Wolf of Mercia Read online

  WOLF OF MERCIA

  BOOK 2 THE EAGLE OF MERCIA CHRONICLES

  M J PORTER

  For EP. Thank you for always believing, even when I didn’t.

  CONTENTS

  Map

  Cast of Characters

  The Mercian Register

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author Notes

  Acknowledgments

  More from MJ Porter

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  Designed by Flintlock Covers

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

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

  Brute, Icel’s horse

  Edwin, Icel’s childhood friend, although they have been separated

  Cenfrith, Icel’s uncle, brother of Ceolburh and one of the Mercian king’s warriors, dies in Son of Mercia

  Wine, Cenfrith’s horse, now Icel’s alongside Brute

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

  * * *

  The Kings of Mercia

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

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

  Lady Cynehild, Beornwulf’s wife

  Wiglaf, King of Mercia, r.827–829 (deposed) r.830–

  Lady Cynethryth, Wiglaf’s wife

  Wigmund, Wiglaf’s son

  Ecgberht, King of Wessex, r.829 in Mercia as well

  * * *

  The Ealdormen of Mercia

  Ælfstan, one of King Wiglaf’s supporters, an ally to Icel

  Beornoth, one of King Wiglaf’s ealdormen

  Muca, one of King Wiglaf’s ealdormen

  Sigered, a long-standing ealdorman, who’s survived the troubled years of the 820s

  Tidwulf, an old ally of King Wiglaf

  Æthelweald, Bishop of Lichfield

  Bealdred, Lord of Kent, dead

  The Ealdormen of Wessex

  Wassa of the South Saxons, holds Londinium for King Ecgberht of Wessex

  Eata of Hampshire and Wassa’s brother

  Wilfhardi, inside Lundenwic

  Ælfhere, from Canterbury

  * * *

  Rulers of Other Kingdoms

  Athelstan, King of the East Angles

  Ecgberht, King of Wessex

  Lord Æthelwulf – Ecgberht’s son, designated King of Kent by his father after the battle of Ellendun

  * * *

  People of Wessex

  Æsc, an ally of Ecgred

  Brihtwold, a youth like Icel

  Dealwine, Wessex warrior

  Ecgred, a healer inside Londinium

  Theodore, slave man with a talent for healing

  Gaya, slave woman with a talent for healing

  Tyrhtil, seasoned Wessex warrior

  Æthelred, a warrior

  * * *

  Mercians

  Æthelmod, Mercian warrior

  Cenred, Mercian warrior

  Cuthred, inhabitant of Tamworth

  Eahric, commander of the king’s household warriors

  Frithwine, young Mercian warrior

  Garwulf, young Mercian warrior

  Go∂eman, Mercian warrior

  Kyre, Mercian warrior

  Landwine, Mercian warrior

  Maneca, Mercian warrior

  Ordlaf, Mercian warrior

  Osmod, Mercian warrior

  Oswald, at Kingsholm

  Oswy, one of Wiglaf’s warriors

  Uor, Mercian warrior

  Waldhere, Mercian warrior

  Wulfgar, Mercian warrior

  Wulfheard, a Mercian warrior, Ealdorman Ælfstan’s oathsworn man

  Bada, Wulfheard’s horse

  * * *

  Places

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

  Londonia, combining the ruins of Roman Londinium and Saxon Lundenwic

  Tamworth, the capital of the Mercian kingdom

  Kingdom of the East Angles, part of Mercia at the end of the 700s but reclaimed its freedom under King Beornwulf of Mercia, Athelstan now rules there

  Kingdom of Wessex, the area south of the River Thames, including Kent at this time, but not Dumnonia (Cornwall and Devon)

  THE MERCIAN REGISTER

  AD830

  King Wiglaf of Mercia has reclaimed his capital at Tamworth from the pretensions of King Ecgberht of Wessex and sent his enemy running to the borderland between the two kingdoms. But King Ecgberht is not defeated. He lurks on the southern fringes of Mercia, claiming the twin settlement of Londonia as his own, one wyvern claw in the market settlement, and one in the long-since abandoned, but strategically important, stone-built fort. King Ecgberht guards both closely, his aim to control Mercia’s wealth and, in doing so, take command of the lucrative trading centre and mint that supplies so much of Mercia’s wealth. King Wiglaf will not allow such matters to stay as they are.

  1

  AD830

  Ahead, I can see the double settlement coming into view. I gasp in surprise. I can make out some huge grey stone walls to the east and smoke billowing from the homes inside the western settlement, the two divided by a wide river glinting sullenly. There’s the promise of warmth in the pale blue sky of a very late summer’s day, if only we could make our way inside either settlement.

  ‘Aye, lad. It’s not exactly small,’ Wulfheard offers from bestride his horse, Bada. The beast moves easily, his white-socked legs making it appear as though sunlight flashes with every step he takes.

