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The spelling of place names in ninth- and tenth-century Britain was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whichever spelling is cited in either the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names or the Cambridge Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained within Alfred’s reign, AD 871–899, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hæglingaiggæ. Nor have I been consistent myself; I have preferred the modern form Northumbria to Norðhymbralond to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list, like the spellings themselves, is capricious.
Bebbanburg — Bamburgh, Northumberland
Berewic — Berwick on Tweed, Northumberland
Brunanburh — Bromborough, Cheshire
Cair Ligualid — Carlisle, Cumbria
Ceaster — Chester, Cheshire
Cent — Kent
Contwaraburg — Canterbury, Kent
Dunholm — Durham, County Durham
Dyflin — Dublin, Eire
Eoferwic — York, Yorkshire (Saxon name)
Fagranforda — Fairford, Gloucestershire
Farnea Islands — Farne Islands, Northumberland
Gleawecestre — Gloucester, Gloucestershire
Heagostealdes — Hexham, Northumberland
Heahburh — Whitley Castle, Alston, Cumbria
(fictional name)
Hedene — River Eden, Cumbria
Huntandun — Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire
Hwite — Whitchurch, Shropshire
Irthinam — River Irthing
Jorvik — York, Yorkshire (Danish/Norse name)
Lindcolne — Lincoln, Lincolnshire
Lindisfarena — Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland
Lundene — London
Mædlak — River Medlock, Lancashire
Mærse — River Mersey
Mameceaster — Manchester
Monez — Anglesey, Wales
Ribbel — River Ribble, Lancashire
Ribelcastre — Ribchester, Lancashire
Snæland — Iceland
Spura — Birdoswald Roman fort, Cumbria (fictional name)
Sumorsæte — Somerset
Tamweorthin — Tamworth, Staffordshire
Temes — River Thames
Tine — River Tyne
Usa — River Ouse, Yorkshire
Wevere — River Weaver, Cheshire
Wiltunscir — Wiltshire
Wintanceaster — Winchester, Hampshire
Wirhealum — The Wirral, Cheshire
I did not go to Æthelflaed’s funeral.
She was buried in Gleawecestre in the same vault as her husband, whom she had hated.
Her brother, King Edward of Wessex, was chief mourner and, when the rites were done and Æthelflaed’s corpse had been walled up, he stayed in Gleawecestre. His sister’s strange banner of the holy goose was lowered over the palace, and the dragon of Wessex was hoisted in its place. The message could not have been plainer. Mercia no longer existed. In all the British lands south of Northumbria and east of Wales there was only one kingdom and one king. Edward sent me a summons, demanding I travel to Gleawecestre and swear fealty to him for the lands I owned in what had been Mercia, and the summons bore his name followed by the words Anglorum Saxonum Rex. King of the Angles and the Saxons. I ignored the document.
Within a year a second document reached me, this one signed and sealed in Wintanceaster. By the grace of God, it told me, the lands granted to me by Æthelflaed of Mercia were now forfeited to the bishopric of Hereford, which, the parchment assured me, would employ said lands to the furtherance of God’s glory. ‘Meaning Bishop Wulfheard will have more silver to spend on his whores,’ I told Eadith.
‘Maybe you should have gone to Gleawecestre?’ she suggested.
‘And swear loyalty to Edward?’ I spat the name. ‘Never. I don’t need Wessex and Wessex doesn’t need me.’
‘So what will you do about the estates?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said. What could I do? Go to war against Wessex? It annoyed me that Bishop Wulfheard, an old enemy, had taken the land, but I had no need of Mercian lands. I owned Bebbanburg. I was a Northumbrian lord, and owned all that I wanted. ‘Why should I do anything?’ I growled at Eadith. ‘I’m old and I don’t need trouble.’
‘You’re not old,’ she said loyally.
‘I’m old,’ I insisted. I was over sixty, I was ancient.
‘You don’t look old.’
‘So Wulfheard can plough his whores and let me die in peace. I don’t care if I never see Wessex or Mercia ever again.’
Yet a year later I was in
