Son of Mercia Read online

  Son of Mercia

  MJ Porter

  For Jake and Janet.

  Both Mercians. And both gone before their time.

  Contents

  Map

  Cast of Characters

  The Mercian Register

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part II

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part III

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part IV

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part V

  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

  Notes from the author

  Acknowledgments

  More from MJ Porter

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  Designed by Flintlock Covers

  Cast of Characters

  Main Characters:

  Icel, orphaned youth living in Tamworth, his mother was Ceolburh

  Edwin, Icel’s friend

  Cenfrith, Icel’s uncle, brother of Ceolburh and one of the Mercian king’s warriors.

  Wine, Cenfrith’s horse

  Wynflæd, an old herbwoman at the Mercian king’s court

  The Kings of Mercia:

  Penda, King of Mercia r.c633–655

  Coenwalh, brother of Penda, it was through his line that later Mercian kings descended.

  Æthelbald, King of Mercia r.716–757

  Offa, King of Mercia r.757–796

  Ecgfrith, Offa’s son, King of Mercia, 796 only

  Coenwulf, King of Mercia r.796–821

  Coelwulf, King of Mercia r.821–825 (deposed), brother of King Coenwulf

  Coenwulf, Coelwulf’s son, Lord of Kingsholm

  Ælflæd, Coelwulf’s daughter

  Beornwulf, King of Mercia r.825–826 (killed)

  Lady Cynehild, the wife of King Beornwulf, retires to Winchcombe nunnery

  Ludica, King of Mercia r.826–827 (killed)

  Lady Eadburga, the wife of King Ludica, and daughter of Ealdorman Oswine

  Wiglaf, King of Mercia r.827–

  Lady Cynethryth, the wife of King Wiglaf

  Wigmund, Wiglaf’s son

  The Ealdormen of Mercia

  Under King Beornwulf:

  Alhheard, Beornoth, Eadberht, Muca, Mucel, Sigered, Wynfrith (fictional)

  Under King Ludica:

  Bofa, Eadric (fictional), Eatferth, Muca, Mucel, Oswine (fictional), Wilfwald, Wiglaf (later king)

  Under King Wiglaf:

  Ælfstan, Athelhard, Æthelwald, Beornoth, Eadwulf, Muca, Mucel, Sigered, Tidwulf

  Before Mercia was Mercia, there were many smaller sub-kingdoms, the Mægonsæte, and the Wreocensæten were two of these smaller kingdoms, just as the Hwicce and Lindsey were.

  Æthelweald: Bishop of Lichfield

  Bealdred: Lord of Kent

  Beorhtwulf: Bealdred’s son

  Kings of other kingdoms

  Athelstan: King of East Anglia

  Cyngen ap Cadell: King of Powys

  Eanred: King of Northumbria

  Ecgberht: King of Wessex

  Merfyn ap Gwriad: King of Gwynedd

  Misc. (fictional)

  Æthelryth: inhabitant of Tamworth

  Acha: inhabitant of farm steading

  Ansfith: horse at Kingsholm

  Beornwyn: inhabitant of Tamworth

  Brother Fassel: inhabitant of Kingsholm

  Brute: a horse at Bardney

  Cuthred: inhabitant of Tamworth

  Eadburh: Edwin’s mother

  Eahric: commander of the king’s household warriors

  Hatel: at Kingsholm

  Leonath: inhabitant of Tamworth

  Ordlaf: Mercian warrior

  Osbert: inhabitant of farm steading

  Osmod: Mercian warrior

  Oswald: at Kingsholm

  Oswy: one of Wiglaf’s warriors

  Pega: at Kingsholm

  Sigberht: inhabitant of farm steading

  Sigegar: inhabitant of farm steading

  Siric: inhabitant of Tamworth

  Sewenna: horse at Kingsholm

  Waldhere: Mercian warrior

  Wulfheard: Mercian warrior

  Places mentioned

  Bardney: in modern-day Lincolnshire. An important monastic site.

