Young Aelfred

By Maria Waddelove

Step into the world of 11-year-old Aelfred, whose life takes a dramatic turn after the tragic loss of both parents. Out hunting with his brother, they suddenly become the hunted. Soon, taken hostage by Viking raiders, Aelfred is confronted with a sinister plot that threatens his life and the future of England.

As Aelfred fights for his survival, he must use all his wit and cunning to outsmart the ruthless Ragnar and the crafty Ivar. His experiences in captivity are beyond anything he could have imagined, but they will shape him into the greatest king England has ever known.

Travel back in time to the year 859 and join Aelfred on his perilous journey. This thrilling adventure story will keep you on the edge of your seat as you root for the young hero to overcome the odds and fulfil his destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398474604

Maria Waddelove

Maria Waddelove spent most of her 11 years as a primary teacher in Manchester’s inner city schools before moving to rural Cheshire when she married. Her lifelong interests in archaeology and history were reflected in the Open University degree, which was completed when expecting the first baby. She began researching and writing Young Aelfred while home-schooling her five children to GCSE success on their way to graduation from leading universities.

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About the Author

Maria Waddelove spent most of her 11 years as a primary teacher in Manchester’s inner city schools before moving to rural Cheshire when she married. Her lifelong interests in archaeology and history were reflected in the Open University degree, which was completed when expecting the first baby. She began researching and writing Young Aelfred while home-schooling her five children to GCSE success on their way to graduation from leading universities.

Dedication

To my husband, Adrian, who has supported me every inch of the way; and to our children, Edmund, Vincent, Helena, Bernadette, and Adrian junior. And my daughters-in-law, Annie and Laura.

Copyright Information ©

Maria Waddelove 2024

The right of Maria Waddelove to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398474598 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398474604 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thanks are due to Yvonne Jones and her Cheshire County Council mobile library colleagues, and Marilyn Brookfield at Malpas Library for finding many an obscure text, including material from the British Library to help in my research; to geologist Chris Carlon for sharing his knowledge on river characteristics, and artist Jean Ashley for her timely input at a critical stage; and to Annie van Kroonenburg, whose creative skills adorn the front and back covers.

Author’s Note

This is a novel about a boy known to us as King Aelfred, judged by Sir Winston Churchill to be the greatest Englishman who ever lived some 1100 years after his reign.

His later life is documented and some facts about his early childhood are known. But there is a gap in the archaeological and historical records that includes 859 when this story has been set. It is a tale of what might have happened…

Young Aelfred was born in 848 or 849 into a world in which there were frequent raids upon the Saxon kingdoms by the Norsemen from Denmark and Norway, and from about 860 they began to settle the lands.

His character is recorded in the sources and I have tried to create his younger self while being true to the older him, imagining how he would have responded to the twists and turns of unfolding events. His favourite brother, Aethelred, was closest in age to him and known for his pious disposition, and I have attempted to portray him accordingly.

MPW

June 2024

Chapter One

It was one of those days that you struggle to remember in the depths of winter. A warm sun shone upon fields of rapidly growing grain, the fruit trees were full of promise and the gardens glorious with tumbling honeysuckle and dog rose. Late afternoon shadows were beginning to creep across the earth under an azure sky and somewhere there was the prospect of a shower, for the leaping horse and golden dragon flags flying upon Grandfather Oslac’s new gateway, having been still for days, had begun to stir.

Nearby, close to a copse of ash trees and a small brook, the two youngest, somewhat dishevelled, sons of the late King Aethelwulf of Wessex and brothers of two living kings, Aethelbald of Wessex and Aethelbehrt of Kent, were engaged in a fiercely fought archery contest. Fierce in spirit rather than in deed, for the younger boy, despite his best efforts, seemed intent on missing the target and his older brother similarly intent on hitting it.

Well Aelfred that will be your tenth arrow and you haven’t hit anything yet, Aethelred commented, leaning on his bow and looking rather pitifully at his eleven-year-old brother.

The boy to whom these words were addressed reached into the quiver hanging at his waist, drew out an arrow, and gently holding it between the ends of two fingers, fitted the nock onto the string. He pulled them both back with a show of strength surprising in one so young and slender, raised the arrow to the level of his chin and looked along it. He looked past the small piece of wool wrapped around the bow, used as a sight, and on to the straw target beyond, covered with inflated pigs’ bladders filled with dust and his brother’s distinctive arrows.

