Clash of kings, p.1
Clash of Kings, page 1
CLASH OF KINGS
BOOK 3 THE BRUNANBURH SERIES
THE BRUNANBURH SERIES
MJ PORTER
CONTENTS
Cast of Characters
Note on Names
I. Aftermath
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
II. The Death of Kings
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
III. Protector of Warriors
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Historical Note
More from MJ Porter
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by MJ Porter
Warrior Chronicles
About Boldwood Books
This book is respectfully dedicated to Athelstan, the first and only king of that name to rule England, in what is the 1100th anniversary of him being proclaimed king of Mercia and then Wessex, and then ‘of the English’.
‘The very mighty King Æthelstan enjoyed the crown of Empire.’
The Chronicon of Æthelweard
And the battle of Dùn Brude in his xxxiii year in which was slain the son of Constantin
CHRONICLE OF THE KINGS OF ALBA
A great and lamentable battle fought between the Gaill and the Saxons
THE ANNALS OF ULSTER
CAST OF CHARACTERS
(ALL HISTORICAL UNLESS UNDERLINED AND THEN FICTIONAL CHARACTERS)
The English
The English Ealdormen
Ealdorman Wulfgar
Ealdorman Athelstan of the East Angles (from 932), married to Ælfwynn, the lady of Mercia’s daughter
Eadric, Ealdorman Athelstan’s brother, ealdorman
Æthelwald, Ealdorman Athelstan’s brother, ealdorman
Ealdorman Guthrum
Ealdorman Uhtred
Wulfheard, archbishop of Canterbury from 926
Wulfstan, archbishop of York from 931
Oda, bishop and archbishop of York after the death of Wulfheard
Flodwin, King Athelstan’s warrior
Sigelac, King Athelstan’s warrior
Wihtred, King Athelstan’s messenger
Taliesen, scop
The Scots
The succession strictly alternated between two noble lines.
Constantin, son of Aed, king of the Scots (reigned 900 onwards)
Ildulb, son
Amlaib, grandson, son of Ildulb, died at Cait in 934
Cellach, illegitimate son, died at Brunanburh
Alpin, son, hostage at the English king’s court
Mael Muire, daughter of Constantin (name is fictional, although we know she existed)
Mael Coluim, Constantin’s designated successor, the son of his predecessor, Domnall
Strathclyde
Owain, king of Strathclyde, died at Brunanburh
Dyfnwal, Owain’s son, now king of Strathclyde
The Welsh kings
Hywel, king of the South Welsh (Deheubarth), known as Hywel Dda
Owain ap Hywel, Rhodri ap Hywel and Edwin ap Hywel, Hywel’s sons
Idwal, king of Gwynedd
Cadfan, his brother
Alun, Idwal’s steward
Tewdwr ap Griffi ab Elise, king of Brycheiniog
Morgan ap Owain, king of Gwent
Gwriad, king of Glywysing
The independent kingdom of Bamburgh
Ealdred, king of Bamburgh (died 934)
Ealdwulf, his son, not ruler of Bamburgh at this time (might not be his son, but his brother)
The Dublin Norse and their allies
All claimed to be descended from Ivarr the Boneless, the Viking raider who led the Great Heathen Army of the 860s. Some would have been grandsons, others perhaps great-grandsons. The genealogy is particularly complicated.
Sihtric, king of York, died c.926, married Athelstan’s only natural sister, Edith
Anlaf Sihtricson, his son, not the son of Edith
Rognavaldr Anlafson, Anlaf Sihtricson’s son
Haraldr Sihtricson, Anlaf’s brother
Gothfrith, king of Dublin, grandson of Ivarr, died in 934
Olaf Gothfrithson, son of Gothfrith, great-grandson of Ivarr
Camman, Olaf Gothfrithson’s son
Rognavaldr, Olaf Gothfrithson’s brother, died at Brunanburh
Blakari, Olaf Gothfrithson’s brother
Gothfrith, Olaf Gothfrithson’s brother
Olaf Cenncairech – Scabbyhead, king of Limerick – captured by Olaf Gothfrithson in 937, fought for him at Brunanburh, died
Ivarr, son of king of Denmark, Gorm, died at Brunanburh
Gebeachan, king of the Islands (as named in sources of the period), died at Brunanburh
Eric, one of Olaf Gothfrithson’s warriors
The notable families of West Frankia
Charles III (died 929) m. Eadgifu, daughter of Edward and Æfflæd
Louis, their son, king of West Frankia from 936
Hugh the Great, married Eadhild (died 937), daughter of Edward and Ælfflæd
NOTE ON NAMES
The unwary traveller to this period will be faced with a profusion of names for the men and women in this story. Names may be given in Welsh, Gallic, Old Norse, Old English or with modern spellings. As such, you may find Olaf/Anlaf/Amlaib and be surprised to discover these are all the same person. You may find the name Eadward used, although the most common form is Edward. Equally, Æthelstan is the correct form of Athelstan. You will find names used interchangeably if you consult different sources, and secondary sources. The choice taken will depend, quite often, on the main sources the writer uses and on their own personal preference. I have attempted to use the names that are most recognisable for the individuals involved. Welsh and Norse convention usually names someone as the son of their father, e.g. Olaf Gothfrithson is Gothfrith’s son; Owain ap Hywel is the son of Hywel. Names are often reused throughout the generations in all societies and, in England, families often name all of their children with names that begin with similar letters, e.g. Athelstan, Athelwald, etc.
