скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Your god,’ I snarled.
‘There is no other,’ he said gently.
Everything he said made sense, except for his nonsense about one god, and that good sense meant I had been lured across Britain for no good purpose. ‘I should have left you here to rot,’ I growled.
‘But you didn’t.’
‘Your grandfather always said I was a fool.’
‘My grandfather was right about so many things,’ Æthelstan said with a smile. His grandfather was King Alfred.
I stood and walked to the hall door. I pulled it open and just stared at the glow of fire above the eastern ramparts. Much of that glow came from the encampment where Cynlæf’s men sheltered from the snow that was slanting fast from the north. Braziers burned on the ramparts, where cloaked spearmen kept a watch on the cowed enemy. The brighter light of two flaming torches just outside the hall’s great doors showed the new snow piling against the house walls.
So Brother Osric had lied. We had brought the monk south with us, but I had got tired of his endless complaining about the cold and about his saddle sores, and we had let him leave us at Mameceaster, where, he claimed, the church would shelter him. I should have killed the bastard instead. I shivered, suddenly feeling the night’s cold. ‘Rorik,’ I shouted back into the hall, ‘bring my cloak!’
Brother Osric had lied. The monk had told me that Æthelstan had fewer than a hundred warriors, but in truth he had twice as many, which was still a very small garrison for a place the size of Ceaster, but enough to stave off the feeble assaults Cynlæf had made. Brother Osric had told me the garrison was starving, but in truth they had storehouses still half-full with last year’s harvest. A lie had brought me to Ceaster, but why?
‘Your cloak, lord,’ a mocking voice said, and I turned to see it was Prince Æthelstan himself who had brought me the heavy fur garment. He was cloaked himself. He nodded to one of the sentries to close the hall door behind us, then stood beside me to watch the snow fall soft and relentless. ‘I didn’t send for you,’ he said, draping the thick fur across my shoulders, ‘but thank you for coming.’
‘So who did send the monk?’ I asked.
‘Maybe no one.’
‘No one?’
Æthelstan shrugged. ‘Perhaps the monk knew of the siege, wanted to summon help, but knew you’d mistrust him, so he invented the tale of Father Swithred.’
I shook my head. ‘He wasn’t that clever. And he was frightened.’
‘You frighten many Christians,’ Æthelstan said drily.
I stared at the snow whirling around the corner of the house opposite. ‘I should go to Hwite,’ I said.
‘Hwite? Why?’
‘Because the monk came from the monastery there.’
‘There’s no monastery at Hwite,’ Æthelstan said. ‘I’d like to build one, but …’ his voice trailed away.
‘The bastard lied,’ I said vengefully, ‘I should have known!’
‘Known? How?’
‘He said Father Swithred walked south from here. How could he? The bridge was broken. And why send Swithred? You’d have sent a younger man.’
Æthelstan shivered. ‘Why would the monk lie? Maybe he just wanted to summon help.’
‘Summon help,’ I said scornfully. ‘No, the bastard wanted to get me away from Bebbanburg.’
‘So someone can attack it?’
‘No. Bebbanburg won’t fall.’ I had left my son in command, and he had twice as many warriors as he needed to hold that gaunt and forbidding fortress.
‘So someone wants you away from Bebbanburg,’ Æthelstan said firmly, ‘because so long as you’re in Bebbanburg they can’t reach you, but now? Now they can reach you.’
‘Then why let me come here?’ I asked. ‘If they wanted to kill me, then why wait till I’m among friends?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, and neither did I. The monk had lied, but for what reason I could not tell. It was a trap, plainly it was a trap, but who had set it, and why, were mysteries. Æthelstan stamped his feet, then beckoned me to accompany him across the street, where our footsteps made the first marks in the fresh snow. ‘Still,’ he went on, ‘I’m glad you did come.’
‘I didn’t need to.’
‘We were in no real danger,’ he agreed, ‘and my father would have sent relief in the spring.’
‘Would he?’
He ignored the savage disbelief in my voice. ‘Everything has changed in Wessex,’ he said mildly.
‘The new woman?’ I asked caustically, meaning King Edward’s new wife.
‘Who is my mother’s niece.’
That I had not known. What I did know was that King Edward had discarded his second wife and married a younger girl from Cent. The older wife was now in a convent. Edward claimed to be a good Christian, and Christians say that marriage is for life, but a hefty payment of gold or royal land would doubtless persuade the church that their doctrine was wrong, and the king could discard one woman and marry another. ‘So you’re now in favour, lord Prince?’ I asked. ‘You’re the heir again?’
He shook his head. Our footsteps squeaked in the new snow. He was leading me down an alley that would take us to the eastern gate. Two of his guards followed us, but not close enough to hear our conversation. ‘My father is still fond of Ælfweard, I’m told.’
‘Your rival,’ I said bitterly. I despised Ælfweard, Edward’s second son, who was a petulant piece of weasel shit.
‘My half-brother,’ Æthelstan said reprovingly, ‘whom I love.’
‘You do?’ For a moment he did not answer me. We were climbing the Roman steps to the eastern wall, where braziers warmed the sentries. We paused at the top, staring at the encampment of the defeated enemy. ‘You really love that little turd?’ I asked.
