Pride Of Mercia
by Wallis Peel
Copyright © Wallis Peel 2010
First published in 2010 by Giete, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton Somerset TA4 1QF
www.wallispeelbooks.com
Published in ebook format by Amolibros at Smashwords 2010
Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF
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The right of Wallis Peel to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
With the exception of certain well-known historical figures, all the other characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This book production has been managed by Amolibros
Author’s Note
When King Penda dies after losing the battle to King Oswiu of Northumbria, the Mercians are devastated to realise they will be subjugated and have to pay tribute to their hated enemies. Penda’s oldest son becomes king but the ealdormen, led by Burhred, do not support him, yet realise that Wulfhere the younger son is not ready and would not be a popular choice.
Wulfhere is whisked away along with Aidan, a tough churl, to a remote village where he is to be turned into kingly material, but not without treachery from the local lord of the manor.
And while Wulfhere and Aidan deal with treachery, back at home there is murder. But who, and why?
Elfrida and Alicia are the two women of this tale: Elfrida, feisty and courageous, desperately in love with Wulfhere, who doesn’t even notice her; Alicia, shrewish and devious, madly in love with Elfrida’s brother, and determined to have her scheming way
This is a tale set in the seventh century with family and political infighting at its core. These themes are as relevant today as they were then and this is why Wallis Peel's stories are so gripping.
Wallis Peel has that uncanny ability to draw her readers into any tale she pens.
Neil Weston, librarian
Much to the delight of her loyal fans, veteran author Wallis Peel has published yet another sizzling historical tale… Pick up any Wallis Peel book and you know you’re getting a thundering good tale, spiced with a pinch of romance, a sprinkling of passion and a good dollop of exciting warfare, all bound together with historical fact.
Carole Taylor, journalist
Dedication
For Joey and Steve Kingman.
654 AD
It is historical fact that Wulfhere, one of the sons of King Penda of Mercia, was taken by three earldormen and hidden for three years. History does not explain where he was taken nor why. Perhaps this story gives a reasonable explanation.
Because of the story. I have used the writer’s licence to condense the timescale a little.
It is historical fact that King Penda did die on the banks of the stream called Winwaed at Loidis which is today’s Leeds.
One
Sihtric reeled in the saddle. The blood oozed in a steady stream, and he wondered just how much longer he had before death snatched him. His great strength had long gone, and he stayed in the saddle through pure balance, plus the drive to get home and tell them.
How far had he come? He shook his head and gritted his teeth to concentrate and calculate. He seemed to have been riding for ever, which was nonsense, but twice he knew he had gone wrong. The forests were so thick in parts, and the trails were not always reliable. The sun was fickle as well, which had not helped a dying man to navigate.
He eased back on the reins and swayed a little, while one hand clutched the wound in his side. The blue tunic had almost been torn from his back and blood welled down his cross-gartered trousers to lodge in his well-cut boots. So much blood! How much could a man lose before he died?
His cloak had failed to withstand the battle, and only his round pin broach remained. It hung loose and threatened to fall. His face was covered with mud and sweat, and was now heavily crinkled with pain lines. He shook his head to clear his mind, and promptly regretted this. He had to get back to warn them, and he shuddered. To think he was the only surviving member of the king’s gesith.
He had fought well and valiantly, willing to die beside his king but a final, flashing look from King Penda’s eyes plus a few shouted words in a direct order had told him what he was expected to do.
King Penda knew he and his Mercians were doomed. It would be a shameful defeat on the banks of the Winwaed stream at Loidis, but King Oswiu and his fierce Northumbrians had been just too much for them.
“Warn my people!” King Penda’s eyes had flashed. “They must prepare a new king!”
Sihtric had not hesitated. He had run for his horse, vaulted onto his saddle, and managed to gallop despite the awful spear wound, which had come at the last second.
He could not help but let his thoughts drift as he allowed his tired horse to walk for a while. Exactly why the battle had taken place in the first place he was not too sure. It was agreed that King Oswiu was the enemy of Mercia but he had not hesitated to let his elder son marry Penda’s daughter while Oswiu’s younger son was a hostage of Penda. So what had gone wrong? Was it religion, Sihtric asked himself?
King Penda, like Sihtric, followed the true God Woden but King Penda had always been a tolerant man. He had allowed the strange, robed and hooded men to come down from Northumbria and relate their ridiculous story of someone, in another distant land, who had died nailed to two pieces of wood.
Was it possible that King Penda’s laxity upon religious matters, had offended Woden? Perhaps everyone had been lax with their prayers and sacrifices. Sihtric shook his head slowly. Whatever it might be that had brought this disaster down upon Mercia, he would have no further part in its well-being. He could smell death upon himself.
His life had been good, with three wives, which was not unnatural when so many died giving birth. Of his many children only two had managed to survive to adulthood, but they were fine, strong and healthy. He frowned for a minute. Elfrida, his daughter was fifteen years old now, and she should have been married at least a year ago. The trouble was, Elfrida was stubborn, with a mind of her own and perfectly well prepared to argue the toss even with him.
Now his son Cynewulf, a year younger than his sister, was another matter. It was true, he was well trained with all weapons, but Cynewulf was—and Sihtric hunted for the correct word—his son was not terribly bright and he had reservations about him.
On more than one occasion it was Elfrida, who had beaten her brother in their childish fights, which was, surely, all wrong? She could be so aggressive and dominant, and Cynewulf definitely had a hesitant streak in his makeup, which bothered Sihtric. Surely a son of his could be neither soft, nor cowardly?
His horse stumbled and jolted him. He could not help let out a grunt at the pain. He held the reins more firmly, heeled his mount and collected it up again. He eyed the sky; not long past noon so, with luck, surely he could get back home before night?
