by Millie Thom
With a gracious smile, Alfred proffered his arm, and Ealhswith accepted it, her smile matching his own. Together they headed for the waiting hosts, to enable Ealhswith to be introduced to Alfred’s family and attendant nobles.
*****
The evening meal had the feel of a celebratory feast which, Alfred supposed, it was. Beeswax candles and soapstone oil lamps flickered merrily, endeavouring to compete with the bright glow from the hearthfire. Alfred’s brother was in good spirits, engaged in jovial conversation with Ealhswith’s easy-going father, who occupied the place of honour to his right. But, at Mucel’s side, the Lady Eadburh dined in silence, concentrating on cutting her food into pieces small enough to pass between her tight lips. Since she was a guest of the Wessex king, Alfred deemed her pompous and blatantly rude behaviour to be quite unacceptable. Her religious zeal was no excuse for incivility. And when it came to piety, there weren’t many to match Aethelred, or even Alfred himself, come to that. But Aethelred was always courteous and extremely genial, and Alfred tried hard to match him.
At his brother’s left tonight, Alfred wondered whether Lady Eadburh’s silence was simply a ploy to enable her to eavesdrop on the various conversations in order to find something to complain about to her husband later. He smiled to himself, realising he was allowing his imagination to override his better judgement. But he’d simply not taken to Ealhswith’s mother. Even the name, Eadburh, made him shudder. It was a name despised by Wessex nobility, a reminder of a time, decades before, when another Mercian woman called Eadburh had been crowned as Queen of Wessex, after which she plotted to bring about the downfall of her husband, King Beorhtric, for her father, the mighty Mercian Bretwalda, Offa.
Ealhswith herself was seated beside Aethelred’s wife, Lady Wulfrida, and attempting to appear immersed in Wulfrida’s endless chatter regarding her infant son’s development. It seemed that Aethelhelm, at just a year old, had achieved quite miraculous levels in both physical development and language. Alfred sent Ealhswith his silent sympathies as Wulfrida proceeded to spout forth regarding the manifold discomforts of expecting a second child so soon after the first.
The meal passed pleasantly and once the tables had been cleared, the company sat back to converse quietly and sip their mead to the lulling tones of the lute player. Aethelred and Mucel delivered speeches regarding the importance of fortifying Wessex and Mercian unity, which were followed by discussions pertaining to the date and location of the marriage ceremony. And when, at last, all formalities were completed, and general conversation resumed, Alfred managed to find a few moments to sit alone with Ealhswith at a table away from the flapping ears of their respective families.
To some men, Alfred considered, Ealhswith’s direct, unabashed gaze, could have been quite disconcerting. He also noted that, at certain angles, her eyes appeared to be distinctly blue; at others, a definite green. This, he realised on closer inspection, was because her irises were a combination of both colours: a basic, vivid blue, but dotted with specks of green. The overall colour seemed to depend upon how the light from the hearthfire and oil lamps caught them. Out in the sunlight, they would undoubtedly be quite beguiling.
‘You are evidently an accomplished rider, my lady,’ Alfred began, opening the way towards better acquaintance. He was of the opinion that, if the personality was found to be lacking, physical beauty mattered little. Of course, beauty was important in some ways. Naturally, he didn’t want his heirs to live with the stigma of ugliness. But he wanted more from a wife than a mere body to warm his bed and bear his children. He wanted someone with intelligence, someone he could confide in; a woman who would listen and offer advice, and share his worst times as well as his happiest. In return, Alfred would offer such a woman not only his endless love, but his deepest respect and loyalty. His eyes would never again be tempted to stray to the tender body of another.
‘I am simply Ealhswith, if it pleases my lord.’
Alfred grinned, unsurprised at her candour. ‘Then, to you, I shall simply be Alfred. And I quite agree with you,’ he said, leaning close to her, ‘titles can be unbearably stuffy.’
‘To answer your question, Alfred,’ Ealhswith continued, the corners of her mouth still upturned at his reply, ‘riding gives me great pleasure. It is something I’ve loved since I could barely walk. My father taught me to ride and always took me out, before his old legs got the better of him. Now he can’t even mount a horse.’ She nodded at her brother sitting with their mother. ‘Aethelwulf usually accompanies me now. We share a love of the open countryside. He has a passion for birds, and indeed, anything furry or scaly that moves!’
