Enemies of the crown, p.1
Enemies of the Crown, page 1
ENEMIES OF THE CROWN
BOOK 5 IN THE SAXON WARRIOR SERIES
PETER GIBBONS
For my family. Love and support is everything.
Swa stemnetton stiðhicgende
hysas æt hilde, hogodon georne
hwa þær mid orde ærost mihte
on fægean men feorh gewinnan,
wigan mid wæpnum; wæl feol on eorðan
Stodon stædfæste.
So they prevailed, sternly determined,
the men in battle, they directed their thoughts eagerly
as to who first at weapon point
would win a life from fated warriors,
men at arms; the dead fell to the earth.
Steadfast they stood.
AN EXCERPT FROM ‘THE BATTLE OF MALDON’, AN ANGLO-SAXON POEM WRITTEN TO CELEBRATE THE BATTLE FOUGHT AT MALDON IN 991AD
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
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
Historical Note
Glossary
Thank you!
More From Peter Gibbons
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Peter Gibbons
Warrior Chronicles
About Boldwood Books
1
994AD
Fear hung over the kingdom like a death shroud. War loomed. Talk of raids, battles and slaughter travelled on the wind like smoke from burned thatch. War needs warriors like fire needs kindling, and so Beornoth and Ealdorman Alfgar reached Winchester on a blustery late spring day when gusts of wind snapped their cloaks about them and Beornoth frowned as grit from the dry road stung his eyes. Two of Alfgar’s warriors rode ahead to clear the road for the ealdorman and his retinue. They carried ash-shafted spears from which the banner of Cheshire stood proud, golden wheat sheaves on a square of wool dyed blue. Churls stood by the roadside, heads bowed in deference as the ealdorman and his ten-man retinue trotted slowly by. The warriors’ armour, weapons and bridles clanked and jangled. Big men on big horses, grim-faced, scarred and terrifying. The churls stood before their carts of onions, cabbages and cut peat with downcast eyes, afraid of the spears, swords and shields but understanding that the fearsome riders and their ilk were all that stood between them and destruction at the hands of bloodthirsty men. Men who would come to raid, steal and kill should the sheep find themselves unprotected by the dogs of war.
‘We’ll reach Winchester today,’ said Alfgar. He tossed scraps of hacksilver to the common folk with their dirty faces, greasy hair and rough spun jerkins. The churls waited until the horses had passed before scrabbling to grasp for the ealdorman’s alms.
‘Aye,’ Beornoth replied, ‘and find out why they summoned us.’ He shifted in the saddle, rump aching after the two weeks it had taken to ride from Alfgar’s home at Mameceaster to the king’s capital at Winchester. Alfgar was the ealdorman and ruler of a wide swathe of land in England’s north-west. As ealdorman he answered only to the king, which made Alfgar one of the most powerful men in the realm.
‘Danes again. That’s why the king has sent for you, Beo.’
Beornoth’s frown deepened, the lines upon his forehead creasing like a furrowed field above the hard, flat crag of his face. Scars and old wounds pulsed at the mention of the cursed Vikings. His shoulder ached, stomach knotted and his thigh throbbed. Too many wounds to remember. The cold stab of steel had cut at Beornoth his entire life. Swords, axes, spears and arrows slashing and stabbing at him as he hewed at the kingdom’s enemies with his monstrous strength and savagery. Terrible wounds suffered fighting brutal Viking warriors come south across the Whale Road from the wild lands of Jutland, Kattegat and the Vik. Beornoth frowned because Alfgar was right. A summons from King Æthelred meant trouble, battle and blood.
‘Maybe King Æthelred is getting married again?’
Alfgar leant back in the saddle and cocked an eyebrow at Beornoth. His beard was neatly combed, and his eyes shone brightly. ‘So the king sends for you, Beornoth the famous Dane-killer, to pick some flowers for his bride?’ He laughed, and Beornoth curled his lip.
