Seckington Castle, 759.

A band of Mercians crept in time.

To the thunderous night, masking their steps.

The halls were empty, the courtyard a mess.

King Aethelbald’s chamber, open and unguarded.

Fourteen stabs, a Mercian King now martyred.

The coup leader shouts from the balcony, “The King is dead! The King is dead!”

 A new King is crowned,  the leader of the coup, Thane Beornred.

He reigned for less than a year after the murder. Aethelbald’s cousin, the great Offa of Mercia arrived, putting an end to the short tale of King Beornred.

Beornred lives on as a Thane once more, honourably conceding the title of King to Offa, thus avoiding justice by sword. His decision to renounce the throne turned out to be plentiful, and was enough to earn himself land, a castle, and a wife of royal blood, despite his brutal murder of the King before him. A murder that seemed to have never been spoken about nor acknowledged. The people of Mercia have since debated his peculiar reign and survival of punishment; How did Beornred regain status after such a murderous, traitorous act? Why did he murder King Aethelbald in the first place?

Offa, now King, appointed him as head marshal, affirming the strange trust of Offa. It was never clear how or why Beornred was given such generous mercy by Offa.

“Welcome to Seckington, sir. May I interest you and your lady companion in a room at the Red Hare inn? Or some apples? Or is it ale you require?”

Alwin ignores the rabid salesman, departing from his horse and leading it to the tavern next door. The girl follows.

“Wait here.”

He enters the tavern alone.

He looks around. There.

“It’s me.” he says.

“Who?” An old man responds.

“Me. I’ve found you, Aurelius.”

The old man laughs. “Who the hell is Aurelius?” The one-eyed man lifts off his eye-patch, revealing his healthy two eyes.

“Any coin or food for an old hero?” he says, grinning.

Alwin huffs and turns. No luck.

They weren’t here for Aurelius, though. His potential sighting was simply a bonus. They were here to meet the famed Beornred.

A man of open counsel, Beornred has started to build himself a reputation for being a man of the people. They say his ascension from damnation, from treacherous King-slayer to formidable Thane, was only something achievable for a man of Beornred’s generous and kind character. His wife was nicknamed 'the most comfortable women in all the land', as with a husband like Beornred, she couldn’t be anything but happy.

But Alwin knew better.

Alwin saw how he would beat his wife and sleep with enslaved girls. To the public, he was Beornred the Honest. To Alwin and the Lords of England who knew better, he was Beornred the Slaver. Beornred the Brutal. Beornred the Blackmailer. Alwin had delivered messages and cargo to Beornred on many occasions. He had no choice; Beornred was a beast of defiant danger, and if you refused his demand, death would be your only future.

Only Beornred knew of Alwin’s upbringing. Only Beornred knew of Aurelius. Alwin never found out how or why he knew. Beornred always knows.

Their relationship started when Alwin, during the winter of 760, was assigned to escort a young boy, simply named Bert. Beornred claimed it was his lost nephew. Alwin, being of a similar lost nature, felt a strong duty to save this estranged nephew, and the payout was generous. Alwin travelled as far south as the Kingdoms of Gaul and the Visigoths to retrieve the boy, in return for 300 pounds of silver. Through rivers and forests he travelled, encountering bandits of all languages and Gauls who were on red alert for any Roman stragglers left behind from expeditions of the old Empire.

Alwin finally reached a town called Carcassonne, where there had been whispers of a boy, alone, donned in a royal Mercian attire and an ‘M’ burned into his right wrist. On his approach over a small-cobbled bridge, the great mound in which Carcassonne sat atop emerged into sight through thick fog. Candle-lit taverns and royal quarters twinkled amongst the grey curtain of night, suspiciously beckoning Alwin to approach. He wandered up the damp slopes and stairs, reaching the grand gate to this peculiar town-cum-castle in the sky. Once interrogated by the large Hispanic guards, he was let inside.

Each street would lead to a new army of small buildings. Food stalls, barracks, street entertainment; the intimidating aura of the castled town was extinguished in an instant. Alwin searched every street and alleyway for the sight of the lost nephew, before eventually stumbling into the smallest, dampest alleyway of them all. A small, skinny, brown-skinned boy sat on the wet floor, chewing aggressively on an incredibly stale piece of baguette, with an oversized Mercian tunic covering his small and frail body.

Alwin sat down next to him. He placed his cloak over the boys' shoulders. The boy looked up for a second before going straight back to his baguette. 

Alwin struggled to watch the boy. Each bite seemed difficult for him, but his aggressive determination for food overpowered any pain. What was certain was that this must be Bert. Who else would don Mercian gear so far from Mercia? But Bert was no nephew, that was clear. His hair, his skin, he must’ve been of the Africus people, as Beornred called them.

Upon return to Mercia, Beornred claimed his brother had travelled to Africus after becoming lost in an expedition to the Arabian lands. Alwin witnessed Beornred punish the boy for no reason whatsoever, and with all different forms of sharp objects from all across the world, leaving the boy bloodied and bruised in ways Alwin had never known possible. “That's all from silly child’s play in the forest”, Beornred would say, until he told Alwin the truth. And that truth has incriminated Alwin since. 

Alwin had delivered an escaped slave. He gave the free boy a life of misery.

Until the boy died.