CHAPTER ONE: THE MAIDEN
“Æthelbald, king of the Myrcna, was treacherously slain at night by his bodyguards in shocking fashion. Beornræd came to the throne…”
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Continuatio Bædæ, entry for A.D. 757
Music: The Traitor King
17 September, A.D. 757
Rumcofan, Wreocensæte
A keen-eyed scout found the maiden adrift in a small wooden boat without oars or sails. Her lips were dry and cracked, her fair features sunburned yet wan, and her mud-spattered hair and gown smelled of saltwater.
The warband brought her ashore and one of them carried her through the charred remains of the town and its inhabitants, her flaming tresses mirrored in the still-glowing cinders.
The young woman managed to choke down some watered-down ale and a few mouthfuls of porridge at their camp before she finally spoke.
“What happened here?” asked their leader, “Who did this to you, girl?”
“Beornræd,” she coughed at last, her eyes full of anger and grief, “The townsfolk wouldn’t give him… the treasure he sought.”
“And what treasure was that?”
“Me,” she said simply, “He said his men would return in… three days’ time to see if hunger and thirst had changed my mind… if I lived at all.” She soothed another bout of coughing with a long draught of ale. “…That was two nights ago.”
The headman’s eyes widened. “Break camp!” he called over his shoulder, “We ride within the hour!” His men immediately began striking their tents and packing their saddlebags. The young woman stared past the guardsmen blankly at the smoldering ruins of the town.
“Come, Lady,” frowned the captain, placing his own cloak around her shoulders, “We must take you to the Lord Offa with haste.”
19 September, A.D. 757
Legaceaster, Wreocensæte
Ealdorman Offa’s camp was almost two days’ ride to the southwest, within the old Roman walls of Legaceaster, but the scouts kept a strenuous pace. During their journey, the maiden seemed to recover a little of her strength. Her tongue was at least sufficiently loosened to reveal her name: Cynethryth, daughter of Cyneberht, a prominent
ealdorman.
The walls of the famed City of Legions were an imposing sight, even broken and moss-covered as they were, although if Cynethryth was impressed she did not show it. In more recent times, the Ængelcynn had tried to shore up the ruins in places with wooden scaffolding, resulting in a shambolic warren of poles and beams where archers and lookouts scurried across narrow walkways.
Ealdorman Offa had established his headquarters in the stone shell of the old
prætorium, which was still largely intact except for the roof, where the crumbling tiles had long since been replaced with thatch, and the mosaic floors, which had mostly worn away.
The flagstones felt cold and rough to Cynethryth’s bare feet, but she ignored it. She was just grateful to be out of the elements at last. Leaving the captain’s rain-soaked mantle to dry by the hearth, Cynethryth was led to meet her host.
Offa himself was a young man, and Cynethryth noted that he seemed just a few winters older than her own nineteen years. He was handsome enough, she thought, although merely average in height and build, with a tousled mop of hair and a short growth of beard on his cheeks and chin. His simple woolen tunic and breeches showed him to be a sensible lord, eschewing a noble’s frippery for more pragmatic garb, while the dark circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that he had not slept well for several days.
The
ealdorman regarded her calmly, saying nothing, but taking in every inch of her bedraggled appearance, from her tangled auburn tresses to the torn and stained fabric of her shift. After a moment’s contemplation, he picked up a russet apple from a nearby basket, rubbed it softly on his tunic, and handed it to her.
“Eat,” he said gently, “They tell me you’ve experienced quite an ordeal.”
She accepted the gift demurely, but all pretenses at ladylike decorum fled the moment she bit into the succulent fruit, which she devoured ravenously the way that only the half-starved can.
“Better?” he prompted as she wiped the juice from her lips. She nodded gratefully.
“I am told you have suffered much at the hands of the traitor, Beornræd,” said the young
ealdorman, “Please, Lady, you must tell me everything, no matter how grievous the telling.”
“I am not some weepy-eyed maid to be coddled,” protested Cynethryth, scowling a little, “There will be plenty of time for tears and mourning after I have avenged the fallen. I am now the last of my father’s house... all are slain.”
“All?” Offa asked simply, shock and dismay showing plainly on his face.
“All,” she answered firmly, her scowl turning to a pained grimace, “Father, mother, my brothers and their wives, even their children down to the youngest babes in arms. Our hall is burned, our
ceorls enslaved, our lands laid waste. I escaped and fled wherever I could, but the monster followed me, and the poor people of Rumcofan paid with their lives for sheltering me.”
“Yet he spared you?”
“He seeks to make me his consort,” she spat, “To strengthen his weak bloodline with my own. As if I could ever join hands with the man who made me watch while he slew my loved ones. He plans to purge Icel’s line of all who could challenge him for the throne.”
“If you are of the Iclingas, then we are kin,” said Offa, his hazel eyes murky, “I grieve with you, and good conscience dictates that I must offer you my protection and aid.”
“I thank you,” she answered, “But except for food, raiment and the warmth of your fire, I require no protection but a coat of sturdy mail, and no aid save a good steel blade, for there is
fǽhþu between my house and the Beorningas until the murderer’s head is stricken from his shoulders and my father’s
wergild is paid in blood!” Cynethryth realized she was clenching the fabric of her shift. She slowly relaxed her fists.
The hint of a smirk swiftly fled from Offa’s face as he realized the lady’s pledge was made in earnest. “You shall have all that you ask and more, my Lady. Tell me, is there no one remaining of your bloodline who would join swords with us against the traitor?”
“I have an uncle who may yet live,” answered Cynethryth, “Cuthberht, my father’s brother. I have not seen him since I was very young, but I recall him being tall and strong. A mighty warrior. The last I heard, he dwells among the Middel Ængle.”
“I shall send my swiftest riders at once,” said Offa, “Both to warn him of Beornræd’s treachery and to call his house to arms. In the meantime, I will have my men provide you with lodgings of your own within the hall. Please try and rest. There will be much to do come sunrise.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Cynethryth bowed as gracefully as she could before leaving Ealdorman Offa to his thoughts.
There would be dark days ahead.
Author’s Note: King Æthelbald's murder led to civil war in Mierċe. Since the king had no heirs of his own, it fell to Ealdorman Offa, his cousin’s grandson, to pick up his banner and seek justice for his murder. He is mentioned quite a bit in the chronicles and we are sure to see more of him as the story continues.
The Lady Cynethryth’s true origins, on the other hand, are shrouded in mystery. A twelfth century legend claims that she was a disgraced Carolingian princess who was set adrift at sea and carried all the way to Wales, but this story is an unmitigated fairy tale. A much more likely theory is that she was a woman of noble birth from the Mercian “C” dynasty, whose dithematic names all begin with prefixes similar to hers. Cyneberht was a Mercian ealdorman during the reign of Æthelbald about whom little is known, but given his similar name, a blood connection with Cynethryth is at least feasible. Even so, the fairy story of the maiden set adrift at sea was too compelling to dispense with altogether, so I blended the two tales into what I flatter myself is an intriguing origin story for this chapter’s protagonist.
This chapter also introduces a few key Anglo-Saxon concepts that we will most definitely see again:
fǽhþu, or “blood-feud,” and
wergild, or “man-price.” In cases of murder, manslaughter, or accidental death, the guilty party would pay the dead man’s
wergild to his next of kin as a legal reparation for the bloodshed. Failure to do so would result in
fǽhþu, where the dead man’s relatives legally sought their own private, Old Testament-style justice; in other words, “life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound,” to quote the Book of Exodus. It was a frightening time to be alive.
