In The Name Of The Mother E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It is 689 AD, and Cynethryth is returning from Rome, carrying her dead husband's child.

She soon gives birth to a son, Aethelheard, whose parentage alone places him in danger. His mother has a tough choice to make and travels to Dorset, where the king is a cousin of her late husband.

After the king adopts the boy, he grows up in the dangerous company of rebellious princes, all who wish to overthrow the mighty Ine, king of Wessex.

How will mother and son face the physical and spiritual battles that await them?

Leseprobe

In The Name Of The Mother

John Broughton

Copyright (C) 2019 John Richard Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Jessica Richardson Weber

Edited by Brian Suderman

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Special thanks go to my dear friend John Bentley for his steadfast and indefatigable support. His content checking and suggestions have made an invaluable contribution to In the Name of the Mother.

For Suzy Rees, my dear lifelong friend and inspiration to write this sequel to Wyrd of the Wolf

Chapter 1

September 689 AD

Cynethryth peered over the prow and gasped at the lashing foam that soaked her frock to leave it clinging tighter – if that were possible – to her swollen belly. The sea air, even on this mild late-summer's day, left her shivering as it added to the chill of the seawater permeating her linen dress and shift to the skin.

“Daughter, come down here, at once!” The rest of the warrior's words were lost to the breeze in an incoherent muttering but she caught `in your condition'.

Little did she care for any discomfort, so her glance at the coast of her beloved Wiht more than compensated. Nearing her confinement – she was eight months into this pregnancy – Cynethryth had feared her child would not be born on the isle. Indeed, when she had followed her husband to Rome, she thought never to see Wiht again. As their ship approached the inlet to her birthplace at Cerdicsford, her emotions tumbled and whirled like the chopping waves where the tide met the river. She almost tumbled too as she picked her ungainly way to the steadying arms of her father.

The joy of beholding Wiht and the anticipation of reuniting with her dearest friend, Rowena, could not overcome the grief, still raw, of her loss of Caedwalla, whose child kicked mercilessly inside her womb. How cruel a wyrd had taken him from her after so few precious nights together, but at least she would see something of him again in the face of their offspring.

Aelfhere, concerned for them both, took off his cloak and wrapped it around his trembling, headstrong daughter.

“The ship'll not berth the sooner for all your staring over the bows, my angel.”

He enfolded her in his strong arms and she snuggled against the man who had raised her in childhood. She had wounded him by disobedience over her betrothal, but their past differences, set aside, had brought them closer than ever. She basked in the fact that he had received the message of Christ in Rome, accepted baptism, and, without thinking, called her his angel. Aelfhere's emotions too, although less intense, were contrasting. His love of Wiht, no less strong than hers, and of Cerdicsford in particular, meant his spirits rose at their approach. But what would greet him? His possessions were now fallen into the hands of Caedwalla's – the conqueror's – man Guthred, from what his daughter had told him. Would he have to renew hostilities to wrest back what was his? He glanced down at the bedraggled red-gold hair of his only child and praised – who, the Lord Jesus or Freya? – who had blessed him with a grandchild for his old age. Ashamed at his spiritual ambivalence, he could not meet the adoring gaze of the dark grey eyes full of tenderness that turned up and scanned his face to gauge his sentiments.

“What manner of man is this Guthred?”

“A good man, father, a friend.”

“No friend of mine.”

She pressed closer to him, and the unborn child, as if to reprove him, kicked against his side. Cynethryth groaned and her father held her tighter.

“Yon's a warrior you're carrying, dear heart. He nigh on kicked me into the sea!”

“And what if he's a she, father?”

“In that case, she'll be as reckless, wilful and winsome as her mother.”

Their laughter, precious in its complicity with the unspoken sense of forgiveness, broke off as the ship nudged against the wooden quay, causing Aelfhere to brace himself, tightening his hold on her.

“Home at last!” But there was an edge of unease in his voice.

He helped Cynethryth over the side of the ship where willing hands, belonging to familiar faces grinning into hers, hoisted her onto the quay.

“Cynethryth!” A woman's voice rose above the general stridency assailing her ears.

“Rowena!”

Island life suited her friend, who bore down on her in the full bloom of health. Rowena had always been pretty with her pale hair like burnished copper and almond-shaped eyes of sage green, but Cynethryth had never seen her so comely.

