Born of the Sun (48 page)

Cutha minced no words. “My lord, would you like to be King of Wessex?” he asked.

“Wessex already has a king,” Witgar replied.

“True. But Ceawlin is a bastard. You are the son of Cerdic’s elder son. You have a truer claim to Wessex than does Ceawlin.”

“That may be so, but Ceawlin has been king for ten years and more. He will not easily be dislodged.”

“Not easily, no. But it is possible. Ceawlin is not as secure as he thinks he is.” Cutha’s blue eyes were very cold. “He has underestimated me, Witgar, and that is a serious mistake.”

“How is it possible?” Witgar asked bluntly. “I do not have the numbers of men at my disposal necessary to unseat a king with the following that Ceawlin can command.”

“Ah …” Cutha smiled. “But what following
can
Ceawlin command? That is the question, my lord. In Winchester he maintains about one hundred hall thanes, his own personal war band. The rest of his forces must be drawn from the followings of his eorls.”

“And?” Witgar prompted as Cutha fell into a seemingly rapt silence.

“And his eorls are largely pledged to me,” came the devastatingly simple reply.

There was a long silence. Then, “Who is pledged to you, cousin?” Witgar asked. “You must know that I have done some investigation of the situation in Wessex, and it seems to me that Ceawlin’s eorls are remarkably loyal.”

“They have been loyal, yes. But consider, Witgar. Sigurd is my son. Penda is my son-by-marriage. Ine was my thane before he became Ceawlin’s eorl; his first pledge of loyalty was to me. Cynigils is as unhappy with Ceawlin as I am, is ready to follow me. I should say that the only two eorls who have a genuine loyalty to Ceawlin are Bertred and Wuffa.”

Witgar’s greenish-gray eyes were narrowed. “Are you saying that the eorls you have named will be willing to join a war band opposed to Ceawlin?”

“They will either join with us or they will hold aloof. At any rate, they will not join Ceawlin.”

“You have pledges of this?”

Cutha’s eyes did not flicker. “Yes, my lord. I do.”

Witgar took a long drink from his beer cup. Then, “He has only a hundred men in Winchester?”

“A hundred hall thanes. He might be able to recruit more men if he were given the time. But we will not give him the time.”

“What about his wife’s people, the British?”

“I doubt not that the Atrebates would stand by him. But again, he must have time to rally them.”

Witgar took another drink. Then, “It will not serve, cousin. To be successful, we must have a quick victory. To be blunt: to be successful, we must capture Ceawlin. And I do not have sufficient numbers of men to do it.”

Cutha drained his cup and put it on the wooden table with a little thump. “We could get more men from East Anglia,” he said.

Witgar stared at him. “How?”

“Marry your granddaughter to Guthfrid’s son and promise him the kingship of Wessex after you.”

Witgar’s eyes began to grow very green. “Guthfrid’s son,” he said softly. Then, “But they are cousins.”

“Not in blood,” said Cutha dryly. “I would take my oath that Edgar is not Cynric’s son. However,” and he shrugged, “the boy is certainly Guthfrid’s son, and she is a princess of East Anglia. Your granddaughter would be queen, my lord. Your great-grandson would be king.”

“I thought you hated Guthfrid,” Witgar said. “Ever since my uncle died you have been her sworn foe. And she must hate you as much as you hate her. Do you think she will agree to join with you in such an enterprise?”

There was no more beer in Cutha’s cup. “As you say, my lord, Guthfrid and I have been sworn enemies and mortal foes for all these many years. But now we need each other. She will accept me as an ally; for the sake of her son, she will accept me.”

“If you can get promises of aid from East Anglia, we can do it,” said Witgar. “I can raise a hundred men. If East Anglia can give us a hundred more and if some of Ceawlin’s eorls will rally to our cause with their men, then we can do it.”

“Yes,” said Cutha grimly. “I think we can.”

“And Ceawlin himself?”

Cutha’s eyes were a clear sea of untroubled blue. “We cannot allow Ceawlin to live,” he said. “He would be too dangerous.”

Witgar nodded, satisfied. “That is my thought also. And his sons?”

Cutha shrugged. “They are but children yet. It is the father that we want, Witgar.”

Witgar looked shrewdly at Cutha’s face. Then, “Will you go yourself to East Anglia, cousin?”

Cutha smiled crookedly. “I would ask you first to send a request for safe conduct. Guthfrid is likely to have me murdered before ever she can hear my proposal.”

