King Alfred and the Ice Coffin

by Kevin Crossley-Holland, Chris Riddell (Illustrator)

Overview

The illustrious creators of Arthur, the Always King return with a tale within a tale, focused on a heroic West Saxon king who championed the power of storytelling.

When Wulfstan, an intrepid ninth-century sailor, arrives at King Alfred’s court, he soon enchants the king with his riveting tale of stormy seas, thrilling races on horseback, and a ruler encased in ice. In this extraordinary collaboration, the award-winning Kevin Crossley-Holland and former British Children’s Laureate Chris Riddell reunite to bring Wulfstan’s tale, and the world of King Alfred the Great, to life. Told in lyrical prose and richly illustrated, this story of a West Saxon king known for fighting off the Vikings will captivate readers of all ages. An author’s note details King Alfred’s wish to enable his people to read books in their own language, learning Latin himself so he could translate the written works into English and incorporate tales of northern lands, such as the one retold here, that were recounted to him by travelers.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781536238808
Publisher:	Candlewick Press
Publication date:	11/12/2024
Pages:	88
Sales rank:	313,228
Product dimensions:	9.06(w) x 10.62(h) x (d)
Age Range:	10 - 13 Years

About the Author

Kevin Crossley-Holland is a Carnegie Medal–winning author as well as a poet, librettist, reteller, and teacher. His world-renowned Arthur trilogy has sold well over one million copies and been translated into twenty-five languages. His retellings include Across the Rainbow Bridge: Stories of Norse Gods and Humans, illustrated by Jeffrey Alan Love; Between Worlds: Folktales of Britain and Ireland, illustrated by Frances Castle; and Norse Myths: Tales of Odin, Thor, and Loki, illustrated by Jeffrey Alan Love. After seven years teaching in the US, Kevin Crossley-Holland now lives with his wife in England.

Chris Riddell is an award-winning illustrator, a writer of children’s books, and a political cartoonist. He is the illustrator of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver, retold by Martin Jenkins, as well as A Great Big Cuddle: Poems for the Very Young and Honey for You, Honey for Me: A First Book of Nursery Rhymes, both by Michael Rosen. The winner of three Kate Greenaway Medals and a former British Children’s Laureate, Chris Riddell lives in England.

Read an Excerpt

Within an arrow’s shot of the ancient fort,
home of ravens and screeching sea eagles . . .
Inside the circle of stone walls built by Romans, crumbling now, collapsing . . .
In the very place some people still call Camelot, Alfred the King ruled the West Saxons from his hall in Winchester.
                   “This is the hub and beating heart of my whole wide kingdom.”
That’s what the king said.
                             But each spring and summer, each autumn and winter,
he rode around all his royal estates,
an unholy progress of ponies and carts picking along unpaved green lanes,
over sandy heath and through silent forest,
slogging through mud, crossing swollen streams.
Bath and Worcester, Wallingford, Chichester,
west in Wareham, east in Rochester,
wherever the king was, he held court—
forever leaving Winchester, forever returning.
 
At dawn all the king’s duties began.
As soon as he heard his day-trumpeters,
Alfred dressed, proceeded to the hall,
and held court. He conferred with advisors and heard messengers;
he listened to arguments and petitions,
handed down decisions, and gave grants of land, rewards, punishments.
And on many days the king met members of his household and thanked them for their work—his weaponsmiths and craftsmen,
his falconers, huntsmen, and kennelmen.
 
But late each afternoon, on every day except Sunday, when he rode out hunting—hunting or hawking—the king retreated to a quiet inner chamber with Asser, his Welsh priest. That’s where the king of Wessex became an eager pupil!
Sitting on an oak stool, or sometimes standing at a slanted desk, he listened with both ears to the words and phrases that Asser taught him, and learned Latin.

“You’ve told me,” the king said,
“that some books are so wise,
so wonderful that we should be able to hear them, but they’re all in Latin!
You say there’s one that describes distant places, distant people,
but tells almost nothing about us here,
perched as we are on the edge of the ocean.
I’ll translate it! And I’ll add stories from far-flung parts of England,
and tales from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.”
 
Asser smiled and tugged his black beard.
“As if you’re not already too busy ruling a kingdom, laying down new laws,
to-ing and fro-ing, fortifying towns,
and always keeping a sharp eye on the Danes since you and their leader, Guthrum, made peace and promised to share the land between you.”
 
“Even so, I want my people to hear and to learn,” the king replied. “They’re not animals.
And how can they do that without any books in our own language?
I want them to grow close to God.
I’ll have my scribes make copies and send them to all my bishops with precious pointers made of ivory and crystal, enamel and gold, so that they can follow each line, each word.”
 
Then King Alfred asked Asser, “There’s a saying, isn’t there? ‘Only God knows what’s in store for a growing child.’
When I was a boy, I never imagined that all four of my elder brothers would die before I did. I never supposed that I would be crowned king.
 
“I was only twenty-two then and no one thought I’d last very long.
No, no, not with all the Viking attacks and this daily pain in my poor gut.
It feels like a tangled cat’s cradle.”
 
The king smiled. “I was a weakling.
You must have heard how, when I
was nineteen, I collapsed at the altar on the very morning I married my bride,
Ealhswith of Mercia. I was nearly dead before I was wed!
But here I am, still alive.
And however long I live,
I vow that I will serve my people.”
 
While the king was still talking,
one of his servants tapped at the door.
“Sire, we all know how you welcome travelers,
especially those with a tale to tell. This morning a trader has come to court with a wonderful story—
a story about horse racing and a ruler buried in ice.”
 
“Well,” the king replied, “let’s hear him this evening. Let’s hope he weaves words better than those three Cornishmen,
the ones who crossed to Ireland by mistake . . .
What with all their mumbling and jumbling,
I fell asleep before they had finished.”