“Look at you!” Rowena rushed to embrace her. “Oh, you poor thing! You're soaked through. Come with me before you catch your death of cold! There's a fire in the hall and we'll get you some dry clothes. How many months is it? You must be due soon!”

Aelfhere smiled at their retreating backs. Had he lost her already?

Not that he had time to fret. In an instant, old acquaintances, bondsmen and friends surrounded him, all revelling in his unexpected return. Standing two hands taller than the tallest and keeping in the background, Guthred studied the reception of the returning lord of this homestead and formulated his own greeting. It was not long before the two men faced each other, aided by the insistence of Alric, a thegn from an outlying farmstead, who guided Aelfhere to come face to face with the new lord.

“So, you are the father of Cynethryth. Lord Aelfhere, is it not?”

Taken aback by the unexpected sincere friendliness of the tone and the title freely given, Aelfhere accepted the proffered hand and clasped it.

“Come! You must be weary and cold. Let us join the womenfolk and drink together.”

“Willingly.”

This greeting exceeded Aelfhere's rosiest expectations. His spirits lifted but as he inhaled the familiar air of home and drank in the sights and sounds so much missed, his thoughts went to Baldwulf, Hynsige and Wulflaf, faithful comrades, each perished for love of him – how his heart ached at their absence, but he shrugged off morose thoughts as he stepped into the warmth of his hall.

“Father, wonderful news! Rowena is also with child!”

Aelfhere turned to Guthred and stared into the grinning face.

“It appears we have cause to celebrate. My congratulations!”

Two paces behind them followed Alric and Ewald, delighted to renew their old friendship. Aelfhere heard the thegn say, “I didn't know whether you'd survived the journey to Rome but we tended your woodland and your house is still in one piece!”

Amid the general festivities, prolonged into the evening when servants produced a splendid meal of shellfish and fresh crab, and much ale and recounting of tales, Guthred spoke in a low voice to Aelfhere.

“Lord, my wife and I have oft spoken about your likely homecoming.”

Aelfhere's pulse quickened, so this was it! Was it to be war or peace? His eyes roamed over the bulging muscles of the Saxon, younger by many winters than himself. His gaze switched to the two redheaded women so happy and intimate and an icy hand clutched at his heart. Was happiness to be snatched from one or the other?

“I enjoy living here and have the respect of the folk.” Guthred hesitated to gauge the effect of his words, but apart from a slight narrowing of the other's eyes, nothing. He pressed on, “The truth is, this is your home, these are your lands and your people, but I would not wish to leave the isle.”

“What is to be done?”

Aelfhere was glad nobody was paying attention to their conversation.

This was not quite true because Cynethryth, from the corner of her eye, had noted the unease in her father's bearing and could see he was fighting to keep his temper under control. She prayed he would not ruin their heart-warming homecoming as she gazed into the sparkling eyes of her friend and tried to keep up her end of their chatter.

“I had thought, Lord, I could swear fealty to you, and in return, you might find me land for a home.”

Aelfhere relaxed and in a spontaneous gesture took the hand of his new thegn. A mighty warrior in his service, what more could he have hoped for?

“The best farms are taken, Guthred. But I have an idea. Cerdicsford is an island within the isle and part of this island has another area as yet unclaimed. There is a headland to the west and it will need tilling but the land is fertile and easily defended. From the tout there is a clear view over the sea. It serves for an early warning of invasion: hence its name Toutland. You will be Thegn of Toutland, what say you? We can ride out to view it on the morrow. When you decide we'll have the announcement and another feast here. The menfolk will help you build your hall, and for sure, one or two will want to work the land.”

Cynethryth's anxiety passed as she saw the two men in cordial agreement. How wonderful it was to be home! If only Caedwalla had been here to share it with her. For the thousandth time she cursed the sword slash that had never healed and that had taken him from her. But she swore she would keep his child safe and it would lack for nothing.

Chapter 2

October 689 AD

Having been brought up by her father, and in the absence of a mother's guidance, Cynethryth wasn't prepared for the agonies of childbirth. A few days before the delivery, the women of the village, when consulted, were of little help, offering vague comments like, “It was hard and tiring but worth it in the end.” They meant well because they didn't want to scare her but thus they denied Cynethryth the mental preparation to face the ordeal. She knew that women died in childbirth, and so too did many babes, but she was determined this would not be the fate of her child or its mother, not if she had anything to do with it.

