The Lady of Mercia

Æthelflaed had to work hard over the ensuing weeks to keep discipline among her frustrated soldiers. They were not used to such protracted campaigning. The clash and madness of battle, they thought, was preferable to sitting outside the fortified camp. There were fights and general bad temper but matters came to a head when two House Ceorls were accused of rape. Æthelflaed acted swiftly and decisively, imposing a fine equal to a twice a peasant’s wergild and insisting that the guilty men were dismissed from their lord’s service – declared ni-things. Short of putting them to death, there was no harsher punishment for Saxons do not put free men in chains or prisons.

Word of Æthelflaed’s justice spread throughout the army and was generally approved. The soldiers had long referred to her as the ‘Princess’ but now a new name came into currency. She was referred to simply as ‘The Lady’, a subtle change, perhaps, but a significant one. The ‘Princess’ referred to her origins in Wessex, ‘The Lady’ called to mind only her standing in Mercia. As the army saw her going about the place daily, giving orders, dispensing justice, making a hundred and more decisions upon which their well-being and safety depended, the ingrained respect due to her position gradually changed. Respect became admiration and, eventually, admiration turned to love.

After a time, the Danes, denied sustenance, attempted to resolve matters by a pitched battle. Æthelflaed would have none of it and drew them out into the devastated countryside. She eschewed a major engagement and, by means of a forced night march, slipped her army behind them to seize the lightly-held encampment. The invaders were faced with a stark choice, raid further into Mercia with an army at their rear or withdraw. They chose the latter course and slipped away to ravage the Welsh, where they remained for over a year.

The Lady returned to Tamoworthig in triumph. She had seen off a Danish army, suffered few casualties and had captured the baggage and booty left in the camp in Legaceaster. Æthelred was there to greet his wife on her return.

“You have done well, My Lady.”

“It was done in your name, My Lord.”

“This, too, I have heard. You will have to remind me how I appointed you to command. It would appear that I was granted a wisdom not usually given to those in a fever!”

“As you say, My Lord.”

“My health is not good, Lady. Can you command a while longer?”

“If my husband wishes.”

And thus it was that Æthelflaed came to be the commander of all the forces of Mercia.

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The following year, an event occurred in Wessex that was to have a profound influence on the rest of Æthelflaed’s life. A child was born to a Mercian woman. The father was Edward, Æthelflaed’s brother and heir to the throne of Ælfred. Now some say that the child was the result of a rape and others that the mother was Edward’s mistress. If it were rape then it was well concealed and reconciled. If the woman were Edward’s mistress, she did not long survive the birth to enjoy her position. The boy was named Athelstan, which means ‘Noble Gem’ in the Saxon tongue, and such he promises to be.

As Athelstan grew, he became a constant delight to his grandfather, the King. The boy, for his part, sought out Ælfred’s company and he grew to be a serious, dutiful, well-mannered little lad. He shared Ælfred’s joy of learning. Some say Ælfred named Athelstan his one true heir and if it is so, it is small wonder that this angered Edward and his wife, who now had sons of their own.

Thus it was that the Year of Our Lord Eight hundred and Ninety Nine saw great changes in the lands of Wessex and Mercia. First, an attempt was made to blind the five year old Athelstan. The perpetrators of this horror were caught and killed but would reveal nothing of their purpose. Ælfred was ailing but still the undisputed Lord of his Land. He summoned the young boy and presented him with a jewelled belt and Seax, the Saxon Sword from which the people derived their name. He then commanded that Prince Athelstan was to be sent to Mercia, to the care of Æthelflaed and Æthelred. As it was said, so it was done.

In Mercia, Æthelflaed had conceived at last and gave birth to a daughter whom she named Ælfwynn. The child was frail and, for a while, was not thought likely to live. Thus it as that the young Athelstan arrived at his Aunt’s Court in sombre circumstances. Matters turned darker yet when Ælfred died in October of that year. Æthelflaed had never been reconciled with her father and now she was consumed by guilt as well as anxiety for her own child. It says much for the character of the boy Athelstan that his presence was not instantly resented. On the contrary, he formed an almost instant and lasting bond with the Lady of Mercia.

Slowly, the infant Ælfwynn grew stronger and Æthelflaed was able to relax. She now devoted her time between the care of her baby daughter and the education of Athelstan, her Ward and nephew. Athelstan had never experienced that tender love that a mother offers a child so he did not notice this lack in Æthelflaed. The Lady was not given to great displays of affection towards anyone. It was as if her early experiences of intimacy had burned such passions from her. Still and all, she was not a cold person and her lively intelligence engaged the young Prince in the same manner and degree as he had enjoyed with his grandfather, Ælfred.

Æthelflaed now made it her personal duty to ensure that Athelstan was educated in such a manner as would fit him to be a King. It was she who taught him the martial skills that she had so assiduously developed, she who oversaw his training at arms and she who set the pattern of his studies in the Abbey school at Tamoworthig.

