CHAPTER ONE: A FUNERAL BIER
Several years earlier…
5 November 865
Fresh mud squelched beneath Ælfred’s boots as he made his way through the well-worn streets of Scirburn. He had been roused earlier than usual this morning, along with the other high-born pupils at the abbey school. They had each received an official summons to attend an important ceremony at the abbey church. There was a rumor among the other boys that something exciting was taking place -- that the king himself might even be in attendance. Such stories rarely had any impact on young Ælfred, however. After all, the king was his own elder brother.
“Come on, Ælfred, give us a hint!” said Ordgar, son of the Ealdorman of Defnas, “It’s no fair keeping everything secret!”
“For the last time, I haven’t heard anything about it,” Ælfred protested, “You know as much as I do.”
“Of course he hasn’t heard anything,” said Eadwine, whose father was a wealthy landholder, “His
junior lordship is always out of the loop.”
“As if he’d even notice if they did tell him anything,” mocked Cuthred, another rich thegn’s son, “His nose is always so deep in a book, it’s a wonder he’s ever seen the light of day!”
“Boys…” chided a familiar voice. It was Brother Wulfsige, master of the abbey school, who had accompanied his noble charges. “Why don’t you leave Prince Ælfred in peace for a change? I swear, if Bishop Eahlstan could hear how you lads carry on, he’d have the lot of us flogged, including me for allowing such impertinence!”
“Sorry Brother Wulfsige,” Eadwine sneered with mock humility, “Sorry Ælfred.”
The other boys snickered once the old monk’s bald head was turned. Ælfred shook his head in disgust. If these insolent lads were the best the great families had to offer, then there really was no hope for West Seaxe.
At sixteen, Ælfred was almost old enough to stand in the Witenagemot with the other high-ranking men of the kingdom. It galled him a little to think that his light-minded schoolmates would soon bear the same privilege. Of course, none of them carried a pedigree as regal as his own -- an ætheling, a king’s son, one of very few deemed worthy to bear the crown.
This of course made the others extremely jealous. He was a bit taller than most of the other youths his age, but also slighter of build, so some of them thought they could push him around when their schoolmaster wasn’t looking. For the most part, he let their insults go unanswered. Their petty jibes weren’t worth his time.
The wooden breastwork of the abbey church loomed ahead, by far the tallest building in the town of Scirburn. As they approached the church, the boys could hear the chanting of monks. It seemed they were already late for whatever service was taking place.
“Please try to show a little reverence once you enter the sanctuary!” implored the beleaguered Wulfsige, plucking the cap from Ordgar’s tousled hair.
Ælfred could just barely make out the familiar words of the monks’ liturgy: “
Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternum, quia pius es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis.”
The entrance to the church was guarded by a handful of men in fine mail byrnies. By their dress, Ælfred thought they might be the hearth-companions of a great lord. Whatever was taking place had to be serious indeed for such eminent guardsmen to be in attendance. One of them noticed the boys' arrival and beckoned them forward.
“Right, in you go boys,” whispered Brother Wulfsige, “Keep your heads bowed and for God’s sake, hold your tongues!”
Ælfred moved to follow his schoolmates. “Hold on, Ælfred,” said Wulfsige, taking hold of his shoulder.
“What is it?” asked Ælfred.
“I must beg your pardon, my lad,” said Wulfsige. His face took on a pained expression. “I meant to tell you earlier, but I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the others and honestly, I just wasn’t sure how to break the news…”
“My brother is dead?” Ælfred said blankly.
Wulfsige was taken aback. “Why -- how did you hear that?”
“I’m no fool,” said Ælfred, “My Latin's not perfect yet, but it's good enough to know that those monks are singing a requiem mass. I’ve heard it sung many times before -- at the funerals of both my parents as well as two of my brothers.”
“Forgive me, lad,” said Wulfsige, now looking embarrassed himself, “I had forgotten that you had already suffered bereavement beyond your years.”
