The Empty Throne

It did not take long. Most of the bravest Norsemen were already dead and only a handful of experienced fighters were with Haki, the rest of them were youngsters, many of whom shouted that they surrendered, only to be cut down. I watched. Merewalh, a good man who had deserted Lord Æthelred’s service to follow Æthelflaed, led the attack, and it was Merewalh who dragged Haki out of the bloody heap, stripped him of his sword and shield, and forced him to his knees in front of the white horse.

Haki looked up. The sun was low in the west so that it was behind Gast’s rider and thus dazzling Haki, but he sensed the hatred and scorn that looked down on him. He shifted his head till his eyes were in the rider’s shadow, so now, perhaps, he could see the polished Frankish mail, scrubbed with sand till it shone like silver. He could see the white woollen cloak, edged with a weasel’s silky, white winter fur. He could see the tall boots, bound in white cord, and the long sword scabbard dressed with polished silver, and, if he dared raise his eyes higher, the hard blue eyes in the hard face framed by golden hair held by a helmet polished to the same high sheen as the mail. The helmet was ringed with a silver band and had a silver cross on the crown. ‘Take the mail from him,’ the white-clothed rider on the white horse said.

‘Yes, my lady,’ Merewalh said.

The lady was Æthelflaed, daughter of Alfred who had been King of Wessex. She was married to Æthelred, the Lord of Mercia, but everyone in Wessex and in Mercia knew she had been my father’s lover for years. It was Æthelflaed who had brought her men north to reinforce Ceaster’s garrison, and Æthelflaed who had devised the trap that now had Haki on his knees in front of her horse.

She looked at me. ‘You did well,’ she said, almost grudgingly.

‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said.

‘You’ll take him south,’ she said, gesturing at Haki. ‘He can die in Gleawecestre.’

I thought that a strange decision. Why not let him die here on the pale winter grass? ‘You will not go back south, my lady?’ I asked her.

It was plain she thought the question impertinent, but she answered anyway. ‘I have much to do here. You will take him.’ She held up a gloved hand to stop me as I turned away. ‘Make sure you arrive before Saint Cuthbert’s Day. You hear me?’

I bowed for answer, then we tied Haki’s hands behind his back, mounted him on a poor horse, and rode back to Ceaster where we arrived after dark. We had left the Norsemen’s bodies where they fell, food for ravens, but we carried our own dead with us, just five men. We took all the Norse horses and loaded them with captured weapons, with mail, with clothes and with shields. We rode back victorious, carrying Haki’s captured banner and following Lord Æthelred’s standard of the white horse, the banner of Saint Oswald, and Æthelflaed’s strange flag which showed a white goose holding a sword and a cross. The goose was the symbol of Saint Werburgh, a holy woman who had miraculously rid a cornfield of marauding geese, though it was beyond my wits to understand why a job any ten-year-old could have done with a loud voice was considered a miracle. Even a three-legged dog could have rid the field of geese, but that was not a comment I would have dared make to Æthelflaed, who held the goose-frightening saint in the highest regard.

The burh at Ceaster had been built by the Romans so the ramparts were of stone, unlike the burhs we Saxons built that had walls of earth and timber. We passed under the high fighting platform of the gateway, threading a tunnel lit by torches and so into the main street that ran arrow straight between high stone buildings. The sound of horses’ hooves echoed from the walls, then the bells of Saint Peter’s church rang out to celebrate Æthelflaed’s return.

Æthelflaed and most of her men went to the church to give thanks for the victory before gathering in the great hall that stood at the centre of Ceaster’s streets. Sihtric and I put Haki into a small stone hut, leaving his hands tied for the night. ‘I have gold,’ he said in Danish.

‘You’ll have straw for a bed and piss for ale,’ Sihtric told him, then we shut the door and left two men to guard him. ‘So we’re off to Gleawecestre?’ Sihtric said to me as we went to the hall.

‘So she says.’

‘You’ll be happy then.’

‘Me?’

He grinned toothlessly. ‘The redhead at the Wheatsheaf.’

‘One of many, Sihtric,’ I said airily, ‘one of many.’

‘And your girl in the farm near Cirrenceastre too,’ he added.

‘She is a widow,’ I said with as much dignity as I could muster, ‘and I’m told it’s our Christian duty to protect widows.’

‘You call that protecting her?’ he laughed. ‘Are you going to marry her?’

‘Of course not. I’ll marry for land.’

‘You should be married,’ he said. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-one, I think.’

‘Should be long married, then,’ he said. ‘What about Ælfwynn?’

‘What about her?’ I asked.

