Sea Wolves E-Book

John Broughton

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

Beschreibung

In the early 9th century, Asculf leads a quiet life among his apple orchards on the Isle of Sceapig. When called upon for military service, he covers himself in glory.

His prowess leads to a friendship with King Aethelwulf of Kent, who offers him one of the most prestigious positions in the kingdom. Meeting King Egbert of Wessex through his son, Aethelwulf, his courage and successful grasp of strategy promise them great success.

Realizing the potential of naval power, he comes up with a plan to defeat the invading Norsemen and save the Kingdom of Kent. But when hundreds of Viking longships attack the English coast, can father and son save Kent from devastation, and at what cost?

Leseprobe

SEA WOLVES

THE SCEAPIG CHRONICLES BOOK 2

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Frontispiece

Acknowledgments

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

Appendix

Dawn Burgoyne – Calligrapher’s Note

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Lorna Read

Cover art by CoverMint

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.

FRONTISPIECE

Frontispiece by Dawn Burgoyne*, calligrapher. Part of Alcuin of York’s letter of 793 AD to Aethelred. [see Appendix for translation from Latin.] *Medieval re-enactor/presenter specialising in period scripts. Visit her on Facebook at dawnburgoynepresents.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I should like to acknowledge the encouragement of my dear calligrapher friend Dawn Burgoyne (Scotland, UK) whose contribution has helped to make Sea Wolves better.

Special thanks go to my dear friend and fellow writer, John Bentley, for his steadfast and indefatigable support. His content checking and suggestions have made an invaluable contribution to Sea Wolves

This book is dedicated to my grandfather Arthur Richard Broughton who first instilled in me an enduring love of history.

ONE

THE KINGDOM OF KENT, 825 AD

Asculf surveyed the scene of carnage, removed his helm and swayed wearily. More’s the pity, he mused, that he had not fought alongside a single man from Sceapig. They, those islanders who viewed him askance, would have seen his father’s son live up to the valour of his sire’s reputation. Certainly, he had wielded the blade of victory with honour; nobody present could deny it. The supporters of Baldred, strewn on the bloodied turf nearest to him, soon to be carrion for the predators wheeling overhead, lay in silent testimony to his prowess.

“Come, Asculf! Stop your dreaming!” The voice of Thegn Sibert cut across his thoughts. “I want you to meet someone—come!”

The younger man had noticed that the ageing thegn’s muscles had not betrayed him on this field of slaughter. The nobleman was likely as old as his own father; yet he had proved a match for their adversaries on the day. Asculf plodded over to his father’s former lord, who was standing next to a tall figure. The warrior must be someone important, judging by the craftsmanship wrought into the snarling dragon crest on his helm.

“Bow your head, friend, to the aetheling of the West Saxons, Aethelwulf, son of King Egbert. This is the man whose cause you espoused on this glorious day!”

“Sire, it is an honour.” Asculf made to bend his knee but, with surprising alacrity, the prince caught him under an arm to haul him upright.

“Nay, my friend, I saw you fight. Sibert tells me you are the son of Deormund, the scourge of the Norsemen.”

Asculf laughed. “I have heard my father called many things, Lord, but not that. Today, I fought with the blade he took after slaying its owner, a Viking chieftain.”

Aethelwulf asked to scrutinise the weapon, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the runes. “Pagan symbols! I trust that you are of the true faith, Asculf.”

“Ay, Lord, do not doubt it. Thanks be to Christ that we have won the day!”

Thegn Sibert interrupted. “God has indeed spoken this day, restoring the king to us. This man Asculf, as I told you before the battle, is the grandson of Ealhmund, the last true king of Kent, himself a descendent of the line of Hengest. Tonight, we will revel in an eve of rejoicing! Mercian overlordship is overthrown; Kent returns to its ancient glory!”

They trudged off the battlefield, Sibert and Aethelwulf shouting orders to weary men to ascertain those who had sacrificed their lives for the Kentish victory be honoured by a decent burial, not left to the scavenging of voracious blood hawks.

Aetheling Aethelwulf favoured Sibert that evening by accepting his invitation to feast at Faversham in the thegn’s hall before proceeding to the city the next day to meet Wulfstan, Archbishop of Canterbury. Asculf sat next to the prince at the thegn’s high table and was flattered that the prince wished to know more about him.

“There is not much to tell, Lord. I have lived thus far a score and one winters on the isle of Sceapig, across the Swale Channel from here.”

“I believe your father is a deer herder. Is it true what they say about him defeating the Norsemen with a herd of deer?”