His feet planted firmly apart, his arm extended in line with the arrow, he steadied himself, his face a study in concentration and effort. It was a very attractive face indeed with its straight nose and regular features, its eyes the colour of a summer’s afternoon sky framed with long, thick lashes and crowned with a mass of blond hair. Its chief attraction however lay in the subtle things it said about its owner, for there was determination in the jaw, intelligence and honesty in the eyes, a mouth that loved to smile and sing in the feasting hall, and withal there was an appealing barely concealed vulnerability.

In the boy there was such a mixture that he was often the subject of much speculation at court as to his future life. He seemed possessed of a most courageous nature and yet suffered more than his fair share of illness. He tried hard to learn to fight yet seemed to struggle with the bow and sword, and many of the physical demands made upon him. He was quick witted and lively, and yet frequently found lost in thought. He loved life in the feasting hall and yet was equally happy in a quiet corner, surrounded by books, trying to teach himself to read. In short, opinion was divided as to whether Aelfred would grow into a warrior or a monk. The boy himself, perceptive as he was, had heard such gossip and was greatly troubled for he was after all an atheling, a prince of the royal house of Wessex, and it was his dearest wish to prove he was worthy of the title.

The boy felt the tautness of the string and of every muscle and fibre in his arms. He waited for that moment when mind, eye and body agreed that the time had come, and released the arrow. It rent the air with a great rushing sound, describing a great arc as it did so and promptly embedded itself with a dull thwack into the trunk of a tree behind the target.

I don’t know what’s the matter with me today. I can’t seem to get anything right, he sighed.

Aethelred made great play of staring sorrowfully into the distance at his brother’s arrow and shook his head. Two years older, he was a strong looking lad with that ruddy-cheeked complexion that marks someone who spends a great deal of time outdoors. He outstripped other boys at swordplay, archery, riding and in so many ways demonstrated a natural physical superiority that he was widely deemed to be a worthy son of his father, Aethelwulf, and the finest example of an atheling you could find. However he was not just raw energy and action. He had a fine mind and had learned to read and write, skills so highly prized by his younger brother that he had been somewhat surprised to find himself recently promising a very determined Aelfred that he would teach him.

Blessed with good health and having mastered so effortlessly those accomplishments expected of an atheling, it would have been perfectly natural for Aethelred to have grown rather arrogant. Yet while he possessed all the confidence of one high born, he was saved from such a fate by an essentially light-hearted disposition and was perfectly capable of laughing at himself. What is more, he was rather inclined towards the virtuous. There was in Aethelred a serious, almost prayerful side, that he hid from the world and which only Aelfred saw, and that part of him strove against conceit.

However to the court he appeared as he was, a good-natured boy, a lover of harmless practical jokes, who had learned every popular riddle, a boy full of fun and well liked. If he were a little mischievous from time to time, he was always truly repentant afterwards.

The chief victim of this mischief was, of course, Aelfred for as an older brother he had long made it his mission in life to tease and, if necessary, torment the younger boy.

But he was no bully. For he had known his brother be ill and pitied him, seen him struggle to prove himself and been secretly impressed, had tormented him and admired his resilience. Indeed he found that he liked this brother of his who was becoming a most perceptive and warm hearted companion, although he would rather face death by a thousand cuts than admit it.

Aelfred felt the long shadow of his brother keenly, especially in the feasting hall when praise of Aethelred was on the tip of every tongue and had even been set to verse in the songs of the scop. That he, in contrast, had to strive for every achievement and every crumb of praise, was a source of sorrow. Yet he was not jealous, for he was too well beloved of his late parents, too rooted in the affection of his kinsmen, to harbour any grudges. There was a level headedness about Aelfred, too, that argued it wouldn’t make one jot of difference if he were envious. What is more, though wild horses would never drag it from him, he liked his capable, rather devout and irrepressibly cheerful older brother, even when he was at his most maddening.

Today was one of those days.

No, I don’t know what’s the matter with you either, Aethelred remarked cheerfully. Fell off your pony this morning, beaten by just about everyone in the swordplay this afternoon and now you can’t hit the target to save your life.

You needn’t sound quite so pleased, Aelfred grumbled.