Alfred smiled at the image. ‘And you?’
‘I just like to be out, riding into the wind, with my hair streaming behind me. Sometimes I long to feel the warm sun on my cheeks, or the sharp sting of raindrops . . .’ She paused, frowning. ‘I know you must think me an unruly creature. But that isn’t so. I love my parents and brother dearly, and I always try to be a dutiful daughter, respectful and helpful. It’s just that I can’t bear to be cooped up inside – especially when my mother insists I should work at embroidery.’
‘Well, I can appreciate that embroidery could be construed a most tedious task,’ Alfred agreed, amused by her wrinkled nose. ‘And I share your love of riding, and vast, open spaces. As indeed, does my sister, Aethelswith, with whom you are doubtless acquainted?’
‘Queen Aethelswith is one of the kindest and most beautiful ladies I’ve ever encountered, although I was not aware of her love of riding. We’ve only met during stately occasions, indoors of course. I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but our queen has never seemed the happiest of people. Her husband, our king . . . Again, forgive my directness, Alfred, but there’s just something about King Burgred that I find–’
‘Distasteful, perhaps?’
‘Certainly that, but so much more. I find him calculating, humourless and utterly hard-hearted.’
Alfred’s laugh was grim. ‘You needn’t list Burgred’s graces to me, Ealhswith. If Aethelred wasn’t so polite, he’d tell you how I’ve loathed the man since I was four. He’s never been good enough for Aethelswith. In fact, I’ll go as far as saying that I believe he’s made her life a misery.’
Ealhswith’s shocked expression at the vehemence in Alfred’s voice rapidly changed to one of amusement. ‘Then perhaps we’ve more in common than we originally thought,’ she said.
‘I sincerely hope you’re right,’ Alfred replied, considering that even the idea of sharing his life with someone with whom he was constantly at odds was simply too daunting. He recalled the deep, abiding love between his own parents, and hoped to find the same. He glanced at the cheerful Mucel, then at the pouting Eadburh, and grimaced. Like mother, like daughter . . .?
But another look at Ealhswith’s candid gaze washed away such thoughts and, greatly comforted, Alfred took her hand and smiled.
Fourteen
Sutton Courtenay, Berkshire, Wessex: late June 868
On the last Wednesday of June, Alfred and Ealhswith were married at the royal estate of Sutton Courtenay. It was a truly beautiful venue, located in the glorious Vale of White Horse, on the Thames border between Wessex and Mercia. Two miles to the north was the town of Abingdon with its magnificent old abbey, and seven miles to the south-east stood Alfred’s own vill at Wantage.
The weather held bright and sunny on the day of the ceremony. A light breeze carried scents of wild garlic from across the Vale, and trees proudly lofted their verdant foliage. Fledgling birds hopped, open-beaked, pursuing overtaxed parents for grubs and seeds, and brightly coloured butterflies fluttered by.
After spending what seemed like hours donning his finest clothes and having his thick, wheat-coloured hair suitably trimmed, Alfred headed for the white-stoned church, his grinning brother at his side. There he would make his vows to the woman he had come to love. As he walked, he drank in the fragrance of the June day, thinking of his coming honeymoon. During the few weeks t
hey planned to spend at Wantage, he and Ealhswith could ride out across the Vale, or up the steep, scarp slope of the chalk ridge to the ancient trackway known as the Great Ridgeway, and gallop to their hearts’ content.
Ealhswith looked radiant in her wedding apparel, her beauty taking Alfred’s breath away as she entered the large nave, crammed with smiling guests from across their two kingdoms, including the Mercian king and his wife, Alfred’s beloved sister, Aethelswith. Ealhswith’s pale yellow gown, decorated with colourful trims depicting florets and spirals, complemented her silky, gold-brown hair, on which sat a circlet of amber-hued rosebuds. Her large, aquamarine eyes seemed fixed on Alfred. The bouquet she carried was a heady combination of wild roses and bright meadow flowers. He glanced at Aethelswith, smiling beside her dour-faced husband, suddenly reminded of the anger and confusion he’d felt on her wedding day. So long ago now . . .