Beornoth glanced around him at trees bursting with bright leaves, lush meadows and blooming wildflowers. ‘It’s late spring. Time for war. The time when the Danes sail their dragon ships south looking for trouble. Bastards must be back.’ Beornoth had fought the Vikings since his first beard had grown like dandelion fluff on his chin. They had taken everything from him, his children, his heriot – the land and weapons his father had left him. War had made Beornoth what he was, and in truth he had known it must be the Danes when the message came north summoning him to the king. Beornoth was not the sort of man to invite to a wedding. He was a king’s thegn. Thegns were warriors who held land and weapons in an ealdorman’s service, oathbound to fight for their lord whenever he called. A king’s thegn was different. There were only a dozen such men in the kingdom, warriors of equal rank to an ealdorman, who answered only to King Æthelred. Equal in rank, but not in lands and power. The king’s thegns were his protectors, the wolves he called upon for the grim work, the sword work beyond his own warriors and nobility. Beornoth had felt the Vikings return in his bones, but hoped it was not so. He had prayed to God before leaving Mameceaster to let the summons be something else. When Beornoth had kissed his wife Eawynn goodbye, he had whispered that it might not be the Danes this time, but she had stroked his bearded cheek and stared up into his face with sad eyes. It was always the Danes.
‘Time for war indeed, old friend. Thanks be to God that the northmen do not trouble us in Cheshire. But we must heed the king’s call, and if necessary, help our brothers in Wessex, Essex and Mercia. So let’s see what work the king has in store for us.’ Alfgar clicked his tongue and urged his bay gelding along the road.
The Danes craved the fertile lands of England’s south. They had won much of the north already. Descendants of Norse raiders ruled everything north of the old Roman road known as Watling Street, which ran from Lundenwic to the River Mersey. Lands known as the Danelaw. The Vikings had settled there, becoming part of the kingdom. Folk referred to the invaders from Norway, Denmark and Sweden as Vikings, Danes, northmen or Norsemen, irrespective of their actual homeland. They came south every year on board drakkar warships with sleek hulls and snarling-dragon carved prows, sailing up England’s wide rivers in search of blood, silver and glory.
Beornoth leant forward and stroked the neck of his warhorse, Virtus. The horse whickered and followed Alfgar’s mount at a canter. Virtus was a roan mare, a gift from the king himself, and trained for war in the royal stables. Virtus meant courage and strength in Latin, the tongue of the Church and of old Rome. She was not as large or vicious as Beornoth’s old warhorse Ealdorbana, but she was fast and strong. Beornoth had always felt a closeness to horses. He enjoyed their company. There was a bond between a warrior and his mount, the care and respect of the rider for the horse’s strength and willingness to carry his burden.
They reached Winchester after noon, riding alongside the shining River Itchen. The king’s capital city emerged from the rolling hills and farmland, grey, brown and formidable amongst the grazing meadows and farmsteads. Beornoth noticed with approval that the king had maintained the city’s walls and fighting palisade. A ditch, bank and timber palisade on which spearmen glowered along the muddy roads reaching to north, south, east and west had strengthened the neat, dressed stone left by the Romans. Alfgar sent his men ahead to announce his arrival at the gate, and Beornoth rode beside the ealdorman as the familiar city smell of smoke, tanned leather, livestock and shit drifted on the breeze. A cloud of grey smoke hung above the walls, rising from hearths, forges and cook fires.
Two of Alfgar’s warriors bought steaming strips of roasted meat from one of the crudely built market stalls clustered outside the walls, and another bought a leather necklace set with a small teardrop of amber for his wife. The gate guards waved them through and bowed their heads to both Beornoth and Alfgar, and a bent-backed steward wearing the king’s livery of the green dragon of Wessex met them inside.
‘Welcome, my lords,’ said the man, bowing deeply. He wrung his hands and peered nervously at Alfgar’s men. ‘Could I ask your men to make camp beyond the walls for now, Lord Alfgar? Once your meeting with the king is over, we shall find rooms for them at a tavern. You, of course, will be welcome to spend the night inside the king’s palace.’
Alfgar nodded and his men left through the north gate. Two boys took Beornoth’s and Alfgar’s horses, and Alfgar gave them each a scrap of hacksilver. The ealdorman was expected to pay such small offerings to the common folk, and Beornoth had seen Alfgar give away a small fortune on the journey south.
