When I met him, he was sixteen, with the look of eagles. A rook will chase away a red kite, though the kite has twice its reach and speed. Fighting spirit matters and Edmund had it. He stood tall and lithe, in perfect balance. My fat uncle was an ancient compared to him, but still they chuckled and exchanged pleasantries. The prince had that gift as well – he could talk to anyone. Add to it that he used a blade like a cat uses claws, as if it was part of him, and that he had a great soul. He was born to rule. Why not? Like his brother Æthelstan, Edmund was the grandson of King Alfred, the son of King Edward the Elder. When I think of a king, I always mean him.
‘May I present Dunstan, my brother’s son,’ Athelm said.
I bowed, though I was of a height with Edmund and not sure then who he was.
‘What happened to your hands?’ Edmund said to me.
I found myself challenged by calm brown eyes, so did not want to lie. Equally, I did not want to be drawn on the events of that cliff edge.
‘I tried to make them fireproof,’ I said. ‘It did not work.’
He blinked at me, caught between delight and suspicion.
‘Oh, you did not! That is not true,’ Edmund said, though he hoped it was.
‘They were bitten off by a wolf,’ I said. ‘I am growing them back.’
He grinned then, understanding it was a game.
‘You sharpened them into claws,’ he said.
‘I did,’ I replied. ‘But it made me hungry, so I cut them off and fried them.’
‘How did they taste?’ he asked.
‘I could not pick them up to find out.’
He laughed and his merriment set me off, so that I could no longer keep a straight face. For a few moments, we howled and snorted, delighted by silliness. I doubt it will amuse when written down. It was funny then – and I had met Æthelstan’s brother and the heir to the throne. I was never again a face in the crowd to Edmund after that morning.
‘Do you ride, Dunstan?’ Edmund said, still chuckling.
In answer, I just held up my hands, showing him the wrapped fingers.
‘Ah, of course. You prefer puppets,’ he said.
Well, I confess that set me off in gales again, Edmund with me, until we were giggling and snorting. I liked him, I really did. He is the great failure of my life, but God forgive me, I was young. I thought we would all live for ever then.
13
In the gleam of lamps, I stood in the shelter of my uncle’s arm, a gosling under his wing. The last of the splints had come off that morning and I flexed my hands with a wince.
The Witan council on that frozen night was the first of its kind I had seen. I was in awe of those who’d ridden or sailed to Winchester from all over the country. Great lords of the north were there, taking seats by men of Kent and Essex, of Mercia, of Wessex, all come at Æthelstan’s call. They were far too many for the sort of round table old King Arthur had known. In the Witan hall, thanes, reeves, earls and family of the king sat in rows like teeth, all facing inwards to the heart.
Æthelstan remained on his feet to welcome them as they entered. I saw how his servants guided men to particular places around the central aisle. It was more subtle than the old custom of sitting by the king’s right hand, but there were some who were left far out, and some seated so close they might have drawn and attacked if they had so chosen. I supposed those were the king’s most trusted men and I was pleased to see Edmund among them, sitting with his brother Eadred at the front.
I had seen little to like in Eadred. He was a sickly-looking lad and I did not expect him to live long enough to be of interest to me. I was mistaken, as it happens, but I will tell that in time.
The white-haired Icelander, Egill, sat on the king’s left, a position that allowed the man to watch all those close to Æthelstan. The berserker seemed always to be cheerful, but his eyes were very pale and I could never quite tell what thoughts drifted under the ice of them. Needless to say, the king’s champion was well armed. All the men wore knives or short-handled axes out of habit. Egill rested some sort of serrated spear on the bench where he sat, as likely to take the eye out of those behind him as anything. No one else wore his weapon as an outright warning. I understood that Egill was Æthelstan’s hound, the violence that underpinned the king’s orders. I was fascinated and turned back and forth, watching everything.
Æthelstan himself wore a cloak of white over some darker cloth, perhaps in blue. I would not usually trouble to describe a man’s choice of colour, but on this evening, I saw the crown of England for the first time. Before Æthelstan, kings had worn battle helmets for hundreds of years. It had been his idea to reach much further back, to the crowns of gilded laurel worn by Caesars. It caught the light in gold spikes, like the rays of the sun. All eyes rested on it and him as the last seats were filled. I smiled to see a piece of forge artifice and craft that defined him as king in that place. My hands had been made weaker for a time, but they itched to work again.
