by Millie Thom
In bed in his chamber next to Aethewulf’s, Alfred wondered what his brothers would say when they heard about this coming marriage, particularly since they were all older than the girl soon to be their stepmother.
* * *
They arrived at Verberie three days before the wedding ceremony that would take place in the large stone church beside the palace on the first day of October. Alfred watched the scores of Frankish dignitaries and their retinues arriving to witness his father’s marriage to Judith with interest. He’d faced crowds before, and could converse with his elders without embarrassment, but since he could not speak the Frankish tongue, Aethelwulf assigned Father Felix, a Frank himself, the role of Alfred’s escort.
Verberie was one of several palaces along the Oise valley, and unlike anything Alfred could ever have imagined. Father Felix protested that such flagrant flaunting of wealth was offensive to God, but Alfred thought the palace to be absolutely splendid. The vast grounds were magnificent, with many lakes and canals surrounded by gardens bursting with trees, shrubs and plants, their autumn foliage vibrant in the sunlight. Statues lined the paths, some displaying people in minimal attire, which Felix hurried him past. The exterior of the palace itself was a sight to be seen, the walls of a smooth, pale stone, with round towers tapering to points at intervals. Inside, floors were covered with intricate mosaics, and frescoed walls told stories of ancient heroes. Servants scuttled about, making ready an enormous hall for the wedding breakfast.
Aethelwulf and Judith spent much of the three days rehearsing their vows and the order of the service with Archbishop Hincmar, who would conduct the ceremony. But today, as the sun rose to greet October, Judith was in her chamber being fussed over by her maids and female relatives and Alfred and his father donned their carefully selected attire. A little before mid-morning the ceremony would begin.
* * *
The imposing church was crammed with guests from all over West Francia, only Alfred representing Aethelwulf’s family and Wessex subjects. He stood in his place of honour beside the emperor, whose sapphire-studded crown and cloak of gold silk bore testimony to his status in the Holy Roman Empire. And garbed in his finest green tunic and cross-gartered hose, Alfred, too, felt quite regal. Waiting for the ceremony to begin, he recalled Aethelswith’s wedding day, the hatred he’d felt for the man taking her away from him. But he looked at Judith in her beautiful gown of rose-coloured silk and knew he could never dislike her: she was much too kind for that.
Nevertheless, Alfred dreaded arriving home to the scandal he knew the marriage would cause. And even worse, only yesterday Aethelwulf had revealed that affairs at home were in turmoil. The news had come in August, a week before they’d reached Charles’s Court: Aethelbald had rebelled, refusing to surrender his kingship of the western shires on his father’s return. Alfred frowned, recalling Aethelwulf’s words to Charles about families and problems to kingship.
His father’s familiar voice rang out, banishing such disturbing thoughts and filling Alfred with pride. Aethelwulf had spent so long with Father Felix, memorising the Frankish words of the marriage vows, determined to impress the gracious Charles. His splendid blue tunic and cloak, the jewelled crown that rivalled that of Charles, and the glittering brooches and belt buckle, all contributed to the impression of the wealth and power of Wessex.
Judith was facing Aethelwulf, and though Alfred could not see her face, he knew she would be trying hard to hide the fear she felt; fear of a journeying to a strange land, of leaving her home and becoming a wife. But she faced the ceremony bravely, speaking her own vows with clarity. Then, during the nuptial mass, Archbishop Hincmar placed a ring on her finger, anointed her and lowered a golden crown set with rubies onto her head. Judith was now Queen of Wessex. And although Alfred had known this would happen, he could not prevent a shudder: the wives of Wessex kings were never crowned as queen. Wessex nobles were unlikely to abandon a custom they’d clung to for the past seventy years, a custom stemming from a tale that Alfred knew well . . .
Eadburh, daughter of the mighty Offa of Mercia, had married King Beorhtric of Wessex. Though beautiful, she was an evil woman who plotted the downfall of Wessex for her father. Relentlessly, she assured Beorhtric that his councillors were idlers, useless at running the kingdom, so he’d be rid of them. Beorhtric ignored her words, knowing them to be false, and in her fury Eadburh resorted to laying poison for the councillors. But the king accidentally drank the poison himself. Eadburh fled to Francia, taking much West Saxon treasure with her. Eventually she moved to Pavia, where she died a sad and lonely death . . .
