Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

SHADOW OF THE RAVEN

Millie Thom

SONS OF KINGS: BOOK ONE

Contents

Copyright © 2014 by Millie Thom

All rights reserved

The moral right of Millie Thom to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publisher.

Shadow of the Raven
is for my husband, Nick, who has tolerated my obsession with both Alfred and the Danes, and trailed around numerous museums and historical sites with me in my insatiable desire for a better knowledge and understanding of the times.

About the Book

Shadow of the Raven
is an historical novel that follows the early years of Alfred of Wessex and Eadwulf of Mercia (whose character is fictitious, although his father is not). Their stories unfold during the tumultuous events of the mid-ninth century, when Danish raids render Western Europe in a state of panic and dread.

The Danes were fierce, pagan warriors, whose moral codes and barbaric rites defied the laws of their Christian neighbours. Driven by what they deemed the demands of their gods they plundered more affluent lands than their own, showing no mercy to those who stood in their way – as well as those who did not. And yet, their home life and customs reveal a different picture.

Documentary evidence from the time maintains that the earliest raids on the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms began with that on Lindisfarne, over fifty years prior to the start of this tale. Continuing sporadically, primarily along the coasts of Northumbria and Wessex during the next fifty odd years, by the 850’s attacks had become frequent enough to be a real cause for concern.

This situation called for cooperation between the formerly rival kingdoms, who found difficulty in seeing each other as anything other than bitter enemies. The first step towards unity was made between King Beorhtwulf of Mercia and King Aethelwulf of Wessex (father of Alfred, who later gained the title, ‘The Great’). The transference of a small section of Mercia to neighbouring Wessex around 848 is seen as the first mark of unity and friendship between them. The area transferred became the new Wessex shire of Berkshire, where Alfred was born at Wantage in 849.

This novel is about the sons of those two kings and their different stories as they grow. Although their lives take different routes and are set in different lands, they are inextricably linked through their families: links that will, one day, draw them together. It follows chronological events of the time, although, when it comes to Norse mythology, well, mythology it is! Many of the names, family relationships, dates and events come from a variety of conflicting sources. So I dipped into what seemed to fit best with my tale.

Other research relied initially upon
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
and
Asser’s Life of Alfred,
filled out with detail from a variety of notable works of non-fiction, including:
Alfred the Great
by Justin Pollard;
Alfred the Great
by Richard Abels:
The Life and Times of Alfred the Great
by Douglas Woodruff;
In Search of the Dark Ages
by Michael Wood;
The Vikings
by Magnus Magnusson;
Cultural Atlas of the Viking World
– contributors: Colleen Batey, Helen Clarke, R.I.Page and Neil S. Price and
Follow the Vikings –
a publication by the Council of Europe Cultural Route (purchased at Lindholme Höje in Denmark).

List of Characters

In Wessex:

Aethelwulf: King of Wessex (son of the great Bretwalda Egbert)

Osburh: his wife

Alfred: fifth son of Aethelwulf

Aethelstan, Aethelbald, Aethelberht and Aethelred: older sons of Aethelwulf

Aethelswith: Aethelwulf’s only daughter

Cynric: Aethelwulf’s nephew

Osric: Osburh’s brother and Cynric’s father

Osberht: Aethelwulf’s ageing groom

Edith: Osburh’s ageing nurse

In Francia:

Charles the Bald: King of the West Franks

Judith: Charles’s daughter

In Mercia:

Beorhtwulf: King of Mercia

Morwenna: his wife

Eadwulf: son of Beorhtwulf and Morwenna

Burgred: Beorhtwulf’s brother

Sigehelm: Eadwulf’s tutor

Thrydwulf: Mercian ealdorman

Aethelnoth: son of Thrydwulf and friend of Eadwulf

Beornred: young thegn at Beorhtwulf’s court

In the Danish Lands:

Rorik: Jarl from Aalborg

Egil: his right hand man

Ragnar Lothbrok: Jarl from Aros

Aslanga: his wife

Bjorn: Ragnar’s eldest son

Ivar, Halfdan and Ubbi: sons of Ragnar and Aslanga

Freydis: Ragnar’s only daughter

Thora: serving woman at Aros

Cendred and Burghild: Saxon slaves bought by Ragnar at Hedeby

Toke: Aslanga’s old Norwegian slave

Hastein: Bjorn’s cousin (on his mother’s side)

Leif: Bjorn’s helmsman

Jorund and Yrsa: Morwenna’s son and daughter

Alfarin: king of Bornholm Island

Kata: Alfarin’s daughter

Olaf: an ageing Norwegian seaman

One

London, Mercia: late March 851

The snowball caught him completely unawares; a solidly packed pellet that smacked into the side of his head with considerable force, sending him reeling. His pulse raced, his temper boiled but, despite his outrage, Eadwulf grudgingly admitted that the thrower had commendable aim. And now the perpetrator was standing over him, watching him rub his burning cheek, grinning like a cat who’d just devoured the tastiest mouse.