‘Brush them, and make sure they have clean hay,’ Alfgar said with an easy smile.
The steward led Beornoth and Alfgar through a winding mass of timber-framed houses and buildings with wattle and daub walls and thatched roofs. Some leaned preca riously against one another along narrow, winding streets whilst other, larger buildings boasted painted gables and carved window shutters. The stone church and hall within King Æthelred’s palace grew closer, grand and magnificent above the mud, wood and thatch. More guards waited at the royal enclosure, and they took Beornoth’s sword and seax. Beornoth and Alfgar handed over their weapons without challenge, for it was customary not to bring weapons into a home or feasting hall, and certainly not before the king’s presence. Beornoth’s heriot, his trappings of warhorse, sword, spear, seax, byrnie coat of chain-mail armour and helmet, were all gifts of King Æthelred, provided upon his appointment to the rank of king’s thegn in reward for his service to the throne. The gate guard’s mouth dropped open when he noticed the ring on Beornoth’s finger. The band was deep yellow gold, inlaid with a green stone etched with the dragon banner of Wessex, the mark of his rank, which Beornoth also wore sewn into the leather of his sword scabbard.
The steward left Alfgar and Beornoth with the palace guards and scuttled off to meet more visitors in the king’s city. They followed the palace guards, both wearing hard-baked leather breastplates and carrying leather-covered shields daubed with the grasping dragon, who led them inside the royal enclosure, a place of rose gardens, Roman water fountains, clean stone and bustling servants. The king’s hall rose tall, its doors oaken and as broad as five men, flanked by the old minster, an iron-grey stone cathedral from which the praying and song of priests lilted above the city’s din. They passed through a side gate and into a bright courtyard filled with bright flowers of yellow and blue. It was a garden haven set within the hard stone and drab wattle buildings. The city had long been the seat of the kings of Wessex, and there were reminders of Alfred and Athelstan, and the other great Wessex lords in tapestries and carvings all over the palace. The courtyard was a small square spread between the hall and minster. A cobblestone walkway linked the buildings and meandered its way around bright plants and bushes, which smelled fresh in the afternoon sunlight.
‘Wait here, please, my lords,’ said a guard, leaving Beornoth and Alfgar alone.
‘I have been here before,’ Beornoth said. He stared at a small stone bench. ‘Ealdorman Byrhtnoth sat there. Leofsunu of Sturmer and Aelfwine of Foxfield stood beside me.’
‘Good men and stout warriors. We miss them,’ said Alfgar. He clapped Beornoth on the shoulder and smiled sadly for their friends, who had perished in the battle of Maldon.
‘My lords?’ said a croaky voice from the shadows, thankfully interrupting Beornoth before he slipped further into melancholy thoughts of lost friends. ‘The king will see you now.’
Beornoth followed Alfgar up a narrow set of mottled steps and into a shadowed corridor. They emerged into the king’s great hall, a vast space with high ceilings and ancient, smoke-darkened roof beams. Heavy tapestries hung from the walls and a hearth fire crackled and spat at one end. Beornoth’s footsteps echoed around the great chamber and his chain-mail byrnie clanked against the buckle of his thick leather belt. Two dozen men huddled at the centre of the hall, talking in whispers. They fell silent as Beornoth and Alfgar approached.
‘Ah, my ealdorman and my Dane-killer!’ said King Æthelred. He emerged from the crowd with a beaming smile. The king had lustrous auburn hair and wore a circlet of gold upon his brow. His long, lantern-jawed face had gained more lines than the last time Beornoth had seen him, and there were streaks of white in the king’s thin beard. He wore a large silver crucifix on a thick chain over a finely woven purple tunic.
‘Lord king,’ said Alfgar, and inclined his head. ‘We received your summons and came at once.’
‘Lord king,’ Beornoth said as he bowed his head. The men about Æthelred crossed themselves and made pinched faces at Beornoth. Most of them were narrow-shouldered men with soft, pale faces and gentle hands. Most wore the brown and black robes of priests, others wore the vestments of higher office: greens, whites and reds, heavy cloaks and soft scarves. Beornoth bit his lip to avoid snarling at the little bastards. They flocked about the king filling his ears with softness and the word of God, or the word of God as they saw it.
