Chapter 33, Bamburgh, Northumbria, 3rd May 948 AD
The young Duchess, usually even tempered and kind was, nonetheless, at pains to stop the irritation showing at this latest intrusion into her affairs:
she was in mourning was she not she had snapped at her Chancellor as she departed the Queen’s Chapel after
Terce.
‘The prince would not wait my lady,’ the usually urbane and unflappable prelate spluttered, ‘has come far specifically to beg audience with you…’
Æthelræda stopped mid stride and looked the bishop up and down, her pretty girlishness was being replaced with a striking beauty, hair neatly coiffed in a Saxon headdress and wearing all black as was the custom, despite the warm early summer air. She was unusually tall for a woman and positively towered over Thurfrith, coolly appraising him before stating simply ‘it is a sorry pass, think you not, when a royal prince seeks an audience with a mere Duchess?’
Her Chancellor was quick to respond - ‘you are no
mere duchess my lady-of that we are all clear - your mother’s unfortunate passing saw to that…’
The Duchess said nothing prompting the bishop to continue apace: ‘three great Duchies and no less than four shires and a Barony hardly constitutes
nothing your grace, by the mass! You have a demesne to rival the Godhelmings themselves.’
‘The Duchy of Galloway is
no thing – there are no counties there my lord chancellor’ Æthelræda retorted, her face showing high colour.
‘Nonetheless madam, my point is not to be gainsaid’ was the swift response. From the Duchess, however: silence.
Their perambulation took them towards what had been the Queen’s royal residence and as they walked Thurfrith cast a worried glance over to his young charge. ‘My lady what is it that really troubles you? You have been a most true Duchess in Kent have you not? All do love and esteem you there.’
Æthelræda stopped on a high walkway with spectacular views across the strand to the North Sea and on clear days like this it was a breath-taking sight.
‘My mother’s passing has come too early for me I fear my old friend. None yet know how, for she was in rude health, so to tell. It is clear who does benefit most, however…’ She trailed off, clear blue eyes searching the far shore for something as yet unseen.
‘Mean you the queen my lady?’ The Chancellor said carefully adjusting his heavy priestly garments – it was going to be a hot day,
‘That is precisely who I mean sir! Who else profits so much from her most bitter rival’s death? And she presented herself as friend to me and mine whilst encompassing the murder of my mother!’
Thurfrith glanced around nervously as if they might be overheard even though there was no person abroad on the causeway. ‘Soft I pray madam…murder is a most serious accusation…’
‘What else might it be when my mother retires to her bed with nary a care in the world and is discovered the next morn mouth agape and eyes staring in terror? Answer me that my lord?’
The Chancellor adopted a tone that he often used when speaking to his flock at mass; ‘my child I know that the pain of your mother’s death is yet fresh and that you are probably feeling some regret that your lives were not more entwined but it is a long stretch to imagine that the queen might in any way have been responsible…what is more such talk is seditious and smacks of treason…’
‘I care not! If I am now the pre-eminent Baron in all of England let all tremble at the fact!’ Æthelræda’s blood was up, a deep flush infusing her pretty face. ‘And she has lost her Paladin, Duke Cuthberht and her Advisor, Mercia, only this year past. We could best her…’
The Bishop was at his unctuous best, saying calmly and gently, ‘my lady your levy is large, the largest, indeed, of any of the magnates of our proud kingdom but think, I beseech you!’ He looked her intently in the eye, locking her azure ones to his cool grey: ‘how many spears did our queen call upon to fight off the Breton threat this year past in Gwent?’
Hands off my Tributary, Breton scum! As if!
‘I know not the exact number…mayhap nine thousand…’ the Duchess said weakly-she knew where this discussion was headed.
‘She raised over twelve thousand fighting men at arms…four times what we could muster!’ A pause to let that sink in then: ‘and none of that required any of her lords to provide their levies…all were either from her own crownlands or routiers that she paid for with the treasury.’
Æthelræda looked down meekly, ‘I see…’
‘Moreover, she has found new commanders with aptitude for war equal to that of any Cuthberht or Beorhtwine…lay this animus aside my lady-we could not win against her even if we were to persuade others to our cause. Let us, instead, fulfil our obligations and vows and be the northern bulwark she would want us to be.’
