The Atheling Chronicle - A King without a Crown
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Must commend on the Song -
This is truly a hybrid genre. At first I was a bit skeptical, and at times it does read like some bona-fide meidieval hackery, but really -
- you kept the style but bastardized the themes. Which is exactly what happened eventually with medieval Romance and later Germanic poetry. Same with the Saxon, here, then. Christian, Roman Pagan allusions and yet what a thoroughly Saxon sensibility about certain things. In the end, I think the writer of Beowulf wouldn't disagree too much with Wulfnoth, the interpenetration of ideas was an active process and would be manifoldly more so for your globe-trotting Saxon dynasty.
Now to the story - you know. I have just one thing to say - it's an even better (though closer) adaptation than the poem. It begins so smoothly and it keeps going and you can totally believe that it's an Andrew Lang version of an authentic Saxon tale instead of being a tale about a pawnbroker applied to a king.
Well done. I see that you, unlike most other writAARs, have been very productive lately.
Cheers.
This is truly a hybrid genre. At first I was a bit skeptical, and at times it does read like some bona-fide meidieval hackery, but really -
- you kept the style but bastardized the themes. Which is exactly what happened eventually with medieval Romance and later Germanic poetry. Same with the Saxon, here, then. Christian, Roman Pagan allusions and yet what a thoroughly Saxon sensibility about certain things. In the end, I think the writer of Beowulf wouldn't disagree too much with Wulfnoth, the interpenetration of ideas was an active process and would be manifoldly more so for your globe-trotting Saxon dynasty.
Now to the story - you know. I have just one thing to say - it's an even better (though closer) adaptation than the poem. It begins so smoothly and it keeps going and you can totally believe that it's an Andrew Lang version of an authentic Saxon tale instead of being a tale about a pawnbroker applied to a king.
Well done. I see that you, unlike most other writAARs, have been very productive lately.
Cheers.
A nicely festive idea for a post.
I would be interested to know more of how the Greek bureaucracy has developed in response to English conditions (perhaps I should get out more).
Undoubtedly it is. But what's a mere mortal going to do about it?
Bah! Humbug!
Thanks for the detailed feedback! I'm really glad you appreciate both the poetry and prose. At times the line between 'genuinely' poor Medieval poetry and my own lack of ability was very thin, that's for sure. That's one of the reasons I'm going to put the saga on the back shelf for a while. Alliterative poetry turns out to be much more difficult than I first thought!
I'd originally planned a different sort of festive update, with a draft entitled 'The Dragons in Winter'. But that was going to be very long and intricate, and I'd be competing with Peter O'Toole. I thought this version might be a nice way to reflect back on the past of the AAR while explaining some of the myths that arose around it in the future.
Its not often you hear people asking for more details about bureaucracy! I'll do my best to satisfy your curiosity.
For those who are interested, I'm starting another AAR, inspired by the Dancing with the StAARs competition. Hopefully, it won't interfere with these updates too much. I promise to finish the tale of the three spirits soon! Anyway, when you get a chance, check out The Star of New Orleans
Þe Christesmaessan Saga (Part 2)
In the darkness, a bell tolled, signaling the hour of vespers and calling the faithful to prayer. In the royal bedchamber, the fire smoldered and the king stirred. Wulfnoth awoke and lay, staring at the darkness for a while, listening to the sound of the bell. But then the tone of the sound changed. It suddenly sounded more hollow to his ears. The ringing ceased for a few moments and then a single chime rang out, low and mournful; more frightening than any death knell.
At that moment, Wulfnoth turned and happened to see, upon a stool in the corner, a man – or at least the semblance of a man. Unlike the first spirit, this visitor wore a simple robe, woven of purple silk, and on his head sat a crown of thorns. From his whole figure there emanated a soft, golden light.
“So you are the first of my three spirits?” The question was an obvious one, but the visitor merely smiled beneficently, and inclined his head. “And who are – or were – you, who resembles so clearly Our Lord and Saviour?”
At this the man’s smile broadened further, as if at some private joke. “No, my son, I am not the Son of God. I am but the least of his instruments. You will know me by the name of Baldred. I was the grandfather of your grandfather Theodorus.”
“King Baldred? But you are venerated as a saint! Bishops praise you as ‘The Peaceable King’!” Astonishment was plain upon the young king’s face. “But I was baptized within a church that bears your name! You cannot be standing here before my very eyes! What could you want from me?”
“I am here, as my grandson informed you, to warn you to change your ways. The fate of the English people dances on the edge of a knife and you have only a slim chance to deliver them.”
“But how? What can I do to assist my people? I wish to be a good king!” Wulfnoth sat forward now, eager to engage the ghost.
“Do you? Many have said the same before, and failed.” Baldred’s face was now clouded with sadness. “It is my task to show you what has been before, in the lives of your ancestors. Take my hand, and we shall travel together.”
