Death of Kings

by Bernard Cornwell

  Wintanceaster was, of course, the chief of Alfred’s burhs, those towns fortified against the Danes. It was surrounded by a deep ditch, flooded in places, beyond which was a high earthen bank topped by a palisade of oak trunks. There are few things worse than assaulting such a place. The defenders, like Haesten’s men at Beamfleot, hold all the advantage and can rain weapons and stones on the attackers, who have to struggle through obstacles and try to climb ladders that are being hacked apart by axes. Alfred’s burhs were what had made Wessex safe. The Danes could still ravage the countryside, but everything of value would be pulled inside the burh walls and the Danes could only ride around those walls and make empty threats. The surest way to capture a burh was to starve its garrison into submission, but that could take weeks or months, and for all that time the besiegers would be vulnerable to troops coming from other fortresses. The alternative was to throw men at the walls and watch them die in the ditch and the Danes were never profligate with men. The burhs were strongholds, too strong for the Danes, and Bebbanburg, I thought, was tougher than any burh.

  The northern gateway to Wintanceaster was now made of stone and guarded by a dozen men who barred the open arch. Their leader was a small grizzled man with fierce eyes who waved his troops away when he saw me. ‘It’s Grimric, lord,’ he said, obviously expecting to be recognised.

  ‘You were at Beamfleot,’ I guessed.

  ‘I was, lord!’ he said, pleased that I remembered.

  ‘Where you did great slaughter,’ I said, hoping it was true.

  ‘We showed the bastards how Saxons fight, lord, didn’t we?’ he said, grinning. ‘I keep telling these lily boys that you know how to give a man a real fight!’ he jerked a thumb at his men, all of whom were youngsters pulled away from their farms or shops to serve their term of weeks in the burh’s garrison. ‘They’re still wet with mama’s milk, lord,’ Grimric said.

  I gave him a coin I could scarce afford to give, but such things are expected of a lord. ‘Buy them ale,’ I told Grimric.

  ‘That I shall, lord,’ he said, ‘and I knew you’d come! I have to tell them you’re here, of course, but I knew everything would be all right.’

  ‘All right?’ I asked, puzzled by his words.

  ‘I knew it would be, lord!’ he grinned, then waved us on. I went to the Two Cranes where the owner knew me. He shouted at his servants to look after our horses, brought us ale and gave us a large chamber at the back of the tavern where the straw was clean.

  The landlord was a one-armed man with a beard so long that he tucked its lower end into a wide leather belt. He was named Cynric, had lost his lower left arm fighting for Alfred, and had owned the Two Cranes for over twenty years, and there was not much that went on in Wintanceaster that he did not know about. ‘The churchmen rule,’ he told me.

  ‘Not Alfred?’

  ‘Poor bastard’s sick as a drunken dog. It’s a miracle he still lives.’

  ‘And Edward’s under the thumb of the clergy?’ I asked.

  ‘The clergy,’ Cynric said, ‘his mother, and the Witan. But he’s not nearly as pious as they think. You heard about the Lady Ecgwynn?’

  ‘The bishop’s daughter?’

  ‘That’s the one, and she was a lovely thing, God knows. Just a little girl she was, but so beautiful.’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘Died giving birth.’

  I stared at him, the implications tumbling in my head. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘God’s teeth, I know the woman who midwifed her! Ecgwynn produced twins, a boy called Æthelstan and a girl called Eadgyth, but the poor mother died that same night.’

  ‘Edward was the father?’ I asked and Cynric nodded. ‘Twin royal bastards,’ I said softly.

  Cynric shook his head. ‘But are they bastards?’ He kept his voice low. ‘Edward claims he married her, his father says it wasn’t legal, and his father wins that argument. And they kept the whole thing quiet! God knows they paid the midwife well enough.’

  ‘The children lived?’

  ‘They’re in Saint Hedda’s nunnery, with the Lady Æthelflaed.’

  I stared into the fire. So the perfect heir had proved as sinful as the next man. And Alfred was sweeping away the fruits of that sin, tucking them into a nunnery in hope no one would notice them. ‘Poor Edward,’ I said.

  ‘He’s marrying Ælflæd now,’ Cynric said, ‘which pleases Alfred.’

