The Murder of King Paeda

A CJ Sansom Memorial Story - Written for the Medieval Musings short story event

I’m proud to share my submission for the CJ Sansom Memorial Short Story Event, hosted by

Holly A Brown

Thank you to Holly for organising this. I thoroughly enjoyed writing my first ever short story. If you’re not already following her, you’re missing out. She shares fascinating, thought-provoking articles that are always worth reading.

The Murder of King Pæda was written in response to the following prompt:

A protagonist and their assistant, located in a real historical time period and within real historical events, investigate a crime that threatens to entangle them in the political and/or religious tensions of their day. Though the Shardlake series was set in Tudor England, you may choose any historical time or place prior to the year 2000. The crime does not have to be solved by the end of the piece, though it can be.

My story follows Offa, a humble monk drawn into the deadly world of royal politics after the murder of King Paeda. What begins as a reluctant investigation soon uncovers dark conspiracies and questionable loyalties.

I wanted to write something that could sit alongside my upcoming debut novel, a short story that gives a taste of the world and themes I enjoy exploring. I was also inspired by A Time for Swords by Matthew Harffy, a well-written and gripping read for anyone interested in Anglo-Saxon historical fiction. While I hadn’t read CJ Sansom before this event, I’ll certainly be seeking out his work now.

Thank you to Medieval Musings for the prompt and the encouragement to explore new ground with my writing. I hope you enjoy the story and I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

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I never thought I would find myself standing in the king's presence, especially not under these circumstances. I sway nervously as I wait to learn why I am here. God blessed us with a feast for Easter-tide only three days ago. The mood was fine, ale spilt from cups, and songs rang around the hall. Yet here I stand in that same hall, now tainted with death.

Our forthcoming King Wulfhere bears his teeth and clenches his fists as he sits before me. His beloved brother has been murdered.

“You have sent for me, Hlaford?” I say.

Wulfhere, with a look of utter bewilderment, stands from the throne. “No, I sent for Seaxwulf. Who are you?”

Sweat runs down my back as I try to meet his gaze. “I am Offa, Hlaford. The Abbot sends his apologies. He is hard at work on the minster.”

I flinch, expecting to be tossed onto the street, but to my surprise, Wulfhere pauses.

“Yes, of course. God’s work must come first.” He smiles.

That is the moment I first lay eyes on Cuthred. He terrifies me. His harsh face is scarred and battle-hardened. His leather armour and seax at his waist, the weapon tapping against his side as he paces toward the king.

He kneels before Wulfhere, and to my astonishment, speaks in a light and measured tone.

“Hlaford, you requested my presence?” he says.

Wulfhere nods. “Thank you, Cuthred. This is Brother Offa.”

The finger he raises at me seems as sharp as a spear tip, sending shivers down my spine. I am a simple monk. My life is scripture. My days revolve around praying and studying in a minster. I do not belong in the hall of a king. Although I have accompanied Seaxwulf as his aid to the feast, I have spent my time praying in the church.

Wulfhere clears his throat, and I look up nervously. I must seem like a fool, lost in thought

“I have brought you both here for a most serious task.” His eyes drift between me and Cuthred. “I believe my brother was murdered by his wife, and I want you to find evidence.”

I swallow hard. I am not the Haefenrefa. I do not uphold the king’s laws, and I have no business investigating regicide. My fingers unconsciously trace the sign of the cross on my chest.

Cuthred replies with only a curt nod, then aims a sharp look toward me. He is the Haefenrefa as such It is his duty. I knew him by name only. I shudder, eyeing the brute of a man beside me. I barely reach his shoulders, and once again, my gaze drifts toward his scarred face.

I look away, turning back to Wulfhere. “I am but a monk. I cannot help you, Hlaford,” I say, though the words are a jittering mess.

Wulfhere waves away my protests. “Murder is a sin, and as you are representing Seaxwulf, I trust you will have the spiritual knowledge to find the truth.”

“We will find the killer, Hlaford,” Cuthred says, bowing again.

I want to protest more, but I cannot argue with the king if I wish to remain alive. Reluctantly, I follow Cuthred out of the hall.