  Beneath me, Brute fights my every instruction. After all we’ve been through in our ride to defeat King Ecgberht in the borderlands of the Welsh and Mercian kingdoms and to reach my dying uncle, he remains an unwilling accomplice. Still, and as terrible as it sounds, I’d sooner risk Brute than my uncle’s horse, Wine. Wine is all I’ve left of my uncle. I’ll not risk his life in the coming attack. For now, Wine is safe in Tamworth, young Cuthred pleased to be asked to tend him for me. Wine seemed just as content to take her ease. Not that Wynflæd had approved of that arrangement.

  Wynflæd and I have made an awkward reconciliation at Tamworth. She’s not happy with me, and she mourns for my uncle at the same time. The knowledge startles me. I’d never thought she thought much of him. Or rather, I’d never believed she cared for him. It seems I was wrong and now he’s missed.

  Nothing I can say or do is right. Every time I visit her, there’s some new complaint to lay at my door. Cuthred isn’t quite who she has in mind as her replacement. She still expects me to do her bidding, despite my oath to King Wiglaf to be his sworn man, and to stand in his shield wall to defend Mercia.

  From my vantage point, on the vast length of road that stretches southwards, some of it stone-covered, other parts merely dying tufted grass, I can see Londonia. Wulfheard has explained it all to me on the journey here. It’s confusing, to say the least. And now I try to make sense of his words to determine just what I can see.

  Lundenwic, to the west, is more or less a huge m
arket, stretched along the banks of the River Thames. I can pick out small craft moving on its forbidding surface bringing with them the goods and people who use Lundenwic to trade and make their living.

  Londinium is far older, surrounded by those soaring grey walls, the ancient works of giants, as Wulfheard laughingly told me when I questioned him about the destination of King Wiglaf’s warband. I detected the hint of unease in Wulfheard’s voice at the words. These giants, as Wulfheard termed them, must indeed have been monstrous men and women to build walls so tall that they’re visible even from such a vast distance away. They blot out the River Thames behind them. I see only where the river disappears behind the stone, and then where it appears again, as though two rivers, and not one.

  Wulfheard is content to lump both settlements, the abandoned, grey-walled Londinium and the occupied Lundenwic, together and call it Londonia. I think he’s right to do so, even with the wide River Fleet dividing the pair of them so that others might think it two places.

  We ride to the east of the River Fleet. There’s a bridge to cross by, so I’ve been informed.

  Wulfheard tells me that Londinium might well have tall walls that promise security, but a man and woman can’t live on produce grown on the unending layer of stone that covers everything. There’s no soil to be found behind those walls. And without soil, there can be no food, and so the walls offer the promise of safety but an empty belly. They’re too tall and immovable to allow access to the River Thames apart from in one place. So, Londinium has been all but abandoned. The traders have forged a new settlement and it’s built of Mercian wood, Mercian sticks and Mercian shit.

  Now I ride towards this many-named place. Like Wulfheard, I decide that Londonia will be the name I choose to describe this twin settlement.

  King Wiglaf, fresh from regaining his place as Mercia’s king, is eager to have King Ecgberht of Wessex evicted from Londonia. Wiglaf wishes to reclaim the lost mint housed inside the market settlement, and from which Ecgberht mints coins proclaiming himself as king of Mercia. As almost an aside, Wiglaf wants the holy men, and the wealth of taxes that must be paid to allow Mercians and non-Mercians to trade inside the market itself, restored to him.

  ‘We won’t find a warm welcome in Londonia,’ Wulfheard assures me conversationally. ‘They don’t care who they pay their taxes to as long as they can trade and live as they want. There’s little loyalty to Mercia. They favour making enough coins to purchase the supplies they need to live. And the supplies, of course, can come from Wessex or Mercia, or even, if they must, from the ships that routinely dock at the market, stretched along the market’s shoreline.’

  I nod, but I don’t truly comprehend Wulfheard’s explanation. Yes, I’ve heard of Londonia. Yes, I know it’s Mercian. Or, at least, it was. Now King Ecgberht of Wessex claims it as the last bastion of his failed invasion of Mercia. King Wiglaf means to have it back. It’ll be war. I know that. Why else would King Wiglaf have summoned his ealdormen and warriors if not for war? While we’re gone, the Welsh kingdoms of Powys or Gwynedd might think to attack, or even that bastard king-slayer, Athelstan of the East Angles, but it’s towards Londonia that we’re travelling. We must risk everything to rid Mercia of King Ecgberht of Wessex. Like my uncle before me, I fear that in being so single-minded with his purpose, King Wiglaf jeopardises so much more. I know I’m not alone in having such worries.

  ‘What will King Wiglaf do?’ I ask, curious. Behind me stretch many warriors on horseback, and to the rear of them, men who run or walk to keep up. They’re the king’s warriors but have no horse to ride. We’re armed, and yet, if the reports from Londonia are to be believed, the warriors of Wessex still vastly overtop those of the Mercians. The Wessex warriors have run from their defeat on the Welsh borderlands, but they’ve not gone far. They’re entrenched on Mercia’s southernmost border. King Wiglaf is incensed.

  ‘The king will offer a peace settlement, and when King Ecgberht refuses it, he’ll attack.’

  ‘But where will we attack?’