He started to daydream again, not so much because of tiredness or carelessness, but more from that mystical state that heralds death—when the borderline between living and dying is just a thread.
At thirty-nine years old, he had done very well for himself because he owned twenty hides of very good land, which was valued at just over twelve hundred shillings, which made him a Twelfhyde man. His cattle and pigs thrived on this land, although it was a constant battle to stop the forest invading again. He had plenty of cottars and gerbers in his power. The former worked for him every Monday, as well as extra days at harvest time. The gerbers paid their dues in money and produce as well as by their labour. He had never bothered to hold slaves, because they could be a poor crop to raise. Even the best, well-trained slave only equalled eight oxen in value. Slaves could also be a nuisance.
Was Cynewulf capable of handling his estate? Sihtric bit his lip doubtfully. Elfrida certainly was but he wished for no trouble between brother and sister. Even nowadays there were times when they quarrelled, far more than siblings should.
Two years ago, in a miserable winter, a lord’s travelling clerk had arrived and Sihtric had had his Will drawn up. He could neither read nor write himself because runic letters were hard to learn as well as form. Not that this mattered. His Will had been read to him and checked by an elder, and he knew the Witan would see his wishes were carried out with scrupulous fairness. When Elfrida did finally decide upon a young man she would take him a first-rate dower.
He made himself sit up straight again and take notice of where he was because he knew he could not stay in this saddle for much longer. Was there a familiarity about this area? And his hope soared. He watched his horse’s ears prick; the animal knew where he was and started to quicken his pace.
Sihtric winced and groaned as the horse broke into a canter, oblivious to the bit now. The animal scented fires, human scents and odours from domesticated animals including its own old companions.
‘Hang on!’ Sihtric grunted to himself. ‘Don’t give up now when you are so near!’ he self-rebuked but oh, what an effort it all was.
§
Elfrida preened herself as she hung over the pool. A careful study of each feature showed, although no great beauty, she was not to be ignored either, where looks were concerned. She had a nice high forehead, a smart little nose, topped with deep blue eyes. Her hair was fine and flaxen and her lips, not too ripe, and certainly not for pouting, were meant to be kissed—so why didn’t he?
Because he did not know she existed, she told herself a little petulantly and gave a huge sigh. How stupid boys could be at times. She sat up straight and removed an imaginary crease from her tunic, whose colour matched her eyes. Elfrida knew she was very fashion-conscious, not that it seemed to do much good with him. Her trousers were a light tan, brown the same colour as her belt, to which was attached her long, bladed, exceedingly sharp dagger.
Her thoughts came back to Wulfhere again. Where was he now? She had hunted for him, without success, then given it up as a bad job. When Wulfhere took it into his head to vanish he did just that. Surely he was not with Osburga once more? She bit her lip with worry. Osburga was as dark as she was fair, and she had a pair of eyes almost black in colour. What did Osburga have that she did not? It was too infuriating for words.
From this position she was partially hidden, but could still see the tun. To one side stood the flimsy homes which were built over a pit in the ground. Elfrida, as one of the nobility, lived in a better house constructed of wattle and daub, which had a wooden floor. Their house was almost waterproof, except in the most bitter storms, and it was reasonably comfortable, though the winds in the winter found every nook and cranny.
Her thoughts switched to her brother. Deep down, she did not really like him, but with Father away so much they were thrown together more than she really cared for. Cynewulf was—she pondered over him—her brother was not as hard as he should be. She was a firstborn, but, as the girl, he was inclined to look down upon her, which usually resulted in Elfrida smacking him on the end of his tender nose, then dancing out of his reach. Because Cynewulf lumbered. He had no grace at all. It was true that he was well made, with height, and the promise of great muscles when fully grown but he was so slow that he sent a message before using his hands or weapons.
Elfrida knew she could run rings around him, because, although tall for a girl, she was wiry and swift. When she made a comparison between her brother and where her heart lay, she always ended up shaking her head. It was true, Wulfhere did not have the best of temperaments. He could be moody, arrogant, hot-tempered and just a little too quick to use his royal position for his own advantage.
That did not matter. Elfrida, with a wisdom beyond her years, knew that, as males matured, many came to be more reasonable and who was better to be the wife of the king’s son than herself? She was fully trained in all weapons; a skilled tracker; a good hunter and beautifully educated. She could read and write and knew all their laws and customs. She understood domestic matters and estate management. Her breeding was impeccable.
She thought about her beloved father. She knew she was his favourite without realising this was because she was a mirror of her long-dead mother. Elfrida also suspected that her father was uncertain about his only son, who was a constant, deep worry to him. Poor Cynewulf, she grinned. If he was not in trouble from one direction then it was from another. If only he would stop and think things through instead of stamping around like a young bull, scenting his first cow on heat.
She knew that, reluctantly, she must head back to the tun centre. Her tunic rippled with her movements. It was made from fine linen, skilfully woven by slaves and was worth many sceats, though she had never handled a coin so far. There was no need, because when Father was away, as now, the Witan oversaw the needs of brother and sister. She had been carefully taught the value of money; the sceat, penig and styca. A pound was a very rare coin and no one here had ever seen one.
Alicia watched her pass and sniffed. She did not really care for Elfrida, but she did like her brother so went out of her way to try and be friendly. She tossed her brown hair, and eyed Elfrida enviously. What splendid clothing, and that expensive brooch! Alicia wallowed in a wave of hot jealousy.
“Have you been walking far?” she asked quietly, falling into step.
Elfrida threw her a look. Now, what did she want? She knew Alicia was besotted with her brother and thought she was mad. She shrugged: “Why?”
Alicia had the grace to blush and drop her eyes. Elfrida was stuck up just because of her breeding. She stifled the hot retort, which rose to her lips though. It would be most improvident to antagonise Elfrida, who was quite capable of punching her face. “Just wondered,” she mumbled and knew she had gone scarlet.