Calculation and struggle flitted across her eyes for an interminable time; love for the queen she knew and admired so, warring with the need to properly honour her own mother’s untimely passing and make she who was most likely responsible pay for it in kind. At last those striking eyes moistened and she lowered her head, defeated and whispered ‘forgive me your grace-I have forgotten myself…the queen is ever in my heart.’
Using the same honorific her Chancellor gently raised her up saying merely ‘all is well then your grace?’
‘Yes all is well my lord Bishop. Let’s to the residence. It would not be well to keep our royal guest waiting eh?’
And so they set off again in the bright summer’s light-a meet to take the measure of the man who would be king and mayhap the woman who would be kingmaker…
It was a time later that the two of them finally entered the great hall in the royal residence of Bamburgh, a modest and rude affair when compared to the grand edifices in the south, but such was wholly in keeping with the hardy environs. To Æthelræda’s surprise and annoyance the ducal chair was occupied and as they approached the dais they noticed a smattering of courtiers, few of whom she recognised as men of Northumbria or Kent. Sprawled in her chair was a rakish, youngish man, sharp yet handsome of face, finely trimmed forked russet beard and bearing a wholesome gut. He was richly attired in white silk, gold embroidered tunic and cotton braes. A light velvet mantle in blue hung from his neck.
Seeing the new arrivals the man exclaimed ‘Ah our hosts are here at last!’ At that a sprinkling of laughter crept from the sycophantic attendants.
Æthelræda, ever a stickler for protocol, demanded sharply, ‘sir I think it quite rude that you sit atop
my chair whoever you may be!’
Another man, unctuous but bristling with rage, stepped into her path, ‘how dare you madam! Know you to whom you speak?’
Head held proudly high the duchess snapped ‘I am fully aware sir, now step aside! This is
my hall and
my domain. Custom demands that,
here, even a prince of the blood must acknowledge my suzerainty. Then and only then will I bow to his.’ At her side she could almost feel the bishop shrinking in his robes at this unexpected turn of events.
The tension in the room was stifling and even the cool breeze blowing through the open doorways did little to dispel it. After an interminable time, however, a booming laugh erupted from Prince Osweald; ‘come away Cadwur! Heel sir!’ The man rose extravagantly from the ducal chair and proceeded down from the dais and towards them giving his friend a pointed look as he passed. When he reached the Duchess he took a protesting hand in his and planted a gentle kiss upon it. A small bow followed; ‘my lady of Kent and Northumbria.’
It had been smoothly done, such that the duchess was hard pressed to maintain her hauteur. She, in turn, bowed low, ‘my lord Prince – you are well met, though why you travel so far north I know not - you do not have lands hereabouts.’
Osweald was still grinning broadly, a practiced eye from the older man appraising the spirited younger woman. ‘You have it right, your grace, but all the realm does tell of your beauty and I thought it only meet that I should make acquaintance with the fabled lady of Kent…’
‘Come sir – I find it hard to credit that you have journeyed here just to ogle at me – you have a wife of equal repute if rumours are to be believed – and one that is no worse for having delivered you two boys by all account. Mayhap you are here on your mother’s bidding…or you come to gloat at your handiwork’
‘Handiwork?’ He appeared nonplussed at that. Then, still grinning, the Prince leant in to Æthelræda and whispered ‘let us somewhere more privy my lady. I would have word with you - alone.’
Her body still tense and her pretty features still echoing the suspicion she yet felt, she gestured towards the
peristylium at the rear. The worried look on her Chancellor’s face betrayed his lack of confidence in her to handle the coming encounter.
On entering the bright sunshine the duchess snapped her fingers at an attendant who hurried off. They walked for a while in silence before the page returned with some cooled wine. The pretence of affability was now gone and though the prince’s mien was pleasant enough it carried elements of matters of more import.
‘The north is as good a place to be with smallpox ravaging the south my lady in truth…’ he offered carefully taking a sip from his goblet.
‘Smallpox! I knew not – have been utterly immersed in the affairs of my new northern shires,’ then a pang of concern despite herself, ‘how fares your lady mother?’
