Within an arrow’s shot of the ancient fort,
home of ravens and screeching sea eagles . . .
Inside the circle of stone walls
built by Romans, crumbling now, collapsing . . .
In the very place some people still
call Camelot, Alfred the King
ruled the West Saxons from his hall
in Winchester.
“This is the hub and beating
heart of my whole wide kingdom.”
That’s what the king said.
But each spring
and summer, each autumn and winter,
he rode around all his royal estates,
an unholy progress of ponies and carts
picking along unpaved green lanes,
over sandy heath and through silent forest,
slogging through mud, crossing swollen streams.
Bath and Worcester, Wallingford, Chichester,
west in Wareham, east in Rochester,
wherever the king was, he held court—
forever leaving Winchester, forever returning.
At dawn all the king’s duties began.
As soon as he heard his day-trumpeters,
Alfred dressed, proceeded to the hall,
and held court. He conferred
with advisors and heard messengers;
he listened to arguments and petitions,
handed down decisions, and gave
grants of land, rewards, punishments.
And on many days the king met members
of his household and thanked them
for their work—his weaponsmiths and craftsmen,
his falconers, huntsmen, and kennelmen.
But late each afternoon, on every day
except Sunday, when he rode out hunting—hunting or hawking—the king retreated
to a quiet inner chamber
with Asser, his Welsh priest. That’s where
the king of Wessex became an eager pupil!
Sitting on an oak stool, or sometimes
standing at a slanted desk, he listened
with both ears to the words and phrases
that Asser taught him, and learned Latin.
“You’ve told me,” the king said,
“that some books are so wise,
so wonderful that we should be able
to hear them, but they’re all in Latin!
You say there’s one that describes
distant places, distant people,
but tells almost nothing about us here,
perched as we are on the edge of the ocean.
I’ll translate it! And I’ll add stories
from far-flung parts of England,
and tales from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.”
Asser smiled and tugged his black beard.
“As if you’re not already too busy
ruling a kingdom, laying down new laws,
to-ing and fro-ing, fortifying towns,
and always keeping a sharp eye on the Danes since you and their leader, Guthrum, made peace and promised to share the land between you.”
“Even so, I want my people to hear and to learn,” the king replied. “They’re not animals.
And how can they do that without
any books in our own language?
I want them to grow close to God.
I’ll have my scribes make copies
and send them to all my bishops
with precious pointers made of ivory
and crystal, enamel and gold, so that they
can follow each line, each word.”
Then King Alfred asked Asser, “There’s
a saying, isn’t there? ‘Only God knows
what’s in store for a growing child.’
When I was a boy, I never imagined
that all four of my elder brothers
would die before I did. I never
supposed that I would be crowned king.
“I was only twenty-two then
and no one thought I’d last very long.
No, no, not with all the Viking attacks
and this daily pain in my poor gut.
It feels like a tangled cat’s cradle.”
The king smiled. “I was a weakling.
You must have heard how, when I
was nineteen, I collapsed at the altar
on the very morning I married my bride,
Ealhswith of Mercia. I was nearly
dead before I was wed!
But here I am, still alive.
And however long I live,
I vow that I will serve my people.”
While the king was still talking,
one of his servants tapped at the door.
“Sire, we all know how you welcome travelers,
especially those with a tale to tell. This morning
a trader has come to court with a wonderful story—
a story about horse racing and a ruler buried in ice.”
“Well,” the king replied, “let’s hear him
this evening. Let’s hope he weaves words
better than those three Cornishmen,
the ones who crossed to Ireland by mistake . . .
What with all their mumbling and jumbling,
I fell asleep before they had finished.”
Copyright © 2024 by Kevin Crossley-Holland; illustrated by Chris Riddell. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