She went into labour unready for the pains of contraction and what followed were hours of utter hell. Afterwards all she could recall was the excruciating pain and the conviction that she would die. But as she stared at the wrinkled creature helpless on her breast, the small miracle, she forgot the suffering in a trice. She had a son and she adored him – her tiny princeling.

In the days that followed, Aelfhere reminded her that his grandson was, in fact, an aetheling. In reaction to her idea to name the child after his father, Aelfhere was adamant she must not.

“Caedwalla! Unwise! When he is older it will serve only to remind those in Wessex who mean him ill that he has a claim to the throne. Heed my words, it would be foolish and dangerous.”

“Then, I will call him Aelfhere, after you.” The dark grey eyes softened to tenderness.

“Better not. If they come looking for your child, they will hear of one named after your father.”

Cynethryth folded her arms over her chest and glared, “Oh father, who are they who mean harm to my boy? You frighten me! What am I supposed to call him?”

“The latest news from Wessex isn't comforting. A youngster called Ine took the throne and, in so doing, bypassed his own father, Coenred. So, you see, there are other claimants and much unrest. While your little fellow is an infant, there's nothing to fear…but later…”

He left the rest unspoken and gazed anxiously at Cynethryth, whose usually serene countenance contorted into a mask of rage.

“Nobody will ever harm my son!” she cried, “Not whilst there's breath in my body!”

Tears threatened and Aelfhere, regretting his ill-chosen words, strode to comfort her.

“Of course, nobody will harm him – not with me and Guthred to protect him.”

But Aelfhere knew too much about the struggles for kingship to believe his reassurances.

When Cynethryth spoke to him some days later about christening the boy, Aelfhere made no objection to her choice of name or rather, he bit off his demurral.

Instead, he said, “Aethelheard. It's a fine name. How did it come to mind?”

“I was chatting with Guthred and he suggested it.”

“I see.” `That accounts for it.' Cynethryth cast him a sharp glance and he added hastily, “Aethelheard is an excellent choice. “Aethel-' is a royal prefix. I fear it gives the secret away.'

“We must send to Wihtgarsburh for a priest as soon as possible. My little man must be brought into the faith.”

In the small wooden chapel of the farmstead, hastily erected in Aelfhere's absence by Guthred, over the crude stone font, little Aethelheard gurgled contentedly in the priest's arms. The babe didn't react to the cold water splashed over his head so those present regarded the christening as auspicious.

The seasons passed on Wiht with plenty both on the farmsteads and for the fishermen. While unrest and political turbulence scarred the lives of the mainlanders, Wiht basked in the peace its geographic position afforded its people. It was of little import that Wihtred overthrew the King of Kent and invaded the land of the treacherous East Saxons or even that King Ine installed his kinsman Nothelm as King of the South Saxons, thus making him the overlord of Wiht. Cynethryth, more concerned with tending the grazed knees of her energetic five-year-old son, who was forever getting into scrapes, only sat up and took notice of major events when King Ine attacked Kent and extorted 30,000 pence in recompense for the murder of her husband's brother, Mul.

News of this episode and other Wessex matters brought Guthred to Cerdicsford to seek discussions with Cynethryth and Aelfhere.

“I have received a message from friends in Wessex,” his blue eyes narrowed as he frowned, “Coenred died two moons ago.”

“Who?” Aelfhere knew little of the Wessex royalty and, if he were honest, preferred to keep matters that way.

Cynethryth enlightened her father.

“Coenred was Caedwalla's cousin as well as father of King Ine who now rules Wessex.”

“What concern is this of ours?”

“Well, it is.” Guthred said, “Or more to the point, of Aethelheard.”

“What has the boy to do with anything?”

“My friend Caedwalla, the boy's father, is a direct descendent of the true bloodline of Wessex.” He recited, “Caedwalla, son of Cenberht, son of Cenna…and so it goes on, direct back to Cerdric, the founder of the dynasty. Aethelheard has a better claim to kingship than Ine and that ruler is becoming ever more the tyrant: he thirsts for greater power.”

“But Aethelheard has only five winters behind him.”

