Wyrd Of The Wolf (Wyrd Of The Wolf Book 1) - John Broughton

Wyrd Of The Wolf - book excerpt

Chapter One - Aelfhere and Cynethryth

Steyning, West Sussex, January 685 AD

Aelfhere tugged at the thong at his neck causing the wizened ear of a wolf to prickle at his skin. The hidden amulet did not prevent his heart sinking when the aetheling of Kent downed more ale. The stripling drank fast, the flushed cheekbones, the sheen on his brow, the shrill voice over the oath-laden din, revealed as much. Did the fledgling ignore how much was at stake?

The smoky air caused Aelfhere to rub his smarting eyes before checking on the abiding frown of his daughter, Cynethryth, seated with other noblewomen at the end of the hall. She, who had more reason than anyone to appraise the young man, disapproved: an attitude that heightened his foreboding.

Strange table companions, the Suth Seaxe hosts and their guests. Nine years past, the Mercians — overlords to the Suth Seaxe — devastated Kent, and it rankled! The atmosphere, dense with mistrust, spread to the dogs; sensing the tension in the room, several left off chewing bones and stood, heckles rising. Some began to bark. Beside the aetheling sat King Aethelwahl. The old fox! Ruler owing to the support of the Mercians on his northern borders. Where lay the truth? Had he turned his back on the gods of his forefathers to embrace the milksop his neighbours worshipped: the so-called god who kissed his enemies instead of slaughtering them like swine or sending the wælcyrge to conduct the slain to the Hall of the Dead? Or, as Aelfhere suspected, did he enact a ploy to gain time before shaking off the alien yoke?

Staring upwards, Aelfhere’s gaze roved along the rough-hewn tie beam, the oak from woodland covering the Downs. The same timber formed the palisade around the stronghold commanding the ford on the Adur. A flame flickered in a cresset, its light catching the image of the one-armed war god incised in the copper band at his wrist. The baleful likeness of Tīw glinted as he reached for his cup only for Baldwulf, his closest friend, to nudge him, causing his ale to spill and Aelfhere to curse. Pointing with a rib bone half-stripped of meat, the thegn indicated the refilling of the aetheling’s drinking horn.

Once before in his life had Aelfhere seen Eadric, on Wiht, his island home: a babe in the arms of his mother, the sister of the king of the isle and wife to Ecgberht of Kent. The child had grown. His ten and eight years made him a man, but he must learn to pace his drink. No spearman would follow an exiled sop — not in the bloody matter of reclaiming a kingdom.

A cry of outrage disturbed his thoughts. Men leapt to their feet, horns, cups and food scattering on jostled tables as benches overturned. Confused, Aelfhere too jumped up to see three warriors hanging on to a South Seaxe ealdorman — he who sat on the far side of Eadric. One man grasped his forearm with both hands to prevent the use of a seax. The other two struggled to pull the writhing assailant away from the aetheling while all around, men sniggered and pointed, stoking the fury of the outraged nobleman.

Eadric too held a knife but with his arm limp at his side as he rocked with merriment, his other hand clenching a long lock of hair.

“By the Giant Lord of Mischief,” Aelfhere grinned at Baldwulf, “he’s shorn him like a sheep!”

His thegn guffawed, “In the name of Lôgna, he has too!”

Shouts of applause at the aetheling’s wit echoed from the rafters for these rude men understood this kind of humour.

Silence fell when Aethelwalh hammered with the pommel of his seax.

“Enough! It’s poor sport when a man riles at a jest!” He turned to Eadric, “Brother, come now, hand back your prize to friend Fordraed.”

The aetheling’s smirk and the ill-concealed amusement in his eyes countered the malice in the expression of the other. An awed silence accompanied the younger man holding out a fistful of yellow hair; a huge hand dashed it to the ground.

“What use is it to me?”

The gesture and the pointless question led to more laughter but the wise ealdorman quelled his ire; too much ale and high temper are poor companions and worse counsellors. Servants bustled to right and replenish cups and nothing more fearsome than glares and scowls from the offended ealdorman pierced the blithe aetheling.

