by Millie Thom
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Burgred said, flashing Beorhtwulf a smile as he rose, elegant in his tunic of fine blue wool. ‘As all of you, I’d heard talk of this Danish camp and, whilst residing at my Hertford manor in November of last year, I could not help wondering just what these pagans were scheming. So, a few days after Christ’s Mass, before the onset of the snows, I set out for Thanet with seven of my retainers.’
The responses were mixed: outright disbelief that Burgred could undertake such a daring enterprise; scepticism; surprise. But no disinterest, Beorhtwulf noted.
‘We posed as vendors of a commodity no red-blooded warrior could resist. Ale: fifty barrels of it from my own manors, loaded onto four horse-drawn carts. You may deem such a quantity excessive,’ Burgred considered, his emerald gaze sweeping the faces, ‘but my spies had been given estimates by Kentish villagers of a camp of over three hundred and fifty men – too large a force to be placated by a mere few barrels . . .
‘Well, we journeyed south, fording the Thames at Kingston, then east through Wessex territory into Kent. Our coastal route avoided the ridges and forests inland but we had vast areas of marshes, lagoons and reed beds to negotiate and skirting these added miles to our journey. We had disguised ourselves as simple villagers, our threadbare tunics and cloaks not the warmest attire for late December. A bitter wind blew in from the Northern Sea and we prayed we’d complete our task before the snows made further travel impossible. Villagers were grateful to earn a coin or two for the use of a barn or hayloft and providing us with meagre provisions each night, and after two weeks of painfully slow travel we forded the River Wantsum to Thanet.
‘The six hundred or so families on the isle have not been unduly troubled by the Danish presence, but few could ignore their potential to raid and kill. We simply took directions and set off to the camp.’
Bishop Wulfhere raised a finger and Beorhtwulf invited him to speak. A wiry man of late-middle years, encased in a thick, purple cape over his long white alb, Wulfhere’s watery eyes blinked incessantly. ‘Why weren’t you all killed as you approached? The Danes are not renowned for negligence in such matters. Nor do they possess tolerance, compassion or–’
‘Compassion the Danes do not possess, nor tolerance, my lord,’ Burgred snapped. ‘But their cunning and curiosity are boundless. Rorik would wonder why a group of rag-tag Saxons should be stupid enough to near a large enemy camp. Were we acting as bait, whilst an armed force made ready to strike? So, we were herded back to their camp and rigorously questioned until they decided we were what we claimed to be: simple merchants, pooling resources from several homesteads, risking our lives in the hope of sizeable profit.’
‘You are surely not implying that this Rorik was willing to pay for the ale?’ Raised fingers ignored, Bishop Ecgfrid’s double chins wobbled as he voiced the question on everyone’s lips. ‘Is it not the Danish custom to simply take what they want and slay anyone who stands in their way? Their gods praise bloodlust and thieving in their warriors, so what made them treat you any differently?’
Burgred glared at the dumpy little bishop. ‘It is true,’ he agreed. ‘The Danes aren’t here to pay for anything. The only payment we received was to be able to leave their camp alive.’
‘But why? Why didn’t they simply take the ale and kill you all?’
‘My Lord Bishop, isn’t that obvious? Our ale had made them extremely happy . . .’
Amusement rippled round the hall and Burgred disregarded the indignant Ecgfrid. ‘So, my lords, we were imprisoned in one of their tents while the Danes caroused late into the night, our fate to be decided when Rorik was sober. My intention was to gain information whilst our guards’ tongues were, perhaps, a little loose. So we sang one of our own battle songs. Predictably, they hurtled in and ordered our silence: six of them, clad in tunics of stinking hides. They squatted across the tent’s entrance, glowering. But I was determined to learn of their plans. Just how safe was Mercia?’
Burgred grinned at the sceptical faces. ‘I applauded Rorik’s awesome reputation. More sober men than our guards may have questioned the source of this praiseworthy reputation, since this was Rorik’s first venture into our lands. But a hardened warrior with a mane of unkempt, blond hair and a thrice-plaited beard readily extended my accolades. His name was Egil: Rorik’s second in command.
