Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2)

by Millie Thom

  He felt Aethelred’s fingers close round his own, a feeble attempt at a brotherly gesture. ‘When I am gone, Alfred, you will make a far better king than I or any of our brothers could ever have done; probably even better than King Aethelwulf. Our father was right in sending you to Rome all those years ago. He recognised something about you from the time you were small. Pope Leo must have seen it too. Why else would he tell you that one day you’d be king?’

  ‘Rest easy, brother,’ Alfred urged. That had been the longest speech Aethelred had made in many days. ‘The physicians still have faith in their leeches. You will be with us for some time yet.’

  Alfred knew his words to be false. But, surely, false hope was better than no hope at all?

  Twenty Eight

  Ealhswith placed the sleeping babe in the waiting arms of his attentive nurse. His appetite sated, Edward was now content to sleep for a few hours and Agnes gently placed him in his crib in her mistress’s sleeping chamber. Adjusting her gown, Ealhswith rose from the wide chair she had selected for nursing her son and smiled down at the little dark head. Edward was a contented babe, quite unlike Aethelflaed had been at a mere three months. Even now, at almost two, her daughter was demanding and overly active, if truth be told. But once Edward’s stomach was full he was happy to sleep until hunger pangs roused him again

  Leaving Agnes to deal with Edward and Aethelflaed, Ealhswith headed for the hall, hoping to speak quietly with her husband. Their party had arrived less than an hour ago and the need to feed Edward had meant she’d had little time to speak with Alfred. He looked so pale and tired she feared his own health was suffering with Aethelred’s steady decline

  She smiled at him as she came to sit at his side, her attention again drawn to the purple circles beneath his eyes and the aura of fatigue that surrounded him. She wanted so much to ease his pain, but knew that she could not. Even Alfred’s first meeting with his new son had been dulled by the agonising prospect of losing his beloved brother.

  It was early evening and dusk was just beginning to close in. The spring day had held a delicious freshness as they had made the thirty-mile journey, leaving Salisbury at first light this morning. For a short while her own fears for her brother-by-marriage had been pushed to the back of her mind – only to return with a thudding pain.

  It seemed as though she had been travelling for ever inside that bumpy wagon. Having left Wedmore three days ago, they had made two overnight stops, the first at the hall of a Somerset thegn some twenty miles east of Glastonbury, the second night at Salisbury. Ealhswith wanted nothing more than to scrub herself clean and to sleep. Yet she was here for Alfred, and by his side she would stay until Edward needed her. She took his hand in hers.

  ‘Wulfrida and her sons are still with the king?’

  Alfred nodded. ‘Aethelred wanted to explain about the succession . . .’

  ‘I thought that might be the case. I just hope the king can make Wulfrida understand. She’s been more than a little frosty with me since she heard of the outcome at Swinbeorg. And before you start telling me the reasons for it, I know, and fully understand, the necessity of choosing you. But Wulfrida is livid that her sons have been overlooked.’

  ‘Surely she sees the need for a king to lead the men . . .? Now, I mean, not in another fifteen years or more when her sons are grown. The Danes are here now, and armies must be raised.’

  ‘And you are the one to do it, Alfred, the only one the men will trust enough to follow into battle.’

  Ealhswith touched his cheek, desperate to hold him close, but in front of the servants it would not be proper. ‘Though the thought of losing you turns me to ice, in my heart I know you will never rest until you see Wessex freed from these invaders.’

  She smiled as she noticed the tears glistening in his eyes. ‘Alfred, my love, I am your wife and I will never stop loving you. But I have known since the day we met that you are also utterly devoted to Wessex.’

  Alfred’s head came down to rest on her shoulder and she felt his body trembling as he silently wept.

  *****

  Easter Day fell on April 15 that year, two days after the women and children had returned from Wedmore. Aethelred was too ill to attend the service at the Old Minster and Alfred accompanied the household to the grand building, to give thanks to God for the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and say their own prayers for their beloved king. Afterwards, Goderic, the Bishop of Winchester, joined them at the royal hall in order to perform a private service for the ailing king.