All quotes from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle are taken from The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, M. Swanton ed. and trans.
PART I
AFTERMATH
1
SUMMER 937, WINCHESTER, THE KINGDOM OF THE ENGLISH
Eadgifu, the lady of Wessex
I eye the messenger before me. I wish I could tell who it is, but he’s down on one knee, face pressed low to the ground, awaiting permission to speak.
I look to Eadred, my youngest son, and he shrugs his narrow shoulders. It seems he can’t identify the man either. I huff softly with annoyance. I want to know that my king, and my son, are victorious on the battlefield against the might of the Norse and the king of the Scots.
Who then is it with knowledge of protocol and the respect due to me and to my son, as well as to Alpin, the son of the King of the Scots, who stands beside Eadred? He might be a prisoner, but Alpin is still esteemed according to his birthright.
‘Rise,’ I mutter quickly, deciding I’ve had enough of my fears and worries.
Vibrant eyes greet mine, even brighter cloth beneath the folds of the dull-coloured cloak, perfect for riding in, whether rain or shine.
‘My lady, my lords.’ The accent tells me straight away. This man is from West Frankia. Immediately my thoughts turn to King Louis. I can see Eadred opening his mouth to demand answers. The messenger beats him to it. ‘I’ve been sent by King Louis, the fourth of his name, to inform my lord King Athelstan that Louis is now free from the fetters of his uncle by marriage. He rules in his name and with the support of his mother, Queen Dowager Eadgifu, and the archbishop of Rheims.’ I feel a sour smile on my lips at the reminder of Eadgifu, my namesake and stepdaughter. It’s been little more than a year since she left these shores, but I’ve forgotten her haunting presence quickly enough.
I lift my gaze to Eadred’s and meet his fierce eyes. He and Louis were firm allies. This must please him to know that Louis is free from the louring presence of his uncle. We were all suspicious of the intentions of Count Hugh, and as it transpires, we were correct to be.
However, my deliberations run counter to this, and I notice the unwary expression on the messenger’s face.
‘Why now?’ I almost whisper.<
‘Alas,’ the man begins. ‘Alas, Countess Eadhild met her death before the summer. She lies, now, entombed close to Paris.’ I shudder at the thought. I consider if Athelstan will mourn his half-sister? I also realise that Eadhild’s sisters must be told of this. I’ll send to Wilton and ensure they know.
‘And?’ I realise there’s more.
‘King Louis has allied with Hugh the Black.’ I wrinkle my nose at this. I don’t know who he is. As England is served with too many Athelstans and Edwards, West Frankia has far too many Hughs.
The messenger must notice my confusion.
‘He’s the brother of the man who was king before Louis.’
Still, I’m perplexed, and I’d ask much more of the messenger, only now, from outside, we all hear the drum of fast-approaching hoofbeats, loud over the hard-packed road. My eyes swivel to the front of the hall, willing the messenger to hurry and enter. He’s come from the north. I’m sure of it.
I notice that Scule and Osulf lumber to their feet now. The ealdormen, or rather jarls, were to stay here and protect Eadred and myself while Edmund and Athelstan rode to war. Osulf hastens outside. I wish he’d move faster.
A flurry of voices, the loud crash of someone dismounting in a hurry, and then a dust-stained man is before me. It’s Wihtred, and I sigh with relief on seeing the victorious gleam in his eyes.
My gaze turns to Alpin, and I notice a haphazard smile on his lips at the sight of Wihtred. I consider who he wished to be triumphant, his father or the man who’s kept him close all these years. Not that it matters any more.
‘Victory, my lady, my lords,’ he calls for all to hear, his eyes appraising as they sweep over Alpin with a knowing look. ‘Victory at the battle of Brunanburh. Never yet,’ he continues, as though he’s a scop, and I smile at his exuberance, for it matches my joy, ‘was there a greater slaughter of the bloody Norse.’