Gingerly, Wulfnoth laid his own hand into Baldred’s pale and cold equivalent and, without knowing why, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself outside, and it was daytime. All about the pair was a great mist, and therefore they could see little, but from what he could tell, Wulfnoth was standing in a marshy field. He opened his mouth to ask the shade of Baldred by what means this could be possible, but his ancestor gestured for him to be silent. He pointed to a group of figures emerging from the mist.
There were perhaps a dozen horsemen, all armoured and dressed for battle, holding spears and shield, and many with axes on their belts. Even through the mist, Wulfnoth could tell that the men were bloodied and tired. As they drew closer, the King drew in his breath, as he recognised the lead figure. A tall man, but slight, bearded, and in his thirties. Though he was dressed no differently to the other riders, it was clear both from his bearing, and the way in which the others deferred to him, that he was in command. Wulfnoth’s gasp of recognition had clearly been prompted by the clear family resemblance that existed between himself, the shade of Baldred and the tall man.
“This, then, is one of my ancestors whom you mentioned before?” Wulfnoth asked of his great-great-grandfather, pointing to the man in question.
Nodding gravely, he replied. “Indeed. Perhaps the most famous of all your forebears. That is none other than King Alfred himself.”
At this revelation, however, Wulfnoth shook his head in disbelief. “That cannot be. King Alfred was a mighty warrior. He defeated the Northmen and was King of all the English! This man looks more like a vagabond mercenary than a king!”
“Have you learnt nothing, my son?” Reprovingly, the ghost continued. “It is not outward appearance that makes a king, but his inner character. Here you see King Alfred at his lowest – the Northmen have chased him to the marshes of Somerset, where he fights for his very life. And yet, despite this situation he is remembered, as you say, as the greatest of the English kings. Why do you suppose that might be?”
A horn sounded somewhere close by, but it was impossible to tell whence it came due to the great fog that surrounded them all. “Because he refused to give in to defeat; because he fought the Danes into the sea!” Wulfnoth was insistent now, unwilling to have the stories of his childhood refuted before his eyes.
But Baldred merely raised an eyebrow, and turned to the scene before them. The riders had turned toward the source of the horn-blast, and gathered closer together. However, after conferring, they did not, as Wulfnoth expected, draw arms and prepare for battle, but prepared to ride away, as if in retreat.
“I don’t understand; why would a king flee from his enemies when he cannot even be sure how many opponents he faces?” The younger man’s face was a study in puzzlement.
Baldred grasped his descendant’s hand once more, and said, “Come with me. Perhaps this will help ease your confusion.” Again, Wulfnoth closed his eyes; again he opened them to a new scene.
They now stood in a small wooden chamber. The only light came from a candle on the desk before them. At the desk sat a familiar figure. Without a doubt it was the same Alfred they had seen only moments before; only now he had aged several years.
“Where are we now, spirit? When are we?” asked Wulfnoth.
“This in Winchester. In fact, we are only feet from where you lay sleeping. The year? Eight hundred and ninety and more years have passed since the birth of Christ.” Baldred spoke these words calmly, as if he were unaware of the effect they would have on his companion.
“And the King cannot hear nor see us?” was the only response Wulfnoth could bring himself to give.
Baldred’s spirit shook its head in the negative. “We are merely visitors. Now watch.”
The door to the study opened, and a monk entered, carrying many scrolls of vellum in his arms. Alfred, looking up from the parchment upon which he was scribbling, greeted the visitor. “Ah, Brother Asser. Please, come in. Are those the texts I asked for?”
“Yes, sire. The Gospel of the Evangelist Luke, sire.” The monk was grey-haired, tonsured, and wearing a simple woolen smock. He was also obviously uncomfortable, and just as obviously trying to hide his discomfort in from of his king. “My lord, it is Christmas Eve. Would it not be better to set aside this work for tonight, until after the holy day?”
“My dear brother,” the King replied, taking the scrolls into his own ink-stained hands, and peering at them eagerly, “I am doing the Lord’s work. What could be a more appropriate task on this night?”
“Forgive me sire – I cannot see the purpose in translating these texts. If a man does not have the discipline to learn Latin, how will he have the insight to understand the Word of God?” Despite his words, the old monk’s tone seemed strained.
King Alfred sighed. This was obviously an argument the pair had rehearsed many times before. “As I have told you on every occasion, Brother Asser, there is great value in learning. If only I can educate a small handful of my earls to read and write, just think of the benefit to the whole kingdom! And in order for them to read, there needs to be reading material available in English.” He glanced down at the scroll he had open in his ink-stained hands and read aloud. “ Et dixit illis angelus: Nolite timere: ecce enim evangelizo vobis gaudium magnum, quod erit omni populo. And the angel said: ‘do not be afraid: for, behold! I have brought you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.’ Does that sound right to you, Brother?”
With a resigned sigh, Asser indicated his assent. “Will there be anything else, sire?”
“No Brother. If the Queen asks after me, tell her I cannot sleep. The Lord has seen fit to burden me with yet another night of bowel pains, and I fear I shaln’t be able to retire until late into the night.”
