But whatever he was about to tell me went untold because the door at the hall’s end creaked open. ‘The king wants to see him,’ a familiar voice said.
I turned to see Steapa standing there. Good Steapa, commander of Alfred’s household troops, a peasant slave who had risen to become a great warrior, a man daft as a barrel of loam and strong as an ox, a friend, a man as true as any I have known. ‘The king,’ he said in his stolid voice.
‘But…’ Plegmund began.
‘The king wants me, you snaggle-toothed bastard,’ I told him, then looked at the spearman who had threatened me. ‘If you ever point a blade at me again,’ I promised him, ‘I’ll rip your belly open and feed your entrails to my dogs.’
The Norns were probably laughing, and I went to see the king.
PART TWO
Death of a King
Six
Alfred lay swathed in woollen blankets and propped against a great cushion. Osferth sat on the bed, his hand held by his father. The king’s other hand lay on a bejewelled book, I assumed a gospel book. Just outside the room, in a long passageway, Brother John and four members of his choir were singing a doleful chant. The room stank, despite the herbs scattered on the floor and the great candles that burned in tall wooden sticks. Some of them were Alfred’s prized candle clocks, their bands marking the hours as the king’s life leaked away. Two priests stood against one wall of Alfred’s chamber, while opposite them was a great panel of leather on which the crucifixion was painted.
Steapa pushed me into the room and shut the door on me.
Alfred looked dead already. Indeed, I might have thought him a corpse if he had not pulled his hand away from Osferth, who was in tears. The king’s long face was pale as fleece, with sunken eyes, sunken cheeks and dark shadows. His hair had thinned and gone white. His gums had pulled back from his remaining teeth, his unshaven chin was stained with spittle, while the hand on the book was mere skin-covered bones on which a great ruby shone, the ring too big now for his skeletal finger. His breath was shallow, though his voice was remarkably strong. ‘Behold the sword of the Saxons,’ he greeted me.
‘I see your son has a loose tongue, lord King,’ I said. I went onto one knee until he feebly gestured for me to stand.
He looked at me from his pillow and I looked at him and the monks chanted beyond the door and a candle guttered to spew a thick twist of smoke. ‘I’m dying, Lord Uhtred,’ Alfred said.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘And you look healthy as a bullock,’ he said with a grimace that was meant to be a smile. ‘You always had the capacity to irritate me, didn’t you? It isn’t tactful to look healthy in front of a dying king, but I rejoice for you.’ His left hand stroked the gospel book. ‘Tell me what will happen when I’m dead,’ he commanded me.
‘Your son Edward will rule, lord.’
He gazed at me and I saw the intelligence in those sunken eyes. ‘Don’t tell me what you think I want to hear,’ he said with a touch of his old asperity, ‘but what you believe.’
‘Your son Edward will rule, lord,’ I repeated.
He nodded slowly, believing me. ‘He’s a good son,’ Alfred said, almost as if he were trying to persuade himself of that.
‘He fought well at Beamfleot. You would have been proud of him, lord.’
Alfred nodded tiredly. ‘So much is expected of a king,’ he said. ‘He must be brave in battle, wise in council, just in judgement.’
‘You have been all those things, lord,’ I said, not flattering him, but telling the truth.
‘I tried,’ he said, ‘God knows I did try.’ He closed his eyes and was silent for so long that I wondered if he had fallen asleep and whether I should leave, but then his eyes opened and he gazed at the smoke-darkened ceiling. Somewhere deep in the palace a hound barked shrilly, then suddenly stopped. Alfred frowned in thought, then turned his head to look at me. ‘You spent time with Edward last summer,’ he said.
‘I did, lord.’
‘Is he wise?’
‘He’s clever, lord,’ I said.
‘Many folk are clever, Lord Uhtred, but very few are wise.’
‘Men learn wisdom through experience, lord,’ I said.
‘Some do,’ Alfred said tartly, ‘but will Edward learn?’ I shrugged because it was not a question I could answer. ‘I worry,’ Alfred said, ‘that his passions will rule him.’
I glanced at Osferth. ‘As yours ruled you, lord, once.’
‘Omnes enim peccaverunt,’ Alfred said softly.