Elfrida saw through her and wondered why she felt a flash of pity for Alicia. She was certainly of Cynewulf’s calibre, short on brains, but long on ambition, and would it do either of them any good?
She spotted Cynewulf from her eye corner, and drew Alicia’s attention to him, while watching her face. Suddenly, she felt a rare flash of empathy for Alicia. It was so obvious to her that Alicia thought the sun and moon shone on Cynewulf, who appeared not to know she existed. This meant the girl was in the same exasperating position as herself for Wulfhere. “They are infuriating at times, aren’t they?” she said in a quiet, confidential voice.
Alicia was startled, then she saw pity and understanding in Elfrida’s eyes. Her interest flared. Did that mean she had her eyes fixed on someone too? “Maddeningly so!” she replied. “And here comes your brother now!”
Elfrida groaned inwardly. If Cynewulf was in one of his tormenting moods she knew she would go for him, because her heartache was suddenly resolved. How blind and stupid she had been. As Wulfhere was one of King Penda’s sons, all she had to do was ask her father to speak for her!
“I’m going!” Alicia said, hoping Cynewulf would chase after her. He was so handsome. He made her thighs go all weak and trembling.
“Well, Sister!” Cynewulf stated, halting before her, oblivious to Alicia’s departure. “Why so serious?”
“Where have you been?” Elfrida demanded.
Cynewulf gave a shrug which could have meant anything. “Here and there.”
“What about your studying?” she asked practically. Even though there were days when she disliked her brother she was conscious of her additional two years.
Cynewulf grimaced. He was nearly a replica of his sister, except his eyes were grey, and his hair much darker. He was thickset, and perhaps even a little too fat for someone so young, because Cynewulf adored his food. “Writing is for clerks, not warriors!” he said with a grin.
Elfrida shook her head. She knew he hated studying for the simple reason it was such hard work to him. He was a poor scholar, and how he would manage an estate one day was beyond her. If he married Alicia, would she prove capable? This was a new thought, and she was uncertain whether she liked it. Then her eyes opened wide. “Don’t turn around!” she hissed at Cynewulf. “Just walk off quietly with me. We can run when we’re round the corner!”
Cynewulf went stiff and tightened the grip on his spear but obeyed. Elfrida was nobody’s fool. “Who is it?”
“Lord Burhred!”
Cynewulf paled. Burhred was the senior elder with a testy temper, and no patience at all for the young. He was highly respected, heading the Witan in the king’s absence, and everyone hung on his every word.
They rounded a corner and broke into a mad run, bolting for the fringe of the forest. Inside the trees they stopped and looked back apprehensively. “Did he see us?” Cynewulf asked nervously, quite terrified of this elder.
Elfrida pulled a face. “Since when did he ever miss anything?”
Cynewulf groaned. “I messed up my lessons, and he beat me and I can’t help it,” he complained bitterly. “I’m not clever at things like you. Anyhow, why should I bother to learn? I can always engage a clerk. Father cannot read or write, and it’s not harmed him!”
Elfrida knew when not to argue. Cynewulf’s face held a pout, and he was halfway into one of his famous sulks. If Alicia could see him now, she told herself, she might have a few reservations, but she held her tongue. In one way, she felt pity for her brother, because at times he was pathetic.
Cynewulf looked back through the trees, his shoulders slumped a little. Then he flashed a look at his sister. He would never admit it, but there were times when she scared the living daylights out of him. She was so good at whatever she did…it simply was unfair. Then he brightened and turned back to her. “I know something you don’t know!” he hissed, his voice edged with triumph.
Elfrida held her breath. One of Cynewulf’s more unpleasant traits was his ability to gossip like an old woman who had nothing better to do. “What is it?” she asked wearily. Some ridiculous tittle-tattle.
“It’s about Wulfhere!” he told her and grinned. He did not like the king’s middle son, for the simple reason he was scared of him. There were times when Wulfhere resembled a bad-tempered bear just out of hibernation. “He’s in love!” he chuckled. “And smitten with it!”
Elfrida felt a cold hand squeeze her heart, but willed her features to remain impassive. She broke eye contact to remove an imaginary speck of dirt from her tunic. “Who?” she asked nonchalantly.
“It’s Osburga!” Cynewulf confided and waited, watching her sharply.
Elfrida was a superb actress, though it was a struggle to cover up her emotions. “So?” she drawled, noncommittally, while her heart hammered. It could not be true, could it? Was that why he ignored her?
Cynewulf suddenly stiffened: “Something has happened. People are shouting! There’s a rider just come in, and…. Oh! People are running. Come on, it may be news of Father!”
They both raced back the way they had come, and rather rudely pushed themselves through the milling crowd as a rider fell from his horse. Then Elfrida used her elbows ruthlessly and pushed her way to the front.
“Father!” she cried in horror and fell down on her knees beside him. Cynewulf stood a pace behind, not yet able to take in and believe the scene before his eyes.
“Get back all of you!” a stentorian voice bellowed, and Burhred ruthlessly hurled people aside with the rest of the Witan at his heels.
Sihtric looked up as his senses began to swim. He had done it, but at what cost? He heard the people and thought he recognised individual voices. “Elfrida?” he croaked uncertainly.
“Yes! I’m here!” she cried.
“I too, my lord!” Burhred announced and frowned. This man was very near to death indeed. From the state of his dress he knew there could not be much blood left in his body so he forced his creaking knees to bend and kneel, with his head to the other warrior. “Your news?” he asked anxiously.
Sihtric struggled to assemble coherent speech. “We have lost the battle, and King Penda will be dead by now. Northumbria rules, and shortly their men will be down here. You are to pick a new king, I was ordered to tell you!” he blurted out with the last dregs of its strength.
