Chapter 32, the port town of Dover, 27th January 944 AD
‘You must hurry my lady,’ the red-faced prelate wheezed as the small party wound its way up from the market. That is where they had been taking their ease buying victuals and mingling with the townsfolk, when word had reached them of the Queen’s arrival.
The young, fur-covered woman who moved at the head of the group, nonetheless seemed unflustered. Not something that could be said for her attendants; another younger priest and an old gentleman attired in the Norse, rather than Saxon fashion. Bringing up the rear was a doughty looking fellow carrying the chain of office of a mayor of these parts.
‘Where is Bishop Thurfrith?’ The woman asked hurriedly as they crossed the town’s main street, their accompanying men at arms rudely barging any surprised townsfolk out of the way with shouts of ‘make way! Make way for your Duchess!’ Surprise there was at their rough handling but also surprise at the pronouncements for there had been no Duke or Duchess around these parts for many a year – their own having twice been proclaimed traitor and languishing in a royal prison until the end of his days.
‘Chancellor Thurfrith is with the queen my lady,’ the rotund and hard breathing Bishop responded
‘Welcoming them with unctuous platitudes no doubt,’ growled the old Norse man.
‘Please Fredrik be gracious’ the lady said softly, but firmly, ‘you are my husband and consort-Duke of Kent by marriage and a Commander of this great Duchy-act like it!’
This firm and assertive put-down elicited a grumbled response but the Duke cast his eyes away, seemingly cowed by his spirited wife.
Duchess Ætheræda of Kent, daughter of Werestan and Gwenasedd, had only had seventeen days to become accustomed to her newfound status as one of the pre-eminent Barons of the realm but that was where she was at, like it or not, on the death of her traitor father on the Feast Day of Saint Gregory, just over a fortnight previously, when the snows were fresh on the ground and the country-at large was still trying to shake off the excesses of Yuletide.
As the Ducal residence finally came into view and they had to slow their pace for they were on a patch of road that had not been salted to dispel the snow and ice, the duchess turned to the Mayor, ‘Aelle, you are my Spymaster-why are we only now hearing of the queen’s arrival?’
The mayor chuffed, ‘my people in Winchester were blindsided my lady-the queen, it seemed, surprised the Court with this trip as is her wont.’
‘This will not do sir-I rely on you to appraise me in advance of such. What disposition does she come with? Is she in good humour-I have heard rumour that her mind is failing?’
Aelle shook his head grimly, ‘I know not her disposition at the now, my lady and am truly sorry but I can assure you her mind is as sharp as ever it was-anything else is conjecture spread by her enemies. As for her intent, I would assume that she has come to check on her investment…’
Cryptic words but they served to silence the party as they finally approached the main entrance of the Villa and moving past the royal party, horses, Huscarls and attendants, all muddying the yard.
The duchess, all single-minded purpose, flung her furs at a servant and snapped to those at hand, ‘I will need to change sirs-see to our royal guest, let her know that I will be in attendance presently.’ And at that she and her husband swept off to their quarters.
Ah she likes me well enough
In the
atrium, Queen Wulfryth was taking her ease with her ladies in waiting-a roaring fire in the hearth keeping the spacious room warm. She had been accompanied also by Æthelric, Duke of Mercia, Advisor to the royal person and the most powerful magnate in England with the possible exception of the Lady whose Villa they were now causing such a stir in. The duke had now seen a venerable sixty-one summers but was still vigorous of mind even though stooped. His appointment, in place of the dear departed Commander Beorhtwine, was a shrewd one for it had signalled to the duke’s warring Iceling clan that any injury to her Advisor was likely to be seen as an attack on the queen herself and would bring all her righteous wrath down on the miscreants.
‘…over a thousand pounds of gold my lady-a prodigious sum to spend on building works,’ the old man was saying.
Queen Wulfryth was herself old and recent personal losses had done nothing to lessen the cares she bore on her royal shoulders but she, nonetheless, carried a bright and active look about her mien. She smiled at this last; ‘Steward Mishael has amassed much more my lord-never have I seen such bounteous treasures pour into our coffers-that trading expedition to-what was the Chieftain’s name?’
How do you pronounce your name again fella?
‘High Chief Sulev…of Livonia my queen’ the Duke noted smoothly.
‘The very one my lord-the very one’ Wulfryth said motioning an attendant to replace her goblet of steaming spiced wine. ‘Nonetheless England grows rich so it is seemly I invest some of that coin in our infrastructure think you not?’
The duke nodded reluctantly, ‘the Jew grows arrogant my liege-he should mind his way lest those wings he has grown under your beneficence are clipped…’
Wulfryth appraised the duke closely and pointedly before saying coldly, ‘I trust that was not a veiled threat my lord duke? Steward Mishael is a principle officer of the crown and therefore inviolate. Need I remind you, or any who encompass harm to him, for that matter, the fate that befell a whole village who foully murdered my forebear’s pet Jew-also Steward?’
Æthelric chuffed at the rebuttal, ‘I speak not of myself my lady but the point is nonetheless well taken…’
The air hung heavy for a while at that and as both Duke and Queen struggled to find a way to break the ice again they were rescued by the fanfare of the arrival, finally, of their host, who was introduced by Kent’s urbane Chancellor, Bishop Thurfrith of Saint Albans.
‘My queen may I introduce you to her grace, Duchess Æthelræda of Kent and her husband, Duke Fredrik.’
All stood silent in both parties as the younger of the two women approached. The duchess was dressed in a heavy white cotton shift bordered with black sable fur, high bosom and a traditional Saxon head covering: she had eschewed the blue felt cap that was hers to wear by right as Duchess regnant of Kent. Her sovereign was dressed for the part, high crimson and white chemise bordered with black velvet, gloved and with a heavy fur mantle. Atop her brow a gleaming gold circlet, rather than a crown-she was at her authoritative best.