At this, Baldred turned to his younger companion. “Now do you see that there is more to kingship than simply wielding an axe with vigour? Or vanquishing your enemies at the point of a spear?”
“Well,” Wulfnoth conceded, “King Alfred’s works are still copied by scribes to this day. But I cannot see the reason in your words. It is fine and good for a king to do a monk’s work in times of peace – but in times of war, surely a king has more use for the sword than for the pen?”
“I think” said Baldred, pursing his lips, “it is time for one more voyage.” Again the two men clasped hands. The vision before them shimmered, went dark, and was replaced by a new scene.
Wulfnoth was standing in the throne room of a palace. Sun streamed in through high windows, and mosaics lined many of the walls. It reminded him greatly of the city in which he had been raised, but there were enough differences that he knew they were elsewhere. For one thing, the room appeared somewhat dilapidated, and even the wall coverings and carpets could not disguise the gaps in the mosaics. There were also clear signs of a battle having been fought in this chamber – there were blood stains clearly visible on the wall.
A group of men were standing at the far end of the room, at the head of a slightly-tattered carpet. As Wulfnoth and his guide drew closer, they saw the figure closest to them, a young man of no more than sixteen summers, drop to his knees. “Please, lord King, my brother, I beg of you. I have no desire for royal power; nor do I care for the affairs of state. If only you would allow me to retire in peace to a monastery, I should be quite content never to disturb your rule.”
The tall, sneering man in his middle years to whom the supplicant was speaking was evidently another of Wulfnoth’s ancestors, for the resemblance was uncanny. Given his surroundings, it also seemed likely that they were somewhere in Judea, but despite these clues, Wulfnoth was unable to place the king’s identity.
They were level with the group now, and Wulfnoth was able to take a look at the pathetic kneeling figure’s face. He let out a small gasp of surprise, and turned to his companion. “But – I don’t understand – that’s you?” Baldred inclined his head, still watching the unfolding tableau, an unreadable expression on his face. “Then that must be –“
“King Aethelred.” Baldred finished Wulfnoth’s thought for him, just as Aethelred himself began speaking.
“I may not like it, but we are related, and I cannot have you plotting from within the sanctuary of a monastery. I have instead arranged for you to marry a woman of my choosing. You will remain in the city, where I can keep a watch over you.”
“Brother” the younger Baldred appealed, “I mean you no harm! Can you not believe that my piety is genuine? I have never shown any interest in power. Keep the throne! Send me into exile for all I care!”
Raising his brother to his feet, the king’s lean face was pinched, somewhere between confusion and disgust. If Wulfnoth hadn’t known otherwise, he would have found it difficult to believe that Aethelred was related to the serene, saintly Baldred standing beside him. He had been told that there was once a sarcophagus bearing the image of Aethelred in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but Wulfnoth had never had the chance to see the king’s face before, since the mausoleum had been damaged long ago by vandals and was now unrecognisable. Then again, he reflected, the spirit of the deceased Baldred was very different to the nervous wreck of his younger self being addressed by the stern and severe Aelthered.
“You cannot possibly expect me to believe that! By God and all his angels, I do not blame you for your show of humility – maybe I would have done the same, were our positions reversed – but it is a simple fact of creation that all men desire power, above all else.” The flustered Baldred opened his mouth, as if to rebut these claims, but he was quelled by Aethelred’s next outburst. “And I will hear no more on the subject! You will marry Aethelswyth, and reside here in the city!” Aethelred’s voice was thunderous, as he stalked from the room, flanked by his startled councilors. “By King Edward’s Beard, I’ve wasted enough time on you already!”
“Was he right?” Wulfnoth’s voice was hoarse; even he had been taken aback by this example of Aethelred’s infamous temper. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Were you trying to work against him?”
The ghostly Baldred, still fixed on the figure of his former self, now standing alone in the audience chamber, blinked and then shook his head, as if try to dislodge a fugue. “Of course not!” For the first time, a hint of irritation had entered the saint’s voice. “If I had been scheming against my brother, do you think I would have remained inactive for so many years? Can you imagine how often I was petitioned to move against my own blood?”
“But then,” persisted Wulfnoth, “Wasn’t King Aethelred’s assumption correct? You were a danger to the kingdom, if only through the ambitions of others.” At this, Baldred’s lips grew thin again, but the younger man continued. “Or at least his feelings towards marriage were right! If you had never married, I would not be alive today!” Wulfnoth smiled at his own levity, but was met by a somber stare in return from the phantom. If it had been another man, Wulfnoth thought Baldred would have rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“There is time for one more ‘voyage’. Perhaps you should see the consequences of my brother’s actions.”