‘She’s a pretty little mare,’ Sihtric said, ‘and I dare say she knows how to gallop.’ He pushed open the heavy door and we walked into the hall that was lit by rushlights and by a huge fire in a crude stone hearth that had cracked the Roman floor. There were not enough tables for both the burh’s garrison and for the men Æthelflaed had brought north, so some ate squatting on the floor, though I was given a place at the high table close to Æthelflaed. She was flanked by two priests, one of whom intoned a long prayer in Latin before we were allowed to start on the food.

I was scared of Æthelflaed. She had a hard face, though men said she had been beautiful as a young woman. In that year, 911, she must have been forty or more years old, and her hair, which was golden, had pale grey streaks. She had very blue eyes and a gaze that could unsettle the bravest of men. That gaze was cold and thoughtful, as if she was were reading your thoughts and despising them. I was not the only person who was scared of Æthelflaed. Her own daughter, Ælfwynn, would hide from her mother. I liked Ælfwynn, who was full of laughter and mischief. She was a little younger than I was and we had spent much of our childhood together, and many people thought the two of us should be married. I did not know whether Æthelflaed thought that a good idea. She seemed to dislike me, but she seemed to dislike most people, and yet, for all that coldness, she was adored in Mercia. Her husband, Æthelred, Lord of Mercia, was acknowledged as the ruler of the country, but it was his estranged wife people loved.

‘Gleawecestre,’ she now said to me.

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘You’ll take all the plunder, all of it. Use wagons. And take the prisoners.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ The prisoners were mostly children we had taken from Haki’s steadings during the first days of our raiding. They would be sold as slaves.

‘And you must arrive before Saint Cuthbert’s Day,’ she repeated that command. ‘You understand?’

‘Before Saint Cuthbert’s Day,’ I said dutifully.

She gave me that long, silent stare. The priests flanking her gazed at me too, their expressions as hostile as hers. ‘And you’ll take Haki,’ she went on.

‘And Haki,’ I said.

‘And you will hang him in front of my husband’s hall.’

‘Make it slow,’ one of the priests said. There are two ways of hanging a man, the quick way and the slow agonising way. ‘Yes, father,’ I said.

‘But show him to the people first,’ Æthelflaed ordered.

‘I will, my lady, of course,’ I said, then hesitated.

‘What?’ She saw my uncertainty.

‘Folk will want to know why you stayed here, my lady,’ I said.

She bridled at that, and the second priest frowned. ‘It is none of their business …’ he began.

Æthelflaed waved him to silence. ‘Many Norsemen are leaving Ireland,’ she said carefully, ‘and wanting to settle here. They must be stopped.’

‘Haki’s defeat will make them fearful,’ I suggested carefully.

She ignored my clumsy compliment. ‘Ceaster prevents them using the River Dee,’ she said, ‘but the Mærse is open. I shall build a burh on its bank.’

‘A good idea, my lady,’ I said and received a look of such scorn that I blushed.

She dismissed me with a gesture and I went back to the mutton stew. I watched her from the corner of my eye, seeing the hard jawline, the bitterness on the lips, and I wondered what in God’s name had attracted my father to her and why men revered her.

But tomorrow I would be free of her.

‘Men follow her,’ Sihtric said, ‘because other than your father she’s the only one who’s ever been willing to fight.’

We were travelling south, following a road I had come to know well in the last few years. The road followed the boundary between Mercia and Wales, a boundary that was the subject of constant argument between the Welsh kingdoms and the Mercians. The Welsh were our enemies, of course, but that enmity was confused because they were also Christian and we would never have won the battle at Teotanheale without the help of those Welsh Christians. Sometimes they fought for Christ, as they had at Teotanheale, but just as often they fought for plunder, driving cattle and slaves back to their mountain valleys. Those constant raids meant there were burhs all along the road, fortified towns where folk could take refuge when an enemy came, and from where a garrison could sally out to attack that enemy.

I rode with thirty-six men and Godric, my servant. Four of the warriors were always ahead, scouting the road margins for fear of an ambush, while the rest of us guarded Haki and the two carts loaded with plunder. We also guarded eighteen children, bound for the slave markets, though Æthelflaed insisted we display the captives before the folk of Gleawecestre first. ‘She wants to put on a show,’ Sihtric told me.

‘She does!’ Father Fraomar agreed. ‘We have let the people in Gleawecestre know that we’re defeating Christ’s enemies.’ He was one of Æthelflaed’s tame priests, still a young man, eager and enthusiastic. He nodded towards the cart ahead of us that was loaded with armour and weapons. ‘We shall sell those and the money will go towards the new burh, praise God.’

‘Praise God,’ I said dutifully.