The choir filled the church with such heavenly sounds that the fateful images were abandoned and Alfred followed the emperor as he led the guests through the high, arched doorway. He was hungry and the wedding breakfast an appealing prospect.
* * *
It was late in the year for crossing the Channel but the crisis in Wessex could not be ignored until spring. Fortunately, the weather held fine and the morning crossing was smooth. But by the afternoon conditions had changed, and they made a cheerless fourteen-mile journey from Dover to Canterbury in pouring rain, Judith not peeping out from inside her wagon throughout. Aethelwulf deemed this wet and dreary homecoming an inauspicious start to his young wife’s new life in Wessex.
Weary and sodden, and heavy-hearted at the prospect of what he might hear, as evening approached he dismounted to greet his fair-headed son.
Aethelberht received them with cheerful cordiality and ushered them before the roaring fire in the impressive hall. Shadows danced on the tapestries that covered most of the high walls, masking the cold aura of the blocks of stone from which they were built – a reminder of the hall’s Roman origins. Aethelwulf sighed. If not for these unforeseen events which would radically change the rest of his life, he’d be content to be entertained by his amiable son. He was thankful that Judith had cheered in the warmth of the hall and was enjoying the fresh bread and watered wine.
Content to relinquish his temporary kingship of the eastern shires, Aethelberht professed shock at his older brother’s actions. ‘I knew nothing of Aethelbald’s intentions until he’d already turned his scheming into actions,’ he proclaimed. ‘I can only speculate that he’s received unwise counsel in your absence, Father. Someone’s put ideas into his head.’
Aethelwulf wearily massaged his temples. ‘And we don’t have to think too hard as to who that might be, do we?’ he said, glancing at Alfred who was happily chatting to Judith. ‘Bishop Ealhstan’s been a constant companion to Aethelbald for some years, and that man’s aspirations know no bounds. Nor do I have any illusions about Aethelbald’s ambitions, or his impatience.’
‘You’re right, Father. Ealhstan’s rarely left the West Saxon court since you departed for Rome. Nor has Ealdorman Eanwulf. And, of course, as king of the western shires, Aethelbald’s had the financial resources to curry favour with some of our most powerful nobles.’ Aethelberht played with his fingers, evidently uncomfortable at what he must reveal. But he took a resigned breath and said, ‘I know how much this will dismay you, Father, but Aethelbald found little difficulty in persuading them all of your unsuitability to rule. With Danish attacks increasingly likely, he’s used your age as his sharpest weapon. And I’m told he feels he should have assumed kingship of all the Wessex shires during your absence. So he’s more than a little disgruntled with me as well as you.’
‘Aethelbald’s been disgruntled with someone or other for most of his life, Aethelberht, so don’t take that to heart. I’ve no doubt it’s me he’s seething at.’ Aethelwulf shook his head, contemplating this web of intrigue against him. ‘You know, I can believe that Ealstan and Eanwulf have played duplicitous roles in this,’ he said. ‘But the rest, those who’ve served me so well, and dare I say, loyally, throughout my reign? How could so many turn their backs on me now, after the generous grants of land?’
Aethelberht stared silently
at the spitted meats being turned over the hearth, struggling to voice the reply that Aethelwulf knew to be on the tip of his tongue.
‘Shall we discuss this now, son, or later?’
‘Walk with me to the stables, Father,’ Aethelberht said, glancing at Alfred and Judith. ‘The rain has eased and I’d like your opinion of my new stallion.’
Horses shifted in their stalls as they entered the stables, Aethelberht’s single oil lamp throwing a small circle of light into the dark building. Grooms had already gone to await the meal so they were alone, as Aethelberht had evidently wanted.