Burhred was appalled. Elfrida felt the tears streaming down her cheeks because she loved her father dearly. Cynewulf stood flat-footed and disbelieving.
Elfrida took her father’s limp hand into hers. The skin was so white. Yet this side of his body was red and sticky. Cynewulf had no words but he felt a strange prickle at the back of his eyes. Between himself and his father there had been a barrier that he had never understood. His father could not just die and leave them.
Burhred was thinking rapidly. It was unlikely the Northumbrians were on their way down here right now. They would be too busy celebrating. So how much time could he count on? He eyed the dying man. A few more minutes and that will be it, he told himself. It was staggering that he had been able to ride from Loidis in this state but, then, that was his breeding. His daughter came from the same vital metal; it was a pity her brother did not.
“We lost badly, my lord?” he asked heavily.
Sihtric looked at him. “Very badly,” he croaked, and his eyes flashed what he could not say. It had been slaughter. The pride of Mercia was no more. Then he forced himself to practical matters. “My Will! I charge you to see to my Will. Elfrida, you are told, and you too, son. Obey the elders. Why has it gone so dark? I thought it was still afternoon!” he gasped, speech now too much of an effort. He slitted his eyes for a final look at his beloved daughter, managed one meaningful glance at Burhred and died. Bled to death.
As Elfrida let herself go so Cynewulf felt free to indulge in his own tears of shock, while he stood miserably. The siblings’ world had collapsed. What was their life going to be like under the thumb of the elders, especially Lord Burhred?
Burhred stepped back, turned and strode away. This had always been an outside possibility, although he had not expected it quite so soon. How could the pride of Mercia be so trampled on the banks of the Winwaed stream at that barbaric place called Loidis? It just did not make sense. Yet it had happened.
Two
Burhred marched through the tun, seemingly indifferent to it yet, acutely aware of who was where and why. In his opinion, it was a good place to live, because it was quite large and contained over five hundred households. The palace stood on the left, and he eyed it thoughtfully and gave a tiny shake to his head. Somehow, their four classes of rank annoyed him. The best was, in his opinion, that of the churl while he, as a dignified, respected and powerful earldorman, received nothing but trouble and problems for his rank.
He spotted a movement and halted, eyes narrow, and beckoned. The young man stepped into view, his fishing rod in one hand and a spear in the other. There was no doubt he was a handsome youth, and, when fully developed and grown, would make an outstanding man, but now he constantly annoyed Burhred. He still had a youth’s lanky body with under-developed muscles, and his eyes, too often, wore either arrogance or a fit of the sulks. King Penda’s middle son left much to be desired though, deep down, Burhred liked him, but no one had the faintest idea, certainly not Wulfhere.
“Your father, the king, is dead!” he barked unceremoniously. “Get over there, then return to where you were fishing. I’ll want to see you. Move, I say! Now, not tomorrow!”
“Dead?” Wulfhere gasped, hardly able to believe his ears. He could not move and gave a tiny shake to his head. This was news that had never entered his mind. His great father, like King Pybba before him, had an air; an aura of regality, which commanded instant respect and Wulfhere was well aware he lacked this. No matter what he did, people sniggered at him behind his back. To counter his deep hurt, he swaggered, not realising he was simply compounding youthful faults. How could his father be dead? It was impossible for such a brave, skilled warrior. He gulped, struggling to assimilate the shock, aware that the dreaded Burhred held him in his iron gaze.
“Now!” Burhred thundered.
Wulfhere jumped forward. No one in their right mind argued the toss with this lord who had been such a brilliant fighter in his younger days, alongside Mercia’s old King Pybba. He took to his heels, still stunned and wished desperately there was someone with whom he could talk sincerely.
Then the full implication hit him. Mercia was kingless! A state of affairs that would have to be remedied forthwith and he was one of Penda’s sons. A sharp doubt hit him. Elder brother Peada? He scowled at the very thought. He was a married man, and logically next in line, but Wulfhere gritted his teeth. He loathed brother Peada and suspected this feeling was returned in full.
Burhred watched his retreating back and knew his thoughts to the last syllable. He sniffed, then gave a surreptitious look around before grunting with approval. They were following him, coming from different directions, strolling as if they did not have a care in the world. Good, he muttered to himself. Now to find somewhere very private and discreet, and he knew exactly where to go. It was true, the three of them if seen together would make tongues work fast and in one direction only but this could not be helped under these horrific circumstances.
With an agility surprising in a man who had reached the remarkable age of fifty-five years, he scrambled through some bushes onto a small animal trail and strode briskly. He halted in a little clearing and heard the others following, making too much noise of course, and he shook his head. He was not impatient, it gave him time to reorganise his shocked thoughts. So when they reached him he stood calm and seemingly unperturbed.
They looked at him. He really was remarkable. Even though his hair had thinned and started to frost he was still a fine figure of a man: upright, bold and very dangerous when crossed. He was tall, with wide shoulders, and his muscles, although not as hard as they had once been, were still well formed with strength.
He studied them in turn. Eanwulf was forty years old and showed it with his bowed shoulders, and a shortness of breath. He was smaller than Burhred, built more on square, stocky lines. Ealstan, one year younger, had worn better, with his thin, lighter frame, but he limped from an old leg wound and already his joints had started to stiffen and cripple.
Burhred eyed them. Where he led, they would follow, which was one great plus point—Eanwulf without hesitation; Ealstan after he had worried and grumbled at real and imaginary obstacles.
“I never expected this!” Eanwulf stated flatly.
‘What a fool thing to think!’ Burhred told himself. Men always died in battles and kings were certainly not exempt. “So?” he grunted, which could have meant anything.
Ealstan was the more practical of two. “What do we do first?”
This was more like it and Burhred nodded approvingly. “First we have to find our king and bury him, if we can. Secondly, we will now review our options. Thirdly, we will discuss whom the next is to be. After that, it will be a case of any other matters. Questions?” he asked them in his usual gruff manner.