  Hereford: on the River Wye, sixteen miles east of the modern-day border with Wales.

  Kingsholm: associated with the ruling family of King Coelwulf, close to Gloucester.

  Lichfield: an important bishopric. King Offa had attempted to make it an archbishopric to rival Canterbury but had been ultimately unsuccessful.

  Lundenwic: modern-day London

  Peterborough: an important monastery site, founded by the Mercians in the seventh century.

  Repton: a royal mausoleum for the Mercian dead. At this point, King Æthelbald was buried there. Repton has a stunning Saxon crypt built in the eighth century.

  Tamworth: the capital of the Mercian kingdom.

  Wroxeter, a Mercian settlement

  The Kingdom of the East Angles: had been part of Mercia at the end of King Offa’s reign but reclaimed its freedom under the reign of King Beornwulf of Mercia.

  The Kingdom of Gwynedd: part of modern-day Wales (north Wales), shared a border with Mercia.

  The Kingdom of Powys: part of modern-day Wales, shared a border with Mercia.

  The Kingdom of Wessex: roughly speaking, this covered the area south of the Thames, not including Kent, or Dumnonia (Cornwall and Devon).

  The Mercian Register

  Ad826

  ‘Much uncertainty and discord exists between the Mercian kings and their nobility.

  ‘King Coelwulf of Mercia, the first of his name, has been deposed and King Beornwulf now rules in his place, swept to power by the ealdormen of Mercia, and in doing so, breaking the powerful line of succession that has run from the mighty pagan warrior, Penda, for nearly two hundred years.

  ‘But all is not well; King Beornwulf has suffered a huge defeat at the hands of the resurgent King Ecgberht of Wessex, losing control over Mercia’s prized possession of the Kingdom of Kent.

  ‘With unease at his failing kingship growing, King Beornwulf has ridden to the kingdom of the East Angles to face their self-proclaimed King Athelstan, in an attempt to quell his failings and replace the loss of the Kingdom of Kent with the acquisition of another, that of the East Angles.’

  Part I

  1

  Tamworth, the capital of the kingdom of Mercia

  AD826

  * * *

  I move through the hall, wishing there were more people to hide behind. But with Beornwulf, king of Mercia, away with the war band battling the upstart, Athelstan, king of the East Angles, there are too few. I don’t wish to feel the gaze of the king’s wife, Lady Cynehild, cutting me, even from such a distance. She sits on the raised dais, arrayed as though she rules without the aid of her husband. A cold woman, I’ve yet to discover why she detests me so much, but hate me she does. I know that. As does everyone else within that great hall, its blackened rafters reaching far above my head. Not that any of them will tell me why she despises me. I doubt they know the cause of her animosity. When I’ve asked Wynflæd in the
past, she’s dismissed my query quickly enough.

  ‘Icel, why would Lady Cynehild, the queen of Mercia, hate the nephew of one of her husband’s warriors? An orphan boy with no one but his uncle to care for him?’ Her words cut me. I don’t like to be reminded that my mother died birthing me, that I have no father. I’m entirely reliant on my uncle’s goodwill. And before that, on the care of a woman who was not my mother who ensured I lived.

  Still, for all Wynflæd’s dismissive words, I know Lady Cynehild watches me.

  I nip here and there, bending low, thinking to do all I can to stay out of Lady Cynehild’s sight.

  She’s a terrifying woman. I can’t deny it. I’ve known her cold gaze to freeze me, a flick of her fingers to find me running far away from my food, even when my belly growls with fury. On those occasions, I’ve taken shelter elsewhere, been fed by the sympathy of others, by Wynflæd, or Edwin’s mother, by those who don’t sit within the king’s hall for their meals.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Edwin, my foster brother, hisses the words to me as I rear up beside him. He’s saved me a place on the bench reserved for the children of the ealdormen and the king’s warriors. Edwin always does. I notice his flushed cheeks, his lips set in a thin line of anger, his dark hair as unruly as ever. I also see the stain on the arm of his tunic, no doubt snot from his nose or fat from the piece of meat he thrusts into his mouth even as he speaks.

