867 A.D Whiltshire Castle
Wessex, England
Lady Ambryn of Dannulf was seated quietly on the stone bench. The overhang of dense roses in the arbor kept her shielded from the damp. The cold drizzle fell in light gray blankets cloaking the garden in glistening droplets.
She shivered but was numb to the depressive gloom. Her fingers nervously twisted a beaded rosary within her black wool skirt folds. Her silver eyes turned murky to think of how different things would have been had her husband only lived.
As her maidservant wandered back into the castle to seek her cloak, Ambryn dwelled upon her future closing her eyes in dread. Only six weeks a widow. She could be sure what this recent command from her father meant. Her lips tightened in displeasure to think of that.
That was a probable conclusion considering the death of her second husband Edwald of Dannulf.
Ambryn was first wed at the tender age of four and ten to a man so old and sickly he couldn’t stand during their nuptials. Lord Armitage was a kindly grandfather of sorts to her. He was unable to consummate their marriage. He lived only another fortnight leaving his child bride all of his wealth and the borderlands between what was once Bernicia and Deira in Northumbria.
Armitage lost his wife and sons to a fever years before. He was desperate for an heir. Lord Whiltshire approached him, offering his young daughter for a dowry of twenty pieces of silver.
Lord Armitage was desperate, eager to beget an heir with his young bride, agreeing to surrender his holdings to Stephen in the event of his death. The old man believed her father intended only to protect his young wife from those who would seek to wrest away her inheritance by force. He foolishly put all in writing with his cleric. Her father soon found her another husband to advance his growing power in Northumbria.
Lord Edwald of Dannulf was Armitage’s neighbor to the south. His lands composed the other half of a greater whole once combined with Armitage.
A fall from his horse during a training exercise rendered him an invalid. To protect his lands he agreed to wed the widowed Lady Armitage for nothing more than the promise of military support from her powerful father.
Edwald tried to consummate the marriage but was unsuccessful at it and soon gave up. He lived only four more years, teaching his young wife how to run his household and defend it if need be.
Lord Dannulf was a far kinder man after the fall. Ambryn was told by the serfs Edwald was oft times cruel and prone to abusing spirits prior to the accident. With her he always spoke softly, his brown eyes sad as they fell upon his lovely bride.
To while away the hours of boredom during his confinement, Lord Dannulf taught his wife to read both in English and Latin, and do mathematical sums. He was an exacting tutor, frustrating her with his insistence she abandon her ladies duties to sit with him.
Edwald insisted she learn the Norse and Danish tongues to haggle better in the marketplaces so as not to cheat him. He demanded she be aware of the world, talking of politics, challenging her to think for herself. His worst fear was to leave her unprotected in the world
For all that they were only platonic partners Ambryn grew to care for Edwald. He made her his legs, he often jested, giving her the autonomy to handle his affairs both inside and outside the fortress.
Edwald went as far as to insist his lady wife be trained with his archers on the parapets of the keep. He was proud his wife managed to earn the respect of the men protecting his walls with her skills with the bow. For all of that, Ambryn would always think of him fondly. Edwald’s unheard making her an equal in their marriage came to an abrupt end all too soon.
Her husband grew weaker after the last winter, unable to hold onto life after a short bout of illness. Dannulf was only laid to rest six weeks when the summons arrived from Stephen of Whiltshire by one of his retainers.
Ambryn closed her eyes in dread, uttering a frustrated curse to know there was little doubt her father found her another match. His greed in attaining her marital properties was his obvious goal in this.
Stephen was highly favored by King Aethelred of Wessex. Her king would no doubt approve whatever alliance his most powerful earl placed before him. Ambryn could be sure whoever her father chose for her this time, the man was sure to forfeit away his right to her inheritance. Her previous husbands left all to her father, eager to sign away whatever he asked to marry his daughter.
The king’s brother and eventual successor Alfred was already ruling Wessex jointly but would have deferred to his elder brother in all things. The fact those in Wessex were already calling Alfred their king only added to the confusion. King Aethelred was known to give his younger brother autonomy in all matters of state most recently. It was rumored he was ailing though none could confirm it.
Stephen commanded Whiltshire, a huge holding and fortress in north Wessex along the border of Mercia. With the Dannulf lands and the Armitage holdings now combined her father controlled the borderlands of Northumbria.