“That is easy enough,” Witgar replied. “I will send one of my own eorls to prepare your way.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The two men rose, looked at each other, and then joined hands. “You will be King of Wessex, Witgar,” Cutha said. “I gave the power into Ceawlin’s hands once and now I will give it into yours.”

“You will not find me ungrateful, cousin,” Witgar replied, and Cutha’s returning smile was distinctly wry.

It was early October before Cutha was able to travel to East Anglia. It had taken a great deal of persuasion by Aethelbert to get his sister to see Ceawlin’s traitor eorl. Guthfrid’s passions had not cooled with time and, next to Ceawlin, there was no one she hated so much as Cutha. If it were not for him, she thought, Ceawlin would never have gained the throne of Wessex. In a sense, it was Cutha who was the author of all her woes, and she refused point-blank even to talk to him.

It took Aethelbert the better part of a month to convince Guthfrid that it was in her interest, in Edgar’s interest, to come to terms with the eorl. Aethelbert himself was eager to avenge the defeat he had suffered at Ceawlin’s hands upon the battlefield. The very name Gild Ford was an agonizing humiliation to his fierce pride. He had gathered a new crop of thanes into his hall at Sutton Hoo but his following was but a remnant of the proud war band he had taken into Wessex. He did not have the manpower to attack Ceawlin again by himself, and so this offer from Wight interested him mightily.

At last, driven by her own desire for revenge, her ambition for her son, and the unrelenting persuasions of her brother, Guthfrid agreed to see Cutha.

She received him in the great hall of Sutton Hoo, wearing her most magnificent jewelry and seated beside Aethelbert in the high seat. Her son, Edgar, sat on the bench on her other side.

The eleven years since she had been driven out of Winchester had set lines like scars into Guthfrid’s face. But her hair had retained most of its gold, her figure was still slim, her pride was as high as ever it had been. When Cutha approached the queen he had dethroned, she said coldly, “You may kneel.” Nor did she allow him to rise until he had begged her pardon for the wrongs he had done her and her son.

Cutha was properly repentant and humble and, after a good ten minutes, Guthfrid allowed him to regain his feet. It was then that the negotiations began.

Guthfrid agreed to marry her son to Witgar’s granddaughter. She agreed to allow Witgar, an old man, she thought, surely not long for this world, to reign in Winchester until his death. Then Edgar would assume his rightful place. Guthfrid always thought of the kingship of Wessex as rightfully belonging to Edgar. It had been many years since she had troubled to remind herself that Edgar was not truly Cynric’s son.

For his part, Aethelbert would send one hundred thanes into Wessex, to invade by way of Kent. The two war bands would converge at Winchester, where they would overcome Ceawlin’s thanes and capture the king.

“The key is surprise,” Cutha said to Aethelbert. “We must not give Ceawlin notice of our coming. We must reach Winchester on the first day of our march. Once Ceawlin has warning of our coming, he will have time to send for reinforcements. He is a dangerous man, my lord. A very dangerous man.”

Aethelbert was silent. He had found out the truth of that statement for himself.

“What if Ceawlin is not at Winchester?” Guthfrid asked.

“Then will it be easy to take the royal enclave.”

“But you have just been saying how dangerous this Ceawlin is!” said Edgar, brown eyes reflecting his confusion at the apparent contradiction.

“When once I … we … have control of Winchester, I will send word to my son Sigurd. Wherever Ceawlin is, he will send for Sigurd to join him with Sigurd’s thanes. It is Sigurd who will capture Ceawlin.”

“Sigurd?”
said Guthfrid. “Sigurd was ever Ceawlin’s staunchest supporter.”

“Sigurd is the reason I was unable to consolidate my victory at Odinham,” Aethelbert said bitterly. “It was his coming up at the last minute that gave fresh heart to Ceawlin’s men.”

Cutha forbore to remind Aethelbert that he too had been at Odinham. “Sigurd is my son and a Saxon,” he answered confidently. “The claims of kinship will weigh with him more than the claims of friendship.”

“Ceawlin will never suspect Sigurd,” said Guthfrid.

Cutha smiled. “No,” he answered. “He will not.”

The sun was shining on the day that Cutha left Sutton Hoo. A good omen, he thought. All had fallen out much as he had desired. By the following summer, he should once more be back in his hall at Winchester.