  ‘And he already has two children,’ I said in wonderment. ‘That’s a royal mess. You say Æthelflaed is in Saint Hedda’s?’

  ‘Locked away there,’ Cynric said. He knew of my attachment to Æthelflaed, and his tone suggested she had been locked away to keep her from me.

  ‘Her husband’s here?’

  ‘In Alfred’s palace. The whole family is here, even Æthelwold.’

  ‘Æthelwold!’

  ‘Came here two weeks back, weeping and wailing for his uncle.’

  Æthelwold was braver than I thought. He had made his alliance with the Danes, yet was brazen enough to come to his dying uncle’s court. ‘Is he still drunk?’ I asked.

  ‘Not that I know of. He hasn’t been in here. They say he spends his time praying,’ he spoke scornfully, and I laughed. ‘We’re all praying,’ he finished glumly, meaning that everyone worried about what happened when Alfred died.

  ‘And Saint Hedda’s?’ I asked. ‘Is it still Abbess Hildegyth?’

  ‘She’s a saint herself, lord, yes she’s still there.’

  I took Osferth to Saint Hedda’s. The rain was spitting, making the streets greasy. The convent lay on the northern edge of the town, close by the earthen bank with its high palisade. The only door to the nunnery lay at the end of a long, muddy alley that, just like the last time I had visited, was crowded with beggars who were waiting for the alms and food that the nuns distributed morning and evening. The beggars shuffled out of our way. They were nervous because Osferth and I were both in mail and both carrying swords. Some held out hands or wooden bowls, but I ignored them, puzzled by the presence of three soldiers at the nunnery door. The three wore helmets and carried spears, swords and shields, and as we approached they stepped away from the door to bar our path. ‘You can’t go inside, lord,’ one of them said.

  ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘You’re the Lord Uhtred,’ the man said respectfully, ‘and you can’t go inside.’

  ‘The abbess is an old friend,’ I said, and that was true. Hild was a friend, a saint, and a woman I had loved, but it seemed I was not allowed to visit her. The leader of the three soldiers was a well-set man, not young, but with broad shoulders and a confident face. His sword was sheathed, and I did not doubt he would draw it if I tried to force my way past him, but nor did I doubt that I could beat him down into the mud. Yet there were three of them, and I knew Osferth would not fight against West Saxon soldiers who guarded a convent. I shrugged. ‘You can give the Abbess Hild a message?’ I asked.

  ‘I can do that, lord.’

  ‘Tell her Uhtred came to visit her.’

  He nodded, and I heard the beggars gasp behind me and turned to see even more soldiers filing up the alley. I recognised their commander, a man called Godric who had served under Weohstan. He led seven helmeted men who, like those guarding the convent, had shields and spears. They were ready for battle. ‘I’m asked to take you to the palace, lord,’ Godric greeted me.

  ‘You need spears to do that?’

  Godric ignored the question, gesturing back down the alley instead. ‘You’ll come?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ I said, and followed him back through the town. The people in the streets watched us pass in silence. Osferth and I had kept our swords, but we still looked as though we were prisoners under escort and, when we reached the palace gate, a steward insisted we give up those weapons. That was normal. Only the king’s bodyguards were allowed to carry weapons inside the palace precincts and so I handed Serpent-Breath to the stewards, then followed Godric past Alfred’s private chapel to a small l
ow thatched building.

  ‘You’re asked to wait inside, lord,’ he said, indicating the door.

  We waited in a windowless room that was furnished with two benches, a reading desk and a crucifix. Godric’s men stayed outside and, when I tried to leave, spears barred my way. ‘We want food,’ I said, ‘and ale. And a bucket to piss in.’

  ‘Are we under arrest?’ Osferth asked me after the food and bucket had been brought.

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. I ate the bread and hard cheese and then, though the room’s earth floor was damp, I lay down and tried to sleep.

  It was dusk before Godric returned. He was still courteous. ‘You’ll come with me, lord,’ he said, and Osferth and I followed him through familiar courtyards to one of the smaller halls where a fire burned bright in the hearth. There were painted leather hangings on the wall, each showing a different West Saxon saint, while at the hall’s high end, at a table spread with a blue-dyed cloth, sat five churchmen. Three were strangers to me, but I recognised the other two and neither was a friend. Bishop Asser, the poisonous Welsh priest who was Alfred’s closest confidant was one, while Bishop Erkenwald was the other. They flanked a thin-shouldered man whose tonsured hair was white above a face as lean as a starving weasel’s. He had a blade for a nose, intelligent eyes and pinched, narrow lips that could not hide his crooked teeth. The two priests at either end of the table were much younger and each had a quill, an ink pot and a sheet of parchment. They were there, it seemed, to take notes.