Asculf chortled. “Ay, partly true, Lord. The stag turned the clash in favour of the islanders, for the Vikings were knocked over like so many skittles by the rampaging beasts.”

“How I would have loved to have been there to see that!”

“The truth is, we would both have been too young back then.”

“Tell me, Asculf, are you also a deer herder?”

The islander’s curious expression in reaction to the question intrigued the aetheling. Soon, the reason for his frown became clear.

“Nay. I love animals, but herding is not for me. My grandsire, whose name I bear, bred ewes and as you say, my father, deer. Apart from my faithful hound, I tend no animal.”

“So, what trade do you follow on the island, my friend?”

“That is why my fellow islanders view me with some reserve. They do not understand my choice. But it is what pleases me. Most likely, only my father understands my way of thinking.”

“I am curious, Asculf, what is your strange occupation?”

“It is not that I’m unpopular on Sceapig—I should make that clear. The islanders have too great a debt to their thegn to ever slight a family member. You see, since I was a child, like my father before me, I grew up with a love of Nature and even the very soil of the island.”

“Come, Asculf, you make me impatient to know!”

The islander chuckled but then looked serious. “When I was young, I loved trees. I still do, but prefer those plants that supply us with food. So, I chose the ground carefully where I planted over seven hundred apple trees on some two acres of land. Every year now, I harvest the fruit. There are enough apples for all the islanders to store over the winter. The rest I use to brew beor, or what the locals call applewine—although I believe in your kingdom it is known as cider, Lord.”

“Ay, indeed, and mighty potent it can be!” said the aetheling ruefully; from which tone Asculf understood that the brew had dealt the king’s son a bad head on more than one occasion. He knew the feeling.

“I have planted some pears and cherries, too, but the cherry is a more delicate tree. It needs shelter from our island winds.”

“So, the mighty warrior I admired today is a cultivator of fruit.”

“True. I only wish that some of my fellow islanders could have been shoulder to shoulder with me in battle. Maybe then they would view me in a different light.”

The aetheling smiled, then added mysteriously, “I may be able to do something about that, but not immediately.” He offered no further explanation. Instead, he patted Asculf on his arm and raised his drinking horn. “A toast to the health of my friend, Asculf!” he said in a forceful voice.

“To Asculf!” cheered the men of Faversham, many of whom had fought beside and admired the young warrior. The rest of the evening passed in companionable conversation, largely on the part of Asculf, determined to discover more about Wessex since he had never strayed beyond the confines of Canterbury. The islander was disconcerted to learn that Wessex had suffered much, perhaps more than Kent, from Viking raids. He questioned the aetheling closely on the raiders’ provenance—had they used the English Channel to arrive at Portland, or had they come from Ireland? Either way, the effects had been devastating.

Aethelwulf gazed into the bright blue eyes of the islander, noting their similarity to the lapis lazuli so favoured by his mother for her jewellery. Without lowering his gaze, the aetheling said, “Your people are better off without the Mercians. My father sees himself as the defender of the folk of Kent, Wessex, too, of course, against the seaborne raiders.” He lowered his voice so that only Asculf could hear. “I think he means to install me in Kent as an underking to him.”

In an equally confidential murmur, Asculf replied, “Then, you can rely on my wholehearted support, Lord.” Thus was born a deep and lasting friendship between the two young men. At the end of the evening, Aethelwulf took Asculf aside to remark cryptically, “First, I must go to Canterbury on my sire’s business. Tell your father to expect me in his hall three days hence. I wish to taste your applewine, Fruit-grower Asculf.” There was no further explanation before or after they embraced and took their leave.

The next morning, having returned to Sceapig, Asculf hugged someone again, this time his father.

“Word has it that Baldred was driven to flight,” said the Thegn of Sceapig.

“Ay, we won the day. You were right about your sword never being on the losing side.”

“I only said that to give you courage, but it is true that since I took it, it has never served in defeat.”

Asculf began to unbuckle the belt to hand it back to its owner.

“What are you doing?”

“Returning your weapon, Father.”

“Nay, lad, it is yours now. I’m not planning on wielding it anymore; besides, if the Vikings return, or any other raiders for that matter, the islanders will need a younger and stronger leader.”

“They will not want a weak fruit-tender to lead them,” Asculf said bitterly.

“My son, we both know that you are no weakling. A man cannot be judged by his occupation,” Deormund hesitated and looked confused, “unless he’s a craftsman, of course. Like Sherred the Smith.”

“Why do you name him?”