‘All have sinned,’ Osferth translated and received a smile from his father.
‘I worry that he is headstrong,’ Alfred said, talking of Edward again. I was surprised that he talked so openly of his heir, but of course it was the one thing that preyed on his mind in those last days. Alfred had dedicated his life to the preservation of Wessex, and he desperately wanted reassurance that all his achievements would not be thrown away by his successor, and so deep was that worry that he could not let the subject alone. He wanted that reassurance so badly.
‘You leave him with good counsel, lord,’ I said, not because I believed it, but because he wanted to hear it. Many men of the Witan were indeed good counsellors, but there were too many churchmen like Plegmund, whose advice I would never trust.
‘And a king can reject all counsel,’ Alfred said, ‘because in the end it is always the king’s decision, it is the king’s responsibility, it is the king who is wise or foolish. And if the king is foolish, what will happen to the kingdom?’
‘You worry, lord,’ I said, ‘because Edward did what all young men do.’
‘He is not like other young men,’ Alfred said sternly, ‘but born to privilege and duty.’
‘And a girl’s smile,’ I said, ‘can erode duty faster than flame melts frost.’
He stared at me. ‘So you know?’ he said, after a long while.
‘Yes, lord, I know.’
Alfred sighed. ‘He said it was passion, that it was love. Kings don’t marry for love, Lord Uhtred, they marry to make their kingdom safe. And she wasn’t right,’ he said firmly, ‘she was brazen! She was shameless!’
‘Then I wish I’d known her, lord,’ I said, and Alfred laughed, though the effort hurt him and the laugh turned to a groan. Osferth had no idea what we talked about and I gave him the slightest shake of my head to show that he should not ask, and then I thought of the words that would give Alfred the reassurance he wanted. ‘At Beamfleot, lord,’ I said, ‘I stood beside Edward in a shield wall and a man cannot hide his character in a shield wall, and I learned that your son is a good man. I promise you, he is a man to be proud of,’ I hesitated, then nodded at Osferth, ‘as are all your sons.’
I saw the king’s hand tighten on Osferth’s fingers. ‘Osferth is a good man,’ Alfred said, ‘and I am proud of him.’ Alfred patted his bastard son’s hand and looked back to me. ‘And what else will happen?’ he asked.
‘Æthelwold will make an attempt to take the throne,’ I said.
‘He swears not.’
‘He swears easily, lord. You should have cut his throat twenty years ago.’
‘People said the same about you, Lord Uhtred.’
‘Maybe you should have taken their advice, lord?’
His mouth showed the ghost of a smile. ‘Æthelwold is a sorry creature,’ he said, ‘without discipline or sense. He’s not a danger, just a reminder of our fallibility.’
‘He’s talked to Sigurd,’ I said, ‘and he has disaffected allies in both Cent and Mercia. That’s why I came to Wintanceaster, lord, to warn you of this.’
Alfred gazed at me for a long time, then sighed. ‘He’s always dreamed of being king,’ he said.
‘Time to kill him and his dream, lord,’ I said firmly. ‘Give me the word and I’ll rid you of him.’
Alfred shook his head. ‘He’s my brother’s son,’ Alfred said, ‘and a weak man. I don’t want my family’s blood on my hands when I stand before God at the judgement seat.’
&n
bsp; ‘So you let him live?’
‘He’s too weak to be dangerous. No one in Wessex will support him.’
‘Very few will, lord,’ I said, ‘so he’ll go back to Sigurd and Cnut. They will invade Mercia and then Wessex. There will be battles.’ I hesitated. ‘And in those battles, lord, Cnut, Sigurd and Æthelwold will die, but Edward and Wessex will be safe.’
He considered that glib statement for a moment, then sighed. ‘And Mercia? Not every man in Mercia loves Wessex.’
‘The Mercian lords must choose sides, lord,’ I said. ‘Those who support Wessex will be on the winning side, the others will be dead. Mercia will be ruled by Edward.’
I had told him what he wanted to hear, but also what I believed. Strange, that. I had been left confused by Ælfadell’s predictions, yet when I was asked to foretell the future I had no hesitation.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Alfred asked. ‘Did the witch Ælfadell tell you all that?’