When the scene reorganised itself, the two travellers were looking at a twilit plain. Ravens circled above them. As Wulfnoth’s senses returned, he could see bodies strewn around the field, and hear the cries of men mixed with those of dying horses. Ahead, he saw another flesh incarnation of Baldred, older now, and looking less natural, somehow, dressed in a mail coat, rather than the monk’s habit he had previously been wearing. Around Wulfnoth’s ancestor stood a circle of similarly armoured and blood-spattered men. Some were recognisable from the previous confrontation between the two brothers. Wulfnoth looked around for Aethelred, but could not see him. The absence of the king was obviously bothering the living Baldred and his companions as well.
“Where is my brother?” Baldred asked of the men around him. They each shook their heads to indicate ignorance.
“What does it matter, sire?” One of them replied. “Perhaps he has fled the field, as a coward!”
“Sooth,” another interjected, “I have not heard one whisper that he was seen in today’s battle – mayhap he has given up the fight already. Surely he knows that his reign is now at an end, after today’s victory!”
“Nevertheless,” answered Baldred, “If he may be found here, I wish to speak with him. We must come to some arrangement. This warfare cannot continue.”
“Arrangement?” A rough-looking man spat on the ground. “After the countless sins he has committed? After the Holy Father’s Bull against him? After the treatment he has issued to thee, sire, and to each of us? Do you truly believe that he would grant the same mercy to thee?"
“Yes.” A king is still a king, no matter his sins. And Aethelred is still my brother. I would show him the same courtesies he has refused to us.” The knights look among themselves and at their lord in confusion, just as Wulfnoth turned to his ethereal guide for answers.
Neither gained much enlightenment from Baldred, living or otherwise. Wulfnoth therefore watched silently as the scene before them continued at an accelerated speed, as if time itself were now passing in a different manner. There was some length of quarrelling between the figures, and a number of runners could be seen speeding towards and away from the group. Wulfnoth then followed as the men moved through the wounded and dying across the battlefield.
They arrived at a tent, and made to go inside, but Baldred stopped his huscarls, saying that he wished to be alone. Inside, it was clear that soldiers had reached the tent ahead of their commanders. Everything of value had been snatched, and a cot had been overturned. In the mud lay a body which Wulfnoth deduced to be Aethelred’s. A glint of gold beneath the mud and dirt provided a clue, but little else would have indicated the dead man’s status. His mail shirt, in which he had apparently slept, was caked with grime, and his arms had been twisted into unnatural positions by the activities of looters, stepping over the body in their frenzy to strip the tent of its wealth. A look of open-mouthed surprise was on the corpse’s face.
Wulfnoth watched as the living Baldred knelt alone by his dead brother. The new king straightened the limbs of his predecessor, and wiped away the worst of the dirt from his face. He righted the overturned bed, and lifted Aethelred up. Closing the eyelids and mouth of his kinsmen, Baldred placed it on the cot, and stared at Aethelred’s lifeless corpse for several minutes. Wulfnoth was startled to see tears rolling down the cheeks of his ancestor’s face.
“Hic volerat” came the whisper, both from the figure ahead of him, and the shade by Wulfnoth’s side. Looking over, Wulfnoth could see that the tears were also mirrored on the spirit’s face. Even after more than a century, it seemed, the pain was still fresh.
“Do you understand now?” Asked the ghost, his voice thick with emotion. Being a king is not enough. A man must earn his throne, lest it be taken away from him, by God or by his subjects. We cannot choose how we are given the scepter, but we can control the manner in which he wield it.”
With that, the spirit faded away, along with the image around them, just as Wulfnoth observed the teary-eyed younger Baldred wipe away his wetness, and, with a deep breath, stand to his feet; the dented crown of Aethelred in his hands.
Wulfnoth was back in his bedchamber. And he was alone. The night was dark, but he was sure he would have seen Baldred’s ghost if it were present. Instead, he had been left to ponder the message alone. The young king frowned in the darkness, confused. Whatever the saint had said, Wulfnoth had no alternative but to be King of the English – there was no-one else on hand to take on the burden. If the purpose of the visitation had been to shock him, it had certainly succeeded – by his calculation he had travelled for thousands of miles and hundreds of years, within the space of mere hours (or less time – the darkness of the night made it had to determine). If the visions were not still hauntingly real, he might have put the entire affair down to the quality of his last meal, so incredible did it seem now, in the cold dark of his chamber.
With a start, Wulfnoth remembered that he was to expect two more visitations, according to his grandfather’s warning. He shuddered, and muttered a quick prayer, resolving to stay awake, rather than relive that harrowing experience. Yet, despite this resolve, the young man felt the hand of Morpheus on his bow, and slipped into unconsciousness once more.
Excellent update, with an honourable part for Wantage's most famous son. Here is the inscription off his statue in Wantage marketplace:
Certainly a good example for young King Wulfnoth.
Certainly a good example for young King Wulfnoth.
It's very Last Light of the Sun, that passage with Alfred.
And I'm almost with Wulfnoth on one matter: the Peaceable King's lesson could be taken more than one way.
And I'm almost with Wulfnoth on one matter: the Peaceable King's lesson could be taken more than one way.
Single most amazing AAR ever. Well done, sir!