As archbishop of Canterbury, Uncle Athelm had a place reserved for him that actually was on the king’s right hand. I had hoped he might bring me forward, in the way a family can present a new child to the court and have him acknowledged. Instead, Athelm patted me on the shoulder. As I stayed on his heels, thinking to accompany him, he stopped and leaned in.
‘Find a cushion for yourself, Dunstan, before they are all gone. Pay a small cross penny if you must. I still remember how my backside ached after sitting on cold stone for my first council. The king is in a rare temper and these Witan assemblies can go on for days. Make yourself comfortable.’
I stared, but he was already moving away like a boat leaving the shore. Two of his servants fell in beside him, appearing out of the crowd so that he was flanked and protected from the elbows of others still finding their place.
I was left beyond the lamplight, under the fall of darkness outside. My low rank, my youth and lack of importance were written clearly. I did not exchange a glance with those others who were so far from the centre of power. I cared not for them! Rather than seek out some low spot where I would be able to see nothing, I chose to stand, certain in my youth that I could remain utterly still for hours if needs be.
I spent much of that first session of the king’s Witan in careful thought, planning my own future rather than listening. I tell this because there are times when it might seem as if I enjoyed extraordinary fortune, as if the stars had my name written bright amongst them. They did not, or if they did, I never knew it. Instead, I worked hard and I looked ahead, for obstacles and tumbling stones. And I stepped aside before I could be brought down. Those who did not, were crushed.
One or two of those stones were pushed by my hand. When heaven or hell lie before us, what does it matter really when we leave the world? It is all an eye-blink. Perhaps if I denied a man his chance to repent and be forgiven, so that he spent eternity in flames, then yes, he would have the right to curse my name. Beyond that slender balance, though, I have merely hurried some to their eternal reward, just as they deserved. Perhaps they thank me now, and bless my name. If we knew heaven from the first, truly knew what lay ahead, we might ask to be killed as innocent children, to speed our path.
The Witan had been noisy while the last found their seats: two hundred and forty men of influence who knew each other, clattering their boots against the wooden floor and chairs, all talking and laughing. Perhaps another two hundred were crammed around the edges to watch the king’s council. There were as many degrees of power in that place as there were souls. Yet they were all subject to the king. As soon as Æthelstan raised his head, every voice dropped to whispers and then to silence to look to him.
‘You are all granted safe passage and stand under the seal of the king while you are in this council. Any blood shed during the period of the Witan will mean execution for those I judge to be guilty. My peace will stand, my lords. Your lives are forfeit if it does not. Raise your voices if you must, but not your swords.’
If you could s
ee the first king of England standing there in the light of flames and glass, the hair would stand on the back of your neck as it did for me. He was four years over forty then. Every head bowed in response, as well they might have done, grim as he seemed, with his gaze watching for the smallest sign of dissent. Æthelstan knew very well that some of the men there were kings in all but name. He was the only one standing on the heartstone of Winchester; they looked to the high king as if he were the source of the light.
‘You will have noted two empty seats in this hall. Seats close to my right hand. I name those men who are not here: Constantin of Alba in the Highlands. Of all of you, I called him first. He had furthest to come. I gave him time, yet his seat remains empty. I name Owen of Cumbria also. Neither man has answered me.’
Æthelstan bowed his head for a moment, in prayer or mourning. I saw the eyes of all remained on him. I think I was the only one there who looked around the room. When the king spoke again, his voice had roughened, as if he restrained anger.
‘I am Rex totius Britanniae – the king of all Britain. These men gave oath to me. They swore that oath on my own relict, the very spear that pierced Christ’s side. Yet they are not here, in my halls, in this council. Instead, I hear they consort with Wicingas, the “Vikings”, the robbers of old, who have brought so much fire and blood to English villages! They have abandoned their oaths; they have abandoned the true faith, returning to crow-sign and wolfskin, to vile superstitions and dark spells. They have left their Christian honour in the filth of a midden and taken up arms against me!’
