Abbot Faelbric went to lengths to shelter Alfred from a great deal of the news on the island but he was allowed to read some of the scrolls from the years surrounding the death of King Edbert of Northumbria, whose father, Aelle the First, was also murdered by the pagans.

"They killed him in his own hall?" Alfred asked. "Where were his guards?"

"All killed." Wihtred explained.

"How did they get inside the king's hall with so many weapons?"

"They owned Edbert for years."

"What do you mean, they owned him?"

"After killing Edbert's father, the pagan king imprisoned his mother, and they put him on the throne on the condition that he always do as they tell him."

"Why did the pagan king not take the throne for himself?"

"Even pagans understand the importance of bloodlines. They could have killed Edbert when he was a child, or they could use him to hold the kingdom together and collect their taxes."

"Tell me that the King of Northumbria did not pay them taxes before they murdered him."

"Aye, your highness, he did. It was a great secret from the regular people, whose toil was payment to the wild men who ravaged their lands, but yes, King Edbert had to pay them."

"Aethelbert would never do that."

"No," Wihtred shook his head. "I think your brother would take a quick death over such a sentence."

Alfred watched the bishop for a long moment before he found his voice again. "I feel very sorry for King Edbert. I do not know which is worse, watching your father die in front of you, or having him die so far away from you that you had not seen him in years."

Wihtred laid a gentle hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Your father is seated at the right hand of the Lord."

"Of course, I know that." Alfred wiped his cheek with the back of his sleeve, then signed himself with the symbol of the cross.

"Do you wish to get back to it?" Wihtred motioned.

Alfred went back to the table in the center of the room and picked up his quill. They had the solitude of the abbot's house, where Alfred and his small entourage had lived ever since they arrived in Rochester. Alfred bent over the pages on his desk as shadows from numerous candles flickered and danced around his hand while he wrote. He had spent almost four years working on it, but he was nearly finished with a complete copy of the Holy Bible. He was taking his time, only working on it in the evenings when he had done all his other studies, and it was beautiful.

But, as diligent as Alfred was, there were some months when he did not work on his Bible at all, and even neglected his usual studies. Those were the months when the fever of translation wormed through his brain and gave him no rest. He had an idea one night to copy the Bible from Latin into Saxon, and he was unable to sleep again until he had begun. As he worked on the Book of Genesis, Alfred realized that the translation of words was difficult, as there were many Latin words that did not exist in Saxon, and Latin concepts that Alfred thought could be misconstrued by Saxon clergy if he tried to use them. He spent more time praying about the translation than writing it. Inevitably, he would grow frustrated with the project and throw away everything that he had done, going back to his studies during the day and copying the Bible verbatim at night. But, after a few months, the need to finish the translations would creep back into his mind, and Alfred would begin again.

He dipped his quill into ink, and a knock on the door stopped him. Wihtred cleared his throat and stood up, setting his own pages aside. "Allow me, my lord," the bishop said, and went to the door.

Alfred watched and, as usual, a feeling of dread filled his belly. He reminded himself that he was safe. He felt safer in Rochester Monastery than anywhere that he could remember, but the memories of his time on the continent never went away, and he often dreamed of an angry King Charles, or a sly Merovich, and part of his mind feared that they would return to his life in some manner, even though he knew that they would not. Still, relief crawled through him when Wihtred smiled at the person on the other side of the door.

"Ser Wulfheard, my lord!" Wihtred announced.

Alfred stood up, wiping his fingers on a rag to remove any excess ink. "God bless you, my friend. He be praised that you have returned safely. How is my brother?"

"The king sends his warmest regards." Wulfheard shook the rain from his cloak. "I think you have grown taller in the month that I have been away."

"Perhaps." Alfred brushed imaginary dust from the front of his tunic, and the gems on his ink-stained fingers sparkled in the dim light of the room.

Wulfheard furrowed his brow as he examined Alfred. "And taller than Bishop Wihtred already."

Alfred grinned at Wihtred, who smiled in his usual good-natured way, not appearing at all upset about becoming shorter than his young charge.

"Come to the fire." Alfred gestured to the hearth, where he, Wulfheard, and Wihtred sat down together.

Since Alfred had become a ward of the monastery, his only interaction with the outside world was sending Wulfheard to court on regular occasions to gather news. It was through Wulfheard that he had heard about the death of King Edmund of East Anglia, and about the birth of Aethelred's son, who was named Aethelhelm. Within the protected walls of the dorms and chapel of Rochester, life was structured and predictable. Nestled into the seclusion of the abbot's chamber, Alfred enjoyed a privacy known to very few on the island.