In Wessex, Æthelflaed’s brother Edward had succeeded to the throne but his succession did not go unchallenged. Another prince of the House of Wessex, one Æthelwold, rose in rebellion and sought the help of the Danes in furthering his cause. Æthelflaed rallied to her brother’s cause and the Men of Mercia joined with those of Wessex to oppose the usurper. The revolt failed and Æthelwold was killed in battle but there was to be a strange consequence. In the peacemaking that followed, the Danes gave hostages to both Edward and Æthelflaed and among these hostages was Jorilde, the daughter of a Danish Jarl.

Jorilde was the physical opposite of Æthelflaed and possessed a grace and beauty that Æthelflaed did not.
She was tall where the Lady was short, fair to Æthelflaed’s dark and arrow slim where the Saxon Princess, now aged thirty eight, was inclined to be stocky. She was also some twenty years Æthelflaed’s junior so it is perhaps surprising that the two women came to be such intimate friends.

Æthelflaed was horrified at first to find that Jorilde had been given no education beyond those pursuits deemed suitable for a woman. She could spin, weave and embroider. She could sing and dance – pastimes that had eluded Æthelflaed. She could neither read nor write and expressed no interest in learning either. Inevitably, Jorilde attracted much admiration from the young men at the Mercian Court but she turned aside their attentions with a gentle smile, or a waspish tongue if they proved too persistent. After a while, Æthelflaed gave up on her attempts to interest the younger woman in bookish learning. Jorilde dismissed such matters as being the preserve of ‘half-men’ as she dubbed the priests.

Their relationship grew around their shared love of the young Prince Athelstan, who, for his part, was fascinated by his first encounter with ‘the enemy’. Athelstan insisted that Jorilde spoke only Danish in his company and he rapidly improved his mastery of that tongue. He would have Jorilde tell him stories from the heroic sagas and he was full of questions about the customs and beliefs of the Danes. If she were not busy with her other duties, Æthelflaed would sit with the pair as they discussed the finer points of some story or explored the nature of the Danish pagan Gods.

One summer evening when Athelstan was about ten years old, he asked Jorilde why she had not married.

“Because I never found a man like you, My Prince!” She laughed as she said it but Æthelflaed noticed a strange look in Jorilde’s eyes as she spoke. After Athelstan had retired, Æthelflaed returned to the subject.

“So, Jorilde, why is that you haven’t taken a husband? It‘s clear you could have your pick.”

“So I could, Lady. Perhaps that is the problem.”

“How so?”

“I cannot bear all the fawning. These declarations of love are nothing more than lust. They see only my face and body.”

“They are men.”

Jorilde snorted. “You too, Lady?”

Æthelflaed shrugged. She was not entirely comfortable discussing such matters but deep down, she felt the need to unburden herself of feelings she had buried deep.

“Æthelred, my husband is a good man. We have learned to respect each other over the years but I don’t love him. My father, King Ælfred, ordered our marriage. It was not of my choosing.”

“Such is the lot of women, Lady, be they Saxon or Dane. But I’ll have none of it.”

“What choice do you have, Jorilde? Your father will no doubt order your marriage when you return to your people.”

“That is true, Lady, should I return. I think I’d rather stay with you in Mercia that give myself to some sot who fights well and has stolen his fortune.”

Æthelflaed smiled. She had grown fond of the younger woman and felt some empathy, based on her own experiences. Spontaneously, she stretched out her arm and gently touched Jorilde’s cheek. To Æthelflaed’s surprise, Jorilde seized her hand and began to kiss it with a passion. Æthelflaed sat completely still, too taken aback to react. Jorilde flung herself at Æthelflaed’s feet, resting her golden head in the Lady’s lap and hugging her close. Still Æthelflaed could not move. Jorilde took the Lady’s inactivity as encouragement and eased upwards until she could kiss Æthelflaed’s face, stroking her hair as she did so and whispering half-heard endearments. Suddenly, she took Æthelflaed’s face between her hands and kissed her on the mouth, first tenderly but then with an increasing passion.

Æthelflaed’s initial surprise was receding. Something else was stealthily taking its place. She had known little tenderness in her life, either as child or woman. Jorilde’s hands were now busy: stroking, kneading and arousing little ripples of pleasure. The Lady’s mind was full of frantic confusion but her body played her the traitor. It seemed as if she watched from a distance as her arms lifted to embrace the Danish woman. She felt herself drawn up by Jorilde’s hands and she rose, like a sleepwalker, to follow her to the couch.

Æthelflaed found herself held by Jorilde’s eyes. It seemed she was drowning in their blue depths. Her mind was racing on the edge of panic but her body responded languorously to the younger woman’s subtle touch. She was unaware of the loosening of her robe but felt a sudden shocking thrill as Jorilde’s mouth captured her breast, teasing the large brown nipple into hardness. It was the like the moment when a stream, swollen by winter rains, first bursts it bank to flood the watermeadows. The confusion and panic seemed to ebb away and a pure calm replaced them.