  ‘I was with Wynflæd.’

  His tutted reply tells me what he thinks of that. ‘You should spend less time with that useless old crone and more time with the horses or the warriors, or with your uncle. They’ll teach you what you need to know.’ His words are mangled round the food he chews, but I understand them all the same. It’s not as though they’re anything new for me to hear.

  I shake my head, clearing the long, dark hair from my eyes, reaching across him for a piece of warm bread just out of reach. Taking pity on me, he hands me the bread, while other hungry eyes glower at me from further along the table. I meet those eyes evenly, only turning aside when I fear the scrutiny from the dais. The other youths know that I can’t withstand that gaze. A few smirks remind me they know the Lady detests me.

  Some might say it’s an honour that the Lady even knows who I am. I would sooner merge into the tables and stools as the other children do. Why Edwin and I are allowed to claim space here, in the king’s hall, I don’t know. But I know we don’t belong, all the same. I’ve asked my uncle about it, but like Wynflæd, he dismisses my concerns.

  ‘You are my nephew. The king and queen honour me by feeding you, and Edwin, your foster-brother.’

  Again, I begin my familiar retort to Edwin concerning Wynflæd and why I spend so much time with her.

  ‘She knows a great deal, about the old kings, about Mercia, about healing. You should come and listen to her. It’s all well and good knowing how to kill, but healing is magical.’ We’ve had this argument many times before and will continue to do so. He would rather learn to maim and kill; I would sooner know how to heal.

  ‘You only spend time with her in the hope she’ll speak about your mother, that you might find out who your father was?’ Edwin’s words are angry. He doesn’t approve of my desire to know who my father was. Edwin thinks I should be content knowing that his mother fed me when I was a babe, that my uncle ensured I lived, that Wynflæd nursed the pair of us through the colds and fevers that we endured when we were small boys. ‘Don’t.’ His single word brings me up short, just as I’m about to resume the argument.

  I duck again, using his broader body to shield me from whoever eyes me. Only Edwin looks elsewhere, I realise, seeing his neck turn outwards, and not towards the dais. It’s a warm day. I’ve not noticed the arrival of the warrior because the door stands wide open, the stifled breeze from outside doing little to lift the fug from the interior of the hall, the hum of conversation drowning out all noise from beyond. It smells of cooked meat and rancid fat, and unwashed bodies. I wrinkle my nose, even as I feel my eyes drawn to the figure. I’m standing, even as Edwin pulls me back down, his large hand on my clean tunic. I turn to remonstrate with him, but his other hand, greasy from the meat, covers my lips, head dipping towards the dais, eyes wide with meaning, and slowly, slowly, my mind begins to make sense of all that’s happening.

  Cenfrith, my uncle, has returned from the kingdom of the East Angles, but his eyes are hooded, a dirty bandage wrapped round his head, stained black with his blood. More importantly, his face is bleached of all colour, his eyes seeking out the figure on the dais, not me, and my blood runs cold.

  My uncle is one of the king’s fiercest warriors, a man I admire and could never hope to emulate.

  ‘Where is King Beornwulf?’ I mutter through my clenched teeth, but Edwin shakes his head again, hair sticking out with the movement, his greasy hand still over my mouth.

  My heart thuds too loudly as silence envelops the hall, all eyes settling on the trembling figure of my uncle.

  ‘My Lord?’ Lady Cynehild stands, her fine blue dress, despite the terrible heat of a summer’s day in the heart of Mercia, pooling round her, the soft shush of the expensive fabric audible even from where I sit. The colour suits her; I admit that. It brings out the flush of her rosy cheeks and the lightness of her long, tightly braided blonde hair. She’s not a tall woman, but there’s something about her posture that makes her imposing. And terrifying.

