not Athelstan’s mother, so perhaps this played a part in the decision to send him to be fostered away from Edward’s court.

  Aethelflaed died in 918.

  Her daughter, Aelfwyn, then ruled Mercia very briefly before Edward removed her from the throne and took her into Wessex. Perhaps Edward thought that the Mercians might rally behind Aelfwyn, which would have got in the way of his ultimate aim – for the House of Wessex to rule all England. Or perhaps he thought she wasn’t strong enough to lead the Mercians in those troubled times. Whatever the reason, nothing is heard of Aelfwyn after this.

  The Queen’s

  Treasure

  A story about Eleanor of Aquitaine

  (c.1122–1204)

  BY ADÈLE GERAS

  WAKING FELT LIKE COMING UP and up through dark water. Juana looked around the unfamiliar room – high ceiling, narrow window, hard wooden chair at the foot of the bed – and struggled, through the fog that filled her head, to remember where she was. It wasn’t home.

  The door opened and a woman dressed in pale grey garments came and stood beside her and took her hand. A nun – of course. They were in a convent. Juana was beginning to remember everything. As her memories returned, she was overcome with homesickness. Her head ached and there were tears filling her eyes. Even though she tried to stop them, they wouldn’t be contained and spilled on to her cheeks.

  “Don’t cry, child,” said the nun. “You are come to your true senses and awake, and for that we must give thanks to God. Soon, in a few days, you’ll be ready to continue on your travels. I’m sure you’re longing for that. You’re very young… how young exactly?”

  “Almost twelve years old,
Sister,” whispered Juana, and was relieved to discover that she still had a voice and could recall her age.

  “The young find bed rest very boring,” the nun continued. “Or so I have heard. My old bones, on the other hand, would be grateful for a good long lie-down.” The nun, whose face was as wrinkled as a walnut between the folds of her headdress, smiled and wiped Juana’s cheeks with a kerchief taken from under the edge of her sleeve.

  Her ‘travels’… Juana wished fervently that she’d never been picked to go on this horrible journey. She’d never asked to accompany Queen Eleanor and the Princess Berengaria to Italy. She’d never said she wanted to be jolted and tossed on wagons over every sort of road, through mud and rain and up hills and down rivers on hired barges, just so that the Old Queen could arrange a marriage for her son, Richard. But now, in the year of our Lord 1191, he was the king of England, and known everywhere as the Lionheart. Even Juana could see that for the princess of a country like Navarre to become queen of England was something of a miracle and an opportunity not to be missed.

  When the call came, Juana’s mother had been happy and proud. “You’ll have adventures,” she said, clasping her hands together in delight then hugging Juana to her bosom. “Such adventures as I could never dream of. And see such sights! High towers, rich palaces, fine houses full of grand ladies and gentlemen. Knights, even kings.”

  “But how do you know what it’ll be like?” Juana had said. “You’ve never travelled. And I can see towers and palaces and kings here, too. Isn’t King Sancho a king? Is Navarre not a kingdom? Don’t we have knights?”

  “Of course. Not only is it a kingdom but we, too, love music and song and poetry just like the people of Aquitaine. That was where Queen Eleanor lived when she was a young girl. Then her father died and she was packed off to marry Louis of France so as to form an alliance between the lands that each of them ruled. She wasn’t much older than you when that happened, you know. So yes, we’re a kingdom, but compared with England and France, our little corner of the world is nothing much to speak of. And how good of Princess Berengaria to choose you of all the maids to travel with her and Queen Eleanor… It’s an honour.”

  Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was the one who’d ridden ahead to the convent when Juana fell ill and persuaded the Mother Superior to take in every one of the travelling party and shelter them for days. The Old Queen, as she was known, was fearless and clever and determined to have her own way in everything. She was the one keenest to climb mountains and cross fields and rivers and risk illness and danger and discomfort. She was the one with a sharp and clever tongue and an even sharper eye for spying opportunities and difficulties and moreover, she knew how to deal with any problem that came her way. But she was nearly seventy years old, too, and there were times when Princess Berengaria or one of the guards tried to get her to slow down.

  Whenever they did so, Eleanor gave them the rough side of her tongue. “Oh, the nagging, the nagging,” she would say, smiling and turning her face to the heavens as if addressing some angel up there. “There will be plenty of rest for me when I’m dead. Nothing but rest for ever. We’re going forward. No time to lose.”

  The nun waddled away, like a big grey bird, and Juana closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, it was dark. How long had she been sleeping? Two candles in tall candlesticks stood on a shelf set high up on the wall and their moving flames threw dark shadows into the corners of her narrow room. Someone was sitting in the chair beside her bed. It wasn’t a nun – the headdress was the wrong shape. Perhaps it was someone from their party. Juana strained to sit up.

  “Don’t be frightened, child.”

  Juana recognised Eleanor’s voice. What was the Old Queen doing here? It must be night-time – she should be asleep.

  As though she’d read Juana’s thoughts, Eleanor said, “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come and see how you were. Sister Fidelis told me you’d come back to your proper senses.”

  “Yes,” said Juana. “But I keep slipping back into sleep. And dreaming.” She didn’t dare to say so but part of her wondered if she was in a dream at this very moment: a dream of the queen sitting by her bed.