If there was the slightest hint of doubt in his mind that he had misrepresented to both the kings with whom he had been dealing the disaffection of Ceawlin’s eorls, he did not let it bother him. Penda he had not approached directly, but Penda was a pragmatic man. And Coenburg would work on him, keep him from taking the field against her father and her brother.

Sigurd … He had to admit he was not so certain of Sigurd as he had made himself seem to Guthfrid. Still, even if Sigurd decided to hold himself aloof and do nothing, still would that be a help to Witgar’s cause. Between them, Sigurd and Penda commanded at least eighty thanes.

Never once, in all his ambitious devising of plots and schemes, never once did it occur to Cutha that he was forcing an impossible choice upon his son, placing him in an impossible situation.

Crida was luckier on his thirteenth birthday than Cerdic had been. The April day was chill but springlike, with snatches of sunshine. Ceawlin took Crida hunting, just the two of them, as he had done for Cerdic the previous year, albeit belatedly. Crida was enormously pleased with the honor; it was rare that he had his father to himself.

The hounds got a scent almost instantly and gave chase, Ceawlin and Crida galloping after through the greening woods, over branches that had come down with the winter ice, ducking close to their horses’ necks when the overhanging trees swept too close to their heads. After a run of perhaps twenty minutes the hounds lost the scent and began to cast around again. Ceawlin pulled his horse up and looked at his second son.

Crida was an excellent horseman; the best in Winchester, Ceawlin thought proudly. His small size made it easy for him to balance in the saddle, and his legs were extremely strong. He would never have the height that Cerdic had and that Ceowulf was going to have, and suddenly Ceawlin wondered if that bothered him. It was often difficult to know what Crida was thinking or feeling. Cerdic’s was a far more open nature than was his younger brother’s.

“You are the best horseman in Winchester,” Ceawlin said now to his son. “I have always loved to watch you ride.”

Crida looked over at Ceawlin, his eyes widening with surprise. “You are the best horseman in Winchester, Father. Everyone knows that.”

Ceawlin shook his head. “I am too tall. You are better.”

Crida’s fair skin, so like Ceawlin’s own when he was a boy, flushed with betraying color. “Well, I suppose being small has some uses.”

“You have my coloring but you are built like your mother,” Ceawlin said.

“I know.” The answer was flat. “I used to think that I would grow, would be as tall as Cerdic, but I have long since resigned myself to the fact that I will not.”

“You will grow,” Ceawlin replied. “Your mother’s brother is not a small man. But you are never going to be as tall as Cerdic.” He looked seriously at his son. “What does that matter, Crida? You have gifts of more importance than size.”

Crida’s eyes were Ceawlin’s also, although more green than blue. They gave nothing away as he answered, “What do I have, Father?”

“You have intelligence,” Ceawlin said. “Extraordinary intelligence.” He grinned. “Your mother would say you got that from her also.”

Crida’s usually reserved face lit with a reciprocal smile.

“You will be of great value to your brother when he is king,” Ceawlin told his son. “I am very proud of you, Crida.” He watched Crida try to hide his pleasure and thought that it had been a good idea to spend some time alone with the boy, that he should do it again. Then the hounds gave voice and once again father and son were off in pursuit.

Niniane stood on the steps of the princes’ hall and watched her husband and her son coming back from the stables. They were walking very close together. In his left hand Ceawlin was carrying a bow. His right arm was laid across Crida’s shoulders. The top of Crida’s head just cleared his father’s shoulder. Niniane looked at the two blond heads, shining like silver in the spring sun, and blinked back a tear.

Crida saw her first. “We got a boar, Mother!” he called.

“Very good.” She smiled at the two of them. “I’ll wager you also got an appetite.”

“One of the reasons I have held so steadfastly to your mother for all these years, Crida,” Ceawlin said seriously, “is that she understands how important food is to a man.”

Crida laughed. “You hold to Mother because she is the finest lady in all the world,” he said.

Ceawlin’s eyes went to his wife. “That is true also,” he agreed, his eyes brimming with amusement.

“You are a credit to me, Crida,” said Niniane. Then she added to her husband, “Gereint rode in while you were gone, Ceawlin. Naille is dying.”

All the amusement left Ceawlin’s face. “Where is he?” he asked.

“In the king’s hall. He has come to ask you to go north with him. Naille wants to see you.”

Ceawlin nodded, patted Crida on the shoulder, and went off to talk with Gereint.