‘It has been, what, two or three years since that dreadful day at Maldon?’ said the king. He tutted sympathetically and made the sign of the cross. Beornoth did the same. ‘We all miss Ealdorman Byrhtnoth.’
‘Not all of us,’ hissed a thin voice, scraping and hushed like a winter wind across dry, fallen leaves. It came from the shadows, beneath the lowest eaves of King Æthelred’s hall. A small, grey-haired woman shuffled from the darkness flanked by two huge warriors. Beornoth stiffened. She was bent-backed, but kept her head high, her lips pursed and her gnarled knuckles showed white upon the black staff she used for support as came with short, scuffing but determined steps. ‘Byrhtnoth was too powerful. He was a supporter of your brother’s crown. You would do well to remember that, my son.’
‘Ealdorman Byrhtnoth was a hero of the realm, who stood fast against our Viking enemies, Mother. We have raised my dear late brother to sainthood, and shall remember the fallen ealdorman just as fondly.’
‘He was a proud fool.’ The king’s mother banged her staff on the floor and pointed its tip at Beornoth. ‘He was there. He knows. Byrhtnoth could have slaughtered Forkbeard and the Danes at Maldon, but he let them come ashore. The tide stranded them on Maldon island. He wanted to fight a great battle, to be the noble warrior, to face them in a fair fight on firm ground. Well, he got his comeuppance. And as for your brother, your half-brother…’
‘Enough!’ King Æthelred shouted, but his voice came out high-pitched, like a cat screeching in the night.
‘Lady Ælfthryth has kindly joined us to share her wisdom on the problem with the Danes,’ said one of the bishops. The king’s mother glowered at Beornoth, and he returned her stare with a sharp look of his own. Her sour talk of Maldon made his fists bunch, for it had not happened that way. Beornoth knew. He had been there. The last Beornoth had heard of the old queen was her exile to a convent, an exile she had earned through the failure of dark plots and deep cunning. She was old King Edgar’s second wife, mother to Æthelred, but not to his older brother Edward. After King Edgar died, Edward became king, but was then murdered and replaced by Æthelred. Many, including Ealdorman Byrhtnoth, believed Ælfthryth arranged King Edward’s murder so that her own son might become king. Æthelred had been but a boy and she had ruled in his stead until the king came of age. She was powerful and ruthless, and had once tried to have Beornoth killed.
‘My lady,’ said Alfgar, bowing deeply to the wizened old battleaxe. Beornoth said nothing.
‘You have missed my counsel. The kingdom withers and suffers at the hands of weak men. Despite my son’s payment of a kingdom-crippling gafol to the Danes after the crushing defeat at Maldon, Sweyn Forkbeard has returned with ninety-four ships,’ said Ælfthryth. She stalked amongst the priests and bishops, tapping her staff and staring up into their pale faces with her challenging eyes. ‘For those of you with minds like mice, which, unfortunately, is most of the lackwits in this hall, that means he brings six and a half thousand Vikings to our shores. He is in the Thames Estuary as we speak with this vast fleet and does not come to pay us homage. There are many in the north who would welcome Forkbeard’s return, who would rejoice to see a Dane on the throne of England. We stand on a knife edge, my lords.’
Æthelred chewed at the fingernails of his left hand, thought better of it, and stuffed his long fingers into the sleeves of his luxurious tunic. ‘So you see, Lords Alfgar and Beornoth. We face war again.’
‘How can we be of support, lord king?’ asked Alfgar. Beornoth stood straight-backed and kept his eyes on Ælfthryth. Though small and frail, malevolence pulsed from her like heat from a fire. She had been Byrhtnoth and Beornoth’s enemy, and to see her returned to the king’s presence filled Beornoth with dread. The priests bowed their heads, exchanging nervous glances at what the king might suggest, and Beornoth knew the gentle churchmen would advise any path but violence, but if Forkbeard had returned, then violence was upon them whether they chose it or not.