  ‘Bishop Erkenwald,’ I greeted him, then looked at Asser, ‘I don’t think I know you.’

  ‘Take that hammer from his neck,’ Asser said to Godric.

  ‘Touch that hammer,’ I told Godric, ‘and I’ll dump your arse in the fire.’

  ‘Enough!’ the starving weasel slapped the table. The ink pots jumped. The two clerk-priests were scratching away. ‘I am Plegmund,’ the man told me.

  ‘High sorcerer of Contwaraburg?’ I asked.

  He stared at me with obvious dislike, then drew a sheet of parchment towards him. ‘You have some explaining to do,’ he said.

  ‘And no lies this time!’ Asser spat. Years before, in this same hall, I had been tried by the Witan for offences of which, in truth, I was wholly guilty. The chief witness of my crimes had been Asser, but I had lied my way out and he had known I had lied and he had despised me ever since.

  I frowned at him. ‘What is your name?’ I asked. ‘You remind me of someone. He was a Welsh earsling, a rat-like little shit, but I killed him, so you can’t be the same man.’

  ‘Lord Uhtred,’ Bishop Erkenwald said tiredly, ‘please do not insult us.’

  Erkenwald and I were not fond of each other, but in his time as Bishop of Lundene he had proved an efficient ruler and he had not stood in my way before Beamfleot, indeed his skills as an organiser had contributed mightily to that victory. ‘What do you want explained?’ I asked.

  Archbishop Plegmund pulled a candle across the table to illuminate the parchment. ‘We have been told of your activities this summer,’ he said.

  ‘And you want to thank me,’ I said.

  The cold, sharp eyes stared at me. Plegmund had become famous as a man who denied himself every pleasure, whether it was food, women or luxury. He served his god by being uncomfortable, by praying in lonely places, and by being a hermit priest. Why folk think that admirable, I do not know, but he was held in awe by the Christians, who were all delighted when he abandoned his hermit’s discomfort to become archbishop. ‘In the spring,’ he said in a thin, precise voice, ‘you had a meeting with the man who calls himself Jarl Haesten, following which meeting you rode north into the country possessed by Cnut Ranulfson where you consulted the witch, Ælfadell. From there you went to Snotengaham, presently occupied by Sigurd Thorrson, and thereafter to the Jarl Haesten again.’

  ‘All true,’ I said easily, ‘only you’ve left some things out.’

  ‘Here come the lies,’ Asser sneered.

  I frowned at him. ‘Was your mother straining at stool when you were born?’

  Plegmund slapped the table again. ‘What have we left out?’

  ‘The small truth that I burned Sigurd’s fleet.’

  Osferth had been looking increasingly alarmed at the hostility in the room and now, without a word to me, and without any demurral from the clerics at the linen-covered table, he edged back to the door. They let him go. It was me they wanted. ‘The fleet was burned, we know,’ Plegmund said, ‘and we know the reason.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It was a sign to the Danes that there can be no retreat across the water. Sigurd Thorrson is telling his followers that their fate is to capture Wessex, and as proof of that fate he burned his own ships to demonstrate that there can be no withdrawal.’

  ‘You believe that?’ I asked.

  ‘It is the truth,’ Asser snapped.

  ‘You wouldn’t know the truth if it was rammed down your throat with an axe-handle,’ I said, ‘and no northern lord will burn his ships. They cost gold. I burned them, and Sigurd’s men tried to kill me when I did.’

  ‘Oh, no one doubts that you were there when they were burned,’ Erkenwald said.

  ‘And you do not deny consulting the witch Ælfadell?’ Plegmund asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘nor do I deny destroying the Danish armies at Fearnhamme and at Beamfleot last year.’

  ‘No one denies that you have done past service,’ Plegmund said.

  ‘When it suited you,’ Asser added acidly.

  ‘And do you deny slaying the Abbot Deorlaf of Buchestanes?’ Plegmund asked.