In vain, Aelfhere tried to sweep aside glum thoughts. This should be a joyous occasion but here he sat, a scarred warrior amid rowdy revellers with an old woman wittering in his head, vexing and nagging. Arwald of Wiht, his king, had ordered him here with a score of armed men. On the favourable outcome of their mission rode the safeguarding of the isle: a shield to their way of life. Wise advances, given the dying months of the year had brought a debilitating outbreak of the yellow illness after a poor harvest. In Aelfhere’s lifetime, his homeland had never been so vulnerable. The Wihtwara must strengthen. No-one disputes the gods aid those who help themselves and, by Woden, no man would tell him who to serve and who to worship! Time to unite the Kenting with the Wihtwara and bind them with the people of the Suth Seaxe in a force to be reckoned with. Over the ages, Aethelwahl’s folk had bred whelps with the Jutes! Enough blood in common flowed in their veins to weld a southern block capable of making an invader ponder long and hard before contemplating attack.

Ale and good food brightened his mood as the evening progressed, until the moon lighted the humped forms of men stupid with drink sprawled under the tables. Unsteady on his feet, Aelfhere braved the iron chill to regain his hut.

Cynethryth came to him in the morning. At her greeting, he ran his forefinger down the scar beside his nose over the thick moustache concealing the slash on his lip and down to his chin. This ritual, he enacted whenever forced to listen to what displeased him.

“Father, to insult and annoy one’s guest in front of everyone is not the mark of a man but rather of an arrogant brat! I needn’t tell you the importance of hair to a person of rank, an ealdorman no less.”

Tongue like a skein of wool, head a smith’s anvil, made discussion unwelcome.

“Only a jest,” he managed.

“A jest! You men are so foolish! A prank like that can lead to bloodshed. I came to tell you, father, I like him not and will not take him for my spouse.”

She crossed her arms and fixed him with a stare.

Fighting off the clenching of his stomach and the oath on his tongue, Aelfhere resorted to wiser tactics.

“Daughter, have pity on my poor skull! Steep me some of those dried flowers for the splitting head — ”

“Feverfew?”

“Ay.”

Busy about the fire, she prepared to boil water in a pot. Warmth suffused him for the girl he had cherished since his wife died in the throes of childbirth. If he were a scop, what verses he would chant to praise her beauty! A woman now, full ten and six years. Truth be told, her looks eclipsed even those of her mother, Elga, nicknamed ‘elfin-grace’ for her comeliness.

Ah, Cynethryth, joy of my life, changeable as the depths around our isle. One moment calm, the red-gold flood of hair like the sunset reflected on a creek; eyes the grey mist swirling on the morning shore — the surface ripple across the bay the smile on your lovely lips; the next, countenance pale as the wind-flung spume, a temper black and relentless as the endless waves.

A grating laugh at his own conceit caused his daughter to gaze at him.

“What?”

“Oh, nought. A fancy! I might take up the hearpe. Never know, if I spent the evening singing, there’d be less time for supping…”

Cynethryth smiled and tossed the dried flowers from her pouch in the water bubbling like fish eyes. “It’d serve for every last man of you. It’d stop the drinking, father…the hall’d empty faster than our Creek at low tide! There are rooks more tuneful than you!”

Blowing on the scalding liquid, he found consolation knowing other heads would be worse than his that morning.

How to broach it with her? Thunor hammering at my brain isn’t helping.

Her dark grey eyes met his and he flinched at their piercing stare.

A finger dipped into his cup and withdrawn with a gasp produced the tinkling laugh that so pleased him. He had distracted her.

“He won’t be a callow lad for ever, you know…”

“Uh?”

“Eadric. I said — ”

“I hear you, father. My mind is made up. I shall not wed.”

Aelfhere blew on his potion far harder than needed. A way had to be found, but how, with the girl as stubborn as the pot stones lining the fire? Also, he doubted his will to force her. Other men of Wiht treated their women as chattels, but he would not. This resolve shaped his approach.

Ennoble her, elevate her to the king’s counsel.

“Daughter, let’s set aside that you shall be the king’s lady of a great folk and want for nought…” he held up an admonishing hand, “…hark! I love you and would chain you to my side, but My Life, there are circumstances that go beyond the wishes of a man. There is wyrd. The gods weave our destiny, Child.”