‘Rorik is a powerful jarl, he told us; blood kin to a king and rich from countless raids into the Low Countries. He has heard that our cities have great temples full of gold and silver, and that our God deplores wealth, demanding that his followers should live in poverty. So, Rorik decided to do our God a favour by taking the unwanted treasures to where they would be appreciated.
‘In the spring another three hundred and fifty shiploads of Danes will arrive to join the four hundred men waiting on Thanet,’ Burgred stressed. Outraged intakes of breath preceded stunned silence. ‘In April they will take Canterbury and by the end of May they intend to take London. My lords, we must act now if we are to survive!’
Before Burgred could seat himself, a dark-headed young warrior named Beornred asked, ‘Did Rorik simply let you walk free from his camp, my lord?’
‘In a word, yes,’ Burgred replied tugging at his tunic, sweating in the fierce glow of the hearthfire. ‘The next morning we were unceremoniously ousted, with thanks for our generous “gift”. We were obliged to leave on foot, freezing in the biting cold. Fortunately, the Danes were unaware of the coins concealed in our boots, and once well away from Thanet we purchased food and mounts for our journey home. By evening we reached a large homestead and were offered shelter in a sizable byre. But during that night, the snow fell thick and fast. By morning, drifts blocked the roads and further travel was unthinkable. For the next few weeks the reeking byre became our home. Then, a week ago, the snowfalls eased, so we set out. Some roads were still blocked in sections, entailing a few detours, but we avoided mishap other than one lamed horse, which stumbled down a pothole hidden beneath the snow.
‘I deliver this tale with a heavy heart,’ he declared, hand across his chest. ‘I don’t doubt Egil’s words and believe we must prepare for May.’
An animated buzz filled the hall as Burgred sank to his seat. Defensive tactics were aired, punctuated by declarations of outrage from the two clerics. Beorhtwulf knew this was understandable; a raid on the scale described could mean the loss of so many lives. Without doubt, Danish war-bands must be faced by war-bands of their own. But the main obstacle to that was of sheer numbers – another three hundred and fifty ships, each carrying thirty or forty warriors. There was only one option Beorhtwulf could take.
‘Trusted advisors and fellow Mercians,’ he began, raising his hand for silence as he stood. ‘Burgred has earned our deep respect by risking his life in the service of Mercia; his brave venture puts us in a position to prepare for this onslaught. We have until the end of April. Not long enough, I hear you say. But I say, we are given no choice in the matter!’
Dismayed comments ensued and Beorhtwulf struck the table hard with his fist. ‘When have Mercians ever conceded defeat before the onset of battle? I tell you: never! Mercia once ruled supreme amongst these kingdoms. The mighty Bretwalda Offa would surely turn in his grave if he thought his people baulked at the defence of their lands. And although Mercia has since been overshadowed by the escalating might of Wessex, we are still a formidable force. And Wessex is now our strongest ally.’
Having sown the seeds of his intentions, Beorhtwulf pushed on. ‘These past days have shown that winter is at last drawing to a close. Most years we’d be celebrating, making ready our seed corn and ploughs. But not this year, for soon the Danes will be setting sail. And the major problem that plagues my mind is that of the vast number of enemy warriors compared to the far fewer number of trained Mercians. It is many years since the Mercian fyrd was mustered; our ceorls will take time to prepare for battle.
‘My lords, I see only one
solution to this problem.’
He stared, unsmiling, at the questioning faces. ‘I intend to ride to Winchester, where the Wessex king has journeyed for the Eastertide, as is his custom. I believe Aethelwulf will aid us in this.’
It was said. The reaction was loud. But Beorhtwulf was not concerned with their expostulations, though he knew many found it hard to view Wessex as an ally. He held up his hand for silence. ‘I have agonised over this news since Burgred’s return a week ago, and believe that Aethelwulf is our only hope. Wessex has been beset by Norse raiders for some years, and the Saxons have developed skilled tactics against them.’
Beorhtwulf’s closing words were placatory. ‘Come, my lords, are not Mercians and Saxons of the same peoples? Who is our greater enemy – Aethelwulf of Wessex, our ally, or the marauding Dane, Rorik?