Oh and, I think Aethelred the Tyrant was the best king of the lot. Sure he comitted acts of tyranny, but he consolidated the power of the king like none other but only faced opposition wherever he looked!
I believe the troubles during the regency were all Baldred's fault.
Oh and, I think Aethelred the Tyrant was the best king of the lot. Sure he comitted acts of tyranny, but he consolidated the power of the king like none other but only faced opposition wherever he looked!
I believe the troubles during the regency were all Baldred's fault.
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A very well written and entertaining update. Hopefully Wulfnoth will take the lessons to heart!
I'm missing some literateure-based CK-era goodness, and this is the place I normally come back to to get it.
Kan I haz update?
Kan I haz update?
Hi everyone - our old Nemesis, 'Life', is hitting me pretty strongly right now, but I haven't abandoned this. I'm half-way through the thrilling conclusion to the Christmaessan Saga. Hopefully I'll get something up in the next week or two. Hold tight!
Awww. Life wouldn't be so bad if it didn't keep getting in the way of video games.
Fear the Morpheus.
Monarch should be far better educated.
No matrix cross-over here. I'll leave that to Iain!
Glad you liked it!
I haven't read 'Last Light', but perhaps it should be on my list. Multiple interpretations are what keeps historians in business!
Best ever
I suspect not, but thanks! That's a lot to read through, so I commend you for your perseverance! Without Aethelred, there probably would have been no kingdom, and it was really Baldred the Younger's death that caused many of the Saelred-Theodorus problems. Too bad history is written by the church, eh?Yeah, stupid life. But I've manage to wrap up the Christmaessan Saga, at last:
Þe Christesmaessan Saga (Part 3)
Through the night, the chimes tolled. It was the hour of Matins, and thus well into the night. A stiff wind rushed into the king’s chamber, caused the hanging tapestries to billow, and awoke Wulfnoth with a start. Just as he began to remember the odd dream he had been experiencing, the king looked towards the hearth, and found his nightmare personified.. The second of the spirits had arrived.
This shade was quite different from its predecessors. The family resemblance to the Aethelings was clear, despite the hair which covered his lower face, but this apparition had neither the melancholy of Theodorus, nor the serenity of Baldred. Rather, he seemed quite unable to stand still, even for a moment. With every beat of Wulfnoth’s still-pounding heart, the spirit twitched either a mailed leg, a gauntleted hand, or his helmeted head. In fact, the man’s entire body was clad in ornately-wrought mail, far to cumbersome for practical use while, as if to add to the inconvenience, a large shield was strapped to his back, and an axe to his side. To the casual observer, he might be an impressive sight, but Wulfnoth knew from experience that such incumbents could be fatal in combat. Wulfnoth also found it peculiar that someone so obviously burdened by his heavy garb would be so inclined to movement. When he saw the ghost’s youthful face (he was surely no more than 30-some summers old) behind his auburn moustache and beard, the look of pain, confirmed Wulfnoth’s suspicions.
“What demon possesses you, that you are compelled never to remain still?” In his curiosity, this was the first question the king asked of his newest visitor.
The spirit looked at him sharply. “Ah! So you’re awake? Excellent.” The ghost spoke at a fevered, quickened face, his tongue seeming to posses the same restless energy as his limbs. Wulfnoth gained the impression that he was accustomed to answering his own questions as soon as he had posed them. “Why would you ask that? Oh, I understand. There’s just so much to accomplish. And I haven’t much time. Sometimes it seems like I’ve even less time now than before. The bishops always told me this would be my time of rest.” A quick smile followed this feeble jest, and it disappeared as soon as the words had left the shade’s mouth. “I was John, by the way. Having never met each other, I suppose you wouldn’t recognise me, after all. But you, I believe, are my nephew, and successor? Unless I’ve been misinformed. Come along, there’s a lot I need to show you, and this night won’t last forever!”
Bemused, Wulfnoth blinked at his deceased uncle, and made to rise from his bed, but no sooner had his feet touched the floor, than he found himself standing instead upon a different floor altogether - not the cold flagstones of night-time Winchester, but upon the sun-lit boads in a room full of strangers.
Several men were seated around a table, speaking in what appeared to be French. Not knowing what else to do, and receiving no help from his distracted guide, who was hoping from foot to foot, Wulfnoth took a seat at the end closest to him. The Frenchman who was now his neighbour remained unaware of his presence.
John struggled into a sitting position, with much clinking of iron. “What are they saying? For that matter, where and when are we?” Wulfnoth asked the spirit. It was, he thought, going to be rather difficult to teach him a moral lesson if he couldn’t understand a word of what was being spoken.
John’s ethereal face showed surprise. “You don’t speak French? You should have one of the monks teach you. I found it was the only way I could get anyone to understand me! The priests spoke in Latin, and could barely read my Greek; the burghers spoke English and read some Latin; while the peasants spoke in grunts to each other, and didn’t read at all! At least in French, we were all equally ignorant.” He made a gesture with one of his hands. “Try listening more keenly. You may find you understand more than you thought.”