Ambryn was no fool, seeing her father’s true goal the moment he chose Lord Dannulf for her. He was increasing his own holdings for a purpose she didn’t see at the time. But now that Dannulf was gone and the chaos in Northumbria mounted, it became glaringly obvious.
One only needed to look at the crudest hand drawn map to see her father cleverly placed himself at the heart of the political turmoil within Northumbria, his eyes on far more than she could have known.
King Aelle of Northumbria, a tyrant called the usurper for taking his half brother’s crown, was weakening in power. His opposition, his half brother Osberht, continually created divisiveness among the nobles. Civil turmoil erupted. The Viking hordes saw that as a ripe opportunity and invaded a year ago, driving out both kings and taking control of the city.
They swarmed the shores and raised the Roman-style walls of York in the autumn of 866, sending the ruling classes to flee to the south. The two kings could not agree nor would either bend to Ivar Ragnarsson and his brothers. It was inevitable Aelle was deposed and another put in his place to deal with the Northmen.
The Northumbrians, divided in loyalty between Aelle and the deposed Osberht were continually fighting amongst themselves, making the taking of York inevitable as the two monarchs continued to ignore the growing threat from the Northmen.
The two kings recently attempted to reconcile their differences to retake the city from the Vikings in a coup. It only succeeded in turning the Great Heathen Army on the march back to York. Any day they expected to hear of the slaughter in Northumbria.
Ambryn ground her teeth to know she could say nothing in regard to her fate. She was her father’s chattel with Lord Dannulf now dead. Any argument to avoid another marriage would be met with disdain. Her complaints to be wed before her period of mourning ended would fall upon deaf ears.
Her silver eyes desperately sought the high gray stone walls surrounding Whiltshire Castle, wishing for wings to spirit her away from this newest trap closing about her. Her expression turned bleak, her lips trembling slightly at the sad realization she had no power to save herself.
No, there was nowhere to fly or to run. She was caught as neatly as any bird placed before a window ledge in a gilt cage, able to look out at the world, but never to fly.
The years with Dannulf gave her a sense of freedom and purpose she never had before, a fleeting pleasure as her wings were once more clipped by a thoughtless hand, left to bleed and agonize over the loss.
At nine and ten and heiress to vast holdings, Ambryn was its very prisoner by design. Her father would never stop until he had all he wanted, advancing his power through her marriages.
This was her punishment for taking her father’s beloved Judith from him. She would be forever sold to further his ambitions, her wants and needs never mattering to him.
Lady Judith of Whiltshire lived for only three hours after birthing her fifth daughter, dying from a fever while her husband was on the march to do battle for his king.
Upon returning to his holdings after his victory in battle, Lord Whiltshire expected to find his lady wife greeting him with his male heir at last. Instead, Stephen was informed by a serf of his wife’s sad passing and handed over yet another girl child.
Ambryn forced back the tears to know she killed her mother just by being born. And how soon she would be made to feel that guilt, regarded with icy contempt by her sire from the moment she was aware of his hatred for her.
Her four sisters distanced themselves from their younger sister early on, fearful of receiving the same contempt from their sire. For that, Ambryn grew up alone, unloved, and cast upon the serfs to rear. Her father threw himself into warring for his king to avoid home and his five motherless daughters.
One by one her sisters were married off over the years to advance their father’s growing power, leaving Whiltshire behind for lives that never included her. She grieved to know that the four of them had always been close, but never with her.
Was it any surprise her father did this?
Her heart plummeted with the news the earl of Whiltshire returned any day from a campaign in Mercia. She knew by her father’s imperious summons that she would be present at Whiltshire Castle to wait upon his return that it didn’t bode well for her current independence.
For all of his wealth, Stephen couldn’t buy sons. He refused to remarry, for reasons he refused to speak of. None of his daughters had since produced a grandson to become the heir to Whiltshire.
Her father challenged all of his daughters with the task, promising much to the one who would give him the coveted heir. All four of her older sisters dutifully complied to achieve such an end.
But all had the misfortune of birthing only girls over the years, every last one, much to their father’s displeasure. Ambryn never had such an opportunity. Her husband’s never lived long enough to get her with child.