And money, I knew, was Æthelflaed’s problem. If she was to build her new burh to guard the River Mærse she needed money and there was never enough. Her husband received the land-rents and the merchants’ taxes and the customs payments, and Lord Æthelred hated Æthelflaed. She might be loved in Mercia, but Æthelred controlled the silver, and men were loath to offend him. Even now, when Æthelred lay sick in Gleawecestre, men paid him homage. Only the bravest and wealthiest risked his anger by giving men and silver to Æthelflaed.

And Æthelred was dying. He had been struck by a spear on the back of the head at the battle of Teotanheale and the spear had pierced his helmet and broken through his skull. No one had expected him to survive, but he did, though some rumours said he was as good as dead, that he raved like a moonstruck madman, that he dribbled and twitched, and that sometimes he howled like a gutted wolf. All Mercia expected his death, and all Mercia wondered what would follow that death. That was something no one spoke of, at least not openly, though in secret they spoke of little else.

Yet to my surprise Father Fraomar spoke of it on the first night. We were travelling slowly because of the carts and prisoners and had stopped at a farmstead near Westune. This part of Mercia was newly settled, made safe because of the burh at Ceaster. The farm had belonged to a Dane, but now a one-eyed Mercian lived there with a wife, four sons, and six slaves. His house was a hovel of mud, wood and straw, his cattle shed a poor thing of leaking wattles, but all of it was surrounded by a well-made palisade of oak trunks. ‘Welsh aren’t far away,’ he explained the expensive palisade.

‘You can’t defend this with six slaves,’ I said.

‘Neighbours come here,’ he said curtly.

‘And helped build it?’

‘They did.’

We tied Haki’s ankles, made sure the bonds on his wrists were tightly knotted, then shackled him to a plough that stood abandoned beside a dung-heap. The eighteen children were crammed into the house with two men to guard them, while the rest of us found what comfort we could in the dung-spattered yard. We lit a fire. Gerbruht ate steadily, feeding his barrel-sized belly, while Redbad, another Frisian, played songs on his reed-pipes. The wistful notes filled the night air with melancholy. The sparks flew upwards. It had rained earlier, but the clouds were clearing away to show the stars. I watched some of the sparks drift onto the hovel’s roof and wondered if the thatch would smoulder, but the moss-covered straw was damp and the sparks died quickly.

‘The Nunnaminster,’ Father Fraomar said suddenly.

‘The Nunnaminster?’ I asked after a pause.

The priest had also been watching the drifting sparks fade and die on the roof. ‘The convent in Wintanceaster where the Lady Ælswith died,’ he explained, though the explanation made me no wiser.

‘King Alfred’s wife?’

‘God rest her soul,’ he said and made the sign of the cross. ‘She built the convent after the king’s death.’

‘What of it?’ I asked, still puzzled.

‘Part of the convent burned down after her death,’ he explained. ‘It was caused by sparks lodging in the roof-straw.’

‘This thatch is too wet,’ I said, nodding towards the house.

‘Of course,’ the priest was staring at the sparks settling on the thatch. ‘Some folk say the fire was the devil’s revenge,’ he paused to cross himself, ‘because the Lady Ælswith was such a pious soul and she’d escaped him.’

‘My father always told me she was a vengeful bitch,’ I ventured.

Father Fraomar frowned, then relented to offer a wry smile. ‘God rest her soul. I hear she was not an easy woman.’

‘Which one is?’ Sihtric asked.

‘The Lady Æthelflaed won’t wish it,’ Fraomar said softly.

I hesitated because the conversation was now touching on dangerous things. ‘Won’t wish what?’ I finally asked.

‘To go to a nunnery.’

‘Is that what will happen?’

‘What else?’ Fraomar asked bleakly. ‘Her husband dies, she’s a widow, and a widow with property and power. Men won’t want her marrying again. Her new husband might become too powerful. Besides …’ his voice died away.

‘Besides?’ Sihtric asked quietly.

‘The Lord Æthelred has made a will, God preserve him.’

‘And the will,’ I said slowly, ‘says his wife is to go to a nunnery?’

‘What else can she do?’ Fraomar asked. ‘It’s the custom.’

‘I can’t see her as a nun,’ I said.

‘Oh, she’s a saintly woman. A good woman,’ Fraomar spoke eagerly, then remembered she was an adulterer. ‘Not perfect, of course,’ he went on, ‘but we all fall short, do we not? We have all sinned.’

‘And her daughter?’ I asked. ‘Ælfwynn?’

‘Oh, a silly girl,’ Fraomar said without hesitation.

‘But if someone marries her …’ I suggested, but was interrupted.