Cuthred does not utter a word as I scramble after him. I ask where we are going, who he is, and a dozen other questions that remain unanswered. My dusty tan gown sways between my ankles as I struggle to keep up. The only thing he tells me is that the king was poisoned. I do not know how he knows, but I assume someone informed him before Wulfhere summoned us.

He takes me to a rough alehouse. Men sit at tables I dare not look at. I keep my head down, staring between the cracks in the dusty wooden floor. The shouting and laughing are deafening. I nudge Cuthred as he stops suddenly, and I jump back as he growls at me.

Then, once again, he speaks in that calm, measured tone that hardly befits his face.

“Busy in here, Unferth. A cup of ale for me and a mead for the monk here.” He shoots a glance back at me. “You monks love mead, don’t you?” He laughs.

I nod politely but cannot summon the strength to speak.

Unferth pours the cups lazily, spilling much of the drink onto the table. He never takes his eyes off me as he does so. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I do not belong here.

“I’m trying to find King Pæda’s killer. Have you heard anything?”

Unferth scans the room almost nervously. “I’ve heard it was the queen.”

I spit out my drink. Many times, I have heard bishops speak of the evils of women, yet I only know my mother and sister, the kindest souls I have ever met.

“Sorry,” I splutter, embarrassed. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “Why would the queen kill the king?”

Cuthred smirks. “Land, jealousy. Maybe he beat her.”

I shudder at the list. The joy on Cuthred’s face makes my stomach churn. No good Christian would ever commit such a sin.

Unferth ignores me and looks back at Cuthred. “Haefenrefa, I hope there will be no trouble for me if I tell you what I know?”

Cuthred releases a thin smile and nods curtly.

Unferth smiles nervously. “There have been other rumours. She was approached by those paganists.”

“Pagans?” I shout involuntarily.

To my surprise, Cuthred’s face pales to a sickly grey.

“Paganists?” Cuthred asks.

He grabs Unferth by the scruff of the neck. “I want answers, not lies.”

“They say a few of the ealdormen are fed up that the church keeps getting their lands. They want to reinstate the old ways.”

“That is utter nonsense. It’s just the church spreading lies.” He spits.

“Why would the church spread lies? Mercia is a good Christian kingdom.”

“Good Christians?” he says mockingly, laughing under his breath.

My blood runs cold. Why would Cuthred blame the church if it seems that pagans are involved? Does he have something to hide?

I am met with two stern faces, both glaring at me as if they wish to kill me. I freeze and do not say another word.

That’s all I’ve heard,” Unferth says.

Cuthred reaches into a small leather pouch, then produces a few pieces of silver which he slides across the table.

“Where is the queen now?” Cuthred asks, foam beginning to form around his snarled teeth.

Beads of sweat drip from Unferths brow, looking at me as if for help.

He stutters, “I believe she is in a minster near Bathum.”

“Thank you, Unferth, helpful as always. Now stay out of trouble, or I’ll send my guards down here and clean you out.”

As we step outside into the busy street where children shout and chase after each other, I ask another question, one that’s been lingering on the tip of my tongue. “You don’t believe that heathens are behind this, do you?”

Cuthred shrugs and laughs. “Heathens? No, probably just an unhappy wife.”

I find myself content with his response, coming to the same conclusion. Pagans are a thing of the past; Mercia is a good Christian kingdom now. I laugh off my worry. Who wouldn’t believe in our saviour?

It isn’t until a few days later that we arrive at another minster. Cuthred barely speaks to me. I’m constantly on edge. I don’t know where we’re going or who we’re going to see. Yet as soon as I see the minster, I know where we are. We’re greeted by an old abbess. It’s a great relief to see another person of the cloth, and I suddenly feel more at ease. The muscles in my neck and shoulders loosen, and I feel safe.

That is until Cuthred asks to see her. My mouth goes dry at the mere mention of her name. Then, when the abbess refuses us, I know something is amiss.

“We need to speak with the Hlaefedige Alhnflead,” Cuthred demands.

“Impossible,” replies the abbess, shaking her head. “She is in the hands of God now.”