Her eyes filled with tears to know she would never have a child of her own. No, this was how her father would seek to remind her of her sins, to punish her, to deny her happiness for taking his own.
As some sort of atonement, she would be sold to another invalid, or to a man too old to ever beget children all to attain their lands when they died to further her father’s political goals.
Who would it be this time?
Who would she be marrying now that Lord Dannulf was cold in his grave?
Ambryn chewed her lower lip to dwell further upon the matter, flinching to hear the grating of the chains engaged to raise the portcullis and lower the drawbridge in the distance. She would find out only too soon. Her father was back a day earlier than anticipated.
Ambryn squared her shoulders, her chin lifting, hurt and resentment simmering within her eyes to know she had no choice but to accept whatever her father commanded of her. A flare of defiance brightened her gaze, determined to argue the matter no matter how her father intimidated her.
She would not meekly accept this as she had the first two times he sold her into marriage. After four years of running her own fortress and being mistress of her own fate, she’d not let go of that priceless freedom without some bit of a fight.
~ ~ ~
Stephen of Whiltshire was an impressive sight as he strode towards her on the garden path, her maidservant scurrying out of his way. His three retainers were fast upon his heels, catching his rudiments of travel tossed to them piece by piece.
A long gleaming broadsword swung from his hip. He was a tall man with brutish strength. Even at his advancing age of forty and five summers, he was a force to be reckoned with in battle. Called the White Wolf of Whiltshire, he was a daunting sight in his battle garb.
He flung off his helmet and tossed it to his manservant. Scars marred his handsome weathered countenance of wars long past. His flinty silver eyes hardly showed any glimmer of emotion as they flicked over her as he came nearer, his long silver fur cloak billowing out behind him.
Stephen had not seen his daughter in four years since he left her at Lord Dannulf’s holdings, depositing her heartlessly at the gates a mere day after Armitage died, ignoring her pleas and tears to go home.
Her father stared down at her that day with no emotion atop his huge warhorse before spurring the animal about without a backward glance. She sobbed and begged for him to come back, crumpling to the ground as she watched his retreat over the foggy moors.
Stephen made no show of embracing her as he approached her now, offering no semblance of affection. Her father never relented in his hatred of her. She felt his contempt as strongly as she had as a child, but today she would not cry or allow him the satisfaction of seeing her pain.
Stephen tugged off his leather riding gloves and tossed them to his man, jerking open his leather tunic strings. His white blond hair was streaked with silver, cut shorter than she remembered. She waited quietly as he brusquely ordered his three men away to see to the horses and weapons.
Again, Ambryn became the small girl child she once was, fidgeting with the trailing ends of her head rail under his dark scowl, her other fingers digging into her right upper thigh under her skirts, gouging at the skin there.
It was scarred over after years of digging the spot raw. To be in his mere presence was to feel the spot itch, as if compelling her to find some place within herself to hide. Those cold silver eyes met hers with no trace of warmth, his lips turning downward to see her in mourning attire.
“Black was never your color, Daughter. Widow’s trappings don’t suit you,” Stephen noted in a clipped tone that raised her hackles.
“I thought it prudent to mourn my husband for the sake of his people, Father. Dannulf has only been dead a short time,” Ambryn reminded him tersely as her head remained unbowed, her back stiffening as she met his stare without blinking. “Why have you summoned me here? What do you want?”
Stephen smiled at her direct question. “You waste little time getting to the point of matters, Daughter. Dannulf was remiss in letting you become so shrewish while he rotted abed.”
“I can only assume I am to be married. Whenever I have seen you over the years, a wedding was always soon to follow,” Ambryn mused coldly, seeing him stiffen at her insolent tone. “Who is it to be this time, Father? I have a short list of my own that might benefit you greatly if you wish to see it.”
Stephen glared threateningly at her now, his fists bunching at his sides. “You will mind your tongue, Ambryn! I’m no invalid who cannot take the strap to you!”
“And leave bruises to damage the goods, Father?” Ambryn regarded him with an arched look, seeing him redden under her mocking gaze. “We both know that won’t increase my value to you. Who is my lucky intended? Or in their case, unlucky, considering none of them live very long.”
A fleeting look of regret shone in Stephen’s eyes before it disappeared. “Another alliance is being negotiated. From this day forward you will cease to wear that accursed black. He arrives tomorrow after the fast. You wed Alton of York. You would do well to be a sweet biddable creature when he arrives, Ambryn.”
