Author's Note - Let's talk about primogeniture! For those of you who do not know, primogeniture is a term that refers to when land and inheritance is passed down to the eldest son or, if there are no sons, to the closest male relative. This was law in much of Britain until 1925 when it was overturned. However, before the Norman Conquest (1066), primogeniture was not that widespread. Sometimes the eldest son was favored, sometimes it was the youngest son, and women were not automatically excluded altogether. Occasionally, if there were no sons, then the inheritance would be passed down to the daughter (such as the case with the real Alfwynn). However, this was slowly beginning to change through the 900s as the Early Middle Age came to an end.

Also, at this point in time, "English" and "England" did not exist. Or, at least, the terms did not. The English were a part of a tribe called the Anglo-Saxons ("Angles"), but they were not unified. Like Scotland, England was also divided up into several kingdoms, such as the kingdom of Mercia. If they were from Mercia, then they considered themselves "Mercians", not "English". For clarification, when referring specifically to the English or England as a whole, I will be using the terms "Angles" and "Angleland". When referring generically to anyone from Britain (whether they be Scottish or English) then the term "Briton" is used.

Acts of St. Andrew

Chapter 2

At the meeting place between the Tame and the Anker rivers, lay the capital of Mercia. For years it had been nothing but a pile of Roman ruins, subject to the mercy of the Norse, when it had been rebuilt by the great Mercian queen Athelflad. It was here that the Queen died and here that her daughter made her last stand.

Queen Alfwynn stood tall as her uncle, King Edward of Wessex, stormed through her castle with his son, Prince Athelstan, by his side. A winter gale chased after him and Alfwynn could not think of a more appropriate herald than the bitter December wind. She could hear the fighting still going on outside; it was no use, however. They had taken the castle, her capital. It was over. Mercia had fallen to Edward's conquest, just the same as Essex and East Anglia. What did Britannia have to fear from the Norse when no kingdom was safe from even their own fellow Britons? She remembered how proud she had once been of her uncle, how he had cut huge swaths of land away from the Norse, reclaiming it for the Angles. But then he had turned on his neighbors, his friends and family, and now here he was, laying waste to his niece's kingdom.

King Edward came to a stop before the eighteen year old queen. He lifted up his arms, gesturing helplessly at his warriors who flooded into her great hall. He looked almost apologetically at her. "Time to give it up, my girl."

"You won't be able to keep it," Alfwynn warned, hissing at the man like an angry cat. "My people would never allow it! I am the rightful queen!"

Edward laughed at that, a little huff of air that spoke of his arrogance and amusement. "Child, you've had that throne for less than six months. What would happen if the Norse attacked? Do you honestly think you could stop them? The Mercians would be grateful to have an experienced ruler such as I to lead them. Besides," he continued. "What makes you think you have any claim to this land?"

Alfwynn sputtered at that. "I am the daughter of King Athelred and Queen Athelflad."

"And I am Athelflad's brother," Edward pointed out. "And the closest living male relative."

"That makes no difference," she seethed. "I am their child. My blood is their blood. You are the interloper; your sex makes no difference here."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," the King conceded. "But, you see, my dear girl, this has to be done. If we are ever to drive the Norse from this island then we must unite the whole of Angleland under one leader. A King of the Angles. No more in-fighting, no more squabbles between small, petty lords."

"And you are just the king?"Alfwynn mocked.

Edward smiled. "Who else could it be? You?" He gestured to his warriors. "My men will escort you back to my castle in Wessex. You have nothing to fear. You will be treated as the princess you are. You will have servants and a generous allowance-"

"But I will be your prisoner."

"Your movements will be... restricted, yes."

"You will not keep Mercia for long," Alfwynn vowed.

Edward stole a glance at his son and laughed. "We'll see."

Eighteen years later and Alfwynn was still locked away in her little tower, deep within Athelstan's fortress. She had spent half her life as a prisoner to the Wessex kings and even now the thought still sent a cold shiver through her. She had lost so much, all those years gone, wasted while she was trapped in her cold, little room. Edward had kept his promise; he had given her everything she had asked for, except for her freedom. Her chamber was filled with beautiful dresses and gold jewelry and expensive books, but she would trade it all for a walk through the courtyard without a guard.