“I know that, Lord Aelfhere. But do you not see? The death of Coenred is a grave blow to the future hopes of the boy. There remains but one cousin of Caedwalla – Cuthred, the son of the late King Cwichelm, who might be willing to sustain the cause of Aethelheard.”

“What cause?”

“The claim to be rightful ruler of Wessex.”

“But he's only five!” Cynethryth's words were choked with emotion.

“Indeed,” Guthred gave her an encouraging smile, “and Cuthred grows no younger and has no sons of his own. This is a chance to ensure Aethelheard's birthright. Will you not come with me to Cuthred? We should at least try. We owe as much to Caedwalla.” Thus, he put forward his strongest argument and with satisfaction saw it drive home in the setting of Cynethryth's jaw.

“Father, I will go to Wessex with Guthred and see what can be done for Aethelheard.”

“But the boy will remain here, where he is safe.”

“I think not, Lord Aelfhere,” Guthred spoke firmly, “our case is only strong if presented in the flesh. If you are worried, you too will come to protect the boy.”

“And so I will. These are troubled times. We must tread with great care and you will need a wise head to save you from recklessness.” This he said without a trace of a smile.

“Then it's agreed. We leave for Sussex and thence for Wessex. Will Rowena come too? I need a female companion and little Osburh will be a distraction for Aethelheard. They are such close friends.”

“So be it!” Guthred smiled. I will ride to tell them of our plans. The weather is set fair, so we can sail to Selsey in the morning.

“Bring them here for the night, so that we may dine and discuss further our plans. I need to know more of this Cuthred,” Aelfhere insisted.

What ought to have been a straightforward journey to Winchester was anything but. The crossing to Selsey was pleasant enough. Cynethryth passed it in conversation with Rowena and in keeping Aethelheard from perilous scaling of the ship's tempting structure. The road from Selsey to Chichester and thence to Winchester, remarkable for the women and children being endlessly jostled in their canvas-covered ox-cart, was slow and uneventful. The problems began in the town, when they at last reached it. Discreet inquiries led to learning that their bird had flown. Cuthred, on hearing of his cousin's death, despite initial opposition from King Ine had claimed the vacant sub-kingdom of Dorset. Having mustered sufficient support for his claim among the Wessex nobles, he was now enthroned in his new lands.

Aelfhere and Guthred discussed whether this was good news or not long into the night. In any case, they decided to continue their journey as far as Cuthred's court. They agreed to keep their movements a close-guarded secret, given Ine's fury at Cuthred's effrontery.

At the thought of having to cross through the dense Selwood, Guthred muttered, “We'd have come by ship to Wareham had we known.”

Aelfhere, who had sailed the whole length of the south coast, shook his head, “The coastline in those parts has no safe landing place. We're better off by road, even though the way is arduous.”

The worst part was going through the forest, owing to the poor trackway, its surface ruined by tree roots. Often, the men had to dismount and heave the cart over a tenacious obstacle. The constant fear of outlaws overwhelming the small number of men Aelfhere and Guthred had brought as escort troubled them both. Six armed and mounted men would be hard-pressed to withstand a band of forty club-wielding villains. Luckily, they encountered no such danger and emerged from the forest to cross an abandoned dyke before joining the rebuilt ancient road across the Chase, then striking south to the royal burh of Wareham.

Many days after their departure from Wiht, the welcome sight of the wooden defensive walls of the burh restored their cheer. Weary, Aelfhere raised his horn to his lips and blew two blasts to announce their peaceful intent. Nonetheless, when the gates opened, a group of heavily armed horsemen galloped out. Their leader, complete in mail shirt and a helm that hid most of his face, halted the riders a few paces from the small group.

“State your name, purpose and provenance,” he called.

Aelfhere, in a strong voice replied, “Aelfhere of Cerdicsford seeking audience with King Cuthred, we come from Wiht.”

The horseman nudged his steed closer and peered through the eye-slits of the helm at Aelfhere.

“You have travelled far. What is in the cart?”

“Women and children.”

As if on cue, Cynethryth emerged from the canvas opening over the cart and rounding the edge of the waggon, demanded, “Why have we stopped? Oh!” she exclaimed on seeing the riders blocking their way.