Then the voices of the choir were soaring, cutting off the memories, and Alfred led Ealhswith to the church doorway behind the priest in his trailing robes. And as they made their vows to each other, it suddenly seemed to Alfred that, at that moment, no one else existed in the entire world.
*****
The wedding feast was a grand affair. For three days the vast assortment of foods and delicacies on the trestles inside Sutton Courtenay’s spacious hall were continuously replenished. Musicians played and minstrels sang, and the festive hours were enjoyed by all. Alfred tucked into the succulent meats, the cheeses, freshly baked breads and honeyed desserts with a relish suggestive of previous weeks of near starvation. Nor did he ration himself when it came to downing mead, or sampling the fine Rhenish wines.
Beside her new husband, Ealhswith nibbled and sipped. Although she enjoyed her food as much as the next person, she knew her limits. Over-indulgence in rich foods and strong drink was not for her. She kept a wary eye on Alfred, who seemed to be suffering no ill-effects from his voracity, other than the gaping yawns toward the end of each day. But, tired or not, Alfred proved to be the perfect husband in the bedchamber, initiating her into the tender art of lovemaking with gentleness and feeling. Ealhswith thanked God that Alfred had not transpired to be one of those husbands who sated their own lust with callous brutality, overlooking a new wife’s need for sensitive and loving understanding.
By late afternoon of the final day of the celebrations, Alfred complained of stomach cramps and a feeling of nausea that seemed to wash over him in waves. Not unduly concerned, Ealhswith expressed her sympathies, and playfully suggested that, perhaps, he should forego the goblet of wine and almond cakes he’d been enjoying.
But soon, Alfred was clutching his belly. His face had blanched, contorted by a rictus grin and gritted teeth as he fought to overcome the pain. His body was rigid, his fists clenched, and his breaths fast and shallow. Ealhswith rose to call out for aid, but she understood the raised fingers and almost imperceptible shake of Alfred’s head to mean her to wait. Her eyes searched for Aethelred, knowing that if her husband’s pain continued, she’d be compelled to disobey him . . . Instead she found Aethelswith, already hurrying toward them.
‘My lady,’ Ealhswith said, curtsying as her new sister-by-marriage reached them. Across the room, Burgred continued his conversation with those around him, his wife’s movements unnoticed. ‘Alfred is quite unwell and needs to be helped to our room,’ Ealhswith continued, unable to conceal the anxiety that had now taken hold. ‘He’s in considerable pain, and nauseous – and I know he would not wish to disgrace himself before our guests.’
‘No, I would not,’ Alfred said, the effort of speaking causing him further agony.’ After moments of grimacing silence, he added, ‘And I beg you both to explain my plight to anyone who asks as no more than an upset stomach.’
‘You think it is not, brother?’ At Alfred’s slight nod, the worried look on Aethelswith’s face intensified to match that on Ealhswith’s. ‘But what else could it be? Stomach pains are generally the result of too much food and drink, and I daresay everyone in the hall has observed your indulgences over the past few days.’
Another harrowing pain forestalled Alfred’s reply, almost doubling him over. Opportunely, the wedding guests were now singing merrily with a group of musicians and no one noticed.
Ealhswith grabbed the moment. ‘I’ll need your help to move Alfred into our room, Lady Aethelswith,’ she said, without stopping to think. Suddenly feeling mortified at the realisation that people simply did not ask the Queen of Mercia to perform menial tasks, she put in quickly, ‘I beg your pardon, my lady. I was not thinking. I’ll summon a servant, of course.’
But Aethelswith’s reassuring smile put an end to her embarrassment. ‘Of course I’ll help you, sister. If Alfred can manage to walk, that is . . .’
‘I can try, but I’ll probably stagger like a drunkard,’ Alfred panted, struggling to fix his features into an inebriated grin as his wife and sister each took an elbow and slowly escorted him from the room. Anyone who glanced in their direction was offered a smiling explanation by Ealhswith regarding the state of imbalance of her husband’s digestive juices, and his need to retire until they settled.
