Mixed Blessings

Mixed Blessings

Saints And Sinners Book II

John Broughton

Copyright (C) 2020 John Broughton

Layout Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

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 Mixed Blessings.

'A man's worth is no greater than the worth of his ambitions.'

Marcus Aurelius – Meditations

Chapter 1

Tame Weorth, 720 AD.

When ambition is overweening and fails to consider the needs of others, he who is consumed by it performs wicked deeds.

Heardberht strode into the king's hall, wondering about the charter he was supposed to witness. To be truthful, he resented having to make the journey from Elmet to Tame Weorth just to place a signature on a document. He was too wise, however, to voice any such reservations.

Heardberht! What in Thunor's name are you doing in Tame Weorth? You idle oaf! You ought to be building up Miercian defences in Elmet.

The offended party stared at King Æthelbald, his brother, prowling towards him, between the tables laid out for dining, with the mien of a hungry lion preparing to spring on its helpless prey.

Brother, my king, have you forgotten? You summoned me here to ratify a charter. I know not to what it refers.

By Thunor, you have the right of it!

Beneath the shaggy beard, a disconcerting toothy smile appeared.

Pay no heed to my harsh words. You are ever welcome in Tame Weorth, Heardberht, roared Æthelbald, King of Mierce, his booming voice befitting of his leonine aspect. Forgive me, he said, clapping his hands for a servant, who hastened to draw near to his king.

Sire?

A pitcher of cool ale. Pray be seated, brother. My mind is overwrought with problems, and I tend to forget matters of importance. But stay! We shall discuss why you are here and my problems over a beaker of ale.

You look well, in spite of your troubles.

Appearances can deceive. Ah! Here is our drink. And what is this? Smells good!

A second servant laid down a platter of food. Oatcakes, lord. Fresh from the oven, if you care for them, sire.

Will you try them, Heardberht?

With all my heart, brother. I had to make do with vile food on the journey here. I could eat a wild boar whole!

Ha-ha! Do you hear, fellow? Take my order to the cook. This evening, roast boar at my table… and plenty of it.

Sire. The first servant bowed and hurried away to do his king's bidding. Æthelbald dismissed the other with a wave of the hand, so the maid wended over to stand by the wall, ready to react to any need her lord may have of her.

What problems beset you, my king? Heardberht asked as he wiped foam off his whiskers with the back of his hand. That's bitter and strong, just as I like it.

Twice brewed from barley.

Æthelbald sighed and frowned, adding ten years to his countenance beyond the two-score springs he had lived. Heardberht dared not press him, but it pained him to see his elder brother careworn and distracted.

All my plans, my ambitions, Æthelbald said in a flat monotone, in the south of the land are frustrated by two old men.

How so?

In Kent, Wihtred rules and has done so for twenty-five years while the West Seaxa are led by Ine for as long. After being independent for such a time, they will not cede precedence to a new king.

But is Ine not a friend? Did he not aid you in your time of need?

True, but he remains an obstacle to Miercian growth. As for Wihtred, his envious eyes alight upon Lunden and along all the valley of the Temese.

Mierce will never part with Lundenwic, it is the fount of our wealth.

Æthelbald gave his brother a pitying look as though dealing with a child who had stated the obvious.

Not only Lunden interests me, brother, but the whole of the south. Have another drink. He gained time to think by pouring ale for them both before adding, And not just the south. How's it going in Elmet?

We have taken Loidis and now press to hold the land as far as the river Weorf. As you well know, my king, across the river is the kingdom of Northanhymbre.

Good. One day, we will bring that land to our dependency, mark my words!

What then of this charter?

Pah! A land grant to a priory near Loidis. That's why you are here. The monks will be reassured to know the most powerful man in Elmet is signatory to the deed.

And do you care so much for the church?

Remember, brother, without the blessing of the church, we are nothing.

Our forefathers managed well enough.

Different times. In those days, there were no great kingdoms. There were other gods too. Now, the church watches over everyone, myself included, more's the pity.

The regal countenance clouded, and it seemed to Heardberht that his brother's blue-grey eyes had grown darker in an instant. He recoiled from the fierce gaze, failing to meet it.

So, the church is bothersome? he said, guessing it to be the root of the matter.

Æthelbald poured another drink and waved to the maid for her to fetch another pitcher. As she hastened away, Æthelbald smirked, Pretty creature, don't you think?

He waited for his brother's reply.

Ay, but a king can do better.

The reaction this observation elicited shocked the underking of Elmet.

Don't you start, brother! You're as bad as all the rest, church included. The wench is pretty enough for me, in fact, she warms my bed on many an occasion.

I meant no offence, brother. Only, I thought you might wish to take a noblewoman for a queen.

May Thunor blast your breeches!

The object of the dispute reappeared with a ewer brim-full of ale. She set it on the table with a pretty smile to her king and then to Heardberht, oblivious of the tension between the brothers.