Ealstan spoke first: “I’ve already sent some men off to try and find the king’s body so that is number one out of the way.”
Burhred was pleased. There were times when Ealstan surprised him with flashes of initiative. The pity was this did not happen often enough.
Burhred shook his head. “We are in pretty bad shape.” He confirmed what his companions had already suspected. “We have lost over half of our fighting men and of the remainder many will be wounded, struggling to make their way back here. Our position is very bad!” he said dourly.
“We do have the women!” Eanwulf reminded him.
Burhred, flashed him a sharp look. “If we lose them as well in battle we shall die out as a race. No breeding!”
Ealstan had another more pressing worry. “Do you think the Northumbrians will invade us right away?”
Burhred shook his head. This was a question that had occupied him for some deep thought until he had worked it out logically. “They won’t come as invaders. Their King Oswiu won’t have that. Apart from celebrating their victory, they too will have wounded to get home. What I suspect is emissaries will be sent very shortly to exact tribute from us. We may have one week in the clear, but no more!”
Ealstan grunted. “We must strip the tun of our wealth. Hide everything. Remove the best breeding stock and—!”
Eanwulf shook his head. “How do you propose to do that with Peada around?” he asked sourly. “He’s not blind!”
“Exactly!” Burhred snapped. “We may have to be prepared to lose half of our wealth in monies. I buried my own when all the men went to war,” he told them a little smugly. “You two should have done the same!”
Ealstan was stung. “I did not think it would be necessary!” he retorted.
Burhred gave him a cold look, then turned to the main matter. “The Witan has to pick a new king and before the Northumbrians get here as well,” he told them heavily.
Eanwulf gave him a harsh look. “You don’t mean—?”
Ealstan finish the sentence for him. “Peada?”
Burhred grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. “Who else will they pick? We three have our own opinions, which will not match those of the others. When it comes down to a vote, we will get nowhere. Anyhow, the time is not right. So we must lie low. We will simply abstain,” he told them firmly.
They looked at each other. So who was going to voice the name first? Burhred did it for them. “Of course Wulfhere is the best son at the moment, at least until we see how Aethelred turns out, but that will be years away. It is the here and now which concerns us.”
Eanwulf shook his head. “It wouldn’t even be wise to mention Wulfhere’s name because he is so despised for his general unpleasant attitude.”
Ealstan pulled a face. “The stupid boy! He has the right make and shape to be a king but I have grave reservations whether he will ever be fit for that the position. He is nothing but a bad-tempered, spoiled, detestable brat, who wants knocking from here, right up to Northumbria and back again!”
Burhred concurred. The description was one he could not have bettered. “Peada is twenty years now, a married man, and settled. Aethelred is only nine with Wulfhere in between, so Peada it is sure to be.”
Eanwulf demurred. “Someone could challenge to be king by the right of battle,” he reminded them quickly. The son of a king did not necessarily take this position just by right of birth. He must have proven qualities, which involved brains as well as muscles.
Burhred’s mind raced over possibilities and probabilities, then he shook his head firmly. All other possible contenders had died with their king, on the banks of the Winwaed stream at Loidis. Those few who did survive would lack the basic qualifications. “Wulfhere is the best man for Mercia but I know they will pick Peada!” he said angrily.
Eanwulf agreed. “He will be useless. He is nothing but a dreamer. All his talk of poetry and rhyming with couplets, but he will be Oswiu’s man, that’s for sure,” he stated, and gave a sigh.
Ealstan agreed. “Peada is too womanish. Say what you like about Wulfhere, he is all-male!”
Eanwulf pointed out something else. “He is also in love, which will make him even more impossible to handle.”
Burhred groaned. Why had he not known of this before? Was he slipping? “Who is it?” he asked wearily.
“He can’t marry her anyhow,” Eanwulf continued thoughtfully.
Burhred’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Is she betrothed to someone else?”
Eanwulf shook his head. “He’s too closely related,” he told them.
Their marriage laws were very strict for the good and unity of them as a whole. Inbreeding only weakened the stock and was something to be abhorred.
“Who?” Burhred barked. As if he did not have enough problems without something like this.
Eanwulf told him.” Osburga, daughter of Sebright, son of—!”
“Spare me her pedigree. I know it!” Burhred snapped, getting angry now. Had Wulfhere gone quite stupid? “Of course he can’t marry her. He’s not fit to marry anyone at the moment. Get rid of her and quickly. Arrange for her betrothal with someone faraway!”
Ealstan saw a problem. “She might object!”
Burhred’s temper rose very high. It was true, no maid could be forced to marry against her will but the future of the tribe came before any girl’s temperamental objections. “She obeys me on this or I’ll take her hide off,” he grated and his companions knew he meant it. “Make her dower very large indeed and also give her some land. She can always exchange it for hides of land elsewhere, but get her out of this tun before dawn!” he bellowed.
Ealstan started to grin and Eanwulf had to join in. Burhred in a rage was a sight to behold. No wonder he could terrify so many others but they knew him too well. Also, more to the point, they were his only sworn and trustworthy allies. Without them, he was powerless as a lone individual.
“What’s Wulfhere going to say when he finds out, and who is going to tell him?” Eanwulf asked.
Burhred sniffed. “I will, and a few other home truths as well!” Then his mind moved on to more important matters. “Oswiu will want Peada as king. Don’t forget, if we had another such defeat we would cease to exist as a tribe, except as slaves. A final point, if Wulfhere stays around here someone might just put a knife in his back. So—we will hide him until the time is ripe for him to challenge to be king. And don’t ask me where just now. I want to think on it tonight. I have an idea, but I will have to consult someone and complicated arrangements will have to be made before my plan can be bought to fruition.”
