“Finally Edbert my chaplain is here to make note of all decisions reached. And Wulfsige is present as captain of my guard.”
Alfred looked around at his handful of followers and kept a stern face so his black depression would not show. “Nobles, I have to tell you this. There will be a battle. I am calling the muster of Wessex for Ascension Day. It will be at Edgebright’s Stone, east of Selwood. Every man of Wessex must be there or forfeit all land-right and kin-right forever.”
There were slow nods. Every Christian knew when Easter was, if he knew nothing else. It had been ten days ago. In thirty more days would be Ascension. Everyone knew Edgebright’s Stone. And it was far enough away from the Viking center at Chippenham to make a muster possible.
“Bishop Daniel, I rely on you to pass this message to every priest in your diocese and in the archdiocese of your lord, so that they can tell every Christian in every parish.”
“How am I to do that, my lord? I have no hundreds of horsemen.”
“Write, then. Make a hundred writs. Send riders on circuits.”
Edbert coughed apologetically. “Lord king, not all priests may be able to read. True they are pious men, worthy men, but—”
“They read and write quick enough when it comes to snatching land by charter!” Wulfsige’s snarl was echoed by all the laymen.
Alfred silenced them with a sharp motion. ‘Send the messages, Bishop Daniel. Another day we will take up the question of whether priests who cannot read should be priests or not. The day of the muster is fixed, and I will be there, even if none of the rest of Wessex follows me. But I trust my subjects’ loyalty. We will have an army to fight the heathens. What I need to know is, how can I be sure of victory — this time?”
There was a long silence, while most of the men present stared at the floor. Alderman Ethelnoth slowly shook his head from side to side. No one could doubt his courage, but he had been at a lot of lost battles too. Only Daniel the bishop kept his head firmly erect. Finally, and with an impatient frown, he spoke.
“It is not for a servant of the Lord to give advice on secular matters — while laymen sit silent. But is it not clear that the issue of all battles is in the hands of God? If we do our part, he will do his, and will succor us as he did Moses and the Israelites from Pharoah, or the people of Bethulia from the Assyrians. Let us have faith, and make the muster, trusting not in the feeble strength of mortal men.”
“We’ve had faith many times before,” remarked Ethelnoth. “It’s done us no good any time. Except at Ashdown. And it wouldn’t have done then if the king had waited for the end of mass.”
“Then that victory is the result of sin!” The bishop sat up straighter on his canvas stool and glared round him. “It is the sins of this country which have exposed us to what we now suffer! I had not thought to speak of this, but you force it on me. The sin is in this very room!”
“Who do you mean?” asked Wulfsige.
“I mean the highest. I mean the king. Deny it, lord, if you dare. But have you not again and again imposed on the rights of my true lord the archbishop? Have you not burdened his minsters with calls for tribute, for bridge money and fort money? And when the abbots, as was right and proper, refused to consent to these demands, relying on the charters given to their ancestors for ever, have you not given the land to others, and sent your officers to seize church property by violence? Where are your endowments to the Church? And how have you tried to expiate the wrong your brother did, marrying his father’s widow in defiance of the laws of the Church and the word of the Holy Father himself? And what of the noble abbot Wulfred—”
“Enough, enough,” Alfred broke in. “As for my brother’s incest, that is between him and God. You anger me greatly with these charges. There have been no seizures by violence, except where my officers have been attacked. Wulfred brought his own troubles on himself. And as for the fort tax and the bridge tax, lord bishop, the money is to fight the heathens! Is that not a suitable object for the wealth of the Church? I know the charters except Church lands from such tolls, but they were drawn up before ever a heathen pirate set foot in England. Is it not better to give the money to me than to be pillaged by Guthrum?”
“Secular matters are not my concern,” Daniel muttered.
“Is that so? Then why should my men protect you from the Vikings?”
“Because it is your duty to keep safe the kingdom committed to you by the Lord — if you wish afterwards to receive the life of the eternal kingdom.”
“And what is your duty?”
“My duty is to see that the rights of the Church are not diminished or infringed in any way, no matter what Herod or Pilate—”
“Lords, lords!” It was Bishop Ceolred who broke in, his voice so frail and weak that all stared at him with alarm. “I beg you, lord Bishop. Think only what may come. You have not seen a Viking sack — I have. After that horror there are no rights for the Church, or for any of God’s poor. They killed my confessor with ox bones. That dear brave man, he changed robes with me, died in my place. And me they sent out as you see now.” He laid a thumbless, swollen hand on his lap. “They said I would write no more lying papers. I beg you, lords, come to an agreement.”
“I cannot give away my lord archbishop’s rights,” said Daniel.
For some time Alfred had been aware of growing commotion in the camp outside. It did not sound alarmed — rather more joyful and excited. The canvas screen was lifted, and the massive figure of Tobba appeared in the gap, the gold ring glinting round his neck, given by the king as his personal share of the spoil three days before.
“It’s an errand rider, lord. From Rome. From the pope.”
“A sign!” cried Edbert. “A token from God. Even as the dove returned to Noah with olive in its beak, so peace has come to our dissensions.”
The young man who entered seemed no dove. His olive skin was drawn with fatigue, his well-cut garments dusty and stained from the road. He stared around him with incomprehension, looking at the roughly dressed men, the rude quarters.
“Your pardon, gentlemen, lords? I am looking, seeking the king of English. Alfredo, king of English. One of great trust, told me here to seek…”
His befuddlement was obvious. Alfred controlled his anger and spoke quietly. “I am he.”
The young man looked about rather obviously for a clean patch of earth to kneel on, found only mud, and with a suppressed sigh knelt and handed over a document. It was a vellum roll, a heavy wax seal dangling from it.
As Alfred unscrolled it gold leaf glinted between the carefully scribed rows of purple ink. The king held it for a moment, not knowing what to think. Could this be his salvation! He remembered the marble buildings and great power. He had been to Rome himself, twice, had viewed the grandeur of the Holy See. But that had been many years ago, before his life shut down to a blur of rain and blood, days in the saddle, nights planning and conferring. Now the Holy See had come to him.
He passed the document to Edbert. “Read it to us all.”
Edbert handled the document reverently, and spoke in a hushed voice. “It is written in Latin, my lord. Illuminated by scribes — and signed by His Holiness himself. It says… it says. ‘To Alfred, king of the English. Know, lord King, that we have heard of your travels. ’ no, that is trials. and as you, being placed in the life of this world, daily sustain certain hardships, so in like measure do we, and we not only weep for our own — but also sorrow with you, condolens, having sympathy’ — no, no — ‘suffering alas, jointly with you.’”
Osbert muttered angrily. “Are there Vikings in Rome too?” He turned away from Bishop Daniel’s furious glare. Edbert read on.