  “You poor child. I hate being sick. Fortunately, I’ve had good health my whole life. I put it down to my diet when I was small – a great deal of poetry and song. Both, as I’m sure you know, are very good for you. They build up your heart and your mind in the most wondrous way and if your heart and mind are stout, your body will follow their lead.”

  Juana kept quiet. According to her mama a diet of good milk and fresh eggs was what made you strong, but she wasn’t going to contradict the Old Queen. Eleanor, in any case, wasn’t listening but rummaging in a small box that she was holding on her lap.

  “Are you wondering what I have here?” Eleanor said. “I’ll tell you. I’m about to share with you some of my treasure. I keep my most precious possessions in this sandalwood casket.”

  Juana’s eyes widened. Pearls, she thought, or maybe rubies and emeralds and fine gold. Perhaps there would be rings. Juana loved gemstones and jewellery. Her favourite task, at home, was to help Mama clean and polish the silver goblets and plates used for ceremonial occasions. She said, “Thank you, madam,” and struggled to a sitting position, so that she could get a better view of everything.

  “This,” said Eleanor, “was my first treasure. It was given to me by one of the troubadour poets at my father’s court in Aquitaine when I was younger than you. Look!”

  Juana looked. The Old Queen was holding out a scrap of parchment, torn along one edge. It was smaller than a page in a missal, smaller than Juana’s own hand as she took hold of it.

  “Treat this with care,” Eleanor said. “It’s very old and most precious.”

  Juana tried to hide her disappointment. Where were the jewels she was expecting? There were some letters scribbled on the parchment. She said, “No one has taught me to read letters, Madam. I don’t know what’s written here…”

  “Oh, how stupid I am! I will read the words to you. No, better yet, I’ll sing them. That’s how I first heard them. Benoit sang them… oh, he was a lovely fellow in my father’s court and he used to sing to me and the other ladies on summer afternoons in the gardens. I can still bring them to mind – the shady walks, the rose arbours… oh, the fragrance.” The Old Queen closed her eyes and began to sing. Her voice was croaky, like something made of metal that hadn’t been oiled for a long time.

  “Come, my rosebud, come my dove,

  sit beside me, hear my song.

  Listen for these words of love:

  it is for thee my heart doth long.”

  “Lovely,” said Juana. But secretly, she wondered why the Old Queen set any store by such things. Every song in the world that wasn’t about war was about love. People were always singing to their ladies. What was precious about that?

  Again, it was as though Eleanor had guessed what she was thinking. “It may seem like any old song to you, but to me, it brings back a happy time before my father died. Before I was sent to marry Louis. Oh, the cold Paris court after the warmth and joy of my father’s house! You cannot believe how lonely I felt. How homesick. Poor Louis, too! He wasn’t much older than me and yet we had to be grown up enough to be married. See this, now.”

  She reached into the box and brought out a baby’s rattle. It looked like a tiny silver ball on a stick, and when she shook it, it made a small, tinkling noise like distant bells.

  “This was given to me when I gave birth to my first daughter. Mostly, I try to forget those years, when one daughter after another came from my body and not one of them was any use as an heir to the throne of France. You cannot imagine my fury at the way they treated my daughters – it was as if they were nothing but dolls. The best they might achieve was an alliance with some neighbouring prince. That decided me. I had no intention of being as powerless as they were destined to be.”

  “What did you do?” Juana was sitting up now, feelin
g better than she had for a long while. Listening to Eleanor had made her forget her own troubles.

  “I found a way out of my marriage to Louis and wed Henry of England,” said the Old Queen. “That gave me more land to rule over. There was a time when I could make Henry do my bidding… and with him I had sons. One of them is Richard, whom you will see before long… oh, he is the handsomest and kindest and bravest boy. But Henry saw Richard as a threat… he locked me up for fifteen years because he thought I was encouraging our son to claim the throne while his father was still alive. Can you imagine such a thing? My own husband, who loved me once upon a time, had me imprisoned in a house in England and I didn’t see anyone or travel anywhere for fifteen years. Longer than you’ve been alive. It was only my box of treasures that kept the dream of somewhere else fresh in my heart. See…”

  She reached into it and took out a piece of silk, heavily embroidered with gold threads.

  “Is it from a garment, my lady?” Juana asked. “I can see a button hanging there.”

  “Indeed,” Eleanor sighed. “This comes from a robe given to me by my uncle Raymond of Poitiers who ruled in Antioch. In the days when I was still married to Louis, we went on a Crusade. I’ve never forgotten some of the things we saw. Horrible sights. Battles, dead and dying men, hunger, every kind of sorrow. But also, the blue skies and the beautiful cities of the East, set among the hills and reaching up to heaven with their towers and battlements. The sea, on the way to those shores, heaving in storms and flat as a silver salver in the heat of summer, the birds, the strange smells and foods and other languages. My English prison was not exactly a dungeon, but even a palace is a terrible confinement to someone who longs for a horizon so far away that she can scarcely see it. I hate gates and barriers and locked doors. I want plains and forests and cities and oceans stretching away before me. This robe – it’s not a robe now, but it was then – was what I wore in the winter cold in England, over my plainer clothes. I could still smell Raymond’s palace at Antioch in the folds of it – spices and lemon and the jasmine blossom’s fragrance seemed to be woven into the fabric. Here, hold it to your nose. It seems to me there’s still a whiff of all that about it.”