"Tell me." Alfred warmed his hands over the hearth fire. "What have they to say in court?"

"There is news."

Uther brought squares of peat and built up the hearth while Efrog retrieved goblets and a flask of weak wine. Efrog came to Alfred first, but Alfred waved him toward Wulfheard. The old knight took his cup and held it while the squire filled it for him, and Alfred waited eagerly for the news.

"The pagan king who killed Edmund in East Anglia has himself been killed. The deed was done by the rebel lord, Aelle, of Northumbria. The good news is that the evil king is slain, but in retaliation, his son has burned down the City of York. Aelle has fled, and the invaders chase at his heels like dogs. So is the word at court."

"We must pray for the people of York." Alfred bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"Of course," Wulfheard agreed. "I am sure that the entire monastery is at that task just now."

"Has the abbot called a mass?" Alfred's adolescent voice cracked when he spoke.

"I gave this news to the abbot upon my arrival," Wulfheard said. "I believe that he was calling the brothers together when I came out here to see you."

"Why was I not called as well?"

"My lord, I do not …"

"He will not let me wear a monk's habit," Alfred complained. "He holds prayers as if they were secret meetings, and he does not tell me about these special assemblages!"

"You are not a monk," Wulfheard reminded.

"But I WILL be!" Alfred could feel his face redden. He was often angry, but as always, he had to hide his feelings and remain emotionless. It was a lonely way to live, and Alfred looked forward to the eventual anonymity that would be his when he shaved his head and would finally be allowed to don a habit of plain, drab cloth. "I am nearly kept a prisoner. What else am I not being told? And why do you give Abbot Faelbric the news that you carry before you see me?" Alfred wanted to know. "Why am I the last to know everything? Does the abbot wish to keep me ignorant? Answer me!"

"The truth is that the abbot knew about York before my arrival. And no, I believe that he did not want the news to reach you, my lord." Wulfheard lowered his voice, and his steely eyes softened as he spoke. "There have been many things from which Abbot Faelbric has wished to shelter you."

"Like the martyrdom of Kind Edmund?" Alfred shuddered as he signed himself with the cross. The murder of a king was the sign of a world gone mad.

"Yes. And I may say," Wulfheard continued, "that the abbot has not forgiven me for giving you the details of the late king's death."

"Does he believe that I am a child?" Alfred fumed. "That I am not worthy enough, or intelligent enough to be told the truth?"

"While I am sure that is not the case," Wulfheard said. "I cannot claim to know what the abbot thinks."

Alfred stood up and walked to the window, where he was almost tall enough to rest his chin on the sill.

"There is more."

Alfred looked back over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"The king is coming to Rochester."

"My brother is coming here?" Alfred turned all the way around to give Wulfheard his full attention again. "Is he coming this winter?"

"He will arrive after the Candlemas celebration," Wulfheard said.

"Did you tell Faelbric?"

"The abbot does not know. So there, then. Now you have a secret over him."

Alfred was ashamed of the seed of pleasure that he got from besting the abbot, but it had often seemed to Alfred that Faelbric enjoyed his own superiorities. When Alfred complained about his treatment, Wihtred insisted that the abbot was only following rules. Alfred grumbled inward, and prayed for patience and understanding, but he found it difficult.

Candlemas could not come and go fast enough for Alfred's liking. News of the king's eminent arrival reached the abbot without any help from Alfred and Wulfheard, and the monastery was prepared for the day.

Alfred was summoned to the hall, so he donned his leather armor, sat astride a white stallion, and turned his horse toward the town. Abbot Faelbric insisted that Wihtred remain at the monastery, so Alfred set out with Wulfheard riding at his right hand and his two squires just behind them.

Alfred looked over his shoulder at Wihtred, who stood with Abbot Faelbric, praying for Alfred's safe journey. They rode to Rochester Hall and met the lord there, who was also mounted, standing in front of the city gates, watching the horizon. The road from Canterbury to Rochester was as perfectly straight as the eye could detect. Deep ditches dipped off each side of the road and made it passable even in the deepest snow fall.

Alfred brought his horse to stand next to the lord's, and they scouted the landscape together. Alfred saw them first, then he heard Lord Rochester catch his breath, and knew that the old man had seen them, too. A moment after he spotted the darkness on top of a distant hill, the snake of a procession slid through the cold, white landscape. Alfred had expected to see a small retinue, but the procession kept coming and coming. The lead horses entered the woods and filtered in at their stately speed while still more riders darkened the far horizon.