‘That doesn’t count!’ he yelled at Aethelnoth. ‘The match hadn’t even started – so that’s
cheating
!’ He glanced at the two lads on his team, who were both nodding in agreement. Aethelnoth’s grin widened still further and Eadwulf half expected him to lick his lips.

‘I suppose you’re expecting me to apologise,’ Aethelnoth said, struggling to suppress an outright guffaw. ‘But since I don’t call initiating the first strike “cheating”, you could be waiting a long time . . .’

Eadwulf launched himself at the bigger boy, knocking him off his feet and straddling him on the dirt-churned snow – then dissolved into fits of laughter at the goggling surprise on his friend’s face. The other lads gathered to witness the ensuing wrestling match that had, by now, become a familiar occurrence.

* * *

Being the son of a king could be so boring
at times
,
Eadwulf decided, cursing the need to spend so much time at his studies, when his friends were outside, having fun in the snow. Reading was one thing; he was good at that. And he loved the stories his tutor told him. But writing . . . ! His fingers ached from gripping his quill and his mind would not stay focused. To make matters worse, the snows were now determinedly thawing, icicles along the eaves beginning to drip. Soon the Mercian Court would leave for Buckingham. Yet here he was, in this dreary hall, staring at mind-numbing letters, willing the morning meal to be ready soon.
Then
he’d get even with Aethelnoth for yesterday.

His father, King Beorhtwulf, had only intended to spend the Christmastide at his London manor, but the heavy snows of early January had rendered moving on impossible. All roads had become blocked. So they’d simply been stuck here. Not that Eadwulf disliked it here, as a rule. In fine weather there was plenty to do, like visiting the market in London, a few miles south on the wide River Thames. And once his lessons were over, he had Aethelnoth to keep him company. At eleven, just a year older than himself, the reeve’s son had become Eadwulf’s firm friend over the years, despite his outlandish sense of fun.

But during the winter months the hall was dim and stuffy. Little light penetrated the shuttered windows and though a ruddy glow emanated from the fire in the central hearth, so did thick, dark smoke, which snaked up to the hole in the thatch, wafting about whenever servants scurried past. Oil lamps gave only localised light, the corners of the large room remaining in gloomy darkness.

He scowled at his quill, willing his hand to put the implement to use. But it was hopeless. He wiggled his fingers and glanced about, his thoughts wandering in multiple directions. At the far end of the room his mother, Morwenna, worked at one of the looms with her women, adeptly creating the much needed cloth. Eadwulf tugged at the neck of his itchy, woollen tunic, wondering whether weaving was as boring as writing . . .

If only he’d been allowed to ride out with his father on the morning hunt.

He peeked at his stern-faced tutor at the end of the table, who was still engrossed in his reading, his brown hair hanging lank about his face. Though not an old man, perhaps a little younger than Beorhtwulf in his fortieth year, Sigehelm behaved like one at times. He’d once trained for the priesthood but, for some reason, had left and become a tutor. A good decision in Eadwulf’s opinion: the Church was for fat old men who could do naught but beg God for things. Sigehelm was always talking about God, which was annoying at times, since Eadwulf hadn’t yet decided whether God was actually real.

With a resigned sigh he looked down at his morning’s work . . . and inwardly groaned. A dark, wet trail meandered its way from the horn ink pot, right across the detested parchment. Sigehelm would be sure to insist he write it all out again. Eyes focused on his tutor, he folded up the sheet, intending to dispose of it before it could be checked after the meal. Then he’d simply claim ignorance of its whereabouts.

‘If I’m not mistaken, Eadwulf, you have something to say to me.’

Sigehelm’s brown gaze was solemn. Had he spotted the messy parchment, or was he merely querying why Eadwulf had folded it up early?

‘I was just thinking it must be the end of the lesson, Sigehelm. I’ve worked hard since early morning and would like to stretch my legs before the meal.’

Not a complete lie; just not the entire truth. If that answer would suffice he could look forward to spending time with Aethelnoth. If not, it would be an afternoon inside this stuffy hall, copying out the dreaded letters again.

* * *

With his huntsmen and attendant thegns, King Beorhtwulf rode back from the forest, his two great wolfhounds loping along beside him. It had been a good hunt, confirmed by the quarry slung over the backs of the pack horses. Cooks flapped in appreciation as the huge deer and smaller game were laid outside the wattle-walled building that served as kitchen and bakehouse.

Beorhtwulf surveyed the carcass of the felled deer, an old stag with massive, branching antlers. The slow old beast had made easy prey. ‘It hardly seems fair, does it brother?’

‘What doesn’t seem fair?’ Burgred squinted at Beorhtwulf as unaccustomed sunshine brightened the sky. The air had lost its penetrating bite and he fingered the brooch fastening his black cloak.

‘To end a long life like this . . .’ Beorhtwulf shrugged his broad shoulders, touching the toe of his boot to the lifeless form. ‘He looks a noble creature; probably sired many calves in his time. To end up spitted over our hearth seems to deprive him of all dignity in death.’