‘We are commanded to love one another.’
‘Ælfweard is despicable,’ I said.
‘He might make a good king,’ Æthelstan said quietly.
‘And I’ll be the next Archbishop of Contwaraburg.’
‘That would be interesting,’ he said, amused. I knew he despised Ælfweard as much as I did, but he was saying what it was his familial duty to say. ‘Ælfweard’s mother,’ he went on, ‘is out of favour, but her family is still wealthy, still strong, and they’ve sworn loyalty to the new woman.’
‘They have?’
‘Ælfweard’s uncle is the new ealdorman. He took Edward’s side, and did nothing to help his sister.’
‘Ælfweard’s uncle,’ I said savagely, ‘would whore his own mother to make Ælfweard king.’
‘Probably,’ Æthelstan agreed mildly.
I shivered, and it was not the cold. I shivered because in those words I sensed the trap. I still did not know why I had been lured across Britain, but I suspected I knew who had baited the trap. ‘I’m an old fool,’ I said.
‘And the sun will rise tomorrow.’
‘Lord Prince! Lord Prince!’ an excited voice interrupted us. A small warrior was running along the ramparts to greet us; a warrior small as a child, but dressed in mail, carrying a spear, and wearing a helmet decorated with red and white ribbons.
‘Sister Sunngifu,’ Æthelstan said fondly as the small figure dropped to her knees in front of him. He touched a gloved hand to her helmet and she smiled up at him adoringly. ‘This is the Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ he introduced me, ‘and Sister Sunngifu,’ he was talking to me now, ‘raised a band of fifty women who stand guard on the ramparts to give my warriors a chance to rest and to deceive the enemy of our numbers. The deception worked well!’
Sunngifu moved her gaze to me, offering a dazzling smile. ‘I know the Lord Uhtred, lord Prince,’ she said.
‘Of course you do,’ Æthelstan said, ‘I remember now, you told me.’
Sunngifu was smiling as if she had waited half her life to greet me. I saw she was wearing a nun’s grey habit beneath the mail coat and thick cloak. I reached down and gently lifted the ribbon-decked helmet just enough to see her forehead, and there was the small reddish birthmark, shaped like an apple, the only disfigurement on one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. She was looking up at me with amusement. ‘It’s good to see you again, lord,’ she said humbly.
‘Hello, Mus,’ I said.
The little warrior was Mus, Sunngifu, Sister Gomer, bishop’s widow, whore and troublemaker.
And damn the trap, I was suddenly happy to be in Ceaster.
Two (#u9ac2bba6-4dfe-543b-a4b9-963d7a7d2d90)
‘So, you remember Sister Sunngifu?’ Æthelstan asked me. We had left the ramparts and were leaving the city through the eastern gate, going to inspect the sentries who guarded the enemy trapped in the arena. It was cold, snow made the ground treacherous, and Æthelstan must have been tempted to stay in the great hall’s warmth, but he was doing what he knew should be done; sharing his men’s discomfort.
‘Sunngifu is difficult to forget,’ I said. A dozen of Æthelstan’s guards now followed us. Within a quarter mile there were hundreds of defeated enemy, though I expected no trouble from them. They had been cowed, and now sheltered in their makeshift hovels waiting to see what the morning brought. ‘I’m surprised she became a nun,’ I added.
‘She’s not a nun,’ Æthelstan said, ‘she’s a novice when she’s not pretending to be a soldier.’
‘I always thought she’d marry again,’ I went on.
‘Not if she’s called to God’s service.’
I laughed at that. ‘Her beauty is wasted on your god.’
‘Beauty,’ he said stiffly, ‘is the devil’s snare.’
The fires we had placed around the arena lit his face. It was tight, almost angry. He had asked me about Sunngifu, but now it was plain he was uncomfortable talking of her. ‘And how,’ I asked mischievously, ‘is Frigga?’ Frigga was a young girl I had captured near Ceaster some years before and had given to Æthelstan. ‘She’s a beauty, I remember,’ I went on, ‘I almost kept her for myself.’
‘You’re married,’ he said censoriously.
‘You’re not,’ I retorted, ‘and it’s time you were.’
‘There will be a time for marriage,’ he said dismissively. ‘And Frigga married one of my men. She’s a Christian now.’
Poor girl, I thought. ‘But you should be married,’ I said. ‘You can practise with Sunngifu,’ I teased him, ‘she plainly adores you.’
He stopped and glared at me. ‘That is unseemly!’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘With Sister Sunngifu? With Bishop Leofstan’s widow? Never! She’s a most pious woman.’
God in his dull heaven, I thought as we walked on, and Æthelstan didn’t know her real story?