“Because he’s making me a new sword. And it had better be a work of art! I’ve ordered him to incise Christian symbols into the blade. This time, I’ll trust in the Lord!”

“So, will you fight alongside me if danger comes to our island?”

“Not if, Asculf, when.” The thegn shook his head sorrowfully.

The younger man gazed with admiration at his sire. “Talking about outsiders coming to Sceapig, Father, the day after tomorrow we’ll have an important visitor.”

“Who?”

“My friend, the Aetheling of Wessex. His name is Aethelwulf. He will honour your table, Father.”

“Cyneflaed! Wife! Where are you, woman?” The thegn fairly bellowed these last words, bringing Asculf’s mother scampering from a room at the rear of the hall.

“What is the matter, Deormund? What’s all this shouting? Are the Vikings upon us again?”

Deormund guffawed. “Nay, nothing of the kind. You must prepare a feast, my love. We expect an important guest. The Aetheling of Wessex is coming.”

“When? This evening?” She looked horrified.

“Be calm, Mother, the day after tomorrow. But we must invite all the men of the island.”

Cyneflaed hurried to the kitchen to speak with her cooks. This would not be her first or last great feast, but it was the first one with royalty present, so everything had to be just right. Deormund considered venison to be the appropriate meat for such a visit, so he disappeared to check the storeroom. He was sure that a hind was hanging up to perfect maturation. Now was the occasion to remove it to the kitchen for sectioning and roasting.

On the day of the feast, Deormund, normally calm and collected, displayed his frayed nerves.

“I fear the ale is bad. What shall we do? Shall I send to Faversham?”

“What’s wrong with it? You always keep good ale.”

“Ay, but come and taste this—” They went to the cellar, where Deormund filled a jug from the barrel. “Try this! It’s worse than piss!”

Asculf took a draught and spat it out. “Urgh! It’s flat. You’re right. But no worries! No need to send for ale. The aetheling is coming specially to taste my beor.”

“Beor? Do you have enough for everyone?”

“Ay, I’ll fetch two barrels from my store. There’s more available, but you’ll not need it, Father. Two barrels of my applewine will put more men under the table than a Viking raid into your hall!”

“Hmm! Do you think the Aetheling will like your beor?”

“It seems they produce little else in Wessex!”

Aethelwulf was not the only one to appreciate the applewine that evening. At first, many islanders cast angry glances at Asculf and muttered darkly about apple-growers, but as the hours passed and the strong cider took effect, every one of them mellowed. Aethelwulf judged the mood in the hall to perfection. Graciously asking his host for permission to address the assembled islanders, he rose when consent was accorded.

The raucous gathering fell silent as he stood and stared around the hall.

“O, lucky men of Sceapig! That you should have not one, but two noble warriors to lead you! We all know about the courage and daring of Thegn Deormund, whose deeds are recounted as far afield as my own Kingdom of Wessex. Like father, like son! I saw on the field of battle how Asculf fought with the strength of two men—and with what skill! I swear, I wish we had one such as he in Wessex. I came here today to express my appreciation to all the sons of Sceapig.” He raised his drinking horn. “A toast, my friends, to the strong arms and strong drink of Asculf!”

“To Asculf!” The roar shook the rafters while beakers were banged rhythmically on the tables. “Asculf! Asculf! Asculf!”

Aethelwulf gestured for silence, which duly arrived.

“One other thing, my friends. Yesterday, the Archbishop of Canterbury blessed me in the cathedral as King of Kent, underking to my father, Egbert of Wessex. I swear to defend you and your fellow men of Kent with my life.”

The cheering and chanting continued, while Asculf sought to thank his friend and new ruler for uplifting his reputation among the islanders. If his stock had needed bolstering, the aetheling’s speech had achieved it, but the applewine appeared to speak louder than words.

TWO

CROYLAND ABBEY, 829 AD

The nun adjusted her dress to kneel at the narrow prie-dieu. A part of her afternoon routine, she bowed her head to recite the Pater Noster.

“…our daily bread and deliver us from—what the Devil!”

The door flew back with a crash and the unthinkable happened: a man plunged into her cell, his eyes wild and staring.

“Lady Aelflaed, forgive me! Sanctuary! I need sanctuary. They will not trouble me here under your protection.”

“What is the meaning of this outrage? Who are you? And who are they? You cannot stay here. Leave my room at once!”

What a shock for the poor woman! It took her back to the night when she fled her father’s palace, pale and trembling—that was the night the fortune of her family plunged, until now, when she was the only remnant of the supreme house of Offa. She cringed and stared fearfully at the intruder.