  Throughout the following week, Aethelred sank into deep despair, frantic to cling on to those he loved to the very last moment of his life. During his wakeful periods he made repeated requests to see his family. But Wulfrida, with her sons, Aethelhelm and Aethelwold, would make only brief and reluctant visits to his bedchamber. Aethelred’s wife, it seemed, could not abide to be anywhere near the sickroom.

  On the Friday, the physicians informed Alfred that his brother’s wounds had turned septic and he was now succumbing to bouts of delirium. They did not expect him to live for many more days and advised the household to pray for his soul. Distraught to the very core, Alfred summoned Bishop Goderic. The ageing cleric would remain with the family, ready to read the last rites to the dying king. Alfred, himself, spent most of the following two days at his brother’s side. Though the stench in the room was now overwhelming, he was determined to be there for him until the very end. Wulfrida peeped round the door occasionally, a kerchief pressed firmly to her nose. She had made it quite clear that the reek of putrid flesh in her husband’s room made her physically sick and was unable to enter. That suited Alfred; he could bear no audience whilst his tears flowed.

  By Sunday the delirium had become almost total. Sometimes Aethelred’s speech became rambling and incoherent; sometimes he could get no words out at all. He ranted and raved about things only he could see, sobbing, then laughing hysterically. His physicians remained in the hall, should they be needed, though they shook their heads, sadly. Alfred knew, only too well, that there was nothing they could do, except to administer the regular dosage of belladonna. When the stricken king eventually succumbed to sleep, Alfred wiped his stream of drool and sponged his fevered brow. When he awoke, Aethelred would stare at him as if he were a stranger . . . and the raving would start all over again.

  On Sunday night, Alfred fell asleep, exhausted, by Aethelred’s bed, his head cradled on his folded arms on the furs. The physicians had dispensed the belladonna in a small cup of mead and, for a few hours, his brother had slept, propped up on his thick pillows. But then he roused and cried out, waking Alfred with a start. In the light from the single candle, Alfred watched as Aethelred lifted his undamaged arm and reached out across the room.

  ‘Father,’ he said, so quietly that Alfred could scarcely hear. ‘I’ll be with you soon.’

  Compelled to turn his head, Alfred could see only his own shadow cast by the candlelight. He drew breath to assure his brother there was no one there . . . then chose not to destroy the comforting image his brother’s mind had created. And who was he to know what others saw as their mortal lives drew to a close?

  ‘I know, Father,’ Aethelred murmured again. ‘Alfred is beside me now, as he has always been.’ Aethelred’s voice was steady, his words precise; the deranged rantings of earlier seeming to have vanished. His gaze moved from the dancing shadows to focus on Alfred’s face. ‘My brother, my friend, my advisor and my support,’ he said, reaching to take Alfred’s hand. ‘I would not have ruled so well without you at my side. You have truly been my rock. But now I must leave you behind . . . Father is waiting for me.’

  Alfred’s throat was too swollen to speak. He felt the hot tears run down his cheeks and he leaned over to embrace his beloved brother.

  ‘You will make the greatest king of us all, Alfred,’ Aethelred whispered, stroking Alfred’s head, lying gently against his chest. ‘Remember my words when you feel everything is lost. You will not let Wessex fail. You will keep th
e promise you made to our father all those years ago.

  ‘But now I am weary and must sleep. We will talk again . . . another time and place.’

  Alfred lifted himself up, afraid of what he might see. But, although Aethelred’s eyes were closed, his shallow breathing was regular. Death had not yet claimed him.

  *****

  After the gruelling days of pain, fever and delirium, King Aethelred of Wessex died peacefully in his sleep in the early morning of April 23. He had not woken since his resigned conversation with Alfred the previous night.

  At dawn, Alfred had ushered Bishop Goderic into the bedchamber to read his brother the last rites in the presence of those in attendance at the Winchester hall. Shortly after, Alfred watched his beloved brother draw his last breath. Around him, Radulf, the Hampshire ealdorman, and some of Aethelred’s closest thegns, watched in sorrowful silence, whilst Wulfrida and her sons hovered some distance back, she with the kerchief held to her face.

  At her husband’s side, Ealhswith held on to his arm by way of showing her support. She watched him fight back the tears, proud that he held himself with such dignity. He could not afford to crumple before critical eyes. As the future king, Alfred needed to show self-control and inner strength.

