War of the Wolf. Bernard Cornwell

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       Three

      The next day dawned bright and cold, the pale sky only discoloured by smoke from the fires as Æthelstan’s men burned the remnants of Cynlæf’s encampment. Finan and I, mounted on horses captured from the rebels, rode slowly through the destruction. ‘When do we leave?’ Finan asked.

      ‘As soon as we can.’

      ‘The horses could do with a rest.’

      ‘Maybe tomorrow, then.’

      ‘That soon?’

      ‘I’m worried about Bebbanburg,’ I confessed. ‘Why else would someone drag me across Britain?’

      ‘Bebbanburg’s safe,’ Finan insisted. ‘I still think it was Æthelhelm who tricked you.’

      ‘Hoping I’d be killed here?’

      ‘What else? He can’t kill you while you’re inside Bebbanburg, so he has to get you outside the walls somehow.’

      ‘I spend enough time with Stiorra and her children,’ I pointed out. My daughter, Queen of Northumbria, lived in Eoferwic’s rambling palace, which was a mix of Roman grandeur and solid timber halls.

      ‘He can’t reach you in Eoferwic either. He wanted you out of Northumbria.’

      ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, unconvinced.

      ‘I’m always right. I’m from Ireland. I was right about the snow, wasn’t I? And I’m still waiting for the two shillings.’

      ‘You’re a Christian. Patience is one of your virtues.’

      ‘I must be a living saint then.’ He looked past me. ‘And talking of saints.’

      I twisted in the saddle to see Father Swithred approaching. The priest was mounted on a fine grey stallion that he rode well, calming the beast when it shied sideways as a man threw an armful of dirty thatch onto a fire. Smoke billowed and sparks flew. Father Swithred rode through the smoke and curbed the stallion near us. ‘The prince,’ he said brusquely, ‘requests your company today.’

      ‘Requests or requires?’ I asked.

      ‘It’s the same thing,’ Swithred said, and turned his horse, beckoning us to follow him.

      I stayed where I was and held out a hand to check Finan. ‘Tell me,’ I called after Swithred, ‘you’re a West Saxon?’

      ‘You know I am,’ he said, turning back suspiciously.

      ‘Do you give orders to West Saxon ealdormen?’

      He looked angry, but had the sense to suppress the fury. ‘The prince requests your company,’ he paused, ‘lord.’

      ‘Back in the city?’

      ‘He’s waiting at the north gate,’ Swithred said curtly, ‘we’re riding to Brunanburh.’

      I spurred my horse alongside the priest’s grey. ‘I remember the day I first met you, priest,’ I said, ‘and Prince Æthelstan told me he didn’t trust you.’

      He looked shocked at that. ‘I cannot believe—’ he began to protest.

      ‘Why would I lie?’ I interrupted him.

      ‘I am devoted to the prince,’ he said forcefully.

      ‘You were his father’s choice, not his.’

      ‘And does that matter?’ he asked. I deliberately did not answer, but just waited until, reluctantly, he added, ‘lord.’

      ‘The priests,’ I said, ‘write letters and read letters. Prince Æthelstan believed you were imposed on him to report back to his father.’

      ‘And so I was,’ Swithred admitted, ‘and I will tell you precisely what I report to the king. I tell him his eldest son is no bastard, that he is a good servant of Christ, that he is devoted to his father, and that he prays for his father. Why do you think his father trusts him with the command of Ceaster?’ He spoke passionately.

      ‘Do you know a monk called Brother Osric?’ I asked suddenly.

      Swithred gave me a pitying look. He knew I had tried to trap him. ‘No, lord,’ he said, giving the last word a sour taste.

      I tried another question. ‘So Æthelstan should be the next King of Wessex?’

      ‘That is not my decision. God appoints kings.’

      ‘And is your god helped in his choice by wealthy ealdormen?’

      He knew I meant Æthelhelm the Younger. It had occurred to me that Swithred might be sending messages to Æthelhelm. I had no doubt that the ealdorman sought news of Æthelstan and probably had at least one sworn follower somewhere in Ceaster, and I was tempted to think it must be Swithred because the stern, bald priest disliked me so much, but his next words surprised me. ‘It’s my belief,’ he said, ‘that Lord Æthelhelm persuaded the king to give this command to the prince.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘So he would fail, of course. The prince has three burhs to command, Ceaster, Brunanburh, and Mameceaster, and not sufficient men to garrison even one of them properly. He has rebels to contend with, and thousands of Norse settlers north of here. Dear God! He even has Norsemen settled on this peninsula!’

      I could not hide my astonishment. ‘Here? On Wirhealum?’

      Swithred shrugged. ‘You know what’s been happening on this coast? The Irish defeated the Norse settlers, drove many of them out, and so they came here.’ He gestured northwards. ‘Out beyond Brunanburh? There might be five hundred Norse settlers there, and even more north of the Mærse! And thousands more north of the Ribbel.’

      ‘Thousands?’ I asked. Of course I had heard stories of the Norse fleeing Ireland, but thought most had found refuge in the islands off the Scottish coast or in the wild valleys of Cumbraland. ‘The prince is letting his enemies settle on Mercian land? Pagan enemies?’

      ‘We have small choice,’ Swithred said calmly. ‘King Edward conquered East Anglia, now he’s King of Mercia, and he needs all his troops to put down unrest and to garrison the new burhs he’s making. He doesn’t СКАЧАТЬ