The Hand That Held The Knife
A short story in honour of the late CJ Sansom
This short story was written as part of a community event hosted by
in collaboration with at to celebrate the life of CJ Sansom, author of the Shardlake historical fiction novels, on the first anniversary of his death. You can read more, including my roundup of all stories written for the event, HERE and you can read Erica’s roundup HERE (which includes the recording of our live video hosted to celebrate the event).
The Hand That Held The Knife
Holly A Brown
The story that follows is inspired by part of the well-known Old English poem, ‘The Wife’s Lament’. Although the meaning of the poem is hotly debated (you can read more about that here), its basic narrative is clear and tells a story of forbidden love and desire during a period more well-known for its war lords and violence. Though these themes feature heavily in the poem, its female protagonist is a welcome antidote to the heavily masculine nature of much of Old English writing, providing a female perspective in a man’s world (albeit likely told through a man’s words).
A guide to pronouncing the Old English names
Ældred = EL-dred
Ælfwynn = ELF-win
Æthelred = ETH-el-red
Eadbald = AYD-bald
Eadberht = AYD-burt
Edwin = ED-win
Oswine = OS-win
Sigebert = SIG-uh-burt
England c. A.D. 650
Æthelred let out a high-pitched whistle as his horse crested the gentle hill, blowing the air from his cheeks. Rising before him, not half a mile away, sharpened timbers jutted out from ramparts defending the palace of his king’s sworn enemy, designed to scare off any would-be attackers. His breath caught in his chest as, even from here, he could see the glint of the soldiers’ helmets as they paraded behind the enveloping fence line, their spear tips piercing the air above them.
His horse shifted sideways slightly as Sigebert sidled up to him.
“Is that it?” His voice was barely a whisper.
Æthelred nodded without even looking at him.
“How will they know we’re not here for war?” His assistant signalled behind them.
Æthelred sighed.
“How do we know we’re not?”
When King Ældred had received news of his daughter’s murder, he’d flown into a wild rage, killing the messenger instantly beside the hearth and threatening to deal likewise with anyone else who approached him. He’d promised immediate retribution, a life for a life, his enemy King Eadberht’s son murdered to atone for his loss.
His daughter had disappeared the previous week, taking her horse and her maids in secrecy before the sun had crept above the horizon.
This in itself was not unusual.
But as night had fallen, and then fallen again, and then for a third night, Ældred had agreed with his wife’s concern. Spies had been sent throughout the kingdom, to all her usual hiding places and sanctuaries, to the caves and groves where the king knew, deep in his heart, she had been with Eadberht’s son. But to no avail. She was nowhere to be found.
And now she was dead.
Storms had stopped him setting off for retaliation that night, and somehow he had been convinced to allow diplomacy rather than violence to handle the matter.
And Æthelred, King Ældred’s reeve, had found himself saddled and sent to the enemy’s lair to root out the murderer with an army of his king’s men intended to scare his enemy into handing over the culprit.
***
“She’s over here. I don’t know why they bothered to send you here. It’s the clearest case of an accident I’ve seen in years.”
Oswine, King Eadberht’s reeve had greeted Æthelred at the huge oak entrance to the fort. As the travellers had slipped from their horses, he’d pointed in the direction of one of the barns hugging the far corner of the encircling fence.
Æthelred nodded, in dignified respect to his host.
“I am only here to see that King Ældred’s daughter is avenged and that she is escorted to her home in safety.”
Oswine snorted.
“There’ll be no need for avenging. This is a simple accident, nothing more.”
Sigebert shifted uneasily where he stood, glancing at his master.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Æthelred said firmly, holding the reeve’s gaze. Oswine walked closer to him slowly, menacingly.
“Are you saying I don’t know what I’m talking about?” He dug his finger into Æthelred’s chest. “You have no jurisdiction here. I’m in charge and I say it’s an accident.”
Æthelred shoved him away, hard. “You sound a little too insistent there, Oswine.” Oswine grabbed him by his shirt, starting to pull back one fist, before Sigebert dragged Æthelred back.
“She’s in there. Take her and leave.” Oswine gestured a thumb towards the barn, before wiping his brow and marching towards the king’s great hall.
Æthelred walked hesitantly into the barn. It was dark, pitch dark, despite the early afternoon brightness. The room was almost bare save for a cold hearth at its centre, a few ceramic bowls and wooden cups lying discarded at its side, a blanket scattered where someone had left it.