I concede she is a comely wench, said the younger man, reaching for his refilled beaker and admiring the retreating figure.

All the noble families of Mierce wish me to marry. To hell with them! I have no wish to take a queen.

He lowered his voice, for it had taken on a vehement, hectoring tone.

"We have seen, in recent times, how queens put their families first and their husbands second. I will not run this risk. Of course, these busybodies call upon the church for help. They send priests to batter my ears with verses from the Holy Book, condemning my way of life. See, brother, if I take not a wife and choose to live in abstinence then the bishop is happy, otherwise, I'm a 'fornicator', leading my people into perdition by bad example! But, see here, I'm no monk."

You are granting land to the church to keep the bishops sweet, is that it?

Ah, I believe you are following the drift of my words. I should tell you, it's not just within Mierce. There are those in other kingdoms who would foist their daughters on me.

"An alliance of kingdoms. Is that such a bad thing?

HEARDBERHT! Æthelbald bellowed the name, slamming a fist on the table. Servants positioned around the hall exchanged glances and two guards stepped forward. Thank God I sent you to Elmet, out of harm's way. Here, you would side with those accursed counsellors who would have me wed. By marrying a daughter of another kingdom I'd unpick my plans. It'd open the way for a rival to bend Mierce to his will. My plan foresees the opposite. Is that clear now? These last words he enunciated one by one as if addressing an oaf.

A grudging apologetic smile served as a reply. In spite of the mellowing effects of the ale, Heardberht was on edge. Familiar with the volatile nature of his sibling, he dared not risk provoking his wrath further.

Anyway, said Æthelbald, "worry not. I have a new plan to thwart the lot of them. I will not live like a monk – to the Devil with their abstinence! Neither will I wed a queen. There's more than one way to skin a wolf, Heardberht."

What will you do, my king?

Æthelbald, sniggered, To begin with, I'll stop bedding the Tame Weorth wenches. I must aim higher, as you so wisely pointed out. After all, the religious houses are full of noblewomen, and most of them were forced into a nunnery against their will by their powerful fathers.

"You can't seduce nuns! You'll set the church against you."

I can and I will! Think of the benefits. In this way, I can ease my way into more than one important family. Now, I'm off to tend to other matters. Æthelbald rose and seized his bother in a crushing embrace. Good to have you here, Heardberht! You will sit next to me at dinner – roast boar! With that, he turned and walked away, his mind racing.

'I ought to have asked Guthlac if I'd become Bretwalda. I missed that chance.'

His visage clouded with sorrow at the thought. What he would give to have his dearest friend by his side now, but Guthlac had died six years before, venerated as a saint in Cruwland in the Fens. His brother was one thing, but family seldom understands a man's dreams.

Chapter 2

Tame Weorth, 720 AD

The delicate nature of his mission and weak position left the visitor anxious before the intimidating figure of the king. At last, he mustered the courage to begin, Sire, my brother, Ealdorman Mensige, is sick and could not survive the journey from Ledecestre. Alas, his heart betrays him, not for the first time.

The cold grey-blue eyes of Æthelbald appraised the stand-in and were not impressed. One swat of his arm and the fellow would fly across the hall. What did this nonentity want of him?

Mensige has a daughter of great beauty, Saeflaed, whom he has hidden away these six years. Now, in his ill health, he has decided she ought to wed. Hence, I stand here before you, my king.

What have I to do with this decision?

As I said, sire, the allure of my niece is exceptional.

These fools wish me to marry an unknown maid!

Æthelbald stared at his visitor, much as a hunter might look at a fine stag grazing unawares within range of his arrow.

I can turn this to my advantage.

Friend, tell your brother to prepare his kitchen for a royal visit. We shall come with a score of retainers a week from now to look upon your niece. You may leave us now.

The supplicant bowed his way out through the huge wooden door, the entrance to the hall. Æthelbald waited until it closed behind him before calling over a servant.

Find my sword sharpener and bring him here, make haste!

Gratified by the youth running to the heavy door and wasting no time on opening it the merest crack to slip through, Æthelbald thought over his scheme, searching for weaknesses.

In a very short time, the young servant returned. In his wake came Æthelbald's father's smith, Enulf. The office of sword sharpener, Æthelbald had created to keep his loyal friend close by. Now he had much greater plans for him.

Good to see you, Enulf! Come, follow me. There is something I must show you, and we should talk in private.

To the surprise of the blacksmith, the king led him to his bedchamber. As far as the sword sharpener knew, only servants were allowed in there – comely wenches at that. Inside, Æthelbald alarmed him by staring at him as if sizing him up.

Ha! he cried. I knew it! We are of much the same stature.