Once he was safely in the marital bed, Alfred waved their administrations away, declaring his desire for solitude, and even greater desire to appear well and hearty when the wedding guests took their leave in the morning. Although not convinced of the wisdom of leaving him alone, Ealhswith and Aethelswith did as requested and returned to the hall to ensure the guests that there was no call for concern regarding Alfred’s well-being. It seemed likely, they claimed, that the oysters, followed by unaccustomed amounts of wine, had had quite an undesirable effect.
*****
Obdurate determination alone enabled Alfred to abandon his bed the following morning. Ealhswith helped him to dress, having already fetched warm water and linen cloths from the hall in order to bathe his sweating body. She had crept beside him beneath the furs last night, thinking him to be soundly asleep – an impression all too soon proven false. Alfred had spent much of the night writhing in agony, only succumbing to fitful slumbers during the couple of hours before dawn. Ealhswith had felt so helpless. There was just nothing she could do. Love and sympathy alone could not afford him salve.
Throughout the wakeful hours, Ealhswith had pondered on Aethelswith and their earlier conversation. Now past her thirtieth birthday, Alfred’s sister was still an exceptionally beautiful lady, and Ealhswith couldn’t help hoping she’d age half as well herself. Around the edges of her light head covering, golden hair gleamed, a shade or two fairer than Ealhswith’s own. Her blue eyes held an expression that Ealhswith found hard to fathom. It could have been sadness, or perhaps resignation. But when she spoke of Alfred, Aethelswith’s love lit up her face, and her eyes took on a vivacity of their own. That the Mercian queen still missed the family she’d left behind in Wessex after sixteen years of marriage could not be concealed.
Ealhswith had felt a sudden frisson of alarm that, before long, she may feel the same way. But she looked at Alfred, and knew she would never want to leave his side. Whereas Aethelswith had only Burgred . . . Again she felt that shudder of distaste as she thought of her people’s king. Cold, grim-faced Burgred. If there had ever been love between them, Aethelswith and Burgred had lost it somewhere along the way.
Not surprisingly, Aethelswith said little about her husband, other than to relate his anxieties over the siege of Nottingham. But her delight in her pretty daughter, ten-year-old Mildrede, who’d relished the attention given her at the wedding feast, brought a glow of pride to Aethelswith’s face.
As the early June dawn pervaded the shadowy corners of their chamber, Ealhswith had sensed Alfred rousing again, and quickly risen and dressed in readiness for devoting her attentions to him. Though tired and sluggish herself, it was evident that Alfred would not cope without her help. But once washed and garbed he put on a brave face and practised his movements until they appeared unaffected by his pains, which had eased but by no means completel
y abated during the night.
He endured the morning meal, feigning light-hearted banter, laughing off his upset stomach as perfectly normal for a new husband at his own marriage feast. Only Ealhswith, at Alfred’s side, observed his hand pressing his cramping abdomen beneath the table top, and his occasional, sharp intakes of breath – or that he was nibbling the edges of the same piece of bread. No more than a few sips of well-watered ale actually passed through his lips. The guests were all too busy conveying their thanks to Aethelred and Wulfrida for their exemplary hospitality and the superlative standard of the feast to notice.
Expressing heartfelt thanks for the many wedding gifts, Ealhswith stood outside with her ailing husband beside King Aethelred and his wife as each of the guests eventually took their leave. The most difficult of partings for Alfred was that of his beloved sister, and Ealhswith did not miss the moist eyes of either. For herself, the tears at her own family’s departure evaporated in light of her intense worries for Alfred.
*****
Aethelred moved between Alfred and Ealhswith, draping an arm around their shoulders once they were back inside the hall. ‘So, when do our newlyweds intend to head off to Wantage?’
Alfred frowned, seeming unsure of what to say, and Ealhswith averted her eyes as she, too, considered whether she could offer a plausible answer – one acceptable to both Alfred and the king. She wasn’t even sure whether Alfred wanted his brother to know of this strange affliction that affected him.
‘I hope your silence doesn’t mean you’ve had your first disagreement already,’ Aethelred jested, his impish gaze turning from one to the other before settling on Alfred. ‘You could at least have waited until you reached your own vill, brother.’