“Hide him—where?” Ealstan challenged.
“Not in Mercia, that’s for sure. He has to go where he is totally unknown, and I have the very place in mind, and the right companion for him as well!”
Eanwulf eyed him. Burhred was the most cunning and devious man he had ever known, and, deep down, he was thankful they were both on the same side. He knew this view was shared by Ealstan. Burhred had no scruples at all where Mercia was concerned. He could be an exceedingly dangerous man. At the same time, he needed to take his own precautions because he was so feared.
Burhred read his mind and a sardonic grin crossed his face. “I am very careful. I take great precautions, and my slave tastes all my food before I do. I have a shadow at my back most of the time, who is as good as a reliable hound!”
His companions nodded with satisfaction. “Where?”
“Down with the Hwicce!” Burhred told them triumphantly.
His companions were startled then started to grin. “At Glevum?” Ealstan asked.
The Hwicce were a large tribe of seven thousand households scattered over the wide Severn Valley region, as well as most of the hilly area. They paid tribute to Mercia and, deep down, all Mercians despised them for this. They were a tribe of mixed Saxon, and Angle stock with a heavy dash of the old British, as well as Romano. They came down from the Dubonii tribe. Many decades ago, they had been fine fighters, especially when it came to guerrilla tactics, but over the decades they had suffered too many defeats. For as long as could be remembered the Hwicce had been content to pay tribute to the King of Mercia, who had become their overlord. Marriage and social intercourse between Hwicce and Mercia was permitted, unmarred by friction, but the Mercians still retained their ability to look down their noses at all of the Hwicce people.
Eanwulf eyed Burhred. “Can they be trusted?” he asked softly.
Burhred let out a snort. “Of course they can’t! Would you trust any tribe who lived in subjugation? Don’t forget also we are now going to be doomed to pay our tribute to Northumbria. Do you think they will trust us? Like hell they will! They will infiltrate us with spies just to see what we’re getting up to.”
Ealstan nodded glumly. “That’s true!”
Eanwulf felt he had to argue this point. “We are the greater tribe, and can muster over 12,000 households, and—!”
“No warriors left to fight!” Burhred pointed out impatiently. “Use your brains!”
Eanwulf glowered at him, then decided it was more prudent to shut up. Burhred was getting into one of his bad-tempered moods. “So what do you plan?” he hurled at him.
Burhred hastened to explain. Eanwulf’s face wore a mulish look and Ealstan’s lips were tight. “Glevum is no good, Wulfhere would get a knife in his back as quick as staying here, because you can bet Northumbria will send spies down that far. I plan for him to go to a small unknown place, and vanish for two or even three years. He will be trained there in everything, then, when we judge the time right, we fetch him back and he challenges for the kingship.”
His companions considered. They hunted backwards and forwards for flaws. “Where exactly?”
“At a little place, known as Gete. It only has a handful of households at the best of times. It is on the bank of a little river called the Frome and tribute is paid by a very insignificant lord. I found it quite by chance many years ago when exploring and hunting. I filed it away in my memory for just such an eventuality as this!”
“What’s so special about it?” Ealstan asked.
Burhred’s eyes glowed with triumph. “That’s the whole point! There is nothing special to attract anyone’s attention. It’s humdrum, ugly, useless, with land neither high nor low. The so-called river is more of a stream, except when it goes in spate after a wet winter. The hunting is very good, because people are so scarce. It’s quiet and peaceful, so our young hothead should be able to keep himself out of trouble for a while—especially with the companion I’m going to send!” and his eyes gleamed wolfishly, while he explained a little further.
“What about the Lord there?”
Burhred eyed him wickedly. “He only has seven hides of land, so really is a nobody. I’ll see he gives no trouble and keeps his mouth shut too. Oddly enough, last year I had inquiries made—my contingency plan!” he said, a little smugly. “This lord has not done too well breeding a family. He only has one small son and tomorrow I’ll see that son is taken hostage and removed elsewhere. One wrong word or deed from that minor lord and he’ll only get his son back as a body!”
His companions agreed without hesitation. Harsh situations called for harsh measures, then. something occurred to Eanwulf. “What if Wulfhere refuses to go?”
“He will do as he told and go, even if it is with a noose around him, and dragged behind a horse. You know the companion I’ve chosen, and his calibre. Wulfhere will also go and live as a churl, which won’t do him any harm either. Get rid of some of his inflated ideas. You know, King Penda did not think all that much of his eldest son. He too thought Wulfhere the best bet and agreed with me some harsh discipline was needed to sort him out. This would be taking place even if King Penda had lived. All we are doing is following a Royal command!”
Burhred eyed them then spoke once more. “The only person who will know about this arrangement is my good servant Oswald. I will obviously need someone extra to liaise down there and I have my eyes on the perfect person. Now we must all get back, but re-enter the tun each of us alone, and from now on with very tight lips!”
Three
A thin shaft of sunlight trickled over his body as the clouds danced across the sky and Wulfhere looked upwards. There was little wind; just a tiny breeze, only enough to make the grass and leaves give a minute tremble.
He wore his usual fine garments, as befitted his rank: a good red tunic edged with a paler stripe and dark brown trousers with boots to match. His fine hair, alert eyes, generous mouth and good-looking face were marred, right now, with his emotions.
His eyes were narrow blue chips, while his lips were set in a thin, uncompromising grimace. He felt like bawling his eyes out except men of his age did not cry. He still found it hard to take in. His much adored father was not going to come back, which was impossible. Penda had always been there, available to ruffle his hair and slap him on the back—something never shared with his elder brother, though tough young kid brother Aethelred did not miss out either. Wulfhere felt he had been his father’s favourite, which warmed yet also chilled his heart because exactly where did Penda’s death leave him? He had begun to learn something about realism, and did not like it one bit.