That news brought a ripple of sound as dozens of men grumbled either astonishment or anger to each other. Iron and leather creaked as they shifted, leaning in. Some cleared their throats and coughed in those few moments, but no one called out to deny it, no one rose to leave. I watched as Æthelstan held up his clenched right hand, a great scarred fist that looked itself a hammer.
‘The lord of the Highlands and the lord of Cumbria have joined our enemies to defeat us: Anlaf Godfreyson, who calls himself the king of Dublin. Some of you will know his line. He whose cousin held my city of York for a time. This Anlaf has peered over that salt sea for an age, sending his messengers, watching for his chance to remake the Danelaw that meant we were ruled in our own land. Never again, my lords, my Witan. When you made me king, I told you all I would not bow my head to any man, only to God. Britain is mine. England is mine. I choose to fight – and I call the levy.’
The silence vanished in a laughing roar as they leaped to their feet, raising their arms to him in support. I do not know if some cried out against the rash course. I could not see them in the tumult and there were too many shouting and bawling to hear dissent. This was a Witan, a sober council? This was the beating heart of Æthelstan’s rule? I had expected muted talk of appointing new reeves, of land disputes or setting taxes on the moneylenders – not a summons to the battlefield. England was at peace!
I gaped at them all, rocked by the sound, the more so to see Uncle Athelm red-faced and bellowing alongside bearded warriors. He and the king’s champion Egill grasped each other, howling like wolves, while I could only look in astonishment at such madness erupting. It was as if they had merely been waiting for the king’s words to throw off the trappings and forms of civilised life.
I felt it around me, as I was buffeted by the moving crowd. They all stood and Æthelstan was at the heart of them, smiling like a Christ figure, as if he had kindled the fire but not been touched by it.
The king’s officers had to enter bearing spears before the room settled back to peace. They came jingling in, and the first reaction was as if to a threat. Just about every man there dropped a hand to some weapon or other, so that their joyous rumblings were interrupted. God save us from big men. They believe themselves invincible.
When they had quietened down, Æthelstan broke off from a conversation with three or four of his lords to address the group once more. He grinned suddenly, almost boyish as he looked round at them.
‘I see many among you who remember my father. You were not always so sure of me – some of you wanted my brother Edmund to take the throne as his right, though I was of age and the Vikings were destroying our people, our land. I am my father’s son, first-born to King Edward the Elder. He who was the first-born to King Alfred the Great. Yet I spent my youth in Mercia, not Wessex. My mother was not of a royal line – and I was a stranger to most of you when I asked to be named king. On that day, I gave my oath to the Witan that I would not marry, that I would instead devote my life to England and bear no sons of my own. I have kept that oath, in Christ’s name.’
I swallowed drily, hearing that. He’d taken the crown to give him dominion, but it had not corrupted him. I tell you, there have not been half a dozen like Æthelstan since the beginning of the world.
Many grey-haired heads nodded and a few murmured their assent. I began to understand that they loved him, those ealdormen of the Witan. I had not heard the circumstances of him becoming king before that day. It seemed they had chosen well – and that his honour had held.
‘I have served England and kept her safe for my brother Edmund.’
The king indicated the young man I had met with my uncle. Across the hall, his lords called ‘Hear him’ in a rumble.
‘Now it is true I feel the touch of winter in my joints, in my old wounds. But I cannot pass my kingdom on to my father’s son with this threat hanging over us, like another sword of Damocles. Therefore, I summon all men loyal to the king to stand at my side. Bring your forces to Winchester. I will march north in the spring. I will stand against those who threaten my realm and my peace. God will decide my fate – God and my right arm.’
They cheered him, of course. I thought of my brother Wulfric, who had no right arm, reminding myself to tell him the king’s words when next we met.
My bladder had grown full to bursting and I slipped away through a side door while they thumped the chairs and called for ale and food. It would be a long night and a long day to follow.
I am not usually in the habit of mentioning each easing of my bladder, but on that particular night it became important. In the gloom of evening, I was roaming the halls and cloisters of the king’s palace, seeking one of the tanner’s pots. They were then set back in curtained alcoves for men who had drunk too much to hold. The pots had long necks and were well suited to anyone equipped to use them. I do not know what women did, in all honesty. I imagine they endured and suffered, perhaps to enjoy complaining about it later.