I’m not pleased. It’s just that I was thinking how funny you looked when you fell off your pony into that bed of nettles and how everyone laughed when you broke that wooden sword in half and now…

Yes, thank you for reminding me, Aelfred interrupted indignantly.

Why not try again? If you hit the target I’ll give you this as a reward, Aethelred offered, pointing to the beautiful silver handled knife resting in its leather sheath and tucked into his belt.

You shouldn’t wager that Aethelred. Father gave it to you.

Well I’m not about to lose it, am I?

The younger boy looked suspiciously at his brother. And I suppose you will want something from me in return if I don’t hit it?

Well, there is your sword, your special one, Aethelred suggested. And I would only want it for one day, at the hunt tomorrow, he added hastily.

Aelfred thought about his special sword and how he had acquired it. When he was a young boy, he had been sent on an unforgettable journey by his father to Rome to receive the Pope’s blessing. There, in a great marble hall, he had been received like a son into the care of the holy man. With great ceremony, a purple silk mantle had been wrapped around his shoulders, a laurel crown placed upon his head and a belt and sword fastened around his waist. This sword, with its silver and leather hilt and pattern-welded blade, had been made for a boy but it had been too large for him then. Now it was much more the right size, and it had become his most treasured possession. His father had deemed it an object of great beauty, a weapon fit for a warrior boy king and therefore it was not unnatural that Aethelred should desire to borrow it.

Neither of us can have it tomorrow. You know our brother, King Aethelbald, has forbidden me to wear it, except at court, Aelfred declared.

My dear little brother, I don’t think we should listen to him on this matter. He’s always trying to spoil any fun we have. Besides it’ll be such a magnificent occasion you can’t possibly go without looking your very best.

Or perhaps, you looking your very best?

Aethelred smiled. Well that’s really rather up to you, isn’t it? Maybe you’re scared of losing the wager…

Aelfred reached into his quiver, pulled out an arrow and with great care and concentration readied himself. He gazed upon the target and waited until the moment was right…

But the feathered dart did not behave as it ought. It whistled through the air in wild abandon, only coming to rest when it tore through King Aethelbald’s flag bearing the golden dragon and thudded heavily into Grandfather Oslac’s new flagpole.

How did you manage that? Aethelred asked, surveying the sight in dismay.

You know perfectly well, came the swift retort. You nudged me.

I’m sure I didn’t.

Yes, you did, I felt you do it. You’d better own up when Aethelbald asks why my arrow is running through his flag. And when Grandfather wants to know why his new flagpole has my arrow in it.

I shall do no such thing, little brother. You’re just making that up about me nudging you to excuse your hopeless shot.

He paused. And by the way, you’ve lost the wager, so I’ll expect you to lend me your sword tomorrow morning.

Now Aelfred had learned the virtue of patience with his brother but it had its limits. Beside himself with exasperation, he grabbed the sheath containing the wagered silver knife from his brother’s belt and ran. Aethelred, initially astonished by this action soon recovered, dropped his bow and quiver on the spot and gave chase. Rapidly he made up ground between them. Not enough, however, for Aelfred, fearful of the retribution that might follow if he were caught, was demonstrating a remarkable turn of speed and even now was making for Grandfather Oslac’s great feasting hall.

Chapter Two

It had been many years since Oslac had given his daughter, Osburh, in marriage to Aethelwulf, King of Wessex. In that time, he had become a great friend to the king, sound in judgement and totally loyal. At court, he was both greatly respected and a little feared, admired for his honesty and competence, sometimes disliked for his firm views and forceful character. His talents were not confined to court. He was an excellent tactician on the battlefield and a mighty warrior, and despite his great age, he had been much called upon in struggles with the growing menace of the northmen. These fierce raiders from across the sea were ravaging the land and its people, murdering and stealing wherever they could.

Five grandsons and one granddaughter were born to his daughter and the king. He had watched them grow up, mourning when the eldest, Aethelstan, died of his wounds fighting the northmen at Acla and rejoicing at the wedding of his granddaughter, Aethelswith, to Burghred, King of Mercia. To his great surprise he had outlived both Osburh and Aethelwulf to become patriarch of the family of the four remaining grandsons. Two of the four brothers reigned as Aethelbald, King of Wessex and Aethelbehrt, King of Kent, while the two youngest were Aethelred and Aelfred.