“My Lady, Egbert’s men have pursued me thus far, but not even they will dare breach the sanctity of the premises of King Offa’s daughter.”

The noblewoman smiled, but it was a tired and forced effort. “But you have no such compunction, I see.”

“Necessity dictates my actions, Lady. The Lord has turned his countenance from me and smiled upon the foes of Mercia. Your king stands before you, for I am Wiglaf, a descendant of Penda. Only ill fortune drives me to hide behind a lady’s skirt. For but two winters have I been on the throne; the hounds of Wessex are baying at the door. I beg you, succour your king.”

Aelflaed agreed to speak with her abbess to see what could be done to grant the fugitive’s wishes. Heaven knew that there was no love lost between Mercia and Wessex. The latter had profited from the misguided rule of Beornwulf, who had chosen to attack Wessex and, in losing the great battle of Ellendun, had lost the subkingdoms of Essex and Sussex, too. “All my father’s conquests frittered away,” Aelflaed told her sympathetic Mother Superior, “we cannot abet Egbert in his persecution of Mercia.”

In truth, Egbert was not a persecutor but had profited from the support of Frankia, the death of Beornwulf when he tried to reconquer East Anglia, followed a year later by his successor, Ludeca, who perished in the same manner. That Mercia was in a moment of extreme weakness, having lost the possessions acquired over two centuries in four years, had not escaped the notice of the ambitious King of Wessex.

Aelflaed’s plea to grant sanctuary to Wiglaf conceded, he remained in hiding within Croyland Abbey for four months. When a message arrived to inform him that Louis the Pious was menaced by a rebellion in his homeland and could no longer offer support to Egbert, he knew the time was propitious for him to return to his throne.

Canterbury, Kingdom of Kent, 829- 830 AD

Aethelwulf summoned Asculf to his council meeting. Their friendship had blossomed since the islander had come to Canterbury two years before. The king, who had been installed as sub-king by his father, had prevailed on his young friend to remain at court. He had noticed an increasing reluctance as the months slipped into years and had needed all his powers of persuasion to prolong the apple-grower’s stay.

“Ah, Asculf! I am glad you are here. Have you kept your blade well-honed? I fear it will soon be of service.”

“How so, Lord?”

Asculf peered around the faces of noblemen and bishops, some of whom were known to him. Invariably, the faces were grave, if not morose. I wonder what ails them?

“I have received disturbing news from Beormod, our good and faithful Bishop of Rochester, with us here today. It seems that Ealdorman Hygebert, we all know he is a Mercian, is plotting with Wiglaf to overthrow me. Men of Kent, we must extirpate the choking weeds from the fertile fields of our kingdom. Do you wish to return under the Mercian yoke?”

Asculf looked at the tense countenances, watching them change to a clench-jawed refutal. Some heads shook and others shouted, “Never!”

The Archbishop of Canterbury wished to speak. Asculf was curious, for he knew Wulfstan was a Mercian nobleman and that his father, Deormund, esteemed the prelate.

“King Aethelwulf, there are other Mercian ealdormen in your kingdom. Many, like myself, are loyal. We must not fall into the trap of making a sheaf from a single stalk of wheat.”

Aethelwulf gave the archbishop a smile not reflected in his eyes. Asculf thought, There’s something predatory about that expression. He doesn’t like or trust the archbishop. The king replied, “Is it not strange timing that when my father has accepted the submission of the Kingdom of Northumbria to his overlordship, Wiglaf raises his crest, puffs out his chest and struts like a cockerel around its yard? Nay, Archbishop, I will not tolerate traitors in my land.”

“What do you intend to do with Hygebert, Sire?” asked the archbishop.

“I have called you here for two reasons: first, to raise the fyrd, for I mean to march on Rochester to oust Hygebert; second, I will install a man in his place. That, Asculf,” he turned and stared at the islander, “is why I invited you.”

Asculf stood, numb and speechless, unable to absorb the enormity of Aethelwulf’s words and their implications. He remained still in a state of bewilderment, until a prelate placed a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Congratulations, Ealdorman, I am sure that we will work well together.”

The islander stared uncomprehendingly into the tight, ascetic countenance whose smiling grey eyes gazed into his. The cleric, understanding his plight, said gently, “Of course, we have not met. I am Beormod, Bishop of Rochester.”

Asculf nodded, still wordless, before finally stuttering, “Forgive me, Your Grace, it is too much for me to take in.”