Cynethryth, about to speak, halted when he shook his yellow locks and placed his finger beside his nose. In a voice of steel, he said, “At my birth, Wiht rankled under the yoke of the Seaxe from the West. They sought to control our lives and force us to turn our backs on our gods. They destroyed our sacred groves and slaughtered our priests.”

“Father, why are you telling me this?”

The herbal liquid now cooled, he took a long draught and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Patience! Heed my words! Wulfhere swept from Mercia and drove out the West Seaxe invader, making matters worse. Ten years ago, he died and Aethelred took the throne. See you, there’s no love lost for him in Kent for he devastated their land to secure his borders. Then, when you were eleven, five winters past, he won a battle on the Trent against the men from north of the Humber and seized Lindesege from them.”

“So, a most powerful king!”

Aelfhere bestowed on her a thin smile. In his mind, he had gained her attention and half-won the contest.

“Ay,” he pressed on, “but the land he rules is vast and his grip on the southern kingdoms is weak. To the west, Centwine worships the new god…Christians…spine like jellyfish..!” he spat on the floor and swigged the last of his brew as if to wash away a bad taste, “…in the Andredes weald — the forest of Andred — roams a war-band of desperate men, West Seaxe and Meonwara, led by one who would be king hereabouts. These are turbulent, dangerous times, daughter. Because of this, Aethelred leaves the south to Aethelwalh who acknowledges him as overlord. In turn, he concedes Wiht to our own Arwald who is our lord. Understand?”

Her frown told him, what has this to do with me? In haste, he added, “The folk of Kent are our kin. They’re from Jutish stock, as is half of the Suth Seaxe. United in arms, we can stand alone against all comers. In his heart, Aethelwalh worships the gods of our forefathers and he will leave us in peace. On this, we have his word. The aetheling is half-Wihtwara, you know? His mother is our king’s sister. Cynethryth, will you not see? Our future lies with you, my wildcat. Eadric has eyes for you. Who would not? My task is to plight your troth and he will grow into a fine warrior and you will be the king’s lady— ”

She stepped up to him and placed a finger on his lips before throwing her arms around his neck. The cup slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor as he enfolded her. Breathing in the scent of apple blossom in her hair, his emotion overcame him and he vowed whatever her decision, he would abide by it.

“Father, I love you so,” she murmured, “and I adore our island. We must do what we can to keep it safe. I obey father. Are you glad?”

He forced himself to say: “Are you sure, Child?”

Her oval countenance opened like sunlight from behind a cloud.

“I shall make him a man, father. Have no fear!”

At that, he laughed out loud.

“Rather him than me, wildcat!” and he kissed her on the forehead.

In the afternoon, a group of women came to prepare Cynethryth for betrothal. Washed and scented, she no longer should be seen ‘in her hair’. Her handmaiden braided the flowing red-gold locks, the sign of her chastity, as a symbol of espousal. A summons came for Aelfhere and he led his daughter back into the hall, the scene of the previous night’s revelry. Set to promise this blossom on his arm to another, he swelled with pride that she would be the king’s lady if the gods so willed. The betrothal rested on one condition: Eadric should win back the throne of Kent from a usurper, his uncle, Hlothhere.

The hall, strewn with clean rushes, betrayed no sign of the previous night’s roistering, the tables rearranged for the witnesses to sit with King Aethelwalh. Neither did Eadric show effects of overindulgence but for a noticeable pallor. The high set of his brow offset by the gold circlet around his head, bespoke nobility. So too did the pleasing jawline, the heavy gold bracelets at his wrists and his dress of the finest linen under a leathern tunic tooled in designs of biting beasts.

Drawing near the aetheling, Aelfhere admitted the splendour of the youth and, a good sign, the sharp intake of breath from the girl at his side confirmed as much. Eadric bowed to the lady and turned to the King of the Suth Seaxe.

“Before you today, I pledge a wedd of forty gold pieces to the trustees on my word to take as wife Cynethryth of Cerdicsford…”

With an offhand gesture, a bag dropped, thudding with dull heaviness.

“…and this,” he said, opening a hand to reveal a gold ring adorned with a single ruby, “is the arrha, the earnest I bring from my mother’s own hand.” He slipped the band on Cynethryth’s finger before reaching into his tunic to produce a jewel of threaded gold beads. A necklace interspersed with black, polished jet stones set in beaten gold, he clasped it around her throat. “And for last, this, my beloved,” he bestowed a kiss, causing her to blush.