Æthelræda knelt low and offered her clasped palms to her queen. Wulfryth took them in between hers in the age-old symbol of obeisance.
‘I accept your oath of fealty my lady’ she intoned graciously, then added, smiling: ‘now come. Walk with me’ and with nary a backward glance took the surprised younger women in hand, perambulating towards the spacious peristyle towards the rear of the villa. Attendants on both sides looked to follow on but were stopped by a look from the queen: this was to be a private talk.
Clasping their furs close around them against the frigid north wind that was blowing they moved into the generously colonnaded vestibule. Wulfryth had the younger woman’s hand tight in hers and started hesitantly, ‘your father…’
‘Was a traitor’ Æthelræda completed the sentence, then added, ‘twice over.’
Was that relief that flashed across the queen’s creased features? The duchess looked up into her liege’s face and said earnestly, ‘I did not know my father-only vague memories from when I was but a child. My mother it is the same. Some small recollections…she was kind I think…’
‘
You are yet kind too girl,’ Wulfryth opined, ‘though methinks that such milk will soon curdle under the heat of the realities of ruling in a man’s world.’
The Duchess was thoughtful, ‘mayhap…’
Wulfryth gripped her hand ever closer, ‘and yet I am hard no?’ A shrug, ‘that is the price you will have to pay to get their respect my lady duchess…it is a steep one I assure you.’
‘
Their?’
‘The men!’ Wulfryth snapped with impatience, ‘think you that any of your advisors or your husband for that matter will be content to be ruled by such as yourself - a mere girl? I think not!’
Æthelræda bristled despite herself, said with some restraint ‘my councillors know their places madam-I have already set out as such…’
Wulfryth laughed her high, tinkling laugh but it was not one of malice, more a deep irony with more than a hint of condescension. ‘They might pretend to accede, Æthelræda of Kent, but look to their actions-you rule a proud demesne, granted to your grandfather by my father for loyal service to the crown, there are those who would not wish to bow to the rule of woman.’
‘Mayhap in the kingdom itself my queen, things, here, are different I am sure. I have grown up with these men. They are leal’ the duchess shot back firmly-it felt like they were locked into some kind of battle of wills and it was important not to show weakness. Besides she had her pride to consider.
‘You have too much faith girl. My cynicism has been forged in the fires of betrayal and insubordination-I have even had cause to resort to playing the madwoman most recently to be feared…’ A wry smile, ‘but yet I admire your generosity of spirit-let us see how long it may last.’
They continued on in silence for a while, coming around for a second circuit, boots crunching in the snow, ever mindful of the queen’s guard, silently shadowing them at a respectful distance.
At last Wulfryth once more broke the impasse: ‘I am ever mindful that you stand to inherit your mother’s vast northern domains…they will make you England’s pre-eminent peer. What say you to that madam?’
With firm eye Æthelræda replied, ‘not quite so vasty after you nibbled off the great shire of Lancaster my queen.’
I'll have that back thanks you high blown strumpet!
If this was meant to rile the queen it had the opposite effect and Wulfryth merely chuckled, ‘what is it the West Franks like to say?
Touché.’ But in a trice the smile was gone and she was all serious intent again; ‘I will forego warring with your dam again seeing as you stand to gain all and our northern counties will finally be returned to Saxon hegemony but I expect something in return from you girl.’
Æthelræda’s belligerence was gone-the contemplation of just what the older woman had needed to sacrifice to survive as queen was a sobering one-even it was at the expense of one if not both of her parents. They were not people she had known, her guardians had been hand-picked by the queen-the writ of Wulfryth was all that she had known. ‘Name it sire-I am ever at your service.’
‘Your loyalty girl. Not only for me but to my son as well and down the ages. I grow old and know not how many more years I am to rule.’ The queen looked wistful, of a sudden, as if somehow wishing herself younger. ‘I know, for instance, that your lord husband esteems me not-have heard he has temptations back to his old religious practices. This compact is between me and you: two powerful women ruling in amity. Will you be true to it madam and bend your will and your power to service of the crown?’
With gleaming eye her charge once more knelt and bowed low, ‘my queen you have my word.’
‘Then I am satisfied-right enough. Rise my lady-we will be firm friends methinks…’
Queen Wulfryth takes gifts from Duchess Æthelræda (artists impression)
At that point they spied the Duke of Mercia hurrying out from within. He approached, gave perfunctory bow before announcing news; ‘my lady a great force of Bretons have landed in Deheubarth.’
Wulfryth was surprised, in spite of herself. South Wales was now a tributary, their young king having been brought to heel and forced to pay a proportion of their income to England-an attack on that country was effectively an attack on her realm itself.
‘The same Bretons that have taken a large part of Hibernia?’ She asked with intent.
‘The very same my liege.’
‘How many have they landed my lord?’
‘Reports say as many as nine thousand my lady’
The queen whistled, ‘that is a sizeable number. It seems that Lord Mishael’s treasury will be put to good use again-we will need support. These Bretons are heretics are they not-can we enlist the support of one of the Holy Orders?’
The queen was now hurrying off in earnest conversation with her Advisor, Æthelræda all but forgotten. The Duchess held back, gathering her wits. This was the nemesis of her parents, the winter Saxon queen, she who had ruled with iron grip for three decades and more, who had cowed her magnates and scattered her enemies. She was frightening and formidable but if there was an impression seared onto the eighteen-year-old duchess’s consciousness, it was a desire to emulate her and follow keenly in her footsteps and it was not one she was likely ever to forget…
I am hoping the young man turns out alright. He has big shoes to fill in his mother, however, that’s for sure.
