Sea Wolves (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 2) - John Broughton

Sea Wolves - book excerpt

Chapter One

The Kingdom of Kent, 825 AD

Asculf surveyed the scene of carnage, removed his helm and swayed wearily. More’s the pity, he mused, that he had not fought alongside a single man from Sceapig. They, those islanders who viewed him askance, would have seen his father’s son live up to the valour of his sire’s reputation. Certainly, he had wielded the blade of victory with honour; nobody present could deny it. The supporters of Baldred, strewn on the bloodied turf nearest to him, soon to be carrion for the predators wheeling overhead, lay in silent testimony to his prowess.

“Come, Asculf! Stop your dreaming!” The voice of Thegn Sibert cut across his thoughts. “I want you to meet someone—come!”

The younger man had noticed that the ageing thegn’s muscles had not betrayed him on this field of slaughter. The nobleman was likely as old as his own father; yet he had proved a match for their adversaries on the day. Asculf plodded over to his father’s former lord, who was standing next to a tall figure. The warrior must be someone important, judging by the craftsmanship wrought into the snarling dragon crest on his helm.

“Bow your head, friend, to the aetheling of the West Saxons, Aethelwulf, son of King Egbert. This is the man whose cause you espoused on this glorious day!”

“Sire, it is an honour.” Asculf made to bend his knee but, with surprising alacrity, the prince caught him under an arm to haul him upright.

“Nay, my friend, I saw you fight. Sibert tells me you are the son of Deormund, the scourge of the Norsemen.”

Asculf laughed. “I have heard my father called many things, Lord, but not that. Today, I fought with the blade he took after slaying its owner, a Viking chieftain.”

Aethelwulf asked to scrutinise the weapon, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the runes. “Pagan symbols! I trust that you are of the true faith, Asculf.”

“Ay, Lord, do not doubt it. Thanks be to Christ that we have won the day!”

Thegn Sibert interrupted. “God has indeed spoken this day, restoring the king to us. This man Asculf, as I told you before the battle, is the grandson of Ealhmund, the last true king of Kent, himself a descendent of the line of Hengest. Tonight, we will revel in an eve of rejoicing! Mercian overlordship is overthrown; Kent returns to its ancient glory!”

They trudged off the battlefield, Sibert and Aethelwulf shouting orders to weary men to ascertain those who had sacrificed their lives for the Kentish victory be honoured by a decent burial, not left to the scavenging of voracious blood hawks.

Aetheling Aethelwulf favoured Sibert that evening by accepting his invitation to feast at Faversham in the thegn’s hall before proceeding to the city the next day to meet Wulfstan, Archbishop of Canterbury. Asculf sat next to the prince at the thegn’s high table and was flattered that the prince wished to know more about him.

“There is not much to tell, Lord. I have lived thus far a score and one winters on the isle of Sceapig, across the Swale Channel from here.”

“I believe your father is a deer herder. Is it true what they say about him defeating the Norsemen with a herd of deer?”

Asculf chortled. “Ay, partly true, Lord. The stag turned the clash in favour of the islanders, for the Vikings were knocked over like so many skittles by the rampaging beasts.”

“How I would have loved to have been there to see that!”

“The truth is, we would both have been too young back then.”

“Tell me, Asculf, are you also a deer herder?”

The islander’s curious expression in reaction to the question intrigued the aetheling. Soon, the reason for his frown became clear.

“Nay. I love animals, but herding is not for me. My grandsire, whose name I bear, bred ewes and as you say, my father, deer. Apart from my faithful hound, I tend no animal.”

“So, what trade do you follow on the island, my friend?”

“That is why my fellow islanders view me with some reserve. They do not understand my choice. But it is what pleases me. Most likely, only my father understands my way of thinking.”

“I am curious, Asculf, what is your strange occupation?”

“It is not that I’m unpopular on Sceapig—I should make that clear. The islanders have too great a debt to their thegn to ever slight a family member. You see, since I was a child, like my father before me, I grew up with a love of Nature and even the very soil of the island.”

“Come, Asculf, you make me impatient to know!”

The islander chuckled but then looked serious. “When I was young, I loved trees. I still do, but prefer those plants that supply us with food. So, I chose the ground carefully where I planted over seven hundred apple trees on some two acres of land. Every year now, I harvest the fruit. There are enough apples for all the islanders to store over the winter. The rest I use to brew beor, or what the locals call applewine—although I believe in your kingdom it is known as cider, Lord.”

“Ay, indeed, and mighty potent it can be!” said the aetheling ruefully; from which tone Asculf understood that the brew had dealt the king’s son a bad head on more than one occasion. He knew the feeling.

“I have planted some pears and cherries, too, but the cherry is a more delicate tree. It needs shelter from our island winds.”

“So, the mighty warrior I admired today is a cultivator of fruit.”

“True. I only wish that some of my fellow islanders could have been shoulder to shoulder with me in battle. Maybe then they would view me in a different light.”

The aetheling smiled, then added mysteriously, “I may be able to do something about that, but not immediately.” He offered no further explanation. Instead, he patted Asculf on his arm and raised his drinking horn. “A toast to the health of my friend, Asculf!” he said in a forceful voice.

“To Asculf!” cheered the men of Faversham, many of whom had fought beside and admired the young warrior. The rest of the evening passed in companionable conversation, largely on the part of Asculf, determined to discover more about Wessex since he had never strayed beyond the confines of Canterbury. The islander was disconcerted to learn that Wessex had suffered much, perhaps more than Kent, from Viking raids. He questioned the aetheling closely on the raiders’ provenance—had they used the English Channel to arrive at Portland, or had they come from Ireland? Either way, the effects had been devastating.

