Aethelwulf

Aethelwulf by Ian Hambly

The silvered spear was stuck. Stuck deep in the collarbone. There would be no way of getting it free in time, so Aethelwulf left it there. Instead, he grabbed the knife from the belt of man he had just killed. His name had been Gladwyne, and was known as a fine singer, but a poor soldier. Most of the conscripts were indifferent soldiers, just smiling farm boys dragged hastily upon the summons of King Ecgbert to the Fyrd, the militia.

Aethelwulf wished he could weep at the act he had just committed, but he had no time if he wanted a realistic chance of getting out of this valley of death. King Ecgbert had hurried his Wessex compatriots there to face the mass of the dead stomping out of Hamtun. Giving prayers to St Birinus on his day was not enough as the damned were too strong and the army had been scattered after a long and bloody day. Looking at his belt, he was reminded that he had lost his sword Swiltcirm by the empty scabbard flapping against his leg. Placing the knife in another empty sheath, he pushed the corpse of his friend into the snow. He spied movement in the trees, odd staccato lurches towards the manor.

“Hurry up Alfred, more are coming. We need to move NOW!” Aethelwulf kicked the green pine door shut. “Fat chance of that holding a pixie with a tinder twig” he grumbled. Briskly moving through the kitchen, he entered the small hall of Rumwald manor and saw Alfred stabbing the hearth. “For Jesu’s sake, the gold will be buried too deep Alfred. What is your fascination with fireplaces anyway” Alfred turned, his straggly beard comical on his young face “But, but the Thegn is dead, no one will miss it”? Sighing at the stare he received, Alfred stood, sheathed his knife; still stained with birch ash and charcoal.

A loud splintering sound came from the kitchen. Both Aethelwulf and Alfred stared at each other in horror for a second and then rushed towards the broken oak doors behind them. Alfred grabbed a discarded spear lent against the wall as they exited under a large rune carved into the stone above the door. Aethelwulf quietly said “Hush now, their sight is like a mole, but their hearing is like an owl.” Both men went out into the darkness of a cold winter’s night. Snow was still falling, big flakes floating softly down, and their hurried footsteps crunched softly. When they reached the low stone wall, a furlough from the Manor, both slid over the wall and crept northward.

Limping slowly out of the manor, a figure encumbered by a broken spear shaft jutting from its chest, glittering silver in the candlelight from the hall. Sniffing loudly, its cloudy eyes turned to the stone wall and followed the distinct ash smell lingering in the air.

A league or more later, Alfred huffed as he slumped against a broad ash tree by the brook. “How about here?” he asked again. Aethelwulf shook his head “Not far enough, we need to get a half day's march away at least”. Taking a swig from his water bottle, he filled slowly from the icy water. “I hope Faeder made it out. It was chaos after the fyrd broke and ran and I lost sight of him then.” Alfred wearily looked up and tried to console his friend “He had strong and loyal friends, there is a good chance he made it out. Besides when we get to home at Venta Caester, he will be waiting for us, arms open wide.” Aethelwulf clapped him on the back “You are a good friend, if a bad liar. Come, let us get to the safe walls, away from the cold hard dead and their jealousy of our warm hearts.”

Several minutes after they had left the ash tree, a robin heard a shuffling sound passing below. The winter bird flew from the lower branches leaving them covered in ice and snow.

As the first sun rays broke the horizon to their right, Alfred and Aethelwulf trudged slowly to the King’s Gate. Raising his hand to the dozen guards eyeing them nervously, Aethelwulf removed his hood, raised his right hand and shouted a greeting “Wes Hal. I am Aethelwulf, with my servant Alfred. We are cold, horseless but at least the snow has stopped.” The guards hurried to open the iron barred oak gates, whilst a thegn with a withered arm approached and dipped his head “My apologies my prince, I did not recognise you in such battered clothing.” Aethelwulf tapped him on his good shoulder “Good man, take me to my Faeder. I presume he has returned?” The Thegn nodded furiously then composed himself “The King has returned, but he is wounded and rests in the Minister. He asked that you attend him at God’s convenience.” Aethelwulf froze, turning a worried look to the steeple behind the walls. “Then stay here Thegn...?”. The Thegn started and spoke hesitantly “Hereward, my lord. Do you need any of my men?” Aethelwulf shook his head “No, just Alfred is enough, secure the gate, I am sure the dead will be following shortly.”

As the great gates closed 2 green eyes looked out from the copse. Scanning the wall, the eyes fixed on a small iron gate covering the exit of a small river through the walls. The tree lined river would mask the determined traipse of Gladwyne.