  ‘My Lady,’ my uncle huffs, and I’ve escaped Edwin’s clawing hand and skipped over the bench I perch on, taking my wooden beaker of water to my uncle’s side. He notices the water, not me, swilling it into his parched mouth with a filth-encrusted hand. Dust stains his face, his clothes, and his weapons glisten with what I suspect to be the gore of the battlefield. And he stinks. Of sweat and horses. And perhaps piss as well. I’m staggered by the state of him.

  My uncle has fought in many battles for Mercia. I’ve never seen him like this.

  ‘A rout, My Lady,’ Cenfrith manages to gasp.

  I eye the darkened stain of his tunic with worry, considering how Wynflæd would tell me to heal such a wound; with hot water, a little vinegar and then moss and honey to cover it while the skin works to knit together. She would offer a draught to ease the pain.

  But my uncle hasn’t finished speaking. Far from it.

  ‘I regret to inform you that Beornwulf, the first of his name, king of Mercia, is dead. Beornoth, Eadberht, Alhheard and Wynfrith, four ealdormen of Mercia, died with him on the slaughter-field battling the upstart king of the East Angles. Only a few of the king’s household warriors have survived. I’ve ridden hard to bring you the news in fear that King Athelstan of the East Angles will invade Mercia now that he’s slain the king.’

  A shriek of horror fills the hall, but it doesn’t come from Lady Cynehild’s mouth, but from another, no doubt one of the recently widowed women. I don’t track the sounds of the sobbing woman as her cries are quickly stifled by others, evidently keen to hear the news. Stunned by it as well. This is King Beornwulf’s second failure in only a year. And this time, it’s a fatal one.

  If there was silence in the hall at my uncle’s arrival, it now feels as though no one dare breathe, let alone speak.

  I move even closer to my uncle, desperate for him to acknowledge me, Icel, his nephew. I should be the only one who matters to him, even amongst the king’s widowed wife and those who now scent the time has come for them to claim their birthrights.

  I’m relieved Cenfrith lives when all others of the king’s warriors are dead. Yet, I fear for his life with the terrible injuries he carries. He needs to get to Wynflæd. She will heal him.

  ‘Not now,’ my uncle offers, his pained eyes meeting mine for the first time, as he pushes me behind him, out of sight, the strength remaining in his hand assuring me he’ll live.

  But, of course, I’ve forgotten about Lady Cynehild and her hatred of me. I think to slip away, but I’m exposed on all sides, and the horrified eyes of Edwin, as he shakes his head from the
bench, remind me to stay where I am. Despite the news Cenfrith brings, Edwin thinks only of me, his foster-brother. I’m grateful for his concern.

  ‘Who—’ the word is cut off, and I swallow once more, fear almost turning my innards to fluid. Lord Ludica has risen from his honoured seat close to Lady Cynehild. While King Beornwulf has been riding to battle, Ludica, Bealdred and Lady Cynehild have ensured Mercia was ruled well. I can determine his intentions now, and yet my concern is for Cenfrith, not Mercia.

  Ludica is a youthful man, too young to rule Mercia as he has no battle glory to his name, and yet, with the death of King Beornwulf, he’s the obvious choice to become king. He’s Beornwulf’s closest relative, a cousin, I believe. Not that I pay much attention to the men and women in their rich clothes, with their near-constant arguments and complaints that one or other holds more wealth and honour than them.

  The only other choice for Mercia’s next king would be Bealdred, who sits to the other side of Lady Cynehild. Lord Bealdred is an older man, with some battle glory to his name, and much loved by the dead Beornwulf. But Lord Bealdred has already failed to hold Kent against the incursions of the Wessex king. Bealdred is tainted with that failure and doesn’t even think to counter Lord Ludica’s claim from his place beside Lady Cynehild.