Offa - Rex Merciorum (Saints And Sinners Book 3)

Book summary

In 8th century Mercia, King Offa and his ambitious queen, Cynethryth, navigate power struggles, revolts, and alliances amid societal changes in tumultuous Anglo-Saxon Britain. John Broughton's OFFA - REX MERCIORUM reveals the enigmatic legacy of Offa and the true force behind his reign in a meticulously researched historical tale.

Excerpt from Offa - Rex Merciorum (Saints And Sinners Book 3)

Tame Weorth, AD 757

Lady Cynethryth stood, her fine cornflower-blue dress, despite the terrible mugginess of a summer’s day in the heart of Mierce, draping around her, the soft rustling of the expensive fabric pleasant to the ear. The colour suited her as it brought out the flush of her rosy cheeks and the lightness of her long, tightly braided blonde hair. She was not a tall woman, but there was something about her posture that made her imposing, even terrifying to some. Her bearing was born of confidence, an awareness of her attractiveness and nobility. Not for nothing had she chosen her consort with care and calculation.

Cynethryth had a dream, an unconfined vision, which depended upon her spouse, Offa, for its realisation, although he did not know it yet. Now was the time to act! The king’s murder had thrown Mierce into disarray—civil war was the inevitable result of the power struggle that had left Æthelbald bloodied and dead after a long and successful reign. Offa, a distant relative of Æthelbald, was descended from Eowa, the brother of the greatest Miercian king, the pagan Penda. His lineage entitled, nay, obliged him to seize the moment. She would urge him to act against the pretender, Beornred, whose only virtue was his resolve. He had declared himself King of Mierce, but that crown would be Offa’s, and she would be Queen—not just of Mierce but of the Englisc! Now, to share her vision with Offa!

She glided rather than walked across the great hall, conscious, as ever, of all eyes on her regal presence, and indeed, although she did not like to boast about it, she, too, was descended from former royalty, in direct line from Penda’s wife, Cynewise, and her daughter, Cyneburh—did not her name reflect this lineage?

“Husband, I need to speak with you in a quiet place.”

He gave her a curious look, shrugged, and linked arms, steering her outdoors into the shade cast by the building and away from indiscreet ears. “Well, what is it? Are you with child?”

She looked miserable, “Nay, but not from want of trying!” She smiled coyly and pressed closely to him. “I want you to go away for a while, my dearest man.”

“Go away?” He looked shocked.

“Aye, gather your warriors and ride east towards Bedeford. There you will encounter the force of Beornred. He is rightly unpopular and not fit to be King of Mierce. You, instead, were born to rule this land with me by your side. Hark! I have spoken with Ealdormen Heardberht, Bercol, and Sigebed, and all three agree that you are of the right age and have the attributes for kingship. They are prepared to bring their warriors if you agree to lead them.”

“By God, woman! I have but a score and seven years. You have been busy and you almost put me to shame. But I have not been idle, I have spoken with Ealdormen Ealdwulf and Eadbald, and they wish me to lead them, more so now, I imagine, thanks to your good work!” He kissed her fiercely and declared, “Messengers! I will send to all of them and we shall gather in the Tame valley at the rising of the moon, ready to march on Bedeford at dawn.”

Offa surveyed the well-armed black mass of men with satisfaction; they were little more than shades in the faint light of the breaking day, but importantly, enough to challenge Beornred and, if God so willed, conquer him.

After an eastwards march, Offa’s army camped overnight in a meadow near Bruna’s homestead, ready to react to the scouts’ reports at first light. At dawn, Offa listened to his spies attentively and decided to lead his force along the Great Ouse valley until he saw the enemy. He grinned contentedly, for he would never have chosen Beornred’s position, so vulnerable with their backs to the wide river. He summoned his ealdormen and found them equally astonished at the folly of their foe. They all agreed that an outflanking manoeuvre in a wide arc would place Beornred’s army in an impossible position. An archer brought down an enemy scout galloping to warn his king about the imminent danger. His elimination was enough to gain the advantage that surprise brought, for as Offa’s main force marched, banners swirling in the wind, defiantly towards the facing enemy ranks, Heardberht’s men burst from the woodland upon their flank while Ealdorman Sigebed’s force struck from the rear.

Offa had little time to reflect as he strove to defend himself in the van of his army, but at the sight of what should have been friendly banners fluttering over Beornred’s army, sorrow at slaying fellow Miercians overwhelmed him. Was there anything worse than civil war? He swore that when he was king, as surely, he would be, Mercian arms would only be wielded against external enemies. The time for hesitation was over as he hewed and hacked at arms as strong as his. Encouraged by the steady advance of his men, he redoubled his efforts. Offa had fought against the Wealisc under King Æthelbald, so he was unmoved by the spattering blood and the screams of dying men, except that this time, Miercians were falling on the sodden turf. Suddenly, under pressure from all sides, with retreat impossible, the enemy laid down their arms, most likely inspired by the same thought that they were fighting their brothers and aware that their leader had taken flight into the nearby woodland. Offa sent a small band of men to search for the fugitive king, but despite their efforts, he made good his escape. When he turned around, it was to see his men and the ‘enemy’ working in unison to tend the wounded.