Cuthred unexpectedly grows angry. His face turns purple, and his usually calm voice grows hoarse and loud. “Do not interfere with the new king Wulfhere’s investigation into the death of King Paeda.”

Why has the abbess enraged him, I wonder? She’s been respectful. Does he truly believe we can just walk in and speak to the woman with dark rumours that spread like a disease?

The abbess recoils but with a resolve, I still admire to this day. “I cannot allow it.”

It is courage that I still envy. She does not relent. In the end, after we’ve eaten and rested, and after Cuthred has calmed down, she agrees we can speak to one of Alhflaed’s servants.

Cuthred interrogates the poor girl for hours, and all we can gather is that Alhflaed had been approached by several Ealdormen in the weeks before the king’s death.

“That’s all I know,” she says, shaking as tears stream down her face.

“Did they seem to be happy?” I ask.

She nods. “I’ve never heard them fight or argue.”

Cuthred growls, “I am asking the questions, not you, monk.”

I flinch. Why am I here, if not to help? Was Cuthred involved? He is a man of honour, or so it seems. I shake my head to shake off the nonsense.

Had it been, as I had feared, a pagan conspiracy?

Cuthred dismisses the idea, saying that he knows of no Ealdormen who still believe in the old gods, though admitting if he did, they would likely be dead already. While it seems logical, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something.

I’ve always been told to listen when God speaks to me. But is this God, or paranoia?

It feels like we’ve hit a crumbled Roman wall, blocking any path to the truth. Perhaps it is the evil doings of a woman. Some of my brethren would have agreed, but I only have precious memories of the women in my life. Something in the way Cuthred dismisses the notion of a conspiracy sits uneasily with me. I’ve travelled with the man in charge of upholding the law for his king, yet I do not know him. He seems genuine, but from all the servant has said, there has been no jealousy or hatred between Alhnflaed and Paeda. I admit I was at the feast when he died. She wailed uncontrollably, and in the chaos and the screaming, I fled, believing the wealas had attacked. The following day, the older priests of the minster said she had been possessed by the devil and killed him.

“I still don’t understand why she would kill him,” I say.

“What people say and do are quite often not the same,” he replies.

Those words, though, I did not know would stay with me for the rest of my life.

I am beginning to understand why Seaxwulf sent me. I am his brightest pupil, not out of arrogance, but because I am the one most well-versed in the scriptures.

The Abbot has worries about the pagans and a revival. I have been told of the dangers of the heathens and how they sacrifice children to their gods. It makes me wretch.

On our return to Wulfhere, we stay at the farmstead of a ceorl called Burhgred, who is kin to Cuthred. While we sit around the smoky hearth eating fresh bread and broth. The broth boiling, I scald the roof of my mouth on the first sip, meaning I cannot taste it for the rest of the bowl. I finally pluck up the courage to attempt to persuade Cuthred that it all seems to point to a pagan revival and that they have been furious at the grant of land to the new minster.

“It makes more sense,” I say.

I am met with a glare that chills me to my core.

“You know nothing of life, monk,” Cuthred spits on the floor.

I say nothing. He leans forward, his face shadowing in the dark. Only his thick brown beard is illuminated.

“You are fed, clothed, and watered. You have everything handed to you on a silver platter.” Cuthred scowls.

At that moment, I believe I am about to meet Jesus in heaven. I pray to myself as his hand moves closer to the seax hanging at his waist. The flames glint along the blade as he draws it out.

“This blade has taken the lives of many men.” He caresses the edge with his fingers.

Then, as I think it will be thrust in my direction, he laughs.

“This is what provided for me. Now I make sure no one uses these against the innocent.” He sheaths his seax with a swift motion.

“I don’t know why you are here, but leave the contemplation to those who have experienced life.”

I swallow, relieved that I remain alive, though I do not sleep that night. A swirl of dark half-dreams and paranoia.

The return journey home is torture. Question after question swirls in my head, and once again, Cuthred stays silent. Why is he so convinced Alhflaed is guilty? The servant certainly refuted any of the evidence against her. There is more to this story than Cuthred cares to admit. Perhaps he is tired. He is an old man, at least fifty winters, and perhaps he just wants to go home.

