Pax in Stercore – “Peace in Dung”

The weight of the place pressed down like a held hand.

Men sat set by land and oath, shoulder to shoulder, cloaks folded in, hands quiet on knees or iron. No one drank. No one shifted. The hearth gave heat without blaze, as the king had ordered, yet the warmth gathered thickly about the high end of the hall. Smoke thinned itself beneath the roof, but the air below lay close. Alfred leaned forward in the chair of state, more than the form required, his palms resting on the worn heads of the carved beasts. His fingers had not loosened their hold since the men had sat. From time to time he drew breath through his nose, shallow, as if measuring how much the air would bear.

His eyes moved slowly, man to man, not missing anything, though once he blinked longer than he meant to and held still until the floor steadied beneath him.

“Set the matter plain,” Alfred said.

Bishop Æthelred rose, his robe whispering. “My lord, the fyrd must be summoned in full. North and east alike. The ships have not come this winter, but quiet is not peace. It is only waiting.”

Sound stirred and was mastered again.

Wulfheard came to his feet, quick despite his years. “Waiting bleeds us as much as them,” he said. “My men have stood since Martinmas. Fields lie thin. If we draw them all inland, the coast stands open.”

Alfred did not answer at once. He drew breath, then spoke. “How many nights have they stood?”

“Since harvest,” Wulfheard said. “Some before.”

“And how many keels have bitten the shore?”

“None,” Wulfheard said. “Yet.”

“They come when men slacken,” Osric said, not rising.

“They come when God sends them,” another voice muttered.

Alfred’s gaze snapped sharp. He straightened a fraction, as if the movement cost him. “God sends men to stand,” he said. “Wulfheard, sit.”

Wulfheard bent and lowered himself, jaw set.

“Another,” Alfred said.

Beornwulf of the Upper Thames pushed himself upright, heavy as if hauled from earth. “My lord, if the fyrd is drawn whole, the river-mouths lie bare. The ships do not always strike the coast. They creep inland.”

“They will meet the king’s host,” Osric said.

“They will meet smoke and widows,” Wulfheard said from his bench.

Osric surged halfway up. “Mind—”

“Mind your arsehole and the shit in it,” Wulfheard snapped. “You sit warm while my coast rots.”

A sharp intake ran the hall like a blade drawn.

Alfred lifted his hand. He held it raised a moment longer than needed, until the stir sank. “Let each man speak in his turn.”

Beornwulf filled his chest—

—and something else broke loose.

The noise ripped out of him, violent and obscene, tearing the stillness open. It struck the timbers and fell back among the men. For the space of a breath the hall stood stunned.

A laugh burst and was strangled dead.

“Christ’s torn guts,” someone whispered.

“God’s arse and wounds,” another muttered.

From the back, thick with revulsion, “Smells like the devil’s bowels split.”

Beornwulf did not move. Heat flooded his face, darkening it.

The stench followed after, slow and deliberate.

It seeped up from the rushes where ale and grease lay long trodden, soured drink and fat warmed again by bodies. It spread, climbed, and took the air beneath the beams.

Alfred drew breath—and stopped.

The smell struck him full. His chest tightened as if bound. For a moment the hall swayed, just enough that his fingers dug harder into the beasts’ heads, the wood biting back.

Stone closed in.

Low roof. Smoking lamps. Men pressed tight on their knees. A wet groan beside him. Then the air turning vile—sickness, fear, filth loosed. He was small again, light and burning, his mother’s hand firm on his shoulder.

“Stand to it,” she said. “God sees.”

Another retch. The smell thickened until it seemed solid. He clawed the stone.

“Stay,” said the voice above. “This is God’s work.”

The hall came back.

The stink still lay heavy. Alfred’s breath came shallow. He waited until it steadied enough to trust. His jaw locked.

He stood.

For a heartbeat the floor pitched. He did not show it. Wood answered as men half-stood and froze.

“I will step out,” Alfred said. His voice held, though he took care not to force it. “I will return.”

“My lord—” the bishop began.

“I will return,” Alfred said again.

He came down from the high seat with care, one step measured before the next. The stench clung to him like damp wool.

Beornwulf bent low, beard burning. “My bowels burst like a rotted skin,” he said hoarsely. “They shamed me.”

Alfred passed without looking.

The side door opened. Cold struck like a blow.

Outside, Alfred bent, hands on his knees, and drew breath until his chest burned clean. Frost bit his face. The foulness fled at once. He stayed bent longer than pride would have wished, counting the breaths until the ground held steady.

Plegmund came after him.

“My lord.”

“Stand.”

Plegmund stood.

Time passed with only breath. Alfred straightened slowly, one hand still resting against the doorpost.

“There are stinks that belong to beasts,” Alfred said.

“Yes.”

“And stinks that cling to sickness and twisted holiness,” Alfred said. “Like rot dressed as prayer.”

“Yes.”

“They unman a hall.”

“They do.”

“This hall shall not be made a latrine for weakness.”

They went back.

Inside, the witan had drawn tight as mail. Men sat rigid, eyes forward.

Alfred took the chair again, easing himself into it with care. For a moment his hand lingered on the armrest before he trusted his weight.

“This is the king’s hall,” he said. “Not a mead-bench. Not a swine sty. Not a dung pit. If you sit here, you sit as men sworn.”

“Yes, my lord.”

His gaze fixed like iron. “Stand.”

Beornwulf rose.

“My lord,” he said. “I fouled the floor like a sick dog.”

“You did.”

The benches shivered with it.

“But shame may be borne,” Alfred said, “if a man grips it and does not crawl from it. Speak. Cleanly.”

Beornwulf swallowed. “Guard the rivers. Take men from the roads. I will give boats and hands. My own blood shall answer for them.”

Wulfheard stood. “And leave my coast for ravens and rape?”

“I will send men to you,” Beornwulf said. “Not scraps. Men whose mothers will curse me.”

Osric snorted. “You’d sell your seed before your strength.”

Beornwulf snarled, “And you’d hide behind priests while others bleed.”

The hall stirred like flies from meat.

Alfred struck the chair-arm once—the sound flat and final. The blow cost him more than it showed.

“If I wanted braying arses and flapping tongues,” he said coldly, “I would sit among pigs.”

Silence fell whole.

“You speak as though the land were yours to piss on and mine to wipe,” Alfred said. “It is one body. Strip one limb and the whole rots.”

He leaned forward, careful not to lean too far.

“Wulfheard—you keep the coast. Half remain. Half march.”

Wulfheard bowed.

“Beornwulf—you give boats and men. Your blood answers if they fail.”

“It will.”

“And you all will remember this stinking hour,” Alfred said. His breath came once, tight, then eased. “Disorder makes cowards bold and fools loud. I will not rule a dung heap.”

The hall held.

“Now,” Alfred said. “The fyrd is summoned.”

Breath moved again. Fire spoke softly. Horns rose.

The smell lingered low in the rushes—but it did not rise.