The prelate patted his arm. “It is God’s will. Together, we shall remove the traitor from our city.”

Meanwhile, the king was issuing orders. It was not yet midday, so those among the noblemen who owned estates within twenty leagues of Canterbury were to make haste to return to the town with armed men by the same hour the following day.

When the council dispersed, Aethelwulf ordered several of his trusted ealdormen to remain. Asculf hesitated, but a gesture of the royal hand bade him stay.

“We need a plan,” the ruler announced. “We cannot lay siege to Rochester, which vaunts ancient walls.”

One of the ealdormen, an elderly veteran with silvery whiskers, spoke for the others.

“What you say is true, Sire, but I believe there is no need to fight.”

The king’s eyes flashed. “How so?”

“I propose we send the good bishop here, to parley beforehand with the populace whilst we are still far from the walls. It is unthinkable that the men of Rochester will prefer a Mercian traitor as their lord,” he turned and tilted his head towards Asculf, “to a loyal Kentishman.”

“Ay,” growled a few of the noblemen; others nodded in agreement.

“Besides,” added the silver-bearded veteran, “none of the folk of Rochester will want to betray their king. They are of good Cantware stock. The archbishop will find the words to convince them to open the gates to their rightful ruler. We shall march into the city and catch the traitor skulking in his hall.”

“Which is when my blade will sever his soul from his body,” said Aethelwulf, with such venom that Asculf felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. He noticed the king’s eyes narrow to two slits and his hand grasp the hilt of his sword. His friend was barely recognisable as the affable companion of many a beaker of ale.

I’d better let him simmer down before I moot my doubts.

When everyone else departed, Asculf remained and his king turned to address him.

“My plan, which will take time, is to replace all the Mercians in Kent, one by one, with men of my choice. My friend, you are the first. I know how to reward those whom I trust and befriend.”

“Sire, I am not sure that I am the best nominee for Rochester, as I have never set foot…” His voice trailed away under the intimidating scowl of the tall monarch.

“Asculf, do not dare disappoint me or question my appointment! I am your king. You will obey me!”

Unable to check his thoughts, Asculf blurted, “But what of Sceapig, my trees, my family?”

Aethelwulf roared, “Silence! You are a strange creature, Asculf! One who puts apple trees before his parents and, I might hazard,” he touched the sword hilt again, his face reassuming the fearsome expression previously devoted to the traitor Hygebert, “even before his king.”

Asculf quaked.

“Never, Sire! Forgive my foolish homesickness… it is the enormity of what you propose for me. I am, and ever will be, your faithful servant.”

Like the sun appearing from behind a storm cloud, the royal visage illuminated. “Good, Asculf! Think of this, the Ealdormanry of Rochester is one of the largest in my kingdom. Overnight, you will become my wealthiest subject. The estates stretch beyond your imagining, my friend. As far as I’m concerned, you can plant the lot with apple trees. I don’t give a damn! You will visit your family and they, you, as you please.”

“Sire, you are the most generous lord a man could wish for! Forgive my momentary foolishness.”

“Think no more on it!” The king clapped his hands. “Fetch my best ale!” A servant scurried away. “Tomorrow, we march on your city, Ealdorman, to claim your rights. Talking of which, you will respect mine. In contrast to Hygebert, you will proceed to repair the bridges around Rochester. That man has defied me once too often!”

They drank the king’s best ale until Asculf’s cheeks were as rosy as his apples. That much drink left him with a sore head and sunken eyes the next morning. Judging by the king’s appearance, he was in no better shape, but he vaunted possession of a royal cure.

“My grandsire taught me this trick to counter my youthful excesses,” he said, squeezing juice from a green fruit into a potion containing honey and other ingredients that Asculf, in his sorry state, did not query. Rapid stirring of the liquid and both men were soon partaking of the elixir. Asculf’s stomach tightened, but he followed his monarch’s example, draining the pleasant-tasting mixture to the dregs.

After a few minutes, the new ealdorman returned his king’s boyish grin. The royal medicine was nigh on miraculous, since the thumping in his head ceased along with the queasiness in his stomach.

“Sire, it is a miracle!”

“Ay, thank the Lord I learnt this cure. A king and his friends are often called upon to overindulge in strong brews. Beware, Asculf! Ever remain my friend, else I’ll ply you with drink and withhold the potion.”

They both laughed, but later, Asculf wondered whether his lord doubted his constancy.

Well, I’ll prove you wrong on that score, Aethelwulf!