  ‘I gutted him like a plump fish,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t deny it?’ Asser sounded astonished.

  ‘I’m proud of it,’ I said, ‘and of the other two monks I killed.’

  ‘Note that!’ Asser hissed at the clerk-priests who hardly needed his encouragement. They were scribbling away.

  ‘Last year,’ Bishop Erkenwald said, ‘you refused to give an oath of loyalty to the ætheling Edward.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m tired of Wessex,’ I said, ‘tired of priests, tired of being told what your god’s will is, tired of being told that I’m a sinner, tired of your endless damned nonsense, tired of that nailed tyrant you call god who only wants us to be miserable. And I refused to give the oath because my ambition is to go back north, to Bebbanburg, and to kill the men who hold it, and I cannot do that if I am sworn to Edward and he wants something different of me.’

  That might not have been the most tactful speech, but I was not feeling tactful. Someone, I assumed Æthelred, had done their best to destroy me and had deployed the power of the church to do that and I was determined to fight the miserable bastards. It seemed I was succeeding, at least in making them even more miserable. Plegmund was grimacing, Asser making the sign of the cross, and Erkenwald’s eyes were closed. The two young priests were writing faster than ever. ‘Nailed tyrant,’ one of them repeated slowly as his quill scratched on the parchment.

  ‘And who had the clever idea to send me to East Anglia so Sigurd could kill me?’ I demanded.

  ‘King Eohric assures us that Sigurd went without his invitation, and that had he known he would have launched an attack on those forces,’ Plegmund said.

  ‘Eohric is an earsling,’ I said, ‘and in case you didn’t know, archbishop, an earsling is a thing like Bishop Asser that is squirted out of an arse.’

  ‘You will be respectful!’ Plegmund snarled, glaring at me.

  ‘Why?’ I demanded.

  He blinked at that. Asser was whispering in his ear, the sibilance urgent and demanding, while Bishop Erkenwald tried to discover something useful from me. ‘What did the witch Ælfadell tell you?’ he asked.

  ‘That the Saxon would destroy Wessex,’ I said, ‘and that the Danes would win and Wessex would be no more.’

  All three w
ere checked by that. They might have been Christians, and important Christians at that, but they were not immune to the real gods and their magic. They were scared, though none made the sign of the cross because to have done so would have been an admission that the pagan prophetess might have some access to the truth, a thing they would want to deny to each other. ‘And who is the Saxon?’ Asser hissed the question.

  ‘That,’ I said, ‘is what I came to Wintanceaster to tell the king.’

  ‘So tell us,’ Plegmund demanded.

  ‘I’ll tell the king,’ I said.

  ‘You snake,’ Asser said, ‘you thief in the night! The Saxon who will destroy Wessex is you!’

  I spat to show my derision, but the spittle did not reach the table.

  ‘You came here,’ Erkenwald said wearily, ‘because of a woman.’

  ‘Adulterer!’ Asser snapped.

  ‘That is the only explanation for your presence here,’ Erkenwald said, then looked at the archbishop, ‘sicut canis qui revertitur ad vomitum suum.’

  ‘Sic inprudens qui iterat stultitiam suam,’ the archbishop intoned.

  I thought for a moment they were cursing me, but little Bishop Asser could not resist demonstrating his learning by providing me with a translation. ‘As the dog returns to its vomit, so the fool returns to his filth.’

  ‘The words of God,’ Erkenwald said.

  ‘And we must decide what to do with you,’ Plegmund said, and at those words Godric’s men moved closer. I was aware of their spears behind me. A log cracked in the fire, shooting sparks onto the rushes that began to smoke. Normally a servant, or one of the soldiers, would have rushed forward to stamp out the tiny fire, but no one moved. They wanted me dead. ‘It has been demonstrated to us,’ Plegmund broke the silence, ‘that you have been consorting with our king’s enemies, that you have conspired with them, that you have eaten their bread and taken their salt. Worse, you have admitted to slaying the holy Abbot Deorlaf and two of his brethren and…’

  ‘The holy Abbot Deorlaf,’ I interrupted him, ‘was in league with the witch Ælfadell, and the holy Abbot Deorlaf wished to kill me. What was I supposed to do? Turn the other cheek?’