He was honest enough to know he was thoroughly disliked, no matter what he did. This hurt, because his years were too few for him to have developed a thick skin. Brother Peada was the opposite. He was held in great favour, because he was so good! Peada did not collect enemies; he never lost his temper, nor raised his voice. He was such a disgusting paragon, in Wulfhere’s eyes, he was almost unfit to live. Peada would debate with multiple words, and would not dream of resorting to violence. It was not that his elder brother was a coward, no Mercian could be that, Wulfhere told himself, it was simply Peada refused to dirty his elegant hands, which were so expert at writing.
Where was Lord Burhred? Wulfhere wanted to go back home, but it never occurred to him to disobey this lord’s orders. Only a few months ago, his father had talked to him about Burhred, extolling his virtues, his wisdom, his loyalty and above all his cunning. At the end of his homily Penda had said strong words to his middle son: “Do as he tells you always. Don’t argue the toss or question in any way. He was the finest warrior Mercia has ever had and he has the finest brain here among us. You can always count on him!”
Wulfhere had been startled at this unusual advice yet, thinking back, there had been so many times in the past when Penda had been closeted with Lord Burhred to the exclusion of all others.
His thoughts switched to Osburga with her glittering dark eyes and lovely figure. He adored her, and his wild heart softened as he made up his mind. Once he was over mourning for his father he would ask someone to speak for him. Marriage came in two parts and the first section was the Pledge when he would offer his gift and state his intentions. The morning after the actual marriage, after consummation, he would donate his Morning Gift, which always became the wife’s personal property. The best gift was always land, and his heart swelled as he considered how generous he would be. When he gave the deeds to her would be the time to give his oath.
Like all of his race, divorce was a sad, but understandable necessity at times, which was why the Morning Gift’s value was esteemed. At a divorce the female always had this to fall back on as well as half of her husband’s estate and effects, which was a sensible way to go about matters. Not that Wulfhere believed there would ever be a divorce, because life with Osburga would be glorious.
He sat so still deeply immersed in these thoughts that the first sound barely registered, then he whipped into alert action. He grasped his bow and ducked behind a nearby thicket as he strained his ears. That was a horse coming at a walk, and he guessed who this had to be but prudently nocked an arrow to his bow.
Burhred rolled into sight, halted his horse and dismounted, grimacing at some knee stiffness. Wulfhere leaped forward to offer polite help, but the testy elder, with a sniff, ignored this. Burhred now hated long rides, but this one was his own fault. Long ago, he had used this spot himself when he wished to commune quite alone, with tangled thoughts, and he had shown it to Wulfhere on one of their rare rides together.
Burhred looked around, then threw a hard look at the young man. Wulfhere hastily remembered his manners, and put his cloak over a nearby log to make a more comfortable seat. He had some cold meat from a young fawn he had killed the day before. It had roasted nicely and was tender, so he slashed up a generous portion, placed it neatly on a large leaf and offered it to his senior.
Burhred grunted, took it and began to eat with fastidious, good manners, eyeing his companion as he did so. He could see Wulfhere was tense and coiled like a snake but he was pleased to note his tongue was held in restraint.
When he had eaten Wulfhere offered a flask of spring water, and Burhred drank slowly, taking his time, wondering which was the best way to start. He decided the beginning was the obvious place.
“The men have returned from then Winwaed stream—without your father’s body. It was in full spate and many bodies were carried away, and probably are at sea now.”
Wulfhere was shocked. “What do we do?” he asked with a catch in his voice. He had managed to stamp his emotion deep into his heart yet this sudden mention of Penda’s death pushed prickles to the back of his eyes again.
“We’ll have a funeral without the body and make an appropriate sacrifice to Woden, of course!” Burhred growled at him. He was aware he was on the verge of a very bad temper, because there were so many problems hitting him from too many directions. He was also bothered with the final details of his plan and how Wulfhere would react.
He glared at the young man, reinforcing his strong, harsh personality, upon the youth and it was Wulfhere who broke eye contact first as a shiver went down his spine.
“The Witan are getting ready to pick the new king and you don’t stand a snowball in hell’s chance either!” Burhred told him bluntly. He wanted to get this out of the way immediately. “It will be Peada!”
Wulfhere grimaced. It was only what he had suspected deep in his heart but he could not submit to this tamely. “Anyone can fight him for the position, especially a brother!” he said forcefully.
Burhred muttered a curse to himself. This was a typical and expected reaction. “Don’t talk wet, boy!” he snapped. “Because that’s what you are. You are still a boy and he is a man. He would make mincemeat of you.”
Wulfhere held his eyes, curbing his temper. “Perhaps not, and I do have the right to, sir!”
Burhred eyed him thoughtfully.” So all right, you thrash him and then what? The Witan will still vote against you because you are disliked, and it’s your own fault too! You are still far too wet behind the ears. Just because you can handle a few weapons doesn’t make you a fighting man. Far from it!”
Wulfhere scowled. “I don’t like this kind of talk!” he grumbled as hotly as he dared.
“Tough!” Burhred shot back quickly. “You are going to hear a lot more like that before I leave here. You won’t like any of it, but you have to put up with it: and wipe that sulky expression from your face, unless you’d like me to backhand you?”
Wulfhere lowered his eyes as resentment boiled in his heart. Burhred would hit him and he muttered to himself, with frustration, but forced himself to sit still and keep his mouth shut.
“What kind of king will Peada make?” he grumbled aloud. “We’ll end up licking the boots of Northumbria before he is finished. He won’t fight. I would. I am the better man! I know it!” he dared to say hotly and looked deep into Burhred’s cool eyes.
The elder let a smile touch his lips. “I agree,” he said quietly, defusing the other’s temper instantly.
Wulfhere was startled. “You do? Well arrange for me to be king!” he argued.