Jorilde was making a low throaty noise as she moved, trailing kisses, slowly downwards. Æthelflaed stiffened with renewed shock as she felt a hand gently part her thighs and insinuate itself into the tangle of her pubes. She was aware of Jorilde’s eyes upon her and looked down once again into the seemingly bottomless depths. She sensed a wave of love emanating from Jorilde whose face seemed filled with the deepest joy that Æthelflaed had ever seen. Jorilde held Æthelflaed’s gaze as she leaned forward to trail kisses across the Lady’s thighs.

Æthelflaed gasped out loud as Jorilde’s tongue sought out the sweetness at her core. Then all was rising madness and passion As Æthelflaed twisted and moaned in the grip of sensations that she had never dreamed possible and had certainly never experienced. She felt herself lifted out of her body, spiralling and soaring on successive waves of ecstasy until she thought her heart would burst and she could stand no more. The climax hit her like a thunderbolt and she screamed aloud. Her consciousness fled and she collapsed, limp as a rag, beneath her triumphant lover.

For the next few months Æthelflaed’s mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions. Her body knew a bliss she had never imagined but her thoughts also turned to sin. Although she did not share her mother’s piety – the latter had founded the convent at Wintanceaster on Ælfred’s death and immured herself therein – she had still absorbed the Church’s teachings on the frailty of women. While Æthelflaed’s heart could not believe that pleasure born of love was sinful, her upbringing told her otherwise and she found herself increasingly riven by doubts. She had learned with Jorilde to give as well as receive and their lovemaking took her to places whose existence were entirely unknown to Æthelred or, she suspected, any other man. Yet still she felt uneasy in her soul.

Matters came to a head around the time of her daughter’s sixth birthday. Jorilde, who had always pretended an ignorance of any form of reading or writing, was discovered with communications from her father, the Jarl. More damning yet was the half finished letter in another hand, detailing the dispositions of the Mercian army and the state of relations between Mercia and Wessex. There could be only one conclusion. Jorilde was a spy. It just so happened that Æthelred was once more on his sick bed and thus the matter of justice fell, naturally, to the lady of Mercia.

Æthelflaed was distraught. Caught between her duty and her heart, she could only plead for time to decide when pressed for a savage retribution by the Thegns. All knew the penalty was death and that the dying would be hard. Jorilde was brought before the Moot; her face and body displayed the signs of her questioning. But the daughter of a Jarl is proud and she stood in injured dignity, her head held high. Æthelflaed presided in her husband’s stead. One of the elder Thegns spoke the prosecution. The evidence was clear, the outcome certain. It remained only for the Lady to pronounce the sentence. It was the boy, Athelstan, who saved Jorilde. Against all protocol save only he was a prince, Athelstan addressed his assembled elders.

“And what are we become that we make war on women?” His clear, high voice echoed in the silence of the Great Hall. “Have we fallen so far? My Grandfather, Ælfred, did not fight for all his life to see good Saxons stoop so low. Jorilde is a Dane. She is true to her blood and her kinfolk. Such faith in a Saxon would be held worthy of praise not punishment. Do you believe the Danes to be less than our equals in honour? Are we so afraid of the enemy that we would kill her now for telling what she could say freely on her return to her father’s hall next year? Yes, she has broken faith with us. But she is a hostage, not a guest. Let us shave her head to show her shame and send her back to her people rather than slough ourselves in ignominy.”

All the while Jorilde’s eyes had not left those of Æthelflaed. The Lady tried hard to read what she saw there but could not. Had the love she had seen before been just a sham? Had she been seduced so easily from her duty to her people and her husband? The blue stare told her nothing. Jorilde’s face retained its haughty composure even when the Moot accepted Athelstan’s proposals with the customary bellow of assent. There was no smile, no sign of relief from a death averted. She was taken from the Great Hall. Æthelflaed never spoke to her again.

Later that night, sitting alone in her chambers, Æthelflaed wept. She wept for lost love: Love that had come late into her life and from an unexpected source but love nonetheless. She became aware of another presence in the room. It was Athelstan. He gently stroked her hand. She looked into his serious grey eyes and saw only understanding with no trace of pity. At length he smiled.

“It was not your fault. You haven’t seen much kindness in your life. I think Jorilde truly loved you but she had her duty too, as we have ours. Love leads us but Duty drives; I pray to Christ the King that I shall be as steadfast when my time comes.”

Æthelflaed regarded her nephew in silence. How could a ten-year-old boy have garnered so much wisdom? And then she knew. Athelstan, like her, had been reared always to do his duty, whatever the personal cost. He had seen little enough love in his young life. She resolved then and there to remedy the lack.

The End