In a gentler tone, the leader of the defenders said, “We will accompany you into Wareham where you can take lodgings, so I'll know where to find you should the king agree to your request.”

Obeying the demand to follow, the travellers urged their exhausted mounts to one last effort, which took them into the small burh of perhaps fifty houses, a church and a hall that served as a royal palace. The burh also boasted an inn complete with stables. Saddle-sore, the men dismounted to consign their tired beasts to youths who led the horses to a drinking trough. Cynethryth and Rowena, each with a child in tow, followed the mail-shirted warrior into the inn and were soon joined by their menfolk.

“The king does not receive this late in the day but I will take your request for audience to him, Aelfhere of Cerdicsford. You will have your answer soon enough. Meanwhile, you should be comfortable here, Lady,” he addressed Cynethryth with a slight bow. “The inn belongs to my kinsman, Eafa – ah, here he is!”

The innkeeper, a sturdy, slightly bow-legged figure, wearing a leather apron over a pale green linen tunic, greeted them. They soon agreed a price for the rooms and ordered a hot meal, of which they were in sore need. Eafa the landlord was married to a robust, ruddy-cheeked woman with curling grey hair poking out from under a grubby white linen headscarf. She was, Aelfhere considered, far less appetising than the delicious pork stew she prepared for them. The meagre dried food of the journey relegated to an unwelcome memory, everyone ate with a hearty appetite. Afterwards, chatting and laughing over beakers of passable ale, they were surprised when a stocky fellow, unrecognisable without armour except for his voice, interrupted their wassailing.

“King Cuthred will receive you, Aelfhere of Cerdicsford, after Mass tomorrow morning.”

“I thank you, friend,” Aelfhere bowed his head, “come, pray join us for a beaker of ale.”

The fellow hesitated but Cynethryth bestowed on him a winsome smile to end his doubts.

“Do favour us with your company,” she said, “there are so many things I wish to ask.”

All resistance vanished in the face of such charm, and he took a place made for him on the bench across from the lady.

“We too will go to Mass tomorrow, will we not?” Cynethryth said to Rowena who gave her assent.

“We'll all go,” Aelfhere agreed while pouring ale for their guest. Cynethryth, ever practical, began to question the thegn. She asked about the burh and its people, listening with attention to his fulsome praise of the decent, hard-working Dormsaete – the local Saxons, of whom he was one – now under the control of Wessex.

“Dorset was a hard nut to crack,” the thegn said with no attempt to keep the pride from his voice. “The Britons defended their land as fierce as dragons. Their dykes were impenetrable for many years but King Cenwalh, in my father's time, broke through and won two great battles. He drove them back westward over the River Parrett after his second triumph at Peonna – and we've held the land ever since.”

“We crossed one such dyke on our way here,” Guthred said.

“Imagine its strength with the fortifications we demolished!”

“Is your king a great warrior?” Cynethryth asked.

“When he was younger there was no finer swordsman in Wessex.”

“What age has the king?”

“I can't be sure but I'd say he's seen two-score winters.”

“Your age then, father,” she smiled at her sire.

“In that case,” Aelfhere grinned, “I would not wish to cross swords with the king, for at such a young age, he will still be formidable.”

The piping voice of Aethelheard chimed in, “Grandfather, you are not a young man!”

Everyone laughed, but Aelfhere leapt up, drew his sword and made a fierce face, “Come here boy and say that again. I'll have your head!”

Another boy of five might have crumpled and sought his mother's skirts but Aethelheard picked up a knife from the table and brandishing it, cried, “You are not a young man! I will not punish you only because you are my grandfather!”

“Put that knife down at once!” Cynethryth scolded him. “What use do you think it is against a grown man with a sword?”

“But mother, I can move fast, grandfather couldn't get near me.” Aethelheard began to dodge and weave in imitation of a fighting man.

“One day, my wolf sword will be yours, boy,” Aelfhere said proudly, “but you'll have to grow some muscles and learn to wield a sword first.”

“Promise, grandfather! Promise!”

“The boy has pluck,” the Dormsaete thegn acknowledged.

Aelfhere looked guiltily at his grandson. “I promise.”

`The boy and his mother must never learn that this sword struck the blow fatal to Caedwalla.'