On the part of Cynethryth, Aelfhere addressed the King.

“My Lord, I swear before you and the trustees that I, Aelfhere of Cerdicsford, will make good any liability my daughter may incur in her married life. As representative of her family, I take responsibility on her behalf.” From his belt, he pulled a purse, “Here is the foster-lean.”

Aethelwalh raised a hand, “But, not all is stated,” the murmurs among the assembled crowd hushed. What might hinder the espousal? The king gazed at Eadric with thoughtful mien and an expression of gloom, “should you within three seasons from this spring not be crowned in Kent, the betrothal is null.”

The aetheling betrayed no surprise, “I accept.”

“Well,” Aethelwalh said, “the gathering is dismissed. Eadric, Aelfhere, my ealdormen, stay! It is of war we must speak.”

While the thought of fighting did not trouble Aelfhere, he wished for the young man to be enthroned as soon as possible. Aelfhere and his score of Wihtwara would lend their arms to Eadric who would gather forces in West Kent and unite them to his bondsmen. Aethelwalh’s pledge of two hundred men, led by the ealdorman of the shorn lock, also reassured him. The safety of his daughter concerned him but, as to that, the King meant to retreat to the stronghold of Kingsham with the women in safekeeping.

*

Two weeks had passed since the betrothal, fourteen days of marching, gathering men willing to throw in their lot with the aetheling for the promise of preference. Their numbers had swollen close to three hundred. The day before, their scouts found the foe led by Hlothhere heading south-east. They waited among the trees on a rise in the Ouse valley near the place known as Isefeld. Silent as wraiths, they slipped from cover and formed a shieldwall. The ground, a little higher to their advantage, favoured the use of throwing weapons. Unlike the Suth Seaxe and the Kenting, who carried a spear and several javelins, Aelfhere and his men had but the former and their axes.

In haste, the adversary, backs to the river, also formed a line of shields. The aetheling’s uncle strode before his men and his voice drifted up the hill. In turn, Eadric stepped out before his warriors. Slightness of frame, piping voice and youth belied his pluck. Even though the Wihtwara did not hold with the weakling god the aetheling invoked, his words inspired him and, indeed, his men.

“Cantwara, here we fight to the last drop of blood in the name of the Father and to take back what is ours by right. The usurper, Hlothhere, must pay for his offence to the memory of King Ecgberht. Let he who lays down his life know his sacrifice is in a righteous cause and his soul will fly to heaven.”

The aetheling turned and strode back, the metal whiskers wrought on the faceguard of his helm glinting in the sun.

Aelfhere besought his own god: May Tīw be with us and give our sinews strength.

Eadric went on, beating a fist against his chest, “Suth Seaxe and Wihtea friends, we are beholden and swear, a kingdom of brothers will ever be at your flank. Spare no foe! To the slaughter!”

A guttural roar and battering of weapons on shields drowned the shrill voice of the aetheling. Mid-speech, three hundred paces away, at the din, Hlothhere spun on his heel to stare at his enemy.

From the depths of his barrel chest, Aelfhere raised a battle cry and the host took up the blood-curdling howl. The Wihtwara rushed forward, the bannermen struggling to keep in the van. Thirty yards from the foe, men hurled the rocks they had garnered and their throwing axes spun through the air. Those with javelins flung some high, others flat, to confound the enemy shields; some buried into soft ground to be seized and hurled back, several transfixed the bodies of the luckless. The screams of the stricken echoed from the woodland behind.

Aelfhere stumbled as the body of the hapless man next to him dropped. No time to trouble over a soul plucked to Waelheal, instead, he adjusted his helm and lowered his spear. Those who bore shields crashed them into those held by the enemy and heaved. Those who, like Aelfhere, had but an iron-tipped ash pole, sought to impale a foeman. The resistance of a thighbone made the Wihtwara ealdorman release his grip on the weapon before unslinging his axe and evading a metal point aimed at his breast. Far better to swing his battle-axe, hard up to the foe, than to be impeded by an unwieldy spear.