‘No, lord. She told me the very opposite, but she was only telling me what Jarl Cnut wanted her to say.’
‘The gift of prophecy,’ Alfred said sternly, ‘would not be given to a pagan.’
‘Yet you ask me to tell the future, lord?’ I asked mischievously, and was rewarded by another grimace that was intended as a smile.
‘So how can you be sure?’ Alfred asked.
‘We’ve learned how to fight the Northmen, lord,’ I said, ‘but they haven’t learned how to fight us. When you have burhs, then the defender has all the advantages. They will attack, we will defend, they will lose, we shall win.’
‘You make it sound simple,’ Alfred said.
‘Battle is simple, lord, maybe that’s why I’m good at it.’
‘I have been wrong about you, Lord Uhtred.’
‘No, lord.’
‘No?’
‘I love the Danes, lord.’
‘But you are the sword of the Saxons?’
‘Wyrd bi ful ræd, lord,’ I said.
He closed his eyes momentarily. He lay so still that for a few heartbeats I feared he was dying, but then he opened his eyes again and frowned towards the smoke-blackened rafters. He tried to suppress a moan, but it escaped anyway and I saw the pain pass across his face. ‘That is so hard,’ he said.
‘There are potions that help with pain, lord,’ I said helplessly.
He shook his head slowly. ‘Not pain, Lord Uhtred. We are born to pain. No, fate is difficult. Is all ordained? Foreknowledge is not fate, and we may choose our paths, yet fate says we may not choose them. So if fate is real, do we have choice?’ I said nothing, letting him puzzle that unanswerable question for himself. He looked at me. ‘What would you have your fate be?’ he asked.
‘I would recapture Bebbanburg, lord, and when I find myself on my deathbed I want it to be in Bebbanburg’s high hall with the sound of her sea filling my ears.’
‘And I have Brother John filling my ears,’ Alfred said, amused. ‘He tells them they must open their mouths like hungry little birds, and they do.’ He put his right hand back on Osferth’s hand. ‘They want me to be a hungry little bird. They feed me thin gruel, Lord Uhtred, and insist that I eat, but I don’t want to eat.’ He sighed. ‘My son,’ he meant Osferth, ‘tells me you are a poor man. Why? Did you not capture a fortune at Dunholm?’
‘I did, lord.’
‘You wasted it?’
‘I wasted it in your service, lord, on men, mail and weapons. On guarding the frontier of Mercia. On equipping an army to defeat Haesten.’
‘Nervi bellorum pecuniae,’ Alfred said.
‘Your scriptures, lord?’
‘A wise Roman, Lord Uhtred, who said that money is the sinews of war.’
‘He knew what he was talking about, lord.’
Alfred closed his eyes and I could see the pain cross his face again. His mouth tightened as he suppressed a groan. The smell in the room grew ranker. ‘There is a lump in my belly,’ he said, ‘like a stone.’ He paused and again tried to stifle a groan. A single tear escaped. ‘I watch the candle clocks,’ he said, ‘and wonder how many bands will burn before,’ he hesitated. ‘I measure my life by inches. You will come back tomorrow, Lord Uhtred.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘I have given my,’ he paused, then patted Osferth’s hand, ‘my son,’ he said, ‘a charge.’ He opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘My son is charged with converting you to the true faith.’
‘Yes, lord,’ I said, not knowing what else to say. I saw the tears on Osferth’s face.
Alfred looked at the great leather panel that showed the crucifixion. ‘Do you notice anything strange about that painting?’ he asked me.
I stared at it. Jesus hung from the cross, blood streaked, the sinews in his arms stretching against the dark sky behind. ‘No, lord,’ I said.
‘He’s dying,’ Alfred said. That seemed obvious and so I said nothing. ‘In every other depiction I have seen of our Lord’s death,’ the king went on, ‘he is smiling on the cross, but not in this one. In this painting his head is hanging, he is in pain.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Archbishop Plegmund reproved the painter,’ Alfred said, ‘because he believes our Lord conquered pain and so would have smiled to the end, but I like the painting. It reminds me that my pain is as nothing compared to his.’
‘I would you had no pain, lord,’ I said awkwardly.