The same spirit of unity prevailed during the gathering and burning of corpses. An ealdorman, named Cyneberht, who had fought alongside Beornred, and with whom Offa had twice signed King Æthelbald’s charters, came and knelt before him, swearing allegiance and offering his men. The blood-spattered warrior hoisted him to his feet and, embracing him, showed magnanimity.

“At the death of our late lamented King Æthelbald, you stepped into the breach filled by Beornred. I cannot blame you. The kingdom needs a strong leader and, give Beornred his due, he acted decisively, but now, brother, I need men like you by my side, for I must consolidate my hold on Mierce, else today’s victory has been in vain.”

Back in Tamworth, Offa approached his wife. Cynethryth wrinkled her nose in disapproval as he snatched the wooden beaker of water from her outstretched hand.

“At least, tell me you won the battle,” she said, eyeing his disgusting state with distaste. He noticed the water, not her, swilling it into his parched mouth with a filth-encrusted hand. Dust stained his face, his clothes, and his weapons glistened with what she suspected was gore of the battlefield. And he stank of sweat and horses. She was staggered by the state of him.

“Of course, I won. I’m alive, am I not? I set Beornred to flight; my only regret is that he escaped.”

She compressed her lips and summoned servants. “A hot bath for my husband and fresh clothes, if you please.”

When he returned to her and noticed her smile of approbation, he said, “What did you expect after a battle, a scented meadow flower?”

She laughed and kissed him. “You know that the task is not even half-completed. Your hold over Mierce must be consolidated, and you must have the ealdormen declare you king.”

“I know all that and more! I shall summon the lords here on the morrow. First, we all deserve a good rest and strong drink.” He clapped his hands and ordered twice-brewed ale.

She sat beside him and quaffed the ale as well as any man. It gave her the courage to speak her mind.

“I have no intention of being merely the controller of the household. Alcuin! Where are you, you miserable wretch?”

A cleric stepped forward, “My Lady?” he bowed.

“Husband, this is Alcuin, a scholar and teacher. I have instructed him to teach you Franconian and Latin.”

“Woman, who are you to decide such things? Let me remind you that I wield the sword in this household.”

She glared at him, “Who am I? I am soon to be the Queen of Mierce and you will learn from Alcuin how to become a ruler like King Charlemagne, for he regularly travels between Mierce and Frankia. One day, you will stand before Charlemagne on equal terms and impress him with your knowledge of his language. Now, I will leave you two men together to make your arrangements.” She swigged down the rest of her ale and swanned away with a smug smile, aware that she too could win battles, but her weapon of choice was her mind.

Offa was happy to do his beautiful wife’s bidding, especially when her demands coincided with his desires. For this reason, the next two days saw the steady influx of ealdormen through his door. Among them arrived a figure carrying a sack, whose appearance resembled that of Offa himself when he had arrived straight after the Battle of Bedeford. Offa thought he recognised the fellow as one of the warriors who had fought beside Ealdorman Sigebed on that fateful day. He summoned him over with a gesture.

“Young fellow, don’t I know you? You look as if you have come straight from the battlefield.”

“Ay, lord, you know me. I am Sigeberht, son of Ealdorman Sigebed and, in a manner of speaking, I have come fresh from an engagement.”

These words pricked Offa’s interest, “How so?”

The young man reached into his sack and, grasping a handful of hair, hauled forth a severed head. Offa recognised it at once. “Beornred!” he gasped, “What is this?” The same question that the now silent, awestruck assembly asked themselves.

“After the battle, lord, I pursued him into the nearby woodland. It took me more than a day to catch up with him, but when I did, we fought to the death. My axe put an end to your foe, lord. I brought his head as proof of my words. The wild beasts will feed on his body.”

“I am your debtor, Sigeberht and I never forget my debts. Sigebed!” he roared.

The young man’s father hurried across the room to stand beside his son.

“You can be proud of your boy,” Offa growled, “Look what a present he has bestowed on me! Heaven knows, I was happy to drive him into exile, but this is a better solution!”

Sigeberht held up the gory, ashen head for his father and the whole gathering to see better.

“When I am elected king, in the next few days, I will make over Beornred’s estates to your son and create him an ealdorman. I will need such loyal and trusted men by my side.” Offa caught the glint of pride and appreciation in the ealdorman’s eyes and knew that he had gained two certain votes at the forthcoming Great Council.

Before losing the advantage gained by Sigeberht’s revelation, Offa summoned a warrior to his side—he meant to make the most of the attention he had gained.

“Take the head, mount it on a stake and display it over the town gate. Let’s show the world the fate of Offa’s enemies!” He glared around the hall and noticed with satisfaction that nobody held and challenged his gaze.