Chapter 3

Wareham, Dorset, 694 AD

King Cuthred, seated on a throne raised on a dais started at the sight of Cynethryth, standing behind Aelfhere. His countenance assumed a sudden anxiety. He stood, one hand holding the other arm at the elbow, before waving the same hand and thundering, “Out! All of you, out!”

Servants, guards and retainers all scurried to the doors. Cynethryth made to follow but Guthred took a restraining grip of her arm.

“I know you, Lady,” said the king as soon as the hall returned to blessed silence after the noise of scampering feet died away. “I attended your wedding to my cousin. I never forget a face, especially one so comely!”

“I thank you, Lord King.”

She curtsied and shot him a smile but noticed that it failed to allay the worry in his visage. Why the sight of her should alarm him eluded her. His next words made the matter clear.

“I recognised you at once, Lady Cynethryth. For all our sakes it's important nobody else knows who you are. God knows, I'm already in danger enough.”

Aelfhere stepped forward.

“King Cuthred, I am Aelfhere of Cerdicsford, father of Cynethryth. We have travelled from Wiht to present Aethelheard,” he gestured with two united fingers at the boy to indicate he should step forward, “son of Caedwalla.”

Quick-witted as ever, the boy stepped forward and, recalling his mother's advice, made a deep bow to the monarch.

“The Lord preserve us!” Cuthred said, his hand covered his mouth, and with a slow disbelieving shake of the head, he murmured, “Look at him! The image of his father. You must take him back to your island, at once!”

“But we have brought him here for a purpose, Lord,” Aelfhere protested. “We seek your protection for the boy.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses, man?” Cuthred's face grew puce, with an unascertained emotion. Among them, only Aethelheard, in his ingenuity, stared at him slack-jawed and blatantly.

Cynethryth caught the boy by the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Stop gawping, son.”

The boy lowered his head and studied the crushed lavender strewn among the fresh reeds covering the paving stones. He looked up, mouth firmly closed when the king continued. “Have I not said that your presence places us all in peril? With the boy here, should his identity emerge, the danger is without limits.”

“No-one can know who he is unless his mother is recognised,” Guthred said in a respectful, reasonable tone.

“I know you too,” Cuthred glared, “you were Caedwalla's man!”

“The same Guthred, Lord, and at your service.” He bowed.

“King Ine wants me slain. If he learns I'm harbouring Caedwalla's son, his fury will know no bounds.”

“I'm prepared to leave Wareham,” Cynethryth's tone was conciliatory, “but wish to remain in Dorset near enough to ensure the wellbeing of my son. All I ask, as your cousin's widow, is that you offer protection and support to my son. For many a year, nobody needs know who he truly is. My son has but five winters behind him.

A series of emotions crossed the king's face as he stared hard at the aetheling before him. Brashly, the boy met and held his gaze, offering a timid smile.

The side of the king's mouth twitched and he said, “Protection and support, you say? I'll do better than that! By all the saints, I will! I'll adopt the boy and declare him my son.”

Cynethryth gasped, clasped her hands in front of her and wide-eyed, stared at the King.

Aethelheard was first to react. He threw his arms around her thighs and gazed up into her face. “Mother, don't be sad. I'll be the king's son but I'll ever be yours.”

Tears filled her eyes but she fought them back for his sake and hugged him, “Thank the king, your father, and promise to be obedient and studious.”

“Thank you father. I promise to be all that you wish.”

“Leave the boy and go with my blessing and hark! Not a word of this to anyone.”

As they trooped out of the Hall, Cynethryth, straining to hear, caught the king's words to her son: “…and I'll make of you the finest swordsman in Wessex…” She smiled and wondered, `Will my life forever be such sweet sorrow?'

Back in the inn, they sat over a light meal to discuss the morning's events.

“It went well.” Aelfhere was concise in his judgement.

“Better than we could have hoped,” Guthred agreed. “Cuthred will raise him as his son and I approve of the king's wariness – it will ensure no harm befalls Aethelheard.

“I will miss my boy terribly. I'll have to find something to occupy me, for I cannot be seen in court. Cuthred was clear on that and I agree with his decision – whatever is best for Aethelheard.” Her mind was quite lucid about what was right but her heart protested fit to break.

Aelfhere took her hand.

“It's for the best, my angel, but will you not come to Wiht with me?”

She shook her head. “I need to feel close to him even if I can't see him.”