2
OCTOBER 937, DUBLIN, IRELAND
Olaf Gothfrithson, king of the Dublin Norse
I eye my brother with unease where he stands on the quayside of Dublin, festooned as though he’s the king here and not me. Admittedly, I bid him rule here in my absence, but all the same, I didn’t expect him to adopt the accoutrements of my kingship so easily. He returns my look without inhibition from beneath the thick wolf cloak he wears. He didn’t agree with my decision to ally with Anlaf Sihtricson, giving him Dublin to rule when I was victorious and held Jorvik. No doubt, in the absence of both of us, Gothfrith has done much to win the support of the Dubliners. If Anlaf lives, I don’t see he’ll have an easy time of it now. I don’t think that I will either.
‘Brother,’ he calls to me. No ‘lord’ or ‘king’, just ‘brother’. Damn him.
‘Brother,’ I counter quickly. I hoped to come here in triumph but, instead, my ship has barely limped into Dublin’s quayside. I’m defeated, but I’m not about to let on to that while Gothfrith watches me with his ambitious eyes.
The moans and wails of my shipmen sunder the tension between us.
‘A triumph,’ he offers sarcastically, coming forward, extending his arm towards me so that I stay upright after the days and days at sea as I place my feet on dry land – well, almost dry land. The planks beneath my feet extend over the reaches of the slurping water. It shouldn’t have taken us as long to return to Dublin. The weather has been a bitch, the Goddess of the sea making her displeasure known only too well.
‘Indeed,’ I confirm, mirroring his tone, welcoming his support, although it shows me as weak, just like the wrecks of my ships. There are few of us. Two follow on close behind. We’ve not made this journey together. We came upon them only with the sunrise. Their wolf-headed sails proclaim them as my shipmen and warriors, but I’ve only seen a third of the number of men who should crew such a craft on board each one. How many, I consider, have been consigned to the depths during the perilous journey home? Too many. Too many.
‘Where’s your son? My brothers? Your wife?’ The words are pointed. He knows that the battle wasn’t a triumph. He knows I’ve lost. ‘Tell me, at least, that Anlaf Sihtricson met his end?’ His lips curl as he speaks. Gothfrith has no love for Anlaf, who thinks to rule Dublin in my name. Gothfrith would far sooner be ruling. But Anlaf is a great-grandson of Ivarr the Boneless as well. We’re cousins, alas.
I can answer none of his questions. I’m defeated. I’ve lost all – well, apart from Dublin. I hope my son, Camman, lives. I know Rognavaldr, my brother, doesn’t.
‘Rognavaldr’s dead,’ I admit sullenly. ‘He died fighting to save my life.’
‘A worthless endeavour,’ Gothfrith complains, his voice filled with sorrow all the same for our dead brother. There were once five of us, but now only three remain. His eyes are everywhere, watching the men limp ashore behind me. How has he heard tales of our failure? Have others made it home before me?
‘Tell me what you know,’ I demand.
‘When we’re inside, and these men have left their ships.’ He surprises me with his concern for others, or perhaps it’s merely a tactic to delay the inevitable of informing me of all he’s heard of the battle.
I lean on his arm, all the same. I smell the too-familiar aroma of Dublin, and I could cry, I don’t deny it. My dreams. My ambitions. My brother. They all lie dead on that battlefield, or rather, slaughter field, over the sea. That damn bastard, King Athelstan of the English, and his pestilent brother, Edmund. I must have my revenge against them both. I must. Although, right now, it all seems impossible.
I stink of battle, vomit, and the sea. I’m little more than a beggar I’d normally kick in the street to free my gutters from clogging with filth, the beggar included in that assessment.
Later, inside my hall, I meet the haunted eyes of the many women and boys who’ve come, seeking news of their men and fathers. I can scarcely hold their furious, blame-filled gazes. I promised much and have delivered bugger all. Worse. Men and boys are dead. In my name. I don’t even have my new wife at my side.
Only now does Gothfrith speak.
‘We’ve heard reports of the defeat. Two ships made it home before you did. The men were dead or dying, the storms finishing what the English scum began.’ His words thrum with fury. He’s said nothing other than that Rognavaldr’s death in battle was a waste. He’s cast no complaints my way. And then he does look at me, drawing my eyes to his with a hairy hand that I try to bat aside, but I’m too damn weak. I need to eat an ox or a boar, but right now, my belly still rolls with the swell of the ocean that’s finally spat me out and allowed me home to Dublin. ‘They blame the Scots’ king, and your bitch of a new wife.’ I wince at that. Gothfrith has always liked my first wife. He releases his hold on me, and now the very woman materialises before me. Her face isn’t just streaked with tears but with claw marks where her nails have gouged her skin.
