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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Deoraby Derby, Derbyshire Dic Diss, Norfolk Dunholm Durham, County Durham Eoferwic York (also the Danish Jorvic, pronounced Yorvik) Exanceaster Exeter, Devon Fromtun Frampton on Severn, Gloucestershire Gegnesburh Gainsborough, Lincolnshire the Gewæsc The Wash Gleawecestre Gloucester, Gloucestershire Grantaceaster Cambridge, Cambridgeshire Gyruum Jarrow, County Durham Haithabu Hedeby, trading town in Southern Denmark Hamanfunta Havant, Hampshire Hamptonscir Hampshire Hamtun Southampton, Hampshire Heilincigae Hayling Island, Hampshire Hreapandune Repton, Derbyshire Kenet River Kennet Ledecestre Leicester, Leicestershire Lindisfarena Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland Lundene London Mereton Marten, Wiltshire Meslach Matlock, Derbyshire Pedredan River Parrett Pictland Eastern Scotland the Poole Poole Harbour, Dorset Readingum Reading, Berkshire Sæfern River Severn Scireburnan Sherborne, Dorset Snotengaham Nottingham, Nottinghamshire Solente Solent Streonshall Strensall, Yorkshire Sumorsæte Somerset Suth Seaxa Sussex (South Saxons) Synningthwait Swinithwaite, Yorkshire Temes River Thames Thornsæta Dorset Tine River Tyne Trente River Trent Tuede River Tweed Twyfyrde Tiverton, Devon Uisc River Exe Werham Wareham, Dorset Wiht Isle of Wight Wiire River Wear Wiltun Wilton, Wiltshire Wiltunscir Wiltshire Winburnan Wimborne Minster, Dorset Wintanceaster Winchester, Hampshire

       PROLOGUE

       Northumbria, 866–867 AD

      My name is Uhtred. I am the son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred and his father was also called Uhtred. My father’s clerk, a priest called Beocca, spelt it Utred. I do not know if that was how my father would have written it, for he could neither read nor write, but I can do both and sometimes I take the old parchments from their wooden chest and I see the name spelled Uhtred or Utred or Ughtred or Ootred. I look at those parchments which are deeds saying that Uhtred, son of Uhtred is the lawful and sole owner of the lands that are carefully marked by stones and by dykes, by oaks and by ash, by marsh and by sea, and I dream of those lands, wave-beaten and wild beneath the wind-driven sky. I dream, and know that one day I will take back the land from those who stole it from me.

      I am an Ealdorman, though I call myself Earl Uhtred, which is the same thing, and the fading parchments are proof of what I own. The law says I own that land, and the law, we are told, is what makes us men under God instead of beasts in the ditch. But the law does not help me take back my land. The law wants compromise. The law thinks money will compensate for loss. The law, above all, fears the bloodfeud. But I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, and this is the tale of a bloodfeud. It is a tale of how I will take from my enemy what the law says is mine. And it is the tale of a woman and of her father, a king.

      He was my king and all that I have I owe to him. The food that I eat, the hall where I live and the swords of my men, all came from Alfred, my king, who hated me.

      This story begins long before I met Alfred. It begins when I was nine years old and first saw the Danes. It was the year 866 and I was not called Uhtred then, but Osbert, for I was my father’s second son and it was the eldest who took the name Uhtred. My brother was seventeen then, tall and well-built, with our family’s fair hair and my father’s morose face.

      The day I first saw the Danes we were riding along the sea shore with hawks on our wrists. There was my father, my father’s brother, my brother, myself and a dozen retainers. It was autumn. The sea-cliffs were thick with the last growth of summer, there were seals on the rocks, and a host of seabirds wheeling and shrieking, too many to let the hawks off their leashes. We rode till we came to the criss-crossing shallows that rippled between our land and Lindisfarena, the Holy Island, and I remember staring across the water at the broken walls of the abbey. The Danes had plundered it, but that had been many years before I was born, and though the monks were living there again the monastery had never regained its former glory.

      I also remember that day as beautiful and perhaps it was. Perhaps it rained, СКАЧАТЬ