  The bedchamber eventually emptied, leaving Alfred once more alone with his brother. His strict control collapsed and he sank to his knees and wept. When at last he composed himself, he prayed for Aethelred’s soul: the soul of a loving son, brother, husband and father; the soul of a fine king and defender of the Wessex people from slaughter and oppression at an enemy’s hand. And above all else, Alfred prayed for the soul of a truly devout Christian.

  *****

  The site for Aethelred’s burial was discussed throughout the afternoon. Wulfrida had little to contribute, seeming overwrought at the loss of her husband. Alfred was inclined to believe her grief to be genuine and her behaviour over the past days simply an inability to cope in the face of imminent death and the fetid stench in the sickroom. Aethelred’s sons, too, were in great need of comfort, and Alfred wondered how they would all bear up at the funeral. But in many ways it was of some consolation to him to know that his brother had, indeed, been truly loved.

  Bishop Goderic stayed in the hall for the discussion, as did Ealdorman Radulf and Aethelred’s resident thegns. With the Danes in Wessex, the choice of site for the king’s burial was of utmost importance. It was also imperative that the ceremony be performed in secret, some distance from Reading. Should the Danes discover the whereabouts of the king’s burial place, it was possible they would desecrate the grave, taking up Aethelred’s body to display as some kind of hideous trophy out of sheer wrath – and as an insult to the Christian God.

  Alfred had agonised over the need to inform Aethelswith of their brother’s impending death, though he knew his sister would be truly grieved if he did not. For one thing, a convoy coming from Mercia could be spotted by enemy scouts, alerting the Danes to something unusual occurring in Wessex. But the journey would also put Aethelswith’s life at great risk. Alfred would never forgive himself if anything happened to the sister he loved so dearly. As for the loathsome Burgred, he wasn’t likely to show his cowardly face, not after denying his ally the aid it desperately needed.

  A week ago, Alfred had sent messengers to Aethelswith at Gloucester, where the Mercian Court was residing for the Eastertide, with details of Aethelred’s tragic condition. He pictured his sister’s lovely face, and the way she would have crumpled on hearing that Aethelred was so close to death. He had warned her of the perils of travelling into Wessex and begged her to stay in Gloucester. And yet, as Aethelred’s sister, Aethelswith had a right to make her own decision. Alfred knew she would make every effort to be here for the funeral.

  Gloucester was over eighty-five miles away, and the riders had taken two days to get there. They arrived back three days ago with the return message that the Mercian queen would be heading for Winchester as soon as arrangements could be made. She had made no mention of her husband.

  ‘So, may I suggest Wimborne, near the south coast of Dorset as a suitable place?’

  Bishop Goderic’s gentle voice cut across Alfred’s thoughts of Aethelswith, who was probably somewhere on the road at this very moment. He stared at the bishop as the words took shape.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, rubbing his aching eyes. He had not slept more than a few hours in days. ‘I can see the sense in that. It’s certainly far enough away from Reading.’

  ‘And Wimborne is one of our most revered monasteries,’ Goderic added, nodding thoughtfully, ‘a sacred place indeed, and truly worthy of becoming the burial place of a king. It is also in a secluded spot, surrounded by woodland; quite delightful in the summer months. Our beloved king will rest peacefully there.’

  ‘Then I suggest we make plans for the funeral at Wimborne,’ Alfred said, the pain of loss making all this too difficult for him to talk about. Yet it had to be done, and the burial must be within the next week. ‘And my Lord Bishop, I ask that you travel with us to officiate.’

  ‘I would be deeply honoured,’ the kindly Goderic replied, his voice cracked with emotion. ‘I have known the king since he was a boy . . .’

  Then Radulf said, ‘What we must consider is how we can make the journey to Wimborne without arousing suspicion in any enemy scouts as to our purpose or destination. If we move as a long cavalcade, news of it will be sure to get back to Reading.’

  ‘There won’t be enough of us for a cavalcade,’ Alfred replied. ‘This funeral will not be well attended, our situation with the Danes does not allow for that. But I’m determined my brother will be interred with the reverence due to him. The gathering will be family and close attendants only. And we must endeavour to make our travelling party appear as something quite different.’