‘You needn’t fear to speak in front of Judith,’ Aethelwulf said, caressing the neck of a handsome grey. ‘She may be young but she’s no fool, and she fully understands the situation in Wessex regarding the position of a king’s wife. I’ve been honest with her in that. But try to understand, Aethelberht, the immensity of power held by her father, and his influence with the pope. The emperor would hear of no other status than queen for his daughter. This marriage was his idea in the first place. And no,’ he said, lifting a hand to stay Aethelberht’s half-formed comment, ‘I could not have declined the offer. The match has much in its favour for our kingdom. Rarely a day goes by that I don’t contemplate our resources should we face large-scale attack. Our alliance with West Francia should serve us well if we require aid.’
Aethelwulf heaved a weary sigh, knowing his long-winded explanation sounded no more than feeble excuse. ‘I am old, son, may not last much longer in this world. But I had hoped to see out my life doing my utmost for Wessex. I anticipated a degree of outrage regarding my marriage and Judith’s status as queen. I didn’t marry in the hope of producing further heirs – though God forgive me, I believe her father expects that. Judith is young and, for the time being, will be accorded the privacy of her own bedchamber.’ Aethelberht’s brows rose at hearing such an admission, but he said nothing. ‘But that I should lose my kingdom because of this marriage is proving a hard price to pay.’
Aethelberht averted his eyes and Aethelwulf sensed he was struggling to accept the idea of a Wessex queen. And, if a loyal son had condemned it, how much more so would the magnates of the kingdom?
Perhaps I should call a meeting of the Witan at Winchester?’
‘You’ll not be permitted back into the West, Father. Aethelbald has stationed men along all roads to prevent you. You’ll need to relay your intentions to him via messengers.’
Aethelberht moved away and stood in the doorway, looking out at the puddled yard. Aethelwulf stared at his straight back; grieved beyond all telling at what he was hearing. At length Aethelberht turned to face him and said, ‘I heard only yesterday that Aethelbald is prepared to face civil war in his bid to keep the western shires. He’s been preparing his armies for weeks.’
* * *
Unwilling to subject his kingdom to the horrors of civil war, Aethelwulf agreed to Aethelbald’s demands to meet with some of the most powerful nobles of Wessex. In the grim, formal atmosphere of the Winchester hall he fought desperately to present arguments in favour of retaining his own kingdom of seventeen years. But in the end it amounted to what he’d expected. Seating a queen beside him on the throne proved to be his greatest mistake: Wessex nobles had no intention of changing their practice of seventy years. In addition, Aethelbald’s condemnations of his father’s age and unsuitability to rule had done their work. Conversely, Aethelbald had impressed the magnates with his own skills of government; he was a proven leader of men who could raise an army swiftly – as he had recently proved.
Conscious of the looming possibility of battle, by the end of the harrowing day Aethelwulf was compelled to agree to a compromise. The kingdom would remain divided: Aethelbald would retain his uncrowned kingship of the western shires, whilst Aethelwulf and his new ‘queen’ would rule in the East. Aethelberht, Aethelred and Alfred would stay with them. On Aethelwulf’s death, however, all of his sons would adhere to the terms of his will.
Aethelbald had seemed unable to meet his father’s eyes during the meeting, whether through contempt or his own sense of guilt, Aethelwulf couldn’t tell. Suddenly overwhelmed by unbearable sadness he thanked God that Osburh wasn’t here to witness such betrayal by their son.
As he began the long trek back to Canterbury he wondered how Judith’s father would react on learning that his daughter would be queen of only a minor portion of the kingdom. King Charles was astute enough to grasp the true implications of this ‘compromise’:
Aethelwulf had, effectively, been deposed as king of the West Saxons.
Twenty Two
Aros and West Francia: April – October 857
A little after sunrise on April 16, Eadwulf sat on his sea chest at his oar port aboard Bjorn’s magnificent new ship, Sea Eagle, rowing hard through the Aros estuary towards the open waters of the Kattegat. The waving arms of villagers had long since disappeared, the cheering voices carried away by the strong wind.
It was a good day for sailing.
Eadwulf admired the striking design that Ragnar’s shipwrights had created; this was a vessel well befitting the son of the powerful jarl. Along the length of the slender hull, twenty pairs of oars sliced through the water; shields hung over the uppermost strake, out of the way. Towards prow and stern the oaken strakes tapered, curving gracefully upwards, the prow ornamented by the carved eagle’s head, its hooked beak wide, yellow eyes menacing. Bjorn’s place would be at the prow for most of the journey, issuing orders that would demand immediate response.