‘She’s a woman! She can’t inherit her father’s power!’ Father Fraomar laughed at the very idea. ‘No, the best thing for Ælfwynn would be to marry abroad. To marry far away! Maybe a Frankish lord? Either that or join her mother in the nunnery.’

The conversation was dangerous because no one was certain what might happen when Æthelred died, and that death must surely be soon. Mercia had no king, but Æthelred, the Lord of Mercia, had almost the same powers. He would dearly have loved to be king, but he depended on the West Saxons to help him defend Mercia’s frontiers, and the West Saxons wanted no king in Mercia, or rather they wanted their own king to rule there. Yet, though Mercia and Wessex were allies, there was little love between them. Mercians had a proud past, now they were a client state, and if Edward of Wessex were to proclaim his kingship there could be unrest. No one knew what would happen, just as no one knew who they should support. Should they give allegiance to Wessex? Or to one of the Mercian ealdormen?

‘It’s just a pity that Lord Æthelred has no heir,’ Father Fraomar said.

‘No legitimate heir,’ I said, and to my surprise the priest laughed.

‘No legitimate heir,’ he agreed, then crossed himself. ‘But the Lord will provide,’ he added piously.

Next day the sky darkened with thick clouds that spread from the Welsh hills. By mid-morning it was raining and it went on raining as we made our slow way south. The roads we followed had been made by the Romans and we spent every subsequent night in the ruins of Roman forts. We saw no marauding Welsh, and the battle of Teotanheale had ensured that no Danes would harass us this far south.

The rain and the prisoners made it a slow journey, but at last we came to Gleawecestre, the capital city of Mercia. We arrived two days before the feast of Saint Cuthbert, though it was not till we were inside the city that I discovered why Æthelflaed had thought that date so important. Father Fraomar had spurred ahead to announce our arrival, and the bells of the city’s churches were ringing to greet us, and a small crowd was waiting at the gate’s arch. I unfurled our banners: my own wolf’s head, the flag of Saint Oswald, Æthelred’s white horse, and Æthelflaed’s goose. Haki’s banner was carried by Godric, my servant, who dragged it on the wet road. Our small procession was led by one cart of plunder, then came the child prisoners, then Haki who was tied by rope to the tail of Godric’s horse. The second cart brought up the rear, while my warriors rode on either side of the column. It was a petty display. After Teotanheale we had dragged over twenty wagons of plunder through the city, along with prisoners, captured horses, and a dozen enemy banners, but even my small procession gave the citizens of Gleawecestre something to celebrate and we were cheered all the way from the north gate to the entrance of Æthelred’s palace. A pair of priests hurled horse dung at Haki and the crowds took up the sport as small boys ran alongside jeering at the man.

And there, waiting for us at Æthelred’s gate, was Eardwulf, the commander of Lord Æthelred’s household troops and brother to Eadith, the woman who slept with Lord Æthelred. Eardwulf was clever, handsome, ambitious and effective. He had led Æthelred’s troops against the Welsh and done much damage, and men said he had fought well at Teotanheale. ‘His power,’ my father had told me, ‘comes from between his sister’s thighs, but don’t underestimate him. He’s dangerous.’

The dangerous Eardwulf was in a coat of mail, polished to a bright shine, and wearing a dark blue cloak edged with otter fur. He was bare-headed and his dark hair was oiled sleekly back to be tied by a brown ribbon. His sword, a heavy blade, was scabbarded in soft leather trimmed with gold. He was flanked by a pair of priests and by a half-dozen of his men, all wearing Æthelred’s symbol of the white horse. He smiled when he saw us. I saw his eyes flick towards Æthelflaed’s standard as he sauntered towards us. ‘Going to market, Lord Uhtred?’ he asked.

‘Slaves, armour, swords, spears, axes,’ I said, ‘do you want to buy?’

‘And him?’ He jerked a thumb towards Haki.

I twisted in my saddle. ‘Haki, a Norse chieftain who thought to make himself rich from Mercia.’

‘Are you selling him too?’

‘Hanging him,’ I said, ‘slowly. My lady wanted us to hang him right here.’

‘Your lady?’

‘Yours too,’ I said, knowing that would annoy him, ‘the Lady Æthelflaed.’

If he was annoyed he did not show it, instead he smiled again. ‘She has been busy,’ he said lightly, ‘and is she planning to be here as well?’

I shook my head. ‘She has work in the north.’

‘And I thought she would be here for the Witan in two days,’ he said sarcastically.

‘Witan?’ I asked.

‘It’s none of your business,’ he said tartly. ‘You are not invited.’

