The Last Kingdom Series Books 1–8: The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, The Lords of the North, Sword Song, The Burning Land, Death of Kings, The Pagan Lord, The Empty Throne. Bernard Cornwell

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СКАЧАТЬ though when he had gone she chided me for being churlish. ‘Harald is a good man,’ she insisted, ‘a kind man. He would have given you advice. He would have helped you!’

      I ignored her, but two days later I went into Exanceaster with Iseult and all my men. Including Haesten I now had eighteen warriors and I had armed them, given them shields and leather coats, and I led them through the market that always accompanied the court’s sittings. There were stiltwalkers and jugglers, a man who ate fire, and a dancing bear. There were singers, harpists, storytellers, beggars, and pens of sheep, goats, cattle, pigs, geese, ducks and hens. There were fine cheeses, smoked fish, bladders of lard, pots of honey, trays of apples and baskets of pears. Iseult, who had not been to Exanceaster before, was amazed at the size of the city, and the life of it, and the seething closeness of its houses, and I saw folk make the sign of the cross when they saw her for they had heard of the shadow queen held at Oxton and they knew her for a foreigner and a pagan.

      Beggars crowded at the bishop’s gate. There was a crippled woman with a blind child, men who had lost arms or legs in the wars, a score of them, and I threw them some pence, then, because I was on horseback, ducked under the archway of the courtyard beside the cathedral where a dozen chained felons were awaiting their fate. A group of young monks, nervous of the chained men, were plaiting beehives, while a score of armed men were clustered around three fires. They eyed my followers suspiciously as a young priest, his hands flapping, hurried across the puddles. ‘Weapons are not to be brought into the precinct!’ he told me sternly.

      ‘They’ve got weapons,’ I nodded at the men warming themselves by the flames.

      ‘They are the reeve’s men.’

      ‘Then the sooner you deal with my business,’ I said, ‘the sooner my weapons will be gone.’

      He looked up at me, his face anxious. ‘Your business?’

      ‘Is with the bishop.’

      ‘The bishop is at prayer,’ the priest said reprovingly, as though I should have known that. ‘And he cannot see every man who comes here. You can talk to me.’

      I smiled and raised my voice a little. ‘In Cippanhamm, two years ago,’ I said, ‘your bishop was friends with Eanflæd. She has red hair and works her trade out of the Corncrake tavern. Her trade is whoring.’

      The priest’s hands were flapping again in an attempt to persuade me to lower my voice.

      ‘I’ve been with Eanflæd,’ I said, ‘and she told me about the bishop. She said …’

      The monks had stopped making beehives and were listening, but the priest cut me off by half shouting. ‘The bishop might have a moment free.’

      ‘Then tell him I’m here,’ I said pleasantly.

      ‘You are Uhtred of Oxton?’ he asked.

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘I am the Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg.’

      ‘Yes, lord.’

      ‘Sometimes known as Uhtredærwe,’ I added mischievously. Uhtred the Wicked.

      ‘Yes, lord,’ the priest said again and hurried away.

      The bishop was called Alewold and he was really the bishop of Cridianton, but that place had not been thought as safe as Exanceaster and so for years the bishops of Cridianton had lived in the larger town which, as Guthrum had shown, was not the wisest decision. Guthrum’s Danes had pillaged the cathedral and the bishop’s house, which was still scantily furnished and I discovered Alewold sitting behind a table that looked as if it had once belonged to a butcher, for its hefty top was scored with knife cuts and stained with old blood. He looked at me indignantly. ‘You should not be here,’ he said.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘You have business before the court tomorrow.’

      ‘Tomorrow,’ I said, ‘you sit as a judge. Today you are a bishop.’

      He acknowledged that with a small nod. He was an elderly man with a heavy jowled face and a reputation as a severe judge. He had been with Alfred in Scireburnan when the Danes arrived in Exanceaster, which is why he was still alive, and, like all the bishops in Wessex, he was a fervent supporter of the king, and I had no doubt that Alfred’s dislike of me was known to Alewold, which meant I could expect little clemency when the court sat.

      ‘I am busy,’ Alewold said, gesturing at the parchments on the stained table. Two clerks shared the table and a half-dozen resentful priests had gathered behind the bishop’s chair.

      ‘My wife,’ I said, ‘inherited a debt to the church.’

      Alewold looked at Iseult who alone had come into the house with me. She looked beautiful, proud and wealthy. There was silver at her throat and in her hair, and her cloak was fastened with two brooches, one of jet and the other of amber. ‘Your wife?’ the bishop asked snidely.

      ‘I would discharge the debt,’ I said, ignoring his question, and I tipped a bag onto his butcher’s table and the big silver plate we had taken from Ivar slid out. The silver made a satisfying noise as it thumped down and suddenly, in that small dark room ill-lit by three rush lights and a small, wood-barred window, it seemed as if the sun had come out. The heavy silver glowed and Alewold just stared at it.

      There are good priests. Beocca is one and Willibald another, but I have discovered in my long life that most churchmen preach the merits of poverty while they lust after wealth. They love money and the church attracts money like a candle brings moths. I knew Alewold was a greedy man, as greedy for wealth as he was for the delights of a red-haired whore in Cippanhamm, and he could not take his eyes from that plate. He reached out and caressed the thick rim as if he scarce believed what he was seeing, and then he pulled the plate towards him and examined the twelve apostles. ‘A pyx,’ he said reverently.

      ‘A plate,’ I said casually.

      One of the other priests leaned over a clerk’s shoulder. ‘Irish work,’ he said.

      ‘It looks Irish,’ Alewold agreed, then looked suspiciously at me. ‘You are returning it to the church?’

      ‘Returning it?’ I asked innocently.

      ‘The plate was plainly stolen,’ Alewold said, ‘and you do well, Uhtred, to bring it back.’

      ‘I had the plate made for you,’ I said.

      He turned the plate over, which took some effort for it was heavy, and once it was inverted he pointed to the scratches in the silver. ‘It is old,’ he said.

      ‘I had it made in Ireland,’ I said grandly, ‘and doubtless it was handled roughly by the men who brought it across the sea.’

      He knew I was lying. I did not care. ‘There are silversmiths in Wessex who could have made you a pyx,’ one of the priests snapped.

      ‘I thought you might want it,’ I said, then leaned forward and pulled the plate out of the bishop’s hands, ‘but if you prefer West Saxon work,’ I went on, ‘then I can …’

      ‘Give it back!’ Alewold said and, when I made no move to obey, his voice became pleading. ‘It is a beautiful thing.’ He could see it in his church, or perhaps in his СКАЧАТЬ