With that, he hurried over to open a huge carved chest at the foot of the bed. Rummaging within, the king emerged, clutching a pale blue tunic. He held it in front of himself as if measuring it for size. The garment dropped down to mid-calf length, revealing a bronze-coloured zigzag border above the hem.

Off with that jerkin and tunic!

What, here, now?

Unless you wish to strip out in the yard! Æthelbald roared.

Perplexed, Enulf tossed his jerkin, with an anxious glance at the king, onto the immaculate white sheepskin covering the bed. His eye continued beyond to the carved oak bed head where two gaping wolves' heads served to scare away evil spirits. The rest of the chamber displayed the luxury befitting a king. Enulf, at home amid the grime and soot of his forge, would have felt uneasy even had he not been standing in his undergarments.

Here, pull this on, Æthelbald commanded, throwing the tunic to his smith who wriggled into the unfamiliar clothing. Ha! Perfect! I was right. Eat little and drink less and it will be as though it were sewn for you.

But why, Lord?

There was no reply because the king again dug into the enormous box and reappeared with a belt whose gold buckle glimmered, even in the dimness of the room.

Fasten this! came the brusque command.

I cannot, sire, there is no suitable eye for the prong.

I told you – either lose weight or find a way to make a hole.

Every smith has a punch to make holes in leather.

Then do so, for this is a gift.

But, my king, it's worth a fortune.

It is the least of what I have in mind for you, and a man must look the part he has to play.

Enulf gaped at his king. What had the ruler in mind?

Back into your own clothes, I will send for you when I have need, Æthelbald smirked. He enjoyed the power of keeping Enulf curious.

* * *

On the way to Ledecestre, a week later

It is time I revealed my plan to you, Lord Enulf. The king edged his mount closer to the smith's.

"Lord Enulf?"

Ay, did you not know I have ceded my estates of Snotingham to you?

My king, what can I say? What can I do to repay your generosity?

Well, there is something.

Name it, sire.

You can make me a sword befitting of a king.

You shall have a sword to rival the best of Frankish craftsmanship, my word on it.

Good, there is another thing. I wish for you to take a wife.

But there is no maid in my life.

Do you not like maids, Enulf?

The smith ground his teeth. Was the king doubting his manliness?

Ay, of course. He kept his tone polite, It's just difficult to wed when there is no betrothed.

But I have found you one, Lord Enulf.

The blacksmith glanced at his monarch. What was happening here?

It seems my plan is working wondrous well. Unite Snotingham to Ledecestre and Enulf will be the most powerful man in the East of Mierce. A truer or more loyal follower than my father's smith I cannot boast.

The sallow complexion and shortness of breath of their host, the Ealdorman of Ledecestre bespoke of the illness to which his brother had referred. After the niceties of welcoming, Lord Mensige broached the subject of the royal visit.

I defy any man to show me a fairer maid in the whole of Mierce than my Saeflaed. The time has come for her to wed. Her beauty alone is worth more than all my estates.

How old is your daughter? Æthelbald asked.

The ealdorman hesitated, to gain a moment to think, "Two-score and two springs have passed since her birth, he spoke with a rasping wheeze.

When may we gaze upon this embodiment of womanly charms?

Sire, I'll send for Saeflaed at once – prepare to lose your heart.

The fool truly believes I shall wed the filly.

Saeflaed! their host croaked, and a maidservant ran, skirt swishing, to find her mistress.

In moments, she returned, accompanied by a young woman of exceeding beauty. Copper-coloured hair framed an oval face, enlivened by deep violet eyes under arching eyebrows. The elfin smile charmed all the men in the room as she strode among them in a pale green silken dress to curtsey before the king.

Come… Saeflaed… meet… your betrothed, her father said in joyous gasps.

Ay, said Æthelbald, meet him. Step forward, Lord Enulf.

The former blacksmith bowed to his intended bride, who, with admiration, eyed his muscular arms emerging from the short-sleeved tunic, given to him by the king.

W-what—?

The countenance of Mensige flushed the colour of ripe damsons, and beads of sweat appeared at the brow.

This is Lord Enulf, Ealdorman of Snotingham, who will betroth Lady Saeflaed, Æthelbald declaimed.

Trickery!… Snotingham is the king's burh… it's well known, Mensige rasped and wheezed. A hand flew to his sword, but before he could draw it, he gasped and croaked, clutching at his throat and chest. Shocked into immobility, nobody except Saeflaed moved as the ealdorman's knees buckled and he crashed to the floor. There he lay, sweating profusely and fighting for breath, his face a livid mask. His daughter knelt by him, her beauteous face wet with tears. Father! Not today, on this happiest of days. Fetch water, girl! Don't stand there gawping!

The words had barely left her lips when there came a deep rasping in the throat and Mensige's eyes glazed, staring sightlessly up to the rafters.

No! the damsel screamed and covered the dead Mensige's forehead with kisses.