`I'll find a way to catch sight of my boy.'

“Rowena, do you wish to return to Wiht?” Guthred asked.

The green eyes, full of concern, switched to Aelfhere. “Forgive me, Lord, but I wish for little Osburh to grow up with Aethelheard. There's a chance that Guthred can enter King Cuthred's service so that we can attend the court. Forgive me, for you have been a generous Lord. We leave our homestead only for love of Cynethryth.”

“I understand, and will keep you all in my thoughts. Come to Wiht when you can. What will you do, daughter?”

She was moved by the sadness in his tone. Her decision meant he was losing daughter and grandchild in one blow. She bit her lower lip and stared at the table. Whatever she said, she would not make this harder for him.

“I must find a useful purpose, father, and to that end, I will away to see the priest at Saint Martin's church. When will you depart?”

“My horse will be well rested by the morning, so I'll inform Ewald and the others that we leave at first light. I have to find the scoundrels first. I'll wager they're supping and wenching in some foul hovel while my back's turned.”

“Then I will rise early to bid you farewell. Now, I must seek the priest.”

They watched Cynethryth glide out of the tavern, straight-backed and elegant as ever.

“What do you think she means to do?” Rowena nudged her husband.

Guthred shrugged and teased, “What man ever knows the mind of a woman? She seeks a priest, so maybe she means to marry.”

Rowena gave his arm another nudge, “Never! She loved Caedwalla too much to do that!”

“A man must watch his limbs when a swan starts to hiss!”

He grinned at Aelfhere and received another shove for his troubles.

“Father, why does mother keep hitting you?” The voice piped up from under the edge of the table.

“Because she's an aggressive little swan!”

“Mother, you aren't a swan! Tell him!”

They stayed together for an hour, expecting Cynethryth to return at any moment. When it became clear she would not, Aelfhere decided to search for his men. As he pointed out, Wareham was not so big and he would soon find the layabouts. When they had arrived, he had noticed a small harbour off to the east. If they could find a ship willing to take them and their horses to Wiht, it would save a repeat of the sapping journey they had undertaken. He was willing to trade passage in exchange for the ox and cart, but he needed to talk it over with Ewald, preferably while the rascal was still sober.

Cynethryth, warming to Father Feran, confessed the nature of their visit to Wareham, secure in the inviolable secrecy of the sacrament. At last, when she had revealed everything and had satisfied the old man's curiosity regarding her lineage, she proceeded to bare her soul. The need to offset the loss of her only child with a worthwhile occupation had driven her to him.

“Father, I am thinking of taking the veil. I seek no husband and wish to dedicate my life to the service of God. What do you counsel me?”

The priest frowned and lapsed into thought. Of course, the fact that this beautiful young woman wished to become a nun filled him with joy, but her royal connections meant he would have to move astutely. He bent his head in prayer and enlightenment came at once.

“My dear lady, I don't know why I didn't think of this straight away,” he smiled and said, “it must be slowness due to my advancing years. But the daughters of our late, lamented King Coenred are still in Wareham. They returned for the funeral from Barking where they studied the scriptures under the Blessed Hildelith. Unless I err, Cuthburga was a cousin of your late husband. Who better to counsel you, Lady? I am but a humble priest.”

“How will I find Cuthburga?”

“Nothing easier. She will come here. As on every day, she comes in the early afternoon. You will not mistake her if you wait. She brings fresh flowers to the altar before she immerses herself in prayer. You will know her by her regal presence, I am sure. Bless you my child.” He sketched a cross with his hand over her head. “I will leave you to pray for guidance.” With that, he departed and Cynethryth chose to follow his advice, kneeling and bowing her head in prayer.

Time hung heavily in the silent church but Cynethryth had much to think about, quite apart from formulating prayers seeking guidance. Her thoughts kept returning to little Aethelheard: would he cope bereft of his mother? She knew the boy had great inner strength and she believed it would do him no harm to endure a tougher upbringing than she would have provided. This, she knew, was a hard world for men of noble birth. She remembered the king's words she had overheard and smiled. If he made Aethelheard the best swordsman in Wessex, she need have no fears for his safety.

When footsteps along the nave alerted her to another person she did not raise her head but peered from under her brow to see a woman, small but with a presence that seemed to fill the church.