The first rider broke through the trees and charged along the road toward him. Alfred recognized Aethelred. The rest of the riders came through the trees at a steady trot, and Alfred rode forward with Wulfheard and Lord Rochester to greet them, Aethelred first.

The prince met them with a smile. "It is good to see you well, little brother."

Alfred nodded, and then looked to the king, who came up behind Aethelred. Theobald rode close behind him, followed by the vanguard.

"Alfred," smiled the king. "How fare your studies?"

"Quite agreeable, your highness," Alfred answered. "Please, follow me to the hall."

Alfred turned his horse and led them to Rochester Hall, but as he was turning, he glanced over the king's shoulder at the amazing number of men his brother had brought.

"Your highness," Alfred marveled. "This looks like a war party."

Aethelbert did not answer, and Alfred felt a rock forming in the pit of his stomach. He looked over the expanse of well-armed soldiers and realized that it could be nothing else.

There were too many men to fit inside the hall, so only the highest-ranking men went in, while the others made do with outbuildings and tents. Inside the hall, the lady had organized the servants in a line, ready with anything that the king and his men might need. Candles illuminated their faces, and large fires of peat burned for warmth.

Alfred went to the main hearth with his two brothers as well as the men who never left their sides; Theobald and Gwald. Wulfheard, likewise, stayed close to Alfred, and there were several others that Alfred did not know. They took a seat and Alfred watched the king's face intently, waiting for answers to the questions that were boiling inside him.

"The world is changing," King Aethelbert said, as he looked over the assemblage of men. "Another pope has been called home by the Lord, and now Pope Adrian the Second calls for our fealty. However, we can send not even an envoy to represent us in Rome, because of the commotion in the North. If you have not yet heard, the pagans have killed another Northumbrian king. God rest King Ecgwerth." Aethelbert paused to cross himself.

A scoff from Theobald interrupted the silence. Aethelbert glared at him, and he was still. Alfred furrowed his brow, and instinctively looked for Wihtred to explain, but then he remembered that the bishop was back at the monastery.

King Aethelbert continued his speech. "The pagans have burned the City of York and taken over the vale. Aelle is on the run, to Ireland, probably. Our great enemy coils like a snake ready to strike. We have received a call for help from King Burgred, our ally and our kinsman as well. Pagan armies gather at his northern border, and our brothers in the middle kingdom need us."

"We will crush them!" Aethelred shouted. "And stop them in Mercia, before they reach Wessex!"

Alfred startled at his brother's sudden interjection, and Aethelred's loud voice filled the hall for a moment. Everyone looked at Aethelbert, waiting for his approval.

"Their movements within the northern kingdom are unknown," Aethelbert continued. "But we do know that they are mobilizing close to Nottingham with armies more than doubling what they had when my brother sat on the throne."

There was a moment of silence as the men around the fire crossed themselves and bowed their heads at the mention of their former king.

"This is the largest incursion we have ever seen," King Aethelbert said. "They are no longer satisfied with the North. Even our southern-most outposts are not safe. Lord Rochester, I need you to gather your forces and come with me. I am taking provisions and men to northern Mercia. Alfred." Aethelbert looked levelly at him. "You are to come with me there."

Alfred had never rebelled against anyone in his life, but he was flabbergasted by the decree. "Your highness … to a battle? I –"

Aethelbert turned away from him. "This is not a matter over which you have any choice, Alfred."

"But I have lived my entire life in preparation for monastic vows." Alfred shook his head in confusion. "I cannot attend a battle. I have made promises to God. You will damn my eternal soul."

Aethelbert was losing patience. "Alfred, God made you a royal son before you made any promises, and God above all knows what it means to be a prince."

"Aethelbert …"

"Further," Aethelbert informed him in a reprimanding tone. "When I take you north, Bishop Wihtred will remain here in Rochester. You are no longer grooming to be a prince of the church, so you will not need his advice."

"But, he … he is my favorite, Aethelbert." Alfred objected, feeling that everything he had ever known was being ripped away from him in one, fatal pull. "How can I leave him?"

"You will have Ser Wulfheard to tutor you."

"Yes, but …"

"No more complaints, little brother." Aethelbert insisted. "You will pack your things at the monastery, Wulfheard will tell you what is necessary, and you will come back here tomorrow before noon. Then we will leave for Nottingham."