Alfwynn sat before her loom, delicately embroidering the tapestry she had been slaving away before for the past month, the sleeves of her white, loose robe falling down to reveal pale, sun-starved arms. The long, black veil of her nun's habit pulled across the floor with every turn of her head as she leaned in to finish her stitching. She had taken Holy Orders years ago; it had been made clear to her that she would never be allowed to marry and she had already been forced into a life of quiet solitude, so why not make it official? Besides, now that she was a nun it was impossible for her to ever reclaim her throne. As far as Athelstan was concerned, she was harmless and made no attempt to restrict her correspondence any longer. Most of the time, she merely conversed with a few abbesses she had befriended, donating some of her allowance to various charities and monasteries. She might as well do some good while she still could.

In fact, the tapestry she was now working on was to be a gift for the newly founded convent of Dál Riata. Alfwynn was not the helpless, feeble woman her cousin Athelstan mistook her for. She was not deaf to castle gossip and her maids were always happy to share any news .When she heard of Athelstan's campaign into Alba, she knew that he was not content to merely being King of the Angles, as his father had been. Athelstan would not be satisfied until all of Britannia was under his thumb. She had given explicit instructions to her maids to tell her if they heard anything of importance: troop movements, supply caravans, the names of allies.

She would not allow Alba to fall to Wessex as her own beloved Mercia had. She would send her aunt, Queen Elinor, any help she could possibly give. She had rushed to her loom the moment she had heard of Elinor's convent, ripping out the stitches and erasing the idyllic pastoral scene she had been working on. Instead, she wove Biblical scenes into the threads, an appropriate gift for a convent, though if one looked closely they could see that there was something odd about it. On one side was a legion of Babylonian soldiers marching towards Jerusalem. However, the road she had stitched could only be found in Galloway. She was sure that Elinor would be able to recognize the numerous landmarks she had embroidered and understand just where exactly these so-called Babylonian soldiers were marching towards. On the other side, there was the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. At first glance, it was a fairly typical depiction. Red and gold thread illuminated the flames behind the city and angels were trumpeting its destruction high above. The only difference was the figure of Lot. Instead of an old man, he had been replaced by a red-headed youth.

Down towards the bottom, Alfwynn put in the finishing stitches of the last scene. She meant it as a little joke between her and her aunt, a private laugh that they could share even though they had not seen each other in almost two decades. It was the scene of Absalom, with his hair caught in the tree branches, and the swords of David's soldiers stuck through him. Absalom looked suspiciously like her dear Uncle Edward and the soldiers couldn't be anything other than her own Mercian warriors.

She had warned Edward that Mercia would rise up in rebellion. He had laughed, convinced it would never happen. He was so sure they had accepted him as their king. At least, he had thought so until the day her Mercians had killed him.


Elinor sat huddled in her small chamber within the ruins of Mor'du's castle. All around her she could hear the grunting of the workmen and the chanting of her fellow nuns, praying in their makeshift chapel. It wouldn't be long until the castle was restored to its former glory and into a proper abbey for her and her followers. In the meantime, she had so much work to do. The queen had thrown herself into her religious duties in a desperate attempt to keep her mind occupied. If she didn't she would go mad with fear and worry. A month had passed and still there had been no word of Hubert. She would invade Galloway herself if she thought she had any hope of succeeding; as it was, all she could do was wait for some word from Merida. Elinor shook the dark thoughts from her mind and returned to her work. She sat hunched over her little work table, carefully illuminating the words of St. Andrew onto the thick parchment: After this Andrew was taken and imprisoned by Egeans, and all came to the prison to be taught. After a few days he was scourged and crucified; he hung for three days, preaching, and expired.

A sudden knock pulled Elinor from her manuscript and she looked up to see a servant standing at her door with a large bundle in her arms. She gestured for the girl to set it on the far table and with heave the servant laid it before her. Elinor could tell from the shape and size that she had been sent a carpet or tapestry of some sort. "Who is this one from?" She asked. They had received many gifts from various noblewomen and bishops over the past few weeks; some donated with only the thought of religious devotion driving them, while others were less altruistic and hoped that they might gain favor with King Hamish by doing so.

"Queen Alfwynn, your Highness."

Elinor knew the expression on her face must have looked positively dumbfounded, though she wasn't sure why she was so shocked. Everyone knew how generous Alfwynn was when it came to charity and religious undertakings; still, she was surprised that Athelstan had allowed it. Then again, why would the great King of Wessex care about a tapestry sent by a middle-aged nun to an old woman?

The queen quickly cut the strings and pulled away the cloth, revealing the tapestry underneath. She laughed out loud when she saw it, that black stone that had weighed so heavily inside of her disappeared at the wonderful little scenes her niece had made. Not only had Alfwynn betrayed the location of Athelstan's army, but she had also given Elinor a bit of hope for there was a picture of her own dear Hubert fleeing Lord Dingwall's castle.