The islanders followed his example. In a welter of red-spurting flesh, a clamour of shrieks, and the craze of bloodlust pounding in their veins, they scythed through the enemy ranks to reach the far side and open land. A press of men around a blue banner emblazoned with a white horse caught the eye of Aelfhere. He urged his men back into the thick of the fighting and after endless minutes of hacking and skipping, hewing and dodging, to a harsh roar they hauled down the trophy. The chase to the trees began.

His five and thirty years weighing on his aching limbs, Aelfhere leant on his battle-axe.. With the day won he would leave the chasing to younger legs. Shrieks from fleeing men meeting their end assailed his ears. Stood still, fatigued, soreness gripped him, but on inspection, he found no wounds under the spattered gore. All around sprawled the dead, tempting predators, kites, ravens and crows, to alight on the banquet of carrion. It sickened him.

His eyes roved over the carnage to where a warrior lay with a broken spear in his chest. He started: the object grasped in the man’s hand — a sword! Aelfhere was about to fulfil a lifelong desire. Wiht boasted no smiths skilled in blade-making. By Tīw, elsewhere they cost the wergeld of an arm!

A glance warned him of comrades swarming back from the trees. Three bounds brought him to the fallen man. A red kite about to settle on the corpse flapped away with a screech of protest. The weapon wrenched from the lifeless grip, he stared at the blade with its snaking groove down the centre. The balance pleased him and he grunted, satisfied, gazing in awe at the bronze pommel shaped in the likeness of a wolf’s head. How Tīw blessed him! Not only by the gift of a sword but by the richness of the helm, where the wrought figure of a gilded wolf ran about the rim. At the least, the dead man must be an eorl. Laying down his weapons, with trembling hand, Aelfhere unlaced the thongs under the man’s chin to release the cheek-guards and ease off the helm. The sightless eyes, as unfeeling as the Wihtwara warrior, glared past him to the skies. His simple iron cap, he tossed to the ground, his brow slick with sweat from the leather inner cup and, weary, he hobbled with his spoils to greet his companions approaching.

The concern of Baldwulf gave way to a broad grin at seeing his friend exhausted but unhurt, “Aelfhere, old fox! Whilst we did the dirty work you helped yourself!”

Content, he beamed back, “By the gods, Baldwulf, these fox legs can scamper no more! Hunt around. You too might find a sword.”

The thegn glanced round, “By the stars! they’re worse than ravens!” And he plunged into the midst of his plundering comrades.

Startled, mid-laugh, by a hand clapped on his shoulder, Aelfhere turned to stare into the faceplate of the royal helm.

“The day is won. I struck down Hlothhere with my own hand. With my father’s brother gone to Hell and my own father long passed over, there is call for another counsellor…” Behind the eyeholes, the pale blue irises shifted with anxiety.

Aelfhere sank down on one knee, “My lord — ”

“Stand!” he dragged the Wihtwara to his feet, “I shall call you father,” he said, “for they will crown me, then I shall wed my Cynethryth.”

“With your own hands?” asked Aelfhere, unaware of the boyish grin hidden beneath the helm.

“Uh?”

“You slew Hlothhere with your own hands?”

Eadric grew grave.

“The traitor was stronger than I. But I am ten times faster and I sliced his throat.”

The young man drew himself up, regal in appearance.

Aelfhere rejoiced.

“My lord, I am content you will wed my daughter! Her husband will be a worthy ruler and you may call me what you will.”

In this season, the shadows grew long early in the day and the amber sun, sparkling on the river, modelled the land in rich, deep greens and ochre. A tranquil scene, made incongruous by the hideousness of the carnage and the squabbling of the warriors bickering over disputed trophies. The sky, thick with wheeling, screeching raptors, frustrated at the presence of human scavengers, made a stark contrast to the companionable silence of the two onlookers. Eadric broke the spell, slipping off a heavy gold ring and handing it to Aelfhere.

“A token of our gratitude,” he said, “the Wihtwara fought well this day. How can we ever forget?”

Moved, he stared at the jewel and his eyes widened. Embossed on the golden band, nestling in his blood-encrusted palm, the maw of a beast gaped up at him — another wolf! What message eluded him? At the first opportunity, he would seek out a sorcerer to reveal the meaning of the gods.

Book details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: Wyrd Of The Wolf (Wyrd Of The Wolf Book 1)

GENRE: Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 265

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