Grandfather Oslac had a large estate on the island of Wiht and inevitably his great hall there had become home to many a royal feast. The old warrior was an excellent organiser of people, a generous landlord and gift giver, and celebrations were eagerly awaited events. On this occasion, the visit of two kings, his grandsons, was reason enough for great festivities but when combined with a desire to bring together a family that had recently been in mourning for a beloved father, Aethelwulf, the desire to make it a celebration to remember was even stronger.

The estate had become a hive of activity in the days that preceded the arrival of his guests and the skills of his reeve had been greatly put to the test. The great timbered hall had been cleaned and whitewashed, inside and out, its thatch renewed and its ornate doors polished till the wood glowed. Its walls had been hung with great tapestries worked in threads of vibrant colour, gold and silver amidst numerous candles in brackets. Bower houses had been made ready to sleep many guests with rugs beaten, mattresses and pillows shaken, and hundreds of blankets washed.

The storerooms had been filled with sacks of flour, salted and smoked fish, casks of ale and mead, pots of honey amidst butchered beef, pork and fowl. From the kitchens, the delicious smell of fresh bread and roasting meats had perfumed the air. The wide track into the estate had become deeply rutted by heavily laden carts, carrying food rents from the surrounding farms. Other carts had journeyed to the local harbour to return burdened with wines, rich spices and exotic fruits from foreign lands.

Now Aelfred could not be expected to appreciate the effort his grandfather had made to prepare for such a splendid occasion. He lived in a world full of pretend adventures, mock battles, trees that were asking to be climbed and streams that an inquisitive mind had to dam. In addition, he was an atheling of the royal court and in his innocence assumed that everyone feasted on the most delicious food in impressive surroundings. Yet, even so, he was struck by the magnificence of his grandfather’s hall as he entered, the aroma of food and ale, the blend of mellow evening sun and candlelight on golden tapestries, and the sheer volume of noise and laughter that greeted him. These however were fleeting impressions, for young Aelfred didn’t have time to stop and stare. An angry Aethelred breathing down his neck would most assuredly catch him and exact retribution unless he thought of something rapidly. Taking advantage of a group of revellers standing near the doorway he insinuated himself amongst them, dropped onto all fours and disappeared under the nearest table.

There he found an underworld of legs, cross-gartering and polished leather boots, fine linen kirtles edged with exquisitely woven ribbon and hounds of various sizes. Safe for the moment Aelfred quickly conceived his plan. Since his grandfather had had the foresight to arrange tables end to end around the perimeter of the hall and cover them all with his best linen cloths, the atheling reasoned that he could easily make his way around the room under those tables and get lost in the throng of seated revellers. Then when the hue and cry had died down he would simply find himself a seat, join the feast and laugh at Aethelred across the hall.

Undaunted by the dogs, Aelfred set off to negotiate a tunnel of legs. Several times he was kicked, twice people rested their feet on him and once someone threw him a bone, but Aelfred was glad that no guest cared to look under the table for he had no desire to be discovered. He was hiding not only from his brother but also his grandfather whom he felt would take a dim view of the damage to his new flagpole. Then there was the small matter of the tear to his brother Aethelbald’s flag which the boy preferred not to think about at all.

He peeped from the depths of his hideaway and was a little disconcerted to see his brother’s boots running alongside the tables some distance behind him. Evidently he had guessed where Aelfred must be and was busy lifting the tablecloths at various points to peer into the darkness underneath, a task made more difficult by the large number of people seated and their unwillingness to let anything interfere with their feasting.

Now Aethelred was rapidly approaching his hiding place and Aelfred rather thought a little subterfuge might not go amiss. He made his way to a quiet corner of the hall, where there were only two pairs of legs under the table and two of the largest old hounds he had ever seen, grey whiskered, long haired, venerable beasts lying at full stretch side by side, dreaming about many a chase and oblivious to the revelry around them. Aelfred estimated that lying thus, the two animals were about the same size as him and he crept between them, stretched out and turned his face to the floor, reasoning that in the darkness his brother might just mistake him for a third animal. In due course Aethelred arrived, lifted the cloth, peered briefly into the darkness at the contented hounds and moved on without a second glance. Aelfred raised his head and breathed a sigh of relief.

Chapter Three

At a table in