Burhred shook his head. “Not yet, but I will in time, if you can manage to do as I tell you. There is more to being a king than might and strength. Guile and brains are also required and a hefty dose of popularity. Your brother has already volunteered to pay Oswiu’s tribute without trouble, and we have to agree. There is nothing else we could do when we have been bled white. We have to re-coup our fighting strength and that is going to take considerable time. Do you think, I like the idea of Northumbrians being our masters with King Oswiu as our overlord? Of course I don’t! I hate it!” he spat, allowing his emotions to show for a few seconds.
Wulfhere bottled his surprise and eyed him afresh. “How many others think like you, sir?” he asked in a quiet voice. Perhaps there was hope for him after all.
Burhred settled back into a more comfortable position. His backside must be getting thin or this log was especially knobbly! “Two only,” he replied shortly. “Eanwulf and Ealstan. That’s all at the moment and there is no chance of fresh allies as things stand at present.”
Wulfhere flinched. He had not realised matters were quite so bad, and he bit his lip with worry. “My brother is too—womanish!” he managed to get out in disgust.
“Correct!” Burhred concurred, “so in the future we will do something about it and I empathise the words in the future!” he warned with a growl. “You have to go away for two or even three years!”
Wulfhere doubted his ears. He was appalled. “What! Where? Why?”
Burhred took time to frame his reply neatly. “First, we let all this die a natural death,” and he winced at his unfortunate words, before continuing. “Secondly, to change you from a boy into a real man. No, don’t you glower at me like that, you puppy! You think you know it all, yet you are totally ignorant. Initially King Peada will have a very strong following but give it time, and he will hang himself. When he does, I bring you back and make you king but not before. We have to buy time to recoup, train fresh fighters, gather strength again so that when we do go into battle against King Oswiu we will win hands down. We cannot afford a second defeat. In this waiting time, you will vanish and you’ll go with a man I’ve picked, and he will train you, make you work so hard you’ll cry quits, but he will make a man of you. He will also make you kingly material, which right now, you are not!”
Wulfhere sat speechless with horror. “How can I run?” he managed to get out scornfully.
“You won’t be running. You will be well and truly dead. I will arrange this. A wild animal will have killed you. You hang around here, and it’s quite possible someone will shove a knife between your shoulder blades and where will Mercia be then? It might also invite the killing of young Aethelred as well! If you want to be king you will do exactly as I say. Or I wash my hands of you and turn elsewhere,” he said coldly.
Wulfhere could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Am I so hated then?” he managed to get out wistfully.
Burhred gave it him straight again. “Very much so, and it’s your own fault for being so cocky and arrogant. Look at you!” and he pointed. “You call those muscles? Why an infant has better!” he said and flexed his arm to show bulging biceps. “These have been in a real battle. You don’t know what one is. Then there is a matter of your brain. What do you know about handling men, so they will follow you blindly? And how much do you know about handling people? There are matters political in general. No! You are raw, free, uncouth and, right now useless to Mercia, whether you like it or not!”
Wulfhere flinched and broke eye contact. His heart shrivelled, and he scowled to hide his feelings, yet a part of him was honest. He recognised truth when it was thrown at him. He had a flashing vision of his father, overseeing tribal matters, and it dawned upon him how wise he had been, how knowledgeable about their customs and law.
“I’ll not go alone. I want Osburga with me as my wife!” he stated flatly.
“You can’t have her, you young fool. She’s within the prohibited degrees for marriage. You are sixth cousins and a match would be banned automatically. Anyhow, in the morning she’ll have gone to be betrothed elsewhere, with a magnificent dower that you could never match and a Morning Gift of similar quantity. So you can forget her for starters!”
Horror filled Wulfhere’s eyes, and his shoulders slumped. In all his wild passion and enthusiasm he had completely forgotten his distant relationship with Osburga’s family. He felt as if blows rained on his back from all directions. He leaped to his feet and stamped about the little clearing with frustration.
Burhred watched with amusement. Oh youth, he thought! Everything is so black and white. Had he been the same? It was all so long ago, he found it difficult to remember. Then his heart hardened.
“Sit down and grow up a bit!” he cried angrily. “I have something better than to sit here all day and watch your juvenile tantrums. You think you are fit to be king when you act like this? Spare me!”
Wulfhere turned to snap a curse at the elder, then commonsense stopped him as well as the open mockery in Burhred’s eyes. He walked back and squatted down on his heels once more.
“All right! I’m listening!” he said in a more humble voice.
Burhred was mildly surprised. The boy had acted much better than he had thought possible, so he carefully related all that which he and his two allies had planned. Wulfhere heard him out thoughtfully. He had to admit it all made sense, and he chewed the solution reflectively until a point occurred to him.
“Forgive me,” he said softly. “You are a very old man. What happens if you should die before—?” and he left the question hanging.
Burhred was delighted. This was a good example of straight thinking, and he felt a new flash of warmth for this rebellious prince. “Apart from the other elders, my companions, my servant Oswald knows everything and as you may have suspected he is a first-class man totally loyal to me only. The companion I’ve picked to be your tutor is called Aidan, and I’ve known him many years. He’s thirty, without any family ties and is all for Mercia and me. You will be hidden in a tiny little place where no one will possibly think of looking for you, because no one knows it exists!”
Suddenly Wulfhere felt a flash of enthusiasm at the thought he was going somewhere new and strange. Anything would be better than staying here with his elder brother ruling.
“What if something happens and we want to get in touch with you urgently?” he wanted to know.
Burhred was delighted “Good thinking!” he praised. Long ago he had learned how to wield the carrot and stick in appropriate proportions. “I shall arrange for an extremely trustworthy courier to ride down to you now and again. I will see that your companion has a code for writing, which can be used safely. Do you remember that old cave I showed you long ago?”