He squatted down to pick up one of the cups, feel its familiar smoothness. Weighing it in his hand, he surveyed the scene before him.
Could the rumours be true? Did Ælfwynn have a secret lover? Had she met met him here? It certainly looked as if two, perhaps three at most, had enjoyed each other’s company round the hearth fire recently; he had enjoyed many such nights in his time.
He shook his head. How could she have been so foolish?
“Sir - there’s an upstairs.”
Æthelred looked towards Sigebert, noticing for the first time the ladder that lay by his assistant’s feet. He stood, feeling an ache in his knees and a deep sense of foreboding.
They replaced the ladder, leaning it against the half-loft that spread across one end of the barn. Æthelred breathed deeply as he placed his hand on one of the rungs, then started to climb.
The loft was filled with hay bound in bales with rough strips of fabric and arranged upright in a stack that covered much of the floor space. More blankets lay strewn across the floor, though stained dark with splashes of blood.
Æthelred’s eyes strained into the thick darkness; he did not dare leave the ladder.
And then he saw her, crumpled in one corner, her clothes torn, her limbs contorted in the most unnatural of positions, but her face a picture of peace despite the awful way she had departed this life.
A shiver rippled through his body as he forced himself not to vomit at the sight of the girl he’d known since she was a babe in arms stabbed to death whilst clearly in the throes of earthly passion.
“Get her down, now,” he managed to whisper to Sigebert and the men who’d followed them into the barn. He stepped off the ladder. “Get her down and see to it that she is washed and put in clean clothes, and her injuries covered up. I want her in a bed in the palace until we return to King Ældred. Am I clear?”
He didn’t wait for a response as he stormed from the barn.
***
“Oswine’s alright, you know?”
Æthelred looked at his companion in horror.
“No, really, he is. I was talking to him after you went from… from the… well, you know, after you left me to deal with it all earlier. He’s not bad. We were talking.
He slapped Sigebert about the head.
“You idiot! What did you tell him?”
“Only that we were sent to retrieve the princess so that she can have a proper burial back at home, and that the king wants us to take the culprit with us.”
“Are you out of your mind?! Have I taught you nothing?!” He took a long draught from his mead cup, pausing to stare into the empty cup before continuing. “Of course he wants you to think he’s alright. There’s something not right about him. I knew as soon as he first started insisting that Princess Ælfwynn’s death was an accident. You saw her; that was no accident.”
Sigebert nodded. Both of them wanted to forget what had been done to so beautiful a woman.
They ate the rest of their meal in silence, save for occasional small talk. Sitting with King Eadred’s retainers and their wives, there was little they had in common with their hosts, save for boasting about their military endeavours. Æthelred had certainly had his fair share - probably too much of a share - but regaling the tales of his strength in enemy territory was a dangerous game and he knew it.
A loud scraping sound echoed throughout the hall as a handsome youth stood up, head bowed, and slipped into a side room adjoining the feasting space.
Æthelred looked across his table.
“Who’s that?”
The men laughed.
“What do you mean, who’s that?” He chuckled, taking in a mouthful of stew-soaked bread. When he looked back up, Æthelred was staring at him searchingly. “Prince Edwin, the king’s son. I’m surprised you don’t know him given how often he visits your kingdom.”
“He doesn’t visit our kingdom…” Æthelred’s voice trailed off.
“Sure he does. He visits all the time to see that young princess of yours. Not that his father’s happy about it, of course, what with your king wanting to defeat ours and all. I’m surprised you didn’t know about it.”
Æthelred had heard little of what the man said, his words coming to him muffled, as if someone had laid a pillow over his ears. His mind swirled.
how often his visits your kingdom … that young princess … your king wanting to defeat ours …
He stood up abruptly.
“Excuse me, sirs.” He nodded towards each of them. “I’m afraid I must retire. The journey, it’s worn me out.”
He managed to maintain his composure until he reached the small outbuilding that he would share with Sigebert and their closest men that evening. Sitting by the fire that had been lit for them, he placed his head in his hands, offering up a prayer that his instincts were wrong.
Because if they were right, then the hand that had held the knife to Ælfwynn’s throat had belonged to one of King Eadred’s men.
And if it belonged to one of King Eadred’s men, then King Ældred was sure to consider the murder of his daughter an outright declaration of war.
There would be no turning back from this.
This is excellent! I want to know more!!