‘You know I do not need your answer.’
Two
London: late-April 851
From the doorway of the hall Morwenna gazed across the low-lying lands of the Thames Valley. The view was one of serenity and peace. It was the third week of April, the week following Eastertide, and the land had greened, fresh and fragrant beneath a cornflower-blue sky. Spring colours splashed meadow and woodland, breathtaking after weeks of monotone, silvery-whites. Scents of the freed earth were heady and she drank them in greedily before they drifted out of reach.
Inside the hall, Thrydwulf and Burgred were reviewing the training of the fyrd with the thegns who had not accompanied Beorhtwulf to Winchester. They’d spent days in the villages, preparing men who knew little of warfare for impending combat, readying them to advance as an orderly unit, and form a shield wall on a given command. Unable to afford weapons, most ceorls were armed with wood-cutting axes or wooden staffs, and hastily made shields; a few owned bows or spears.
Wishing to discuss her son’s progress, Morwenna had summoned Eadwulf and his tutor to accompany her outside after the morning meal, away from the bustle of servants carrying surplus food back to the kitchens and stacking away the trestle tables. In the middle of the open area, a short distance from the lofty hall, with the spring meadows stretching out before them, Morwenna addressed her concerns to the learned scribe.
Sigehelm assured her that he had little to complain about. Since the incident with the ruined parchment, Eadwulf had been a most diligent pupil. An afternoon repeating his letters had given him tremendous impetus to avoid careless mistakes in future.
And now Morwenna had her son to herself. She was so proud of him, and so was his father. Eadwulf was their cherished only child, although the ‘only’ status would soon be changed.
For some moments, they stood together, content to enjoy the bright spring morning, and she squeezed Eadwulf’ shoulder, his linen tunic warmed by the sunlight. The soft buzzing of a bee carried to her ears and the April breeze played with the wisps of hair that escaped her head veil, making her feel so alive. All should have been well with the world; but it was not. Mercia was threatened and must be defended. She dared not think of the future beyond May, knowing that the babe in her womb may never have chance to be born. An involuntary shudder took her, and Eadwulf glanced up at her troubled face.
‘Try not to worry, Mother. Father should be home soon. And I am here to look after you.’
‘That is true, Eadwulf,’ she said, smiling down at him, struck, as always, by his likeness to Beorhtwulf. ‘You’ve been a great comfort to me these past two weeks.’
‘He has a large bodyguard, Mother: thirty warriors. And he was certain the Wessex king would help us. King Aethelwulf has lots of sons too; five, I think. Although one of them is still a baby! He was born at our old vill at Wantage. Did you know that?’ She nodded but said nothing, reluctant to interrupt his flow. ‘And the eldest son, Aethelstan, the one who rules Kent, put up a good fight against the Danes in Canterbury last week, so Uncle Burgred told me. But there were just too many of them against Aethelstan’s army, so he retreated. There’s little left of Canterbury now. The Danes looted it and burnt it down.’
Morwenna felt a sickening dread in the pit of her stomach. Just too many Danes. The Danes had sacked Canterbury in April, as Burgred had said they would, and would sail up the Thames in May. But when in May? It could be barely two weeks away or as many as five . . .
‘Well, isn’t this a jolly little party.’
Engrossed in her black thoughts Morwenna had not heard Burgred approaching and, startled, she spun round. ‘Can anyone join in, or is it a private affair? I must say, you’re looking lovelier than ever, Morwenna. That green gown suits your fair colouring well and reminds me of the freshness of spring. Yet your mood seems more in keeping with the bleakness of winter.’
‘It’s hard to feel jolly, my lord, knowing what we must soon face.’
‘Father won’t let the Danes destroy London, Mother!’
Burgred guffawed at his nephew’s exasperated assertion. ‘May our king deliver us from all evil!’
‘You make too light of the situation, my lord.’
‘I appreciate the gravity of the situation only too well, Morwenna,’ Burgred snapped, his expression blackening. ‘We’re not training those farmers to fight for the fun of it!’