  ‘Like a hunting party, my lord?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Alfred murmured as he thought about it. ‘Yes, quite possibly, Radulf. And the king’s body will travel in a simple wagon – or perhaps just a cart; nothing to draw undue attention. Ealhswith will be happy to ride, and so will my sister. Lady Wulfrida . . .?’

  ‘No. If I must, I shall travel at the front of the wagon, or whatever means of transport you choose for my husband. My sons will ride. But I agree that Wimborne sounds the perfect spot for . . . for . . .’

  Alfred averted his eyes as Wulfrida fought to control her sobs, her distress rekindling his own. She rose, nodded to the group of men and hastened from the room to grieve in private. For some moments no one spoke, each silently thinking their own thoughts and coping with their own sorrow.

  ‘I’ll send messengers tomorrow to inform the abbot of our arrival,’ Alfred said quietly at last. ‘I’ll make it one week from today. That should give my sister time to get here and for our journey down to Dorset. We cannot leave it longer . . . the weather grows warmer by the day.’

  He did not need to say more and the meeting drew to a close.

  *****

  Aethelswith and her daughter arrived the following day with only a small escort of a dozen guards. Burgred was not with them. Beside her frowning husband, Ealhswith watched the party ride into the large enclosure surrounding the hall and draw up outside the oaken door. Alfred stepped forward as the Queen of Mercia’s attendants helped her and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Mildrede, to dismount. The horses were led away to be stabled and brother and sister greeted each other in a fond embrace.

  ‘Sister, I am relieved to see you here safely. Had I known that your entourage would be so small I would have sent men to escort you through Wessex.’

  ‘And draw attention to ourselves, Alfred?’ Aethelswith shook her head. ‘Was it not you, dear one, who warned me of the dangers of doing so? We have ridden here without pomp to appear as a simple group of travellers. Even my guards have concealed their armour beneath their jerkins, and swords beneath their riding cloaks.’

  Alfred nodded and Ealhswith could see he was impressed by Aethelswith’s reply. ‘Your appear
ance disguises your identity well,’ he said. ‘And will also suit our own travel arrangements. I did not mean to scold, sister. I was simply concerned for your safety and –’

  ‘I know. But we are here now and have much to say to each other, a little later. Now I must greet my dear sister, as I ought. And then, if you have forgiven me sufficiently,’ she added with a wry smile, ‘I shall enter the hall and speak with Wulfrida, who I imagine will be quite distraught.’

  Aethelswith came to join Ealhswith whilst Alfred engaged his niece in quiet conversation.

  Ealhswith could not help but notice that her sister-by-marriage looked so pale and drawn, her red-rimmed eyes betraying the fact that she had recently wept. Her dignified bearing and composed features reminded Ealhswith so much of Alfred’s battle with self control.

  The two women embraced each other as warmly as would any true sisters. They pulled back a little and Ealhswith offered a small smile of sympathy. Alfred was now speaking quietly to his niece, and she realised she should offer Aethelswith her condolences.

  ‘I cannot imagine grief as deep as your own and Alfred’s, my lady,’ she started, knowing her words sounded trite but struggling to find something more profound, or more comforting to offer. ‘My husband has been cut to the core, and now I see that same anguish mirrored in your eyes. I can say nothing to ease the pain of your loss; perhaps only time can do that. My heart aches for you both. King Aethelred was fortunate to have a brother and sister who loved him so dearly.’

  Aethelswith took Ealhswith’s hands in her own. ‘And Alfred is truly fortunate to have you for a wife. I have not seen so devoted a couple since my own parents passed away. True love in a marriage seems to be a rare thing indeed.’ Ealhswith did not miss the implicit reference to Aethelswith’s own unhappy years of wedlock. ‘And yes, sister, my grief for Aethelred will be with me for a very long time.’

  Aethelswith glanced at Alfred, still deep in conversation with Mildrede. ‘The three of us have always been close. Aethelred and Alfred were my little brothers, whom I cherished. These Danish invaders have taken so many lives. And now Aethelred’s . . .