In The Name Of The Mother

Chapter 2

Chapter 2October 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 c***k,” 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.'