Frowning, Wulfnoth turned his attention back to the conversation. To his amazement, he found that he could, indeed, understand everything that was being said. Just as he was picking up the thread of the discussion, John broke through his consciousness.
“You asked the wrong question.” The abruptness of this statement startled Wulfnoth. “Not when, but where. It’s still the twelve hundredth and sixth year since Christ’s incarnation. But we’re in Paris. At the court of King Silvester of France. My task is to instill with the lessons of the present. Now pay attention - we haven’t much time here.”
The Frenchmen were speaking heatedly now. An eager, earnest warrior was addressing a youth at the head of the table. “Your Majesty, since your subjects have so recently reaffirmed their loyalty to you, surely it is time to assert your claims to English lands?”
“Cousin Normandy,” the young king’s voice was still in the process of breaking, and its pitch oscillated between painfully high and sonorously deep within the same sentence. Silvester seemed aware of this, and blushed every time he spoke. “the late English king caused us much distress; why do you say that now we should deliberately make war against him?”
A steely-haired man attired in fur-lined cloak to the right of the King coughed, and replied. “You see, your majesty, the English king is young, and weak. Like all youth’s, he’s also impetuous -” At this he glared at the Duke of Normandy, whose eagerness was now replaced by sullen disdainn. “- news from Rome suggests that the Holy Father is mightily offended by his actions. England’s crown is yours for the taking.”
A bishop, denoted by his mitred head, interjected. “Indeed, sire - His Holiness would surely sanction any action against the sinful English king, and your claim to the islands is at least as strong as his.”
As the attentions of Silvester and his Dukes turned to details of a war in England, Wulfnoth sputtered with rage at his uncle. “They dare to call me young and inexperienced! This child hasn’t yet handled a razor, let alone a sword!” Then he snorted. “What lesson am I to learn from this, spirit? That I should beware every infant who takes a dislike to me?”
John’s reply was brisk, and while his words were reproachful, he did not possess the same sanctimonious air that Baldred had used when addressing Wulfnoth. “Not quite. Silvester may be younger than you, and doubtless he has shed far less blood, even if he has begun to shave, but he is surrounded by older and wiser heads. And he heeds their advice. Your sword arm is strong, but the French King has Normandy to match you in combat. The Cardinal Roqufort is his brain, and Archbishop Alberic his eyes and ears. Can you truly say you may best each of them? Whom do you have to act on your behalf when you cannot be present in all places at all times? To whom can you trust important tasks?”
At this, a thoughtful Wulfnoth bowed his head in reflection. His uncle, who had, after all, bequeathed this situation to him, was quite correct. Wulfnoth had no allies in the Winchester court, no elder statesman to guide him through his early reign, nor any friends in the courts of foreign kings or the Holy See.
He was shaken from his reverie by his deceased ancestor. “And as if an absence of friends were not enough,, you appear to made particular efforts to gain enemies.” A shiver ran up Wulfnoth’s spine as he saw the grave look that crossed his guide’s face. “You have far greater foes to worry about than the opportunistic Lord of the Franks.”
The air shimmered, and the pair were transported. Now Wulfnoth stood in a small room, a private study. For all its diminutive size, however, the space was elaborately furnished. The purple silk hangings on the walls and wolf’s fur on the stone floors showed the occupant of the room to be wealthy. An elderly man in flowing white-and-gold robes sat reading a letter; shards of sealing-wax littered the desk in front of him. The contents seemed to be causing him a great deal of anxiety, for the old man was shaking his head in disbelief and muttering under his breath. Wulfnoth inched closer to peer over the stranger’s shoulder to look at the epistle, just as its reader let out a loud curse in German. “Mein Gott! Verdammt Engländer!” Slamming his free hand on the table, the German angrily tossed the letter aside and Wulfnoth could now read the letter’s inflamatory contents for himself. It was composed in Latin, and Wulfnoth’s lips moved soundlessly as he struggled to read the text:
“Holy Father, Greetings:
That I write to you in my own hand should convey the seriousness of my message. There is scarcely parchment enough to list the crimes committed against your office and the Holy Church by one Prince of the English, Wulfnoth by name, who did visit the Eternal City, and commit all manner of sins in my very presence. It is not for me to enact judgment upon such a man; all I may humbly submit to your attention is a list of his misdemeanours, and await your august judgment on the matter.”
With a sinking feeling, Wulfnoth’s eyes continued down the message, which, as promised, contained a long and detailed account of his actions in Rome that past summer. Though the bare narrative of events was broadly correct, the history was heavily embellished with graphic detail and, despite the preceding disclaimer, was full of damning judgements against the young Englishman’s character. On the word of its author, Cardinal Henry, one would have believed that Wulfnoth had promised to unleash a Berber army onto the streets and burn Rome to the ground!
Finishing at last, Wulfnoth turned to look at the Pope, who was by now composing a reply on fresh paper. “But how can you believe this bundle of lies? Don’t you know what manner of selfish, manipulative man you have installed on Peter’s throne?”
