Egbert Bretwalda: Nordic Heroes, #8

By Christopher Webster

Egbert was king of Wessex from c. 770 to 839. His achievement is that he brought about the unification of England under the house of Wessex, and paved the way for the successes of Alfred the Great (his grandson). Historical information is thin on the ground, so I have elaborated many scenes from my own imagination, hoping to bring to life this underappreciated Anglo-Saxon monarch.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Blitz
• Release date: Jun 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227187154

Christopher Webster

In Conisbrough, in the West Riding, I spent most of my childhood, where there's an old castle, presiding over the local neighbourhood. The castle teased me with its mystery and got me interested in history. Later, at University, I took a Literature degree, choosing an option on Jane Austen and Regency Society, and also one on poetry: worlds which I loved to get lost in – and now I show appreciation by trying my hand at narration.

Book preview

EXILE

IN THE HEART OF THE Wessex countryside, where the ancient counties of Somerset, Wiltshire, and Dorset converge near the high ground of Penselwood, a scene of sorrow and determination was playing out: 16 year-old Egbert found himself torn from his homeland and facing an unknown future. He was a handsome youth, tall, muscular, with blue eyes and long blonde hair reaching to his shoulders. There was something poetic in those eyes—dreams of a better world—but also a glint of steel—a sign of his determination to try to achieve it. Ah! What would he have done if he had been made king! He would have rebuilt his capital, Wintanceaster, in stone, he would have revived learning, bringing books from Francia to the scriptorium in the minster and having new ones copied and distributed to every burh in the kingdom, he would have helped the common folk, too, by building poorhouses, orphanages and hospitals and ensuring that the churches were more zealous in their duty of charity—but now he was an exile. Not because had been expelled from the court, but because he had chosen to leave.

The wind howled through the trees, a mournful symphony that echoed Egbert’s inner turmoil. Each gust seemed to carry whispers of his past life, a life now lost to the whims of fate. The once proud prince had been exiled, his throne usurped by treachery and deceit: Cynewulf, the former king of Wessex, had been cast down by the witan—the council of wise men who shaped the kingdom’s destiny, and reduced to ruling only the county of Hampshire. Cynewulf’s fall left an empty throne and contenders emerged like wolves circling a wounded stag.

Egbert, as Cynewulf’s cousin, had a rightful claim to the throne. Yet, he was not alone in his aspirations. Beorhtric, another claimant, stepped forward, and the shadow of King Offa of Mercia loomed large. Mercia was the most powerful kingdom of the Heptarchy and Offa had plans to make it more powerful still by expanding west into Wales and South into Wessex. The political landscape had shifted, and Egbert found himself a victim—a prince without a kingdom, a hawk with clipped wings.

Egbert’s journey had been long and arduous. He had traversed treacherous landscapes, faced the scorn of strangers, and endured the biting cold of winter nights, and now he found himself alone on the windswept heights of Willoughby. Alone, except for one loyal retainer, a wisened old tutor named Raedfrith.

I’ll go on alone, from here, Raedfrith, said Egbert.

Nay, my lord. I’ve stood by you since you were knee high to a toadstool and I’m not going to give up on you now.

But it’s too much for your old bones!

And too much for your young head! I may be old, but I’ve got the gift of years—wisdom—and anyway, if you go to Francia, as you said you might, you’ll need my skills in languages.

Egbert’s gaze scanned the three counties before him as he pondered which way to go. But it didn’t matter whether it was Somerset, Wiltshire, and Dorset—or perhaps even Francia—because whichever way fate led him, he knew he would be back.

Well, urged Raedfrith. "It’s freezing cold on this hill. Make your mind up! Is it to be your cousin’s burh, Dornwaraceaster—or further afield?"

Further... murmured