‘Your sentimentality is misguided brother. The beast would surely be gratified to know he afforded many people much pleasure and kept our bellies full. And he was old . . . would soon have fallen to the forest floor where his carcass would have slowly rotted away, or been eaten by woodland scavengers. Does
that
sound very dignified to you? Besides, what use would scavengers have for those antlers, when our craftsmen can turn them into such useful things? You know how Morwenna loves her antler combs and bits of jewellery. I’m partial to antler knife handles myself, and the men would be lost without their gaming dice.’

Beorhtwulf grinned at his younger brother, half a head shorter than himself, his red-brown hair less fiery than his own bright red. ‘Point taken, Burgred. The meat will be more useful to us than foxes and the like. Let’s hope today marks the onset of a warm spring,’ he murmured, a note of optimism in his voice. ‘Our people grow restless to sow the corn and move the stock out to pasture.’

But Beorhtwulf was a worried man. The onset of spring would bring a far greater threat to Mercia than the snows, and at tomorrow’s meeting of the Witan there were urgent matters to discuss. With a heavy sigh he whistled for his hounds and strode towards the reed-thatched hall to share the morning meal with his wife and son.

* * *

Inside the hall, all domestic activity was suspended for the duration of the Witenagemot. Called in haste once travel had become possible, it was an unusually small gathering, several of the kingdom’s leaders dwelling too distant to reach London in time. Food preparation was relegated to the kitchens and Morwenna and her women had retired to their bower with their embroideries, leaving the looms redundant for the morning.

Beorhtwulf sat on his high-backed chair at the centre of the high table, against which two long trestles had been positioned at right angles. He surveyed the waiting assembly, feeling quite grand in his dark green tunic trimmed with gold braid, specially made for him by Morwenna. ‘The green will match your splendid eyes,’ she had said, ‘and the trim will complement your elegant crown.’ To his right, Burgred and Thrydwulf chatted amiably as they waited for him to make a start; to his left, Bishops Wulfhere and Ecgfrith waited in silence, their position at the high table testament to their integral roles in the government of Mercia. As marks of holy office, each bishop wore a large ring inlaid with amethyst and carried a tall staff. Attendant nobles, with four young men being trained in the royal household, sat expectantly along the remaining tables.

‘The time has come, my friends,’ Beorhtwulf began, the hall falling silent as he rose to his feet, ‘the time when we may have to fight for all we hold dear. You all know of the threat to Mercia of which I speak. The Danes have become bolder over the years. Their successes along coastal areas of Wessex and Northumbria have made them greedy for more. We have been spared from many of these raids by virtue of our limited coastline.
So far
. But now the situation has changed. The heathens have overwintered on the island of Thanet. With the spring they’ll be on the move, sailing up the Thames and conducting their raids using their ships as base. London stands on the Thames! This manor –
your
home, Thrydwulf – is very close to the Thames. They’ll load their ships with pillaged goods and sail back to Thanet before returning to their homeland, likely to repeat the process next year.’

Beorhtwulf waved away any untimely questions. ‘The name of their leader is Rorik, a man feared throughout the Low Countries, particularly in Friesland. He raids under the sponsorship of a man claiming to be Harald the Second of the Danes. Rorik is Harald’s brother. These two have become rich at the expense of many in mainland Europe and now their greedy hands reach out to our lands.’

He regarded the faces before him: his kinsmen and ealdormen; holy bishops, and young men at the beginning of what should be a long and fruitful life. How many would still be here next year?

‘Rorik is a shrewd leader,’ he stressed, ‘who means to maximise the plunder he can elicit from our people. We urgently need to devise strategies to stop him.’

Resuming his seat, Beorhtwulf allowed his councillors to share views amongst themselves. Most had believed that only the Welsh posed a threat to Mercia. Some of his most trusted ealdormen looked pale and shaken. The two bishops were stiff with outrage, while several younger men were putting on a show of outright bravado.

Thrydwulf raised a finger, requesting to speak. A big, sturdy man in his late thirties, the London reeve was experienced in both Council matters and combat, having led many armies against the Welsh, and had served Mercia loyally during Beorhtwulf’s twelve years of kingship. Today, Thrydwulf’s dark eyes matched his choice of tunic and cloak, contrasting with his thick, straw-coloured hair and beard. Beorhtwulf motioned for silence and Thrydwulf stood to face him.

‘We’ve all heard of this camp on Thanet, my lord, but know naught of its leader, or his intentions. What, or who, is your source of such information?’

‘I’ll leave my brother to explain that to you all, Thrydwulf.’

Beorhtwulf waited with a degree of anxiety, knowing that many viewed Burgred as an aloof character, too proud to mingle with the other men, though constantly surrounded by his own retainers. Some believed that Beorhtwulf relied too heavily on Burgred’s judgement. Perhaps he did. But his brother had often proposed policies that had proved to be most beneficial. It had been Burgred, after all, who’d advocated the alliance with Wessex: give King Aethelwulf the area of land that Wessex had coveted for so long and propose unity between their two kingdoms.

‘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.’