By now, the King didn’t expect an answer from what he knew to be the illusion before him. Instead, he directed his attention to his guide, who was uncharacteristically silent and still. Beneath the helmet, Wulfnoth suspected his uncle had an eyebrow raised. “Were you not merely content with discarding friends, that you felt the need to acquire more enemies? The Pope and the Emperor - that is a formidable pair. Had you surrounded yourself with wiser men, perhaps the cardinal would not now be your mortal enemy. At the very least, the blame could have fallen upon some courtier instead of yourself!”
Taken aback, Wulfnoth paused for a moment. “So that’s why I was greeted by an endless stream of hangers-on the moment my feet touched English soil? Ink-stained scribes and grovelling burghers?”
“Of course! Why else do you think I tolerated such snivelling cowards and pompous asses? Like you, I was a man of action, with no time for administrative details. But I realised that meant I needed more help, not less. And I chose the aides I wanted, rather than the men who were best liked. What did it matter to me if the Greeks quarrelled with the English, or the Knights with the clergy? As long as the task was accomplished, it troubled me little.”
As they had been speaking, darkness had begun to surround the pair. Now the gloom swirled around them fiercely, and Wulfnoth felt his head growing lighter. “Seek out those you can trust, and use their talents. The active King knows he cannot be in all places at all times.” John’s voice carried, though his face was now barely visible. “As the Emperor commands the Pope, so the Holy Father commands the cardinal. Learn from your enemies, for they are too numerous to face alone.”
With that, Wulfnoth found himself once more upon his bed, with only the howling wind for company.
* * *
With the sounding of Lauds, the final hour before the dawn, Wulfnoth was soon woken from his troubled sleep. If, he thought, his grandfather’s warning had been accurate, he must face one more ordeal before this longest of nights was through. Steeling himself, he reflected upon the ‘lessons’ his ancestors had sought to impart to him.
Certainly he could see the logic in their arguments; that a king must be skilled in both war and peace; that a king’s duties cannot be undertaken alone - but in the cool, pre-dawn light, he began to doubt the truth of their visits. Surely every man was confident in his own decisions? What was to say that their advice was the only counsel worth heading? For all he knew, the apparitions could be servants of Satan. No sooner had he thought this than the room’s sole remaining guttering candle was extinguished, though the air was still.
Sitting upright in the darkness, Wulfnoth sensed that the time had arrived. “Who comes here?” His voice, despite his mental bravado, emerged hoarse and timid. Clearing his throat to try again, he shouted, “Reveal thyself, shade!”
He was answered by a flash of blinding light, which faded to a glow surrounding a tall figure, encased in a long cloak of purple silk. The light was so bright that the figure’s features were hidden in the recesses of his hood, just as his hands and feet were disguised by the cloak’s long folds. In fact, it was impossible to tell what manner of man inhabited the vestment. Atop the hood, and seemingly the source of the glare, sat a crown of golden light, though apparently without any discernible cause.
The man, if man it was, said nothing, but merely beckoned at the king, as if to encourage him to follow.
"Will you not address me? Who are you to point and direct, as if I were a serf?” Wulfnoth bristled in anger, but the spirit merely shook its head slightly, and guestured once more.
“Are you mute?” The light flickered, but the cowl indicated in the negative.
“So you choose not to speak?” Again the same response.
“And, I suppose, I have little choice but to accompany you?” Once more the haloed figure slowly beckoned Wulfnoth towards him.
Sighing, the King exited his sheets and made his way nervously towards his enigmatic visitor. He reached towards where (he presumed) the guide’s hand would be, but before contact could be made, Wulfnoth expressed a familiar lurch, as if he had fallen from a horse, and the usual change of scene occurred around him.
When his vision returned, Wulfnoth found himself in the strangest surroundings yet. He was standing in a room that resembled both a scriptorium and a cathedral. Shelves rose from wooden floor to soaring ceiling and were filled with codices and bound parchment. Row upon row of them stretched into the distance.
Wulfnoth had never seen so many books in one place. Perhaps the ancient Museum at Alexandria had been this large, but he knew of no example of such a repository in all Christendom. “Spirit, am I to believe that this is not a vision of the present?” His guide affirmed. “Then perhaps a memory of the past? A lost monument of the Greeks or Romans?” But the ghost shook its head.
Eyes widening as he digested this claim, Wulfnoth’s voice was a whisper. “Then this is the future? Events that are yet to come to pass?” The spirit, indicating that this was so, started silently down the rows of shelves, leadving Wulfnoth to follow in wonderment.
As they walked, they passed other visitors, searching for volumes among the room’s contents and heedless of their supernatural guests. Wulfnoth noted their strange clothing and appearance, and the manner of their comportment, and concluded that they were slaves or lowly burghers. He marvelled at the lawlessness of a society that would allow such people to handle such valuable objects.