Amidships stood the sturdy mast, the sail now collapsed until needed on the open sea. At the right of the stern sat the helmsman operating the steering oar. Already nearing his fiftieth year, Leif was one of Bjorn’s most experienced crewmen. As their eyes met, Eadwulf returned his cheery salute, feeling good to be alive. It had been months since he’d rowed anywhere and his body complained at each stroke, but the sense of freedom under clear blue skies filled him with such elation he soon forgot his nagging muscles.
The Eagle glided into the wide bay beyond which the Kattegat stretched east to Skåne and south to the many islands and the Baltic Sea. Sunrise shimmered across the silver water, embracing the twenty dragonships anchored there: vessels from villages throughout Ragnar’s domain, united under the leadership of their jarl’s son. Eadwulf squinted at the impressive fleet, contemplating the large force it represented. The Eagle alone carried over forty men, and though most of the ships were shorter – a few thirty oars, others twenty or fewer – he calculated a total nearing four hundred men. And soon that number would be doubled.
The Eagle took her position at the head of the fleet and the stone anchors on the waiting ships were heaved up. The sails were raised, instantly catching the southerly wind, and the sleek ships pitched forward, like demons from the fiery land of Muspelheim sweeping over the sea. Rounding the headlands of the bay, they struck north into the Kattegat Strait. Bjorn paced the deck sharing cheerful banter with his crew, his well-fitting tunic accentuating his solidly broad frame, his red hair whipping across his face. Pride and exhilaration lit his face and Eadwulf considered how handsome he looked with his splendid beard and moustache, wishing the stubble on his own chin would hurry up and grow. This would be his seventeenth summer and he longed to have a beard to signify his manhood.
‘Well, Eadwulf,’ Bjorn said, squatting beside him and glancing up at the flag atop the mast, the white-tailed erne rearing from the water, a huge fish clutched in its talons. ‘What do you think of her? Does she handle well?’
Eadwulf grinned, sharing his master’s pride. ‘She does that; she’s light as a feather. I’ve never seen a finer ship.’
‘Now I’ve seen ships in northern waters that would dwarf this one,’ Bjorn said, nodding. ‘Saw a Norwegian once, a fifty oar at least, with a huge sail. But size isn’t everything, and I’m well pleased with this beauty. Her slim lines make for speed, a great advantage at
times. Enjoy the break from rowing, lads,’ he yelled, heading back to the prow. ‘Once we turn from the Kattegat your backs will get little respite.’
In the mid-afternoon they veered west into the narrow channel that opened up into the wide Limfjord – a stretch of water that reached from the Kattegat to the Northern Sea, separating the two areas of Danish mainland. The fjord provided a much shorter route than sailing further north and through the unpredictable spring-time waters of the Skagerrak. Eadwulf knew it made sense to take this route – but the mere thought of it caused his emotions to run awry. Little over ten miles inland from the Kattegat, as the channel gradually became a wider sound, the settlement of Aalborg stood proudly on its southern bank.
Aalborg was Jarl Rorik’s domain. And somewhere in that busy town could be Eadwulf’s mother.
Eadwulf had known of Rorik’s whereabouts for some years – Bjorn had not kept that secret from him – but they’d never had cause to sail this way before. Bjorn generally headed north to the Norwegian lands, or west to the coast of Skåne. But his master had promised that one day, they’d pay Rorik a visit.
Their first night was spent on one of the fjord’s many islands, and by late-morning the next day, they had reached the Northern Sea, following the Danish coastline south. They kept moving throughout most of that night, eventually casting anchor at the mouth of the River Ribea to await sunrise, and the arrival of the second fleet, under the command of Bjorn’s cousin, Hastein.
Eadwulf had only vague recollections of sailing to the port of Ribe six years ago and he didn’t dwell on that time. He drifted into a shallow sleep, to be wakened seemingly moments later by raised voices. His sleep-filled eyes were greeted by the glare of the rising sun, and the sight of Hastein’s approaching fleet.