‘I know how hard you work for our kingdom, my lord,’ Morwenna said quickly, wishing she could eat her words. ‘If not for you we could not prepare for this dreadful threat.’
‘We must all do our best for Mercia,’ Burgred acknowledged with an indifferent shrug. ‘I’m sorry I offended you, Morwenna. The strain of these weeks is affecting us all.’
‘You are right, brother.’
Burgred flinched, a reaction Morwenna had noticed before when she addressed him thus. She often wondered whether he resented her marriage to Beorhtwulf; believed, perhaps, that she’d married above her station, despite her father being a powerful Anglian ealdorman. ‘We were just speaking with Sigehelm,’ she said, eager to change the subject.
‘Oh, not another decorated parchment! You really shouldn’t adorn your work, Eadwulf. Sigehelm simply isn’t the artistic type.’
‘It’s nothing of the kind,’ Morwenna declared, before Burgred could ridicule further. ‘Sigehelm is pleased with my son’s progress.’
‘Eadwulf,’ a boyish voice called, ‘I’ve something really interesting to show you. Can you come now?’
Glad of the distraction, Morwenna watched Aethelnoth bounding toward them from the stables, waving his arms wildly. The sturdy eleven-year-old was almost a head taller than Eadwulf, and his bear-shaped build, wild blond hair and laughing brown eyes were so like Thrydwulf’s, his father. It was impossible not to like the lad.
‘I beg your pardon, my lady. I should have asked your permission first,’ Aethelnoth said in his most courteous tone. ‘But could Eadwulf join me for a while before training starts with our sword master? Ocea says we’ll begin later today.’
‘Of course,’ Morwenna replied, knowing how much Eadwulf enjoyed Aethelnoth’s company. ‘But don’t dare be late back, or I’ll have Ocea giving me earache!’
* * *
‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t stand around chatting all day.’ Burgred flashed Morwenna a dazzling smile, perfect white teeth accentuating his good looks. ‘I’ve an errand to run, so is there anything you need before I leave?’
‘I don’t think so, my lord,’ she replied, choosing not to query the nature of this errand. ‘We’ll see you at the evening meal then?’
‘Probably, although I could be a little late.’
‘When do you think Beorhtwulf will return?’ she asked, wondering whether her husband was aware of Burgred’s odd mood changes. ‘Do you think his journey to Winchester will prove successful?’
Burgred’s lips pulled taut. ‘You ask questions to which I have no answers, Morwenna. I am not my brother’s keeper! When Beorhtwulf has finished his discussions with Aethelwulf, he’ll return, and inform us of thei
r plans. Unless they become bored with such trivial issues as saving people’s lives and decide to formulate laws stopping hunting in the forests instead.’
Shocked by such unbrotherly sentiments, Morwenna gasped. But she could not – would not – let such remarks go unchecked. ‘The people are Beortwulf’s prime concern, as you well know!’
Burgred turned away, his eyes downcast. Did he regret his outburst, or was he simply scornful of her trust in Beorhtwulf and the Wessex king?
‘My brother is blessed to have you for a wife,’ he murmured, facing her again. His eyes, moments ago so full of contempt, now seemed to hold profound sadness. ‘I often wonder which of his qualities cause you to hold him in such high esteem.’
‘I love Beorhtwulf the man,’ Morwenna said quietly. ‘As our king, he has kept Mercia strong in the face of adversity from the Welsh, and prevented further strife with Wessex by allying himself with Aethelwulf . . .’ At Burgred’s sneer, she faltered, but did not remark. ‘But as a mere man, Beorhtwulf has qualities of kindness and thoughtfulness I could have searched a lifetime to find.’
‘Again, I apologise, Morwenna. My temper is easily fired today.’
‘But you treat me with such disrespect – and I have always treated you with sisterly affection.’
Burgred turned again to stare at the woods, a mile to the west. Sunlight played on his hair, picking out the reds and golds. ‘That’s just the point, Morwenna,’ he replied, without turning. ‘I don’t want to be merely your brother. I want so much more from you than that.’
In stunned silence, Morwenna watched her husband’s brother striding away in pursuit of his errand, tasting the salty tears that rolled down her cheeks.