Passing more shelves, Wulfnoth was unsurprised to find that he could read the titles inscribed on many volumes, despite his suspicion that they were written in many languages. He was astonished both by the variety of subjects encompassed, and by the presence of multiple copies of the same work. Such an expense! That anyone should compose works on “the Principles of Mathematics” or “the Origins of Animals and Plants” was remarkable; that anyone would take the time to copy such books several times was incredible. Familiar subjects like philosophy and geography were placed alongside unfathomable disciplines like ‘biology’ and ‘music’ (how could one put music into words?). Most surprisingly were what seemed to be a number of heathen works, on ‘al-gebra’, ‘al-chemistry’ and the like. Noting that he had not yet seen any monks or priests among the ill-dressed visitors to the scriptorium, Wulfnoth began to fear that he was among the infidels.
Finally, the spirit halted in a section which was clearly filled with works on the history of men and nations. He beckoned to a shelf of books which Wulfnoth soon realised contained the histories of his own people. He read the titles in amazement. ‘From William the Bastard to William the Proud: Norman Rule in England’; ‘Edgar: Prince of Tripoli’; ‘The Hallowed Life of King Baldred the Peaceable’. Dozens of volumes, covering each of his ancestors in great detail. Yet he could see no book bearing his name.
“Spirit, where is my name on these shelves? What do the people of this strange future have to say about my reign?” The cloaked guide indicated to a particular item on a shelf at eye-level. It was a large tome entitled ‘A Complete History of the Kings of England’. Opening it at random, Wulfnoth’s eyes fell on the strangey-regular writing and read:
Britain’s Dark Age
In the early part of the thirteenth century, following the death of William the Proud, the British Isles fell into a period of lawlessness and disorder. The Aetheling Kings of Judea made a brief attempt to restore their hegemony over the lapsed Kingdom of England under John the Lion-Hearted, but his own early death meant that the English counties were divided between Scandanavian, German and French rulers.(1) This was a period of great hardship for the ordinary labourers and townsmen of England, who faced several periods of famine and plague brought on by near-constant warfare.
Looking up, Wulfnoth’s face was white, and his voice was shaking. “I don’t understand. Where is the record of my deeds? How did such a fate befall the English?” The spirit indicated the bottom of the page, and Wulfnoth read the footnote which appeared there:
(1) John’s nephew Wulfnoth was proclaimed king after the former’s death, but due to his excommunication, lack of recognition by the Judean kingdoms and early death at the hands of an assassin, Wulfnoth is rarely enumerated among the lists of English kings.
Wulfnoth could feel his throat constricting, his heart racing. “Is this true, spirit? Am I doomed to an eternity of obscurity? An early death and forever after denied entry to paradise?” Struggling to control his fear, he looked pleadingly into the empty darkness where his companion’s face should have been.
Seeing the spectre shaking its head vigorously, Wulfnoth felt a glimmer of hope. “So this fate is not yet assigned to me? I can change events?” With relief welling up in his soul, Wulfnoth began to cry. “I can change, spirit, and I shall! From this day forth, I will follow the examples given to me by my ancestors, and I shall strive to be a just and noble king! I will earn my place in the chronicles of this strange and distant place!”
* * *
A cockerel crowed. For a final time, Wulfnoth awoke. He leapt from the bed, and ran to the door of his chamber. Nearly falling over the still-waking servant lying across the doorframe, he called out. “You there, boy - what day is it?”
Sleepily, the servant blinked before replying. “Today, Your Majesty? It is the Day of Our Blessed Saviour’s Birth, sire. Is there anything you require?”
“The spirits accomplished everything in a single night! God be praised!” Wulfnoth grinned to himself. Then he addressed the young man in front of him. “Yes. Go to the Queen’s chambers. Tell her to prepare the household for a great feast. Tell her to have the great swans in the castle grounds slaughtered, and invite all the coronation guests to attend. I have a kingdom to organise!”
The young man raced along the corridor as Wulfnoth turned back to his chambers. He surveyed the tapestry which hung on one wall, depicting King Alfred’s coronation at Winchester. “A Merry Christmas to you!” he said to his ancestor. “I shall make you proud.”
Wulfnoth was as good as his word. He did it all, and infinitely more. He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but ever afterwards it was always said of him, that he knew how to rule well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!
Now that is some important set of visions; little Tim isn't quite as important as the Dark Ages of England.
Nice touch with the swans; I guess England has no swan-eating prohibitions?
Nice touch with the swans; I guess England has no swan-eating prohibitions?
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Fantastic update - the third spirit was everything it should have been
As for the swans, in the UK only royalty are allowed to eat swans.
As for the swans, in the UK only royalty are allowed to eat swans.
Brilliant update. Well worth waiting for.
Only if it is overseas (or north of Hadrian's wall). War at home stops people from doing the important things (like looking after the royal swans).
Enough warfare makes the future generations stronger.
Only if it is overseas (or north of Hadrian's wall). War at home stops people from doing the important things (like looking after the royal swans).