I could not find one of the alcoves that night, nor anyone to ask. Æthelstan would have been furious if he’d known, but half the servants and guards who might have kept his city safe from invaders were crowded into the doorways of the Witan hall, called by friends when they realised it would be war.
I decided, as so many young lads and dogs had done before me, to seek some outside spot, some sheltered tree I could water and lean on. I made my way to an opening that showed a promise of moonlight and the ache grew in me, only to have my hopes dashed as two women came in through the very arch I wanted.
I made a sound of surprise when I saw one was Elflaed, my sponsor and my rescuer. She and I were close friends by then, though she dwelled too much on my taking holy orders, something I was not ready to do.
‘Dunstan!’ Lady Elflaed said. ‘It is as if I brought you out of the air. You will not believe me, but I was just describing you to my niece. Here, Beatrice, is he not exactly as I said?’
I had been tongue-tied and swollen of face from the first moment I laid eyes on her companion.
‘Beatrice. Your name is “bringer of joy” in Latin,’ I blurted out, bulging at the eyes a little.
She was much shorter than me, though seventeen. She had been laughing with her aunt before my appearance and a healthful colour still stained her cheeks. I felt my own heat rise as I realised I was staring.
‘My name …’ I went on quite helplessly, unable to stop. ‘Dunstan means “hill stone”
. Beatrix was martyred, I believe, in Rome.’
Elflaed chose that moment to intervene. ‘Yes, well, I see you are lost in your thoughts and prayers, Dunstan. Bea and I will not interrupt you any longer. Perhaps you will visit me tomorrow morning? I like to know you are well treated here, after my efforts to bring you to court.’
I bowed to them both, seeing a glimmer of amusement in the eyes of Beatrice.
‘All bees have a queen, you know,’ I said to her as I straightened.
‘Really? I had not heard that,’ she said. Her voice was, frankly, a delight. Beside her, Alice and Aphra were mere crows.
‘Oh yes. We had hives at the abbey,’ I said, warming to the subject. ‘They would swarm in the spring and I had to track them across the fields, then gather them up in a mass to go into a new home. All the males follow a young queen. Wherever she went, they would go. Some of them flew until they died, but they could not stop.’
‘That sounds … admirable, I think. Loyalty is important.’
‘There, Dunstan, we will not detain you further, as I said!’ There was a tension in Elflaed’s voice and she no longer looked delighted as her gaze passed from her niece to me and back. ‘Tomorrow, Dunstan! Early!’
I watched the two of them waft away, leaving the scent of flowers and sweat. I was not certain what had happened to me, exactly, only that I too wanted to follow my Beatrice. Suddenly, the entire world was only seen in relation to her. I was a bee, ensnared.
The moon had risen far by the time I went back to my room. I saw her face in my mind as I slept, and I dreamed fitfully until I woke in the small hours and wandered to the chapel for the Matins service. I dreamed of my father after that, which was less satisfying.
As the sun rose, I washed myself much more thoroughly than usual. I suppose I could use the word ‘palace’, but the king’s estate was more akin to the villa of a wealthy Roman than a great royal tower or castle. Its main defence was in the guards and walls around Winchester. There was an open aspect to much of it that I enjoyed. I have mentioned the gardens and the stables, as well as the Witan and the petition hall. There were great kitchens in one part that could make almost anything in pastry, savoury or sweet. There were rooms full of scribes and stores of weapons to equip a thousand men in anything they might need. I was interested in those only for the skill it took to make them. I had no training in their actual use, nor any great inclination to take it up. If men like Egill were the sort I might meet on a battlefield, I would have to be dragged there. I saw him punch a horse once, not long after I arrived. The animal was snorting and pulling away from him. He struck it a blow meant to calm the beast down. Instead, it folded slowly to the ground, eyes turning up in its head. He looked so surprised it might have been comical in other circumstances. Yet the sudden power he had shown was like nothing else I’ve seen. As it was, I could only stare as he and another man tried to slap the creature’s face and sprinkle water on it until it woke.