Ambryn fought the urge to slap her father for his disrespect of her period of mourning. “Is he not the likely one to rule Northumbria should Aelle and Osberht fall to the Vikings?”
Stephen regarded her with surprise at her knowledge of the current political state in York. “Every day more Northmen amass on the borders of Northumbria to retake the city. They come from East Anglia where they managed to extort their way north. And yes, Alton of York is seen as a likely puppet king to further Ivar Ragnarsson and his brothers.”
Ambryn gave a caustic laugh, shaking her head. “You would wed me to Alton of York knowing all of that on the eve of another Viking invasion? It makes little sense, Father. What if he should die in the fray? Pray what then? All of his lands and mine would be forfeit to the Vikings.”
“Let us hope Alton lives long enough to give you an heir to York.”
Ambryn’s head snapped up, her eyes suddenly alert. “He is not sickly?”
“Alton of York is as young and as healthy as you, Daughter,” Stephen offered dryly and shrugged. “His mother assured me his only ailment is but a minor one. I have no reason to believe he would die before giving York an heir. Your son would likely rule all of Northumbria one day. Should that not please you?”
Ambryn was stunned into silence for a moment, but shot him a suspicious look. “Wouldn’t the Vikings seek to put one of their own on the throne? And what of you? What do you get out of this, Father? I find it hard to believe you would wed me to the heir of York for nothing in it for yourself.”
Stephen frowned at her accusing tone. “Lady Ursula’s dower lands were offered to me, as well as enough gold to finance our king’s next venture in Mercia. I can assure you the Danes will see how much an alliance between both of our families helps King Aethelred. For that very reason, they would want to keep Alton under their thumbs. Much rides upon you giving York an heir. And do not forget, it is my heir as well. Alton needs powerful friends in the south.”
Ambryn wasn’t surprised to hear of her father’s lofty plans. She already figured much of it for herself. “What if I’m as cursed as my sisters and have only girls, Father? You and the York’s place much in one basket here.”
“You will give Alton a son, Ambryn,” Stephen decreed coldly. “Of that, I have no doubt. Unlike your sisters, you actually have some sense to realize how little value you have, should you not.”
Ambryn swallowed hard, furious to be used as a broodmare to further both her father and Alton of York’s goals. She could find nothing more to say, reminded only too well of how ruthless her father could be in getting what he wanted.
“This alliance is for the good of all, Daughter. It is Aethelred’s way of having some hand in naming the next king when the Northmen come. The Danish kings cannot afford to alienate Aethelred or his successor Alfred by placing one of their own there. The Vikings know this already. All has been put into place.”
Ambryn was stunned to have her worst fears confirmed. Another invasion of Northumbria was inevitable. All the nobles who conspired with the Danes were only worried of who would rule when the time came. They were no doubt promised that their holdings would remain their own to assist the Danes.
A sharp ache filled her chest to know how little power she had to stop what came for her. She watched her father stalk away, dismissing her without another word. Tears filled her eyes to realize no good would come from arguing it further.
Alton of York married her to just to attach himself to her father’s powerful name when the Vikings retook York, paying handsomely to put himself into such a key political position.
Ambryn wondered if her father predicted such turmoil in Northumbria with his deliberate seeking of such lucrative marriages for her in the past. The Vikings could not fail to see the danger in not selecting Alton of York to replace King Aelle after they married.
If the Danish kings ever wished to negotiate with Aethelred and his brother Alfred, they needed a loyal Northumbrian in power, one with powerful ties to Wessex. For now, they could only wait for the Northmen to arrive with their Great Heathen Army.
Ambryn returned to her rooms in the south tower, pushing aside the wooden shutters, looking out to see the endless leagues of forest stretching ahead of her, lands as far as her eyes could see.
A wealthy heiress such as herself was worth twice her weight in gold to the desperate nobles in York. They would likely pay any sum her father demanded to be backed by the power of Whiltshire. Her eyes narrowed to know her father planned all very well.
Her eyes became glued to the sight of a majestic hawk in the distance. She watched it circle high above and float upon the air overhead. She envied that bird with everything in her, knowing she would never fly or know such freedom.