As he rode apace with his friend and sovereign, Asculf pondered how the mass of men at their backs would fare against the sturdy walls reputed to surround Rochester. Many other questions tumbled over and over in his overtaxed mind: what would his new hall and city be like? Would the people accept an apple-grower as their ealdorman? How would he feel about slaying fellow Saxons should the townsfolk support Ealdorman Hygebert? He fervently hoped it would not come to that.

He was aware that their ten-league march was taking them on a route parallel with his beloved Sceapig to the north. How strange that he had never visited the city that stood only five leagues away as the gull flies from his father’s hall! He swore that he would take the first opportunity to visit his parents once installed as the ealdorman.

The Bishop of Rochester, as Asculf would subsequently discover, had a persuasive tongue. When, towards evening, the army led by King Aethelwulf approached Rochester, the town located in a loop in the River Medway, Aethelwulf turned to Asculf.

“The Romans called this place Durobrivae, you know, which means town or fort by the bridges—the very bridges I wish you to repair, my friend. Should there be, God forbid, another Norse invasion, the bridges will be essential to our defence. You might consider reinforcing those walls, too.” He pointed to the stone belt enclosing the city.

They looked formidable to Asculf. The Saxons built mainly with wood, but he couldn’t help admiring the skill of the Roman masons. No wonder the Roman Empire had spread across the world.

To the relief of the approaching army, the gates swung open in the impressive walls to reveal the populace gathered cheering in the streets, eager for a glimpse of their king. Standing among them, respectfully not pressed by the throng, the Bishop of Rochester set an example by bowing to his king. The people in the front row of the crowd dropped to their knees as the monarch drew near, their lead followed by those at their backs.

Graciously, Aethelwulf gestured to the people, who fell silent to catch his words.

“Loyal folks of Rochester, the king is pleased with your welcome. As you know, the disobedience of your ealdorman, the traitor Hygebert, brings me here today to invest a new ealdorman, my trusted friend and counsellor, Asculf. He will be my voice and my eyes in Rochester and the surrounding area. Forget Hygebert and serve Asculf well.”

The people rose at these words and many craned forwards to catch a glimpse of the new ealdorman. The person of interest had other things on his mind as he jumped down from his saddle and strode through the parting crowd. In a public show of affection, he embraced the bishop.

“What of Hygebert?” he whispered urgently.

“Fled! A few words from me and he swore he would not stay to have his eyes put out.”

“I think Aethelwulf would have slain, not blinded him. But it’s better this way. The Mercians are in no condition to challenge King Egbert or his son.”

“Very true, Ealdorman Asculf. I see you learn politics quickly.”

The islander gazed at the bishop, sighed heavily and admitted, “I must leave my past life behind, Your Grace. A new mission calls.”

The prelate looked sadly at the younger man and shook his head. “Another thing you will learn, Ealdorman, as you proceed through life. We never truly escape our yesterdays.”

Those words would return to haunt the ealdorman.

THREE

SCEAPIG, 830 AD

Deormund stared at his son with a mixture of pride and sorrow as he absorbed the implications of Asculf’s words on greeting him.

“We will feast to celebrate your elevation to ealdorman. I am proud of you, my boy!” But his exuberant reaction could not conceal the sadness in his eyes.

“What is it, Father?”

“First, I lose Mistig to old age, now I lose my son to the king.”

“You can buy another deerhound, Father.”

“Ay, but it won’t be a patch on Mistig. And I cannot purchase another offspring.”

Asculf embraced his father. “It’s not as if I am going to the ends of the earth,” he consoled him. “Rochester is within an hour once you’ve crossed the Swale.”

“That may be true, Asculf, but how often do you think you will make that short journey to see your mother? She ever laments your absence.”

“Think on the bright side, Father. If ever you or the island is in danger, you can call upon the most powerful ealdorman of Kent. If ever such a summons comes, my force will be but an hour distant.”

Deormund broke free of the embrace, stood back and scrutinised his son from head to toe.

“The king has chosen well. But what is it he asks in return for such power?”

“First and foremost, loyalty and friendship, then there is the question of the bridge.”

“The bridge?”

“Ay, the one the ancients built to span the Medway—it is a fierce tidal river.”

“What of it?”

“My predecessor sadly neglected its repair. I believe King Aethelwulf ousted him as much for that as for being a Mercian.”

“Then you must expend every ounce of energy on repairing the bridge. How hard can that be?”

“Father, you have not seen the Medway swirling viciously around the piers. Besides, I know naught of bridge-building.”

“Then, find someone who does. But come, let us announce tonight’s feast! Set aside all other problems for one day.”