My stomach sinks once we return to the warmth of Wulfhere’s hall. I am sure God is sending me a message. Why am I so conflicted if it is indeed the evil work of a woman?

As you can imagine, Wulfhere is eager to find out all we know.

“Please tell me you have answers?”

“From our findings,” Cuthred pauses and glares at me. Does he want me to remain silent? There seems to be pure hatred in his dark eyes.

“It is the queen who is responsible for this most horrific crime,” Cuthred says.

What can I do? I am merely a monk. I have no business here.

“We gathered evidence and spoke to a servant from her court, who confirmed there had been arguments between the two.” Again, Cuthred glares at me.

My whole body is paralysed. This is all a lie. Why would Cuthred lie?

“That is disappointing, my poor brother. Oswy will be extremely upset if this is true.”

I feel my whole body tremble. I cannot believe what I am hearing.

“It is unfortunate, Hlaford.” Cuthred bows.

He appears to be about to leave when he turns to me and this time smirks.

What is his game? He has a motive to lie. What could it be?

Wulfhere turns to me. “Do you agree with Cuthred?” Hope is laced in his eyes.

What am I to do? God will never forgive me if I lie. Yet I look once again at Cuthred, and it is clear from his face that he wants to kill me if I speak.

I just want a cavern to open up beneath my feet and swallow me whole. I begin to pray, muttering to myself. Then, as if God has reached down, placed a hand upon my shoulder, and opened my mind to all I have seen, I am enlightened. Cuthred’s pale face when Unferth first mentioned the pagan conspiracy. His insistence that it was the queen. Threatening me when I questioned him. Accusing me as a monk with no knowledge of life outside the minster. Then, the blatant lies in front of the king. Cuthred is a pagan. I cannot stay silent.

I shake my head. “I,” I try to speak, but the words catch in my throat. My breath becomes ragged, and the walls press in around me. If I just agree with Cuthred, I could return to the minster. Seaxwulf sent me here to help the king in any way I could. I cannot betray my mentor or God.

Wulfhere shifts forward in his throne expectantly. “Offa?”

I cough to clear my throat as I stare down at the gaps in the wooden floor beneath my tatty leather sandals. “I believe it is a pagan conspiracy.”

Cuthred steps forward, his fists clenched in rage, his face contorted into something monstrous. “He lies. He has done nothing but hinder my investigation.”

Wulfhere takes a sharp breath, glancing between us.

Something overcomes me, and I thrust my arm up in an accusatory manner. “I believe Cuthred to be part of that conspiracy.” My voice shakes with the fear that has consumed me.

Wulfhere turns grey and open-mouthed, staring at Cuthred.

I hear a growl and a blur of motion. But the last thing I remember is the crack of a large fist in my face, followed by searing pain. As the world turns black, a single thought remains. I have spoken the truth, and for that, I have been struck down.

---

Thank you for reading my first ever short story.

For inspiration I reached for “My Bible” The Anglo Saxon Chronicle and found the following passage.

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. 655. This year Penda was slain at Wingfield, and thirty royal personages with him, some of whom were kings. One of them was Ethelhere, brother of Anna, king of the East-Angles. The Mercians after this became Christians. From the beginning of the world had now elapsed five thousand eight hundred and fifty winters, when Peada, the son of Penda, assumed the government of the Mercians. In his time came together himself and Oswy (age 43), brother of King Oswald, and said, that they would rear a minster to the glory of Christ, and the honour of St. Peter. And they did so, and gave it the name of Medhamsted because there is a well there, called Meadswell. And they began the groundwall, and wrought thereon; after which they committed the work to a monk, whose name was Seaxulf. He was very much the friend of God, and him also loved all people. He was nobly born in the world, and rich: he is now much richer with Christ. But King Peada reigned no while; for he was betrayed by his own queen, in Easter-tide.

It could have been his Queen, most likely Alhnflaed, but I decided to take the story in a different direction since we have very little historical records of the women during this time period.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed my story, please consider subscribing to stay updated on my journey.