But the Witan, I noted, was to be held on Saint Cuthbert’s feast day and that was surely why Æthelflaed had wanted us to arrive before the great men of Mercia met in council. She was reminding them that she fought their enemies.

Eardwulf walked to Haki, looked him up and down, then turned back to me. ‘I see you fly the Lord Æthelred’s banner.’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘And in the skirmish where you captured this creature,’ he nodded towards Haki, ‘did you fly it there too?’

‘Whenever my lady fights for Mercia,’ I said, ‘she flies her husband’s banner.’

‘Then the prisoners and the plunder belong to Lord Æthelred,’ Eardwulf said.

‘I’m ordered to sell them,’ I said.

‘Are you?’ He laughed. ‘Well now you have new orders. They all belong to Lord Æthelred so you will give them to me.’ He gazed at me, daring me to contradict him. I must have looked belligerent because his men half lowered their spears.

Father Fraomar had reappeared and darted to the side of my horse. ‘No fighting,’ he hissed at me.

‘My Lord Uhtred would not dream of drawing a sword against Lord Æthelred’s household warriors,’ Eardwulf said. He beckoned to his men. ‘Take it all inside,’ he ordered, indicating carts, plunder, Haki, and the slaves, ‘and do thank the Lady Æthelflaed,’ he was looking at me again, ‘for her little contribution to her husband’s treasury.’

I watched his men take the plunder and slaves through the gateway. Eardwulf smiled when it was done, then gave me a mocking smile. ‘And the Lady Æthelflaed,’ he asked, ‘has no desire to attend the Witan?’

‘She’s invited?’ I asked.

‘Of course not, she’s a woman. But she might be curious about the Witan’s decisions.’

He was trying to discover whether Æthelflaed would be in Gleawecestre. I half thought of saying I had no idea what she planned, then decided to tell the truth. ‘She won’t be here,’ I said, ‘because she’s busy. She’s making a burh on the Mærse.’

‘Oh, a burh on the Mærse!’ he repeated, then laughed.

The gates closed behind him.

‘Bastard,’ I said.

‘He had the right,’ Father Fraomar explained, ‘the Lord Æthelred is the husband of the Lady Æthelflaed, so what is hers is his.’

‘Æthelred’s an unwiped pig-sucking bastard,’ I said, staring at the closed gates.

‘He is the Lord of Mercia,’ Father Fraomar said uneasily. He was a supporter of Æthelflaed, but he sensed that her husband’s death would strip her of both power and influence.

‘Whatever the bastard is,’ Sihtric put in, ‘he won’t offer us any ale.’

‘Ale is a good idea,’ I growled.

‘The redhead at the Wheatsheaf, then?’ he asked, then grinned. ‘Unless you’re going to learn more about farming?’

I grinned back. My father had given me a farm north of Cirrenceastre, saying I should learn husbandry. ‘A man should know as much about crops, pasture and cattle as his steward knows,’ my father had growled to me, ‘otherwise the bastard will cheat you blind.’ He had been pleased at the number of days I spent at the estate, though I confess I had learned almost nothing about crops, pasture or cattle, but I had learned a great deal about the young widow to whom I had given the farm’s great hall as her home.

‘The Wheatsheaf for now,’ I said and kicked Hearding down the street. And tomorrow, I thought, I would ride to my widow.

The tavern’s sign was a great wooden carving of a wheatsheaf and I rode beneath it into the rain-soaked courtyard and let a servant take the horse. Father Fraomar, I knew, was right. The Lord Æthelred did have the legal right to take whatever belonged to his wife because nothing belonged to her that was not his, yet still Eardwulf’s action had surprised me. Æthelred and Æthelflaed had lived for years in a state of warfare, though it was war without fighting. He had the legal power in Mercia while she had the love of the Mercians. It would have been easy enough for Æthelred to order his wife’s arrest and captivity, but her brother was the King of Wessex, and Mercia only survived because the West Saxons came to its rescue whenever enemies pressed too hard. And so husband and wife hated each other, tolerated each other, and pretended that no feud existed, which was why Æthelflaed took such care to fly her husband’s banner.

I was daydreaming of taking revenge on Eardwulf as I ducked through the tavern’s door. I was dreaming of gutting him or beheading him or listening to his pleas for mercy while I held Raven-Beak at his throat. The bastard, I thought, the snivelling, pompous, grease-haired, arrogant bastard.

‘Earsling,’ a harsh voice challenged me from beside the Wheatsheaf’s hearth. ‘What rancid demon brought you here to spoil my day?’ I stared. And stared. Because the last person I had ever expected to see in Æthelred’s stronghold of Gleawecestre was staring at me. ‘Well, earsling,’ he demanded, ‘what are you doing here?’

It was my father.