Ælfred shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.” He turned quickly to enter the church so as to avoid enduring more of his schoolmaster’s awkward apologies. One of the guardsmen caught his eye and gave a brief nod, his face full of sympathy. It was at times like this that Ælfred wished he was invisible. Of course he had loved his brother. Æthelberht had been a good man and a good king, far better than their elder brother Æthelbald, who had preceded him on the throne. But truth be told, Ælfred had barely known him. His brother had been fourteen years his senior, already grown and married by the time Ælfred was old enough to go to school.
The interior of the church was lit by a thousand flickering candles, and the air inside was filled with the scent of burning incense. The body of his brother Æthelberht lay on a grand funeral bier at the center of the transept, surrounded by a crowd of well-dressed mourners. At the head of the bier stood Æthelred, now Ælfred’s sole remaining brother, a gallant, broad-shouldered figure of a man, with a mane of auburn hair that matched his own. Although the Witan had the final say, Ælfred knew everyone expected his brother to succeed to the throne. Æthelred had reigned ably as sub-king of Cantware under his brother, so he was probably already as good as crowned.
As Ælfred slowly wended his way through the closely-packed congregation, Æthelred finally noticed his arrival and waved him over. “You’re late,” his brother said under his breath, “For a moment, I thought you were going to leave me to deal with all of these profoundly sympathetic flatterers all by myself.”
“Poor you,” said Ælfred, his voice hushed so as not to be heard over the monks’ chanting.
“Poor Æthelberht,” replied Æthelred, “Though at this point I’m not sure whether I’d rather be in his shoes or mine.”
“So it’s to be king for you then?”
“It looks that way,” groaned Æthelred, “I can’t say I’m terribly enthusiastic about the job. You never got to see Æthelberht in action, did you?”
Ælfred shook his head.
“You’ve been cooped up at school for too long,” continued Æthelred, “But heavens above, Æthelberht’s royal court was truly something to behold. Our brother was really in his element there. The way he played all of those pompous ealdormen off each other… sometimes it even reminded me of father.”
Ælfred nodded. He had only been nine years old when his father had passed. “I can’t imagine you’re terribly thrilled about having to take his place in the political game.”
Æthelred grimaced. “It was bad enough in Cantware. Just imagine what it’s like to juggle the competing petitions of all the thegns of West Seaxe!”
“Better you than me,” Ælfred said grimly.
At that moment, the church doors opened again and one of the royal guardsmen shoved his way through the crowd to reach the two commiserating æthelings. It was the man who had caught Ælfred’s eye earlier. “My lords, please forgive this interruption,” he panted, obviously distraught, “But a man has just arrived bearing an urgent message for the king.”
“Can’t it wait until the funeral is over?” said Æthelred, “My royal brother’s corpse is scarcely cold. It’s all these incessant matters of state that hounded him to an early grave in the first place!”
The guardsman blushed under his helmet. “The messenger -- he says the Danes have returned. In far greater numbers than we’ve ever seen before. They’re in East Ængla, he says. I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”
Æthelred’s eyes widened.
“There’s more,” continued the guardsman, “The man’s taken a wound. It looks pretty bad.”
“Dear God,” breathed Æthelred, “Right, come on, Ælfred. Big brother’s funeral will have to wait. Let’s move. Quickly now, I’m going to need your help!”
The guardsman cleared a path through the crowd as the two royal brothers hurried towards the doors as briskly as was proper within the walls of a church.
When they reached the entrance, Æthelred hesitated briefly. Turning around, he looked back at the large crowd of important people who had gathered for the funeral. The church was oddly silent. All eyes were on the two of them. “Ah…” said Æthelred awkwardly, “We’ll be back later. Keep chanting!” With that, he grabbed Ælfred by the arm and rushed out of the building.
There would be plenty of time for grieving later -- in fact, a good deal more grieving than any of them could ever have anticipated.