His face was set in grim determination as he marched past the cowled monks and overweight priests all kneeling praying in Latin in the minster's great hall. Aethelwulf hid the gnawing dread he felt in the pit of his stomach. Damned wounds quickly festered, and amputation was the only cure; a cure that frequently killed. That assumed the wound was on a limb, as a body or head wound was fatal if the blood turned green. Approaching a purple clothed figure Aethelwulf held out an arm clasp to his old friend Bishop Wulfred. “So, you survived as well? Did many of the Hearthweru get back as well? I believe many of the fyrd fled beforehand? How is Faeder? Where is he wounded? Did you see...” “Wulfred placed his hand on his princes' shoulder. “Cease this babbling Aethelwulf. He is well, the hearth guard brought him in with just a bite on his hand. I have cleansed the wound with holy boiling water, and we have completed a tattoo burn of the holy cross on his forearm just in case. All should be well.” Wulfred continued “Go and speak to him in the Apse, your mother Redburgha is with him.” With that, Wulfred nudged Aethelwulf towards the door at the end of the church. Alfred took his elbow and gently guided him forward, through the stone doorway.

The bloodied spear blade snapped against the rusty gate lock. Gladwyne stooped to feel the bottom of the dirty flowing river. His fingers found a large stone, and hefting the stone slowly, he bashed the stone once against the lock, which crumpled, and the gate swung open. Crouching, he lurched into the darkness.

Redburgha brushed a stray blonde hair from her son’s face. “I am glad you are safe min maga. Your Faeder is strong, he will survive, as he has Jesu’s blessings, and the monks are praying for him now. Such a cacophony should surely rouse God to do his bidding against the Damned.” Aethelwulf hugged his mother asking her “Please let me speak to him.” Redburgha argued back “He is sleeping and weak from his ordeal” but reluctantly pulled away and closed the Chancellery door behind her, leaving Alfred and Aethelwulf with the King of Wessex. Alfred checked the opposite wooden door leading outside, satisfied it was locked.

The slosh drag sound reverberated along the old roman brick walls and came to a halt next to a series of indents in the wall leading up.

Aethelwulf slowly paced over to the gently snoring figure on the hastily converted table. Alfred fidgeted with his spear, surprised the monks had not stripped him of a weapon in God’s house. The spear was surprisingly fine, the swirls showing strong in the steel, and inscription ran along the head's length ‘Gaderian made me, Rumbald owns me’. His reverie was broken by a sharp cough by the King. Aethelwulf rushed forward as the grey-haired king sat up and hacked a glob of heavy mucus onto the fine rug displaying St Birinus. Covering his mouth with a green stained bandage, the old king groaned as more mucus dribbled out. “Dade!” Aethelwulf exclaimed as he hugged his father. More retching and convulsions were his father’s only response. Pulling back and holding him by the shoulders, the prince was dismayed to see the pain radiating across his king's face in rippling waves. Then the pained man ceased moving and slumped into his son’s arms. “Oh, dade” whispered Aethelwulf, his vision blurring as a long exhalation of fetid breath escaped the king for the last time.

The wooden cover on the communal toilet lifted and was pushed aside, falling with a muted thump onto the straw strewn floor. Two muck smeared hands clambered out of the hole.

Eyes flicked open, tinged heavily with green. Looking up, the dead king roared and attempted to bite the neck of his son. Aethelwulf recoiled and attempted to push his father away, but Ecgbert was too strong. As the mucus tipped teeth slowly widened to clamp onto the warm flesh invitingly close, its ascent was rudely stopped by a silvered broadleaf blade. The spear broke the king’s teeth before travelling onward into the skull, jerking the body backwards. Alfred let go of the spear in disgust, slowly realising he had just murdered the king. Aethelwulf was shocked into silence and fell to his knees, beginning to weep. Alfred said “Forgive me my lord, I only meant to save you. I did not mean...to...” and he trailed off at the growing horror at what he had done. Alfred felt suddenly nauseous and opened the door to get outside. A snowflake drifted into the church past the dark fetid shadow standing in the doorway.

Gladwyne reached out and crushed the throat of Alfred in one swift movement, a necklace chain snapping and becoming entangled with the icy fingers. Alfred crumpled quickly onto the once fine rug, as a gust blew more snow into the quickly freezing room. Aethelwulf stood and drew his knife, his last defence. Lunging forward, the abomination tripped over Alfreds slowly twitching body and crashed onto the table. Viper like the prince stabbed precisely into his former subjects' green eye, and Gladwyne achieved the rest he had sorely missed this past day.

Kneeling by his servant the future king considered the body of his most loyal servant. “Alfred you were a devoted friend and my most trusted and loyal companion.” Picking up the heart shaped locket crushed into his windpipe, Aethelwulf wept more tears as the door behind him burst open, but the screams and wails of his mother, monks and priests faded into the background. After a minute he stood up and turned to address the horrified crowd before him. “Three fine men lie dead in this house of the Lord. One a poor farmer merely doing his duty to his king and succumbing to the damnation. Second a king of men, the like of which we will not see again, my father. Lastly, but not least, my friend Alfred who lost his life defending me. He is a rare man, his name would be a worthy for any son, and I am glad my fourth son shares his name. If he becomes half the man lying here, I will consider myself blessed.” The heirloom was gripped tightly as Aethelwulf walked into the snow to rally his forces to repel the oncoming hordes. The cost had been high so far and would only increase.