I will never understand Christians. I can understand their insistence that their nailed god rose from the dead, that he walked on water and cured diseases, because all gods can do those things. No, it’s their other beliefs that astonish me. Sunngifu had been married to Bishop Leofstan, a good man. I liked him. He was a fool, of course, but a holy fool, and I remember him telling me that one of his god’s prophets had married a whore called Gomer. I forget now why this prophet married a whore, it’s all explained in the Christian holy book. I do recall that it wasn’t just because he wanted to bounce her, it was something to do with his religion, and Bishop Leofstan, who at times had the brain of a mayfly, decided to do the same, and had plucked Sunngifu from some Mercian brothel and made her his wife. He solemnly assured me that his Gomer, as he insisted on calling her, had reformed, had been baptised, and was indeed a living saint, but when he wasn’t looking, Sunngifu was humping my men like a demented squirrel. I had never told Leofstan, but I had tried to expel Sunngifu from Ceaster to stop the frequent injuries caused by men fighting for her favours. I had failed, and here she still was, and, for all I knew, still merrily bouncing.
We were walking towards the firelit arena with snow whirling about us. ‘You do know that before Sunngifu married the bishop she was—’ I began.
‘Enough!’ Æthelstan interrupted me. He had stopped again and now looked at me fiercely. ‘If you’re about to tell me that Sister Sunngifu was a harlot before she married, I know! What you don’t understand is that she saw the sinfulness of her life and repented! She is living proof of redemption. A witness of the forgiveness that only Christ can offer! Are you telling me that is falsehood?’
I hesitated, then decided it was best to let him believe whatever he chose. ‘Of course not, lord Prince.’
‘I have suffered from malicious gossip my whole life,’ he said angrily, beckoning me onwards, ‘and I detest it. I have known women raised in the faith, pious women, women full of good works, who are less saintly than Sunngifu! She is a good woman, an inspiration to us all! And she deserves a heavenly reward for what she has achieved here. She tends the wounded, and comforts the afflicted.’
I almost asked how she administered that comfort, but managed to bite my tongue. There was no way to argue with Æthelstan’s piety, and I had watched him grow ever more pious over the years. I had done my best to convince him that the older gods were better, but I had failed, and now he was becoming more and more like his grandfather, King Alfred. He had inherited Alfred’s intelligence and his love of the church, but to those he added the skills of a warrior. He was, in short, formidable, and I had the sudden realisation that if I had just met him for the first time, instead of having known him since he was a child, I would probably dislike him. And if this young man became king, I thought, then Alfred’s dream of one Saxon country under the rule of one Christian king could well come true, indeed was likely to come true, which meant that this young man, whom I thought of as a son, was the enemy of Northumbria. My enemy. ‘Why do I always end up fighting for the wrong side?’ I asked.
Æthelstan laughed, then surprised me by clapping my shoulder, maybe regretting the angry tone he had used just a moment before. ‘Because at heart you’re a Saxon,’ he said, ‘and because, as we’ve already agreed, you’re a fool. But you’re a fool who’ll never be my enemy.’
‘I won’t?’ I asked threateningly.
‘Not by my choice!’ He strode ahead, making for the arena’s entrance, where a dozen of my men stood close to the great fire that burned in the archway. ‘Is Cynlæf still inside?’ He called out.
Berg was the closest of the sentries, and he glanced at me as if wondering whether he should answer. I nodded. ‘No one’s left the arena, lord,’ Berg said.
‘Are we sure Cynlæf’s here?’ I asked.
‘We saw him two days ago,’ Æthelstan said. He smiled at Berg. ‘I fear you’re suffering a cold night.’
‘I’m Norse, lord, the cold doesn’t worry me.’
Æthelstan laughed at that. ‘Nevertheless I’ll send men to relieve you. And tomorrow?’ He paused, distracted by Berg, who was gazing past him.
‘Tomorrow we kill them, lord?’ Berg asked, still staring northwards over Æthelstan’s shoulder.
‘Oh, we kill them,’ Æthelstan said softly, ‘we certainly kill them.’ Then he turned to see what had attracted Berg’s attention. ‘And perhaps we begin the killing now,’ he added in a sharp tone.
I also turned to see a dozen men approaching. Eleven were warriors, all in mail, all cloaked, all bearded, all wearing helmets, and three carrying shields painted with creatures I supposed to be dragons. Their swords were sheathed. The firelight reflected from gold at one man’s neck and shone silver from a cross that was worn by the one priest who accompanied them. The warriors stopped some twenty yards away, but the priest kept walking until he was a couple of paces from Æthelstan, where he dropped to his knees. ‘Lord Prince,’ he said.
‘Stand, stand! I don’t expect priests to kneel to me! You represent God. I should kneel to you.’
‘Earsling,’ I said, but too softly for Æthelstan to hear.
The priest stood. Two crusts of snow clung to his black robe where he had knelt. He was shivering, and, to my surprise, and even more to the priest’s astonishment, Æthelstan strode forward and draped his own thick cloak about the man’s shoulders. ‘What brings you here, father?’ he asked. ‘And who are you?’
‘Father Bledod,’ the priest answered. He was a skinny man with lank black hair, no hat, a straggly beard, and frightened eyes. He fidgeted with the silver cross. ‘Thank you for the cloak, lord.’
‘You’re Welsh?’
‘Yes, lord.’ Father Bledod gave an awkward gesture towards his companions. ‘That is Gruffudd of Gwent. He would speak with you, lord.’
‘With me?’
‘You are the Prince Æthelstan, lord?’