  Now Wulfheard smirks at me, reining in his mount so that we can stop and eye the settlement in front of us, rearing up from the lower-lying land close to the vast river stretching moodily along the limits of the Mercian kingdom. ‘Where would you suggest, my young friend?’

  I eye Londonia in its fullness. My eyes are drawn to the thick grey walls to the east that surround the fort. It seems impossible to gain entry through those enormous walls. I can only imagine how thick they are to support such height. Perhaps Wulfheard is correct. Maybe the walls were built by giants. And, of course, the wide River Thames precludes an attack from the south, even if there wasn’t a wall blocking much of the way. It seems then that an assault must come through the more open area to the west of the River Fleet, on the market settlement.

  ‘There,’ and I point towards my chosen location. The land is flat. No walls protect the trading settlement, which lies open so that ships can furnish their trade along the riverbank. Smoke rises into the cold air from the many wooden homes and workshops. It appears it’ll be easy to attack.

  Wulfheard nods, but there’s a knowing smirk on his face. ‘I suggest that you leave such matters to your king and his ealdormen. They know much more than you.’

  The words sting, as does Wulfheard’s abandonment of me, when he encourages Bada onwards to mingle with King Wiglaf and his ealdorman. They ride in front of us, leading the men, beneath a banner portraying Mercia’s eagle.

  I keep my gaze firmly forward, looking through narrow eyes to hold back the glare of the slanted sun, convinced I’ve still chosen the best position. And yet, I’m not foolish enough to think I must be right, far from it. I’ve been a warrior for far less time than all of these men who fight for the king. I’ve seen one shield wall and hardly fought in it. Still, Wulfheard’s dismissal irks. Not for the first time, and despite her angry words meant to wound, I wish myself back to Tamworth and Wynflæd; to my childhood, because one thing is for sure, I’m not a child any more. I ceased to be on my beloved uncle’s death. His death remains fresh. I can still smell him on Wine’s saddle. Just thinking of him brings unshed tears to my eyes.

  I could be angry at Wynflæd that my training was too little to save him, despite my best efforts. But I understand Cenfrith’s wounds were mortal. I did what I could to save him. And yet, in the depths of each night, when I wake, expecting him to be beside me, I know it’s my fault he’s dead and I live. I should have defied King Wiglaf. I should have stayed by his side, protected him from the Wessex enemy, and then he’d yet live. And I wouldn’t be alone.

  ‘Ware.’ The roar ruptures the air. It comes from the front of the riding men, spread wide over the remains of the ancient road. The summer weeds have been beaten back into submission by the increasingly colder days and nights as men and women scurry to gather in the harvest. I’m riding head down, sullen, the chill of the day making me shiver, even though I’ve donned my cloak to cover my battle byrnie. For once, I’m grateful for the stinking linen cap I wear inside my helm. It’s doing its best to keep my ears warm.

  Sleepily, I gaze forward, unsure why the cry has been raised.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask of the large man closest to me, but Oswy merely grunts. He and I don’t much like one another. I would wish Wulfheard were beside me still and not riding with the ealdorman and the king. Oswy has long been a member of the king’s household warriors, and I know him from my time in Tamworth. He once served as Lady Cynethryth’s personal guard. Now he fights for the king.

  As I ride closer, I realise that not all of the smoke shrouding the market settlement comes from homes. There’s an enemy encampment as well. I detect the flashes of weapons, the mass of horses in a picket, the uneven lines of temporary canvas shelters. The wooden stakes angled from the mud to drive into the hearts of man or beast who tries to ride through them. My heart thuds in my chest.

  The following command fills my stomach with iron. I swallow, uneasy that the food I ate earlier will reappear in my
mouth.

  ‘Shield wall.’ It hardly seems the place to have a shield wall, not when we have the horses and the supply waggons stretched out behind us. This isn’t planned. Yet, the rest of the mounted warriors are quickly dismounting, handing their horses off to anyone who’ll take them, or urging them back to the stable boys at the rear of the procession. Then the warriors run forwards to do as the harsh voice commands, their weapons and shields clattering noisily.

  ‘Hurry up, Icel.’ Wulfheard’s words ring too loudly as he rushes back my way, Bada easily taking his commands.

  As I attempt to dismount, I tangle my leg in my cloak and tumble heavily to the hard ground in a cacophony of hurts and clatters. I’m not a natural rider. I’ve not trained for this. I’m more lethal with a knife and a bunch of herbs than I am with a shield and seax. My arse still hurts after every day spent in the saddle. My hands as well, from griping seax and shield during my continued training. And Brute isn’t an easy beast.

  ‘Come on.’ Of course, it’s Ealdorman Ælfstan who watches my humiliation. As does Oswy and others of his ilk, their laughter a counterpart to the thrum of the shield wall that faces us in front. The Wessex warriors are keen to begin the slaughter. ‘It seems King Ecgberht has news of our arrival.’ Ealdorman Ælfstan bends to assist me to my feet with his strong arm. His face shows no sign of humour, his brown beard and moustache covering much of his true feelings on the matter. It’s as though he speaks of what he might eat for dinner, and not a fight to the death.