He ignored that. He still gazed at the agonised Christ, then grimaced. ‘He wore a crown of thorns,’ he said in a tone of wonderment. ‘Men want to be king,’ he went on, ‘but every crown has thorns. I told Edward that wearing the crown is hard, so hard. One last thing,’ he turned his head from the painting and raised his left hand, and I saw what an effort it took to lift that pathetic hand from the gospel book. ‘I would have you swear an oath of loyalty to Edward. That way I can die in the knowledge that you will fight for us.’
‘I will fight for Wessex,’ I said.
‘The oath,’ he said sternly.
‘And I will give an oath,’ I said. His shrewd eyes stared at me.
‘To my daughter?’ he asked, and I saw Osferth stiffen.
‘To your daughter, lord,’ I agreed.
He seemed to shudder. ‘In my laws, Lord Uhtred, adultery is not just a sin, but a crime.’
‘You would make criminals of all mankind, lord.’
He half smiled at that. ‘I love Æthelflaed,’ he said, ‘she was always the liveliest of my children, but not the most obedient.’ His hand dropped back onto the gospel book. ‘Leave me now, Lord Uhtred. Come back tomorrow.’
If he was still alive, I thought. I knelt to him, then Osferth and I left. We walked in silence to a cloistered courtyard where the last roses of summer had dropped their petals on the damp grass. We sat on a stone bench and listened to the mournful chants echoing from the passageway. ‘The archbishop wanted me dead,’ I said.
‘I know,’ Osferth said, ‘so I went to my father.’
‘I’m surprised they let you see him.’
‘I had to argue with the priests who guard him,’ he said with a half-smile, ‘but he heard the argument.’
‘And called you to see him?’
‘He sent a priest to summon me.’
‘And you told him what was happening to me?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘And you made your peace with Alfred?’
Osferth gazed unseeing into the dark. ‘He said he was sorry, lord, that I am what I am, and that it was his fault, and that he would intervene for me in heaven.’
‘I’m glad,’ I said, not sure how else to respond to such nonsense.
‘And I told him, lord, that if Edward were to rule, then Edward needed you.’
‘Edward will rule,’ I said, then I told him about the Lady Ecgwynn and the twin babies hidden away in the nunnery. ‘Edward was only doing what his father did,’ I said, ‘but it will cause problems.’
‘Problems?’
‘Are the babies legit
imate?’ I asked. ‘Alfred says not, but once Alfred dies then Edward can declare otherwise.’
‘Oh, God,’ Osferth said, seeing the difficulties so far in the future.
‘What they should do, of course,’ I said, ‘is strangle the little bastards.’
‘Lord!’ Osferth said, shocked.
‘But they won’t. Your family was never ruthless enough.’
It had begun to rain harder, the drops beating on the tile and thatch of the palace roofs. There was no moon, no stars, only clouds in darkness and the hard rain teeming and the wind sighing about the scaffolded tower of Alfred’s great new church. I went to Saint Hedda’s. The guards were gone, the alleyway dark, and I beat on the convent door till someone answered.
Next day the king and his bed had been moved to the larger hall where Plegmund and his colleagues had thought to condemn me. The crown was on the bed, its bright emeralds reflecting the fire that filled the high chamber with smoke and heat. The room was crowded, stinking of men and the king’s decay. Bishop Asser was there, as was Erkenwald, though the archbishop had evidently found other business to keep him from the king’s presence. A score of West Saxon lords were there. One of them was Æthelhelm whose daughter was to marry Edward. I liked Æthelhelm, who now stood close behind Ælswith, Alfred’s wife, who did not know which she resented more, my existence or the strange truth that Wessex did not recognise the rank of queen. She watched me balefully. Her children flanked her. Æthelflaed, at twenty-nine, was the eldest, then came her brother, Edward, then Æthelgifu and lastly Æthelweard who was just sixteen. Ælfthryth, Alfred’s third daughter, was not there because she had been married to a king across the water in Frankia. Steapa was there, looming above my dear old friend, Father Beocca, who was now stooped and white-haired. Brother John and his monks sang softly. Not all of the choir were monks, some were small boys robed in pale linen and, with a shock, I recognised my son Uhtred as one of them.
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