Work in Progress
The Sons of the Wolf series is set in the second half of the 11th century and is centred around the fortunes of a Sussex family. The main character, Wulfhere, is a king’s thegn, holding his land from the crown, though he also owes his loyalty to the the Earl of Wessex who governs the land where Wulfhere lives.
Set against the backdrop of the politics of the late Anglo-Saxon period, Wulfhere not only has to navigate the labyrinth of intrigue at court, but contend with an enemy that is far closer to home, and brings danger to him and his family at every turn.
This is the start of the third book, I know many of you are waiting for this to be released. I’ve had a few things going on recently, but am back on it now! Just a taster for you.
Horstede
February, 1059
Wulfhere stirred. His eyes flickered as dawn light seeped through the eaves. Plumes of frost hovered on his breath before disintegrating into the air.
Winter had been long and harsh in the lands of the Suþ Seaxa, and though February had arrived, there was still no abating of the frost. Wulfhere shivered, and pulled the fur covers tight to his chin, not wanting to face the cold. The fire must be out. Whoever should have tended the hearth had neglected their duty. There’d be a bloody whipping when he got hold of them.
Not that he was a cruel master. Not one to abuse his tenants or servants. But he had a temper; hot it was, and as fierce as a bear. Nothing troubled the bear while it was docile, but when its wild was up, God help anyone who came within its path. And though of late, his anger shamed him, he could no more stop the wildness stirring within him, than he could stop himself breathing.
He slung an arm across his forehead. A wave of gloom filled his soul. His gut told him that something worrying had happened. His head throbbed. Visions flashed beneath his closed eyes. There’d been mead – strong – and plenty of it. But he remembered nothing of what had occurred the night before, nor the one before that either. He stretched out his other arm, feeling around the mattress. In a heart-stopping moment, he realised she was not there. Probably hadn’t been for some days.
Wulfhere lifted his head, moved his arm slightly, gingerly opening a sensitive eye. This was not his bed. Or rather, it was not thebedhe shared with his wife.
He sat up, threw off the furs and blankets. Shaking, he struggled to pull on his braies. Once they were on, he sat massaging his head. His mind was no clearer. The last thing he recalled was going up the stairs to the bed chamber; he and Ealdgytha had words – which was usual – and they made love – which was unusual – and then…
Heart beating rapidly, he grabbed hold of the curtain, and ripped it aside. Sleeping bodies were scattered around the floor, snoring. Some were sitting upright, having fallen asleep where they had stood the night before, slinking down against the wall. There was a rhythmic mead-induced wheezing filling the hall, and the pungent reek of vomit made him gag. It must have been a good night. He looked around for the rest of his clothes, found his tunic and trousers – at least he thought they were his – grappled with them and gave up. How long had he lain there…? Days? Weeks…?
But where was Ealdgytha? He must find her.
Dressed only in his braies, he stumbled up the staircase. His eyes adjusted to the growing light. He burst into the chamber and stopped when he saw the empty bedframe. The fear in his chest was unbearable. He looked around the chamber. The coffer that Ealdgytha kept her possessions in. Gone. The mattress they once shared. Gone. The bedding his mother had left them. Gone. Her smell. Gone.
He collapsed to the floor, struggling to breathe. He shook uncontrollably.
Fragments of memories flashed before him; the night they made love, then quarrelled… Hands around her throat… Had he…? Oh God.
He hurried down the steps, almost losing his footing, and flung open the porch doors. Rushing into the courtyard, he called her name.
“Ealdgytha!”
Snowflakes floated around him, lightly feathering his quivering, bare flesh. He cupped his face. It felt sticky and clammy. His legs trembled and he slowly folded, his knees sinking to the icy ground. Head spun. Heart galloped. He was stone-cold sober.
Where were the children?
“Winflaed!” he called out. “Wulfric?”
There was nothing but the cock crowing.
The sky suddenly brightened through the haze of grey cloud. Winflaed… His daughter’s face swam before him. Large, hooded blue eyes filled with tears, vanishing before he could reach out and touch her. Not there… She was not there. Stupid, stupid fool to have forgotten. Neither Wulfric, nor Winflaed, nor his youngest, Gerda…. They had all left him. She had left him.
His fault… it was his fault.
“Sigfrith!” he bellowed, falling on all fours with the effort.
Waves of nausea travelled up his gullet and he heaved… expelled nothing. Sweat dripped off his brow.
“Sig…” he spluttered, coughing. He continued to heave until he thought he would lose his insides, but instead, nothing came but yellow bile.
Something lightly touched him, draping over his numb flesh. His cloak. He was not alone, then.
“Lord, what are you doing out here in the cold in nothing but your skin?” Sigfrith tutted, and helped him hobble back inside.
“They’re all gone,” Wulfhere muttered as he was settled down to rest.
“Aye, lord,” Sigfrith said. “That they are.”
Photo of Wychurst Saxon Longhall in Kent c/o Richard Price
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