‘The queen is well enough. Wessex’s gates are shut fast and the bountiful treasury that her pet Jew has amassed has been spent on facility to take care of such as this. She does not work so hard - is bored and rather tired these days methinks. She no longer has young Péronelle to torment…’
‘Torment is an interesting use of word my lord…’ she opined, ‘Péronelle is queen consort of wild and ungovernable Mumu is she not? If her husband is not fending off invasions from heathen Bretons he is being attacked by his fractious chieftains. Sending her there is a penance if ever I did hear of one.’
‘She does what she must for the needs of the realm…from my mother I have learnt not to mix sentimentality with expedience…’
For the first time Æthelræda appraised the prince carefully-there was something of a wistful look in his eye. A longing for something lost.
‘She raised you too did she not my lord prince? And affection was in short supply?’
Osweald looked away and when he turned back whatever opening there had been into the deep sentiments he held about his mother had gone. ‘I see what you do there madam. Whatever maternal lack she may have it is England and Wessex that she is truly the parent of.’
‘Indeed-the mother of the realm’ Æthelræda said not without some irony.
The prince ignored the tone, ‘and what a parent she has been see you. She has ruled for a lifetime. And a woman at that - quite the marvel. I thought you may…in you. I thought.’ But the words, such as they were, would not come leaving him floundering.
‘You would mayhap see in me what you missed in your
mater methinks my lord…’ She stated.
Osweald looked somewhat bashful – a quality that made Æthelræda suddenly think of a little boy. ‘I am not your mother my lord’ she said firmly.
This gentle rebuke brought a flash of irritation, ‘think you not that I know this madam? I would come and seek out the mettle of she who is to be my foremost baron when I am king – that is all…’
‘Of course my lord.’ The air hung heavy between them for a while until the duchess spoke with a sly gleam in her eye, ‘of course such amity could be sealed by the offer of your earldom of Surrey…’
Osweald spat the wine out of his goblet and then choked whilst once more breaking out into laughter. When he had composed himself he looked closely at her and not without kindness, ‘you are insolent, by the rood lady! Surrey?’ At that he once again dissolved into fits of mirth.
‘I am deadly serious my lord – it is part of the demesne of my duchy of Kent.’
‘That it might be madam but has been held by the Godhelmings for over a hundred and fifty years – has not been a part of Kent since it was a Kingdom ruled by another family. Why in God’s name would I ever give you Surrey making you even more powerful?’
‘Because it is the right thing to do…’ Æthelræda shot back.
‘You will have to do much better than that my lady duchess.’
‘Because you have designs on the kingdom of Saxony in far off Francia?’ This last brought the prince up short, all mirth suddenly gone.
‘How know you of that? By all that is holy, you are sharp lady.’
Æthelræda folded her arms imperiously, ‘think you that you are the only ones to employ skilled networks of agents my lord? Remember that I have inherited my own mother’s; they were particularly skilled where the affairs of Saxon England were concerned…’
She let the import of that sink in before the Prince, suddenly nervous span round and gripped her by the arm, ‘you will not speak of this, my lady. If the queen were to discover my plans…promise me!’
Wriggling free the impertinent young Duchess repeated ‘then you will grant me Surrey sir. Friendship…and silence has its price.’
Osweald observed her with competing emotions playing across his handsome features though whether it was disgust or admiration the duchess was at a loss to divine.
‘I will think on it Lady Æthelræda of Kent,’ he said shortly before spinning on his heel and heading back to the Great Hall leaving the young woman wondering whether she had gone one step too far with the man who would be king…
The Prince and the Duchess (a Saxon's artists impression)
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Hereberht the Wake) 1220 AD: A year after their momentous meet The mettlesome Duchess of Kent went to war with the Prince of the realm having received no redress for her repeated entreaties to be granted the Shire of Surrey. At the same time Osweald was embroiled in his own struggle to claim the far off kingdom of Saxony – in truth a mere two counties in that Frankish land.
It is said that old Queen Wulfryth, in envisioning her protégé and son in close conflict, was both enraged and afeard…
Was this to be the future of the realm?
That said there’s some good advice here