Aethelwulf gazed into the bright blue eyes of the islander, noting their similarity to the lapis lazuli so favoured by his mother for her jewellery. Without lowering his gaze, the aetheling said, “Your people are better off without the Mercians. My father sees himself as the defender of the folk of Kent, Wessex, too, of course, against the seaborne raiders.” He lowered his voice so that only Asculf could hear. “I think he means to install me in Kent as an underking to him.”

In an equally confidential murmur, Asculf replied, “Then, you can rely on my wholehearted support, Lord.” Thus was born a deep and lasting friendship between the two young men. At the end of the evening, Aethelwulf took Asculf aside to remark cryptically, “First, I must go to Canterbury on my sire’s business. Tell your father to expect me in his hall three days hence. I wish to taste your applewine, Fruit-grower Asculf.” There was no further explanation before or after they embraced and took their leave.

The next morning, having returned to Sceapig, Asculf hugged someone again, this time his father.

“Word has it that Baldred was driven to flight,” said the Thegn of Sceapig.

“Ay, we won the day. You were right about your sword never being on the losing side.”

“I only said that to give you courage, but it is true that since I took it, it has never served in defeat.”

Asculf began to unbuckle the belt to hand it back to its owner.

“What are you doing?”

“Returning your weapon, Father.”

“Nay, lad, it is yours now. I’m not planning on wielding it anymore; besides, if the Vikings return, or any other raiders for that matter, the islanders will need a younger and stronger leader.”

“They will not want a weak fruit-tender to lead them,” Asculf said bitterly.

“My son, we both know that you are no weakling. A man cannot be judged by his occupation,” Deormund hesitated and looked confused, “unless he’s a craftsman, of course. Like Sherred the Smith.”

“Why do you name him?”

“Because he’s making me a new sword. And it had better be a work of art! I’ve ordered him to incise Christian symbols into the blade. This time, I’ll trust in the Lord!”

“So, will you fight alongside me if danger comes to our island?”

“Not if, Asculf, when.” The thegn shook his head sorrowfully.

The younger man gazed with admiration at his sire. “Talking about outsiders coming to Sceapig, Father, the day after tomorrow we’ll have an important visitor.”

“Who?”

“My friend, the Aetheling of Wessex. His name is Aethelwulf. He will honour your table, Father.”

“Cyneflaed! Wife! Where are you, woman?” The thegn fairly bellowed these last words, bringing Asculf’s mother scampering from a room at the rear of the hall.

“What is the matter, Deormund? What’s all this shouting? Are the Vikings upon us again?”

Deormund guffawed. “Nay, nothing of the kind. You must prepare a feast, my love. We expect an important guest. The Aetheling of Wessex is coming.”

“When? This evening?” She looked horrified.

“Be calm, Mother, the day after tomorrow. But we must invite all the men of the island.”

Cyneflaed hurried to the kitchen to speak with her cooks. This would not be her first or last great feast, but it was the first one with royalty present, so everything had to be just right. Deormund considered venison to be the appropriate meat for such a visit, so he disappeared to check the storeroom. He was sure that a hind was hanging up to perfect maturation. Now was the occasion to remove it to the kitchen for sectioning and roasting.

On the day of the feast, Deormund, normally calm and collected, displayed his frayed nerves.

“I fear the ale is bad. What shall we do? Shall I send to Faversham?”

“What’s wrong with it? You always keep good ale.”

“Ay, but come and taste this—” They went to the cellar, where Deormund filled a jug from the barrel. “Try this! It’s worse than piss!”

Asculf took a draught and spat it out. “Urgh! It’s flat. You’re right. But no worries! No need to send for ale. The aetheling is coming specially to taste my beor.”

“Beor? Do you have enough for everyone?”

“Ay, I’ll fetch two barrels from my store. There’s more available, but you’ll not need it, Father. Two barrels of my applewine will put more men under the table than a Viking raid into your hall!”

“Hmm! Do you think the Aetheling will like your beor?”

“It seems they produce little else in Wessex!”

Aethelwulf was not the only one to appreciate the applewine that evening. At first, many islanders cast angry glances at Asculf and muttered darkly about apple-growers, but as the hours passed and the strong cider took effect, every one of them mellowed. Aethelwulf judged the mood in the hall to perfection. Graciously asking his host for permission to address the assembled islanders, he rose when consent was accorded.

The raucous gathering fell silent as he stood and stared around the hall.

“O, lucky men of Sceapig! That you should have not one, but two noble warriors to lead you! We all know about the courage and daring of Thegn Deormund, whose deeds are recounted as far afield as my own Kingdom of Wessex. Like father, like son! I saw on the field of battle how Asculf fought with the strength of two men—and with what skill! I swear, I wish we had one such as he in Wessex. I came here today to express my appreciation to all the sons of Sceapig.” He raised his drinking horn. “A toast, my friends, to the strong arms and strong drink of Asculf!”

“To Asculf!” The roar shook the rafters while beakers were banged rhythmically on the tables. “Asculf! Asculf! Asculf!”

Aethelwulf gestured for silence, which duly arrived.

“One other thing, my friends. Yesterday, the Archbishop of Canterbury blessed me in the cathedral as King of Kent, underking to my father, Egbert of Wessex. I swear to defend you and your fellow men of Kent with my life.”

The cheering and chanting continued, while Asculf sought to thank his friend and new ruler for uplifting his reputation among the islanders. If his stock had needed bolstering, the aetheling’s speech had achieved it, but the applewine appeared to speak louder than words.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: Sea Wolves (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 2)

GENRE: Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 242

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