Osmod roused himself with a great effort. This one last link must be severed before he collapsed. "Flee," he told Edburga beneath the storm of noise, and only she heard. "Edburga, flee the land."
He saw her sob once, saw her hand cover her mouth. Then Edburga, no longer queen of Wessex, turned and fled. And in the crush of confusion, no one marked her passage. No one save Osmod.
Go, Edburga. Your usefulness is ended. And I—I am safe.
Egbert, once prospective prince of Kent, and possibly of all Wessex, now nothing more than a young man in exile, slept with a knife close to hand. It was his custom—particularly now that his captor-patron Charlemagne was far off in Rome and some of the Frankish court left behind here in Aachen just might fancy some deadly sport. Now he came surging up from sleep, knife drawn, seeing a shadowy figure there in the darkness, thinking, This time it's real, someone's sent an assassin to—
"No," a calm voice said. "I'm not a foe. Wait. Let me light a lamp so you can see me."
It had been said in the Saxon tongue of Wessex, the sound infinitely sweet to Egbert's ears. He waited tensely, ready to attack if he must. There was a small flare of light, a flickering as the lamp's wick caught. . . .
So now, who was this? A man stood alone in the yellowish glow, hands raised slightly to show he bore no weapon. The light was too uncertain to let Egbert guess the man's age, but he was definitely blond of hair, blue of eyes, and his pleasant face was vaguely familiar. . . . Egbert hunted for a name and after a moment said tentatively, "Osmod?"
"Ah, I'm flattered that you remember, Your Highness. It's been . . . what, sixteen years now?"
"Indeed," flatly. "You're the last person I would have expected to see here. Especially," his sweep of a hand took in the bedchamber, "here."
"I needed to speak with you rather urgently—and secretly."
"But how did you get into—"
"Please. We both know that nothing's impossible."
"With sufficient coin. Of course." Egbert didn't relax his grip on the knife's hilt. "Speak."
"I'll be blunt. King Beortric of Wessex is dead."
Egbert just barely hid the wild shock of hope that blazed through him; only his years of pretending to be a harmless nobody allowed him to say as calmly as though they were discussing the weather, "Is he, now? How? He wasn't that old a man. And from what I remember of him, I can't believe there was a battle."
"No battle. The talk at court is that his wife was his murderer."
"His wife!"
"You do remember her, don't you? The high-headed daughter of late King Offa? As to the truth of what she did or didn't do . . ." Osmod shrugged. "The fact is: she's fled. And the king is most undeniably dead. Ah . . . I see that my news interests you!"
Egbert could feel his heart racing so fiercely he nearly staggered. Oh God, to be out of this place after all this time! The throne of Wessex vacant, and I— In a voice suddenly choking with hope, he asked, "What of the Witan? Have they chosen a successor?"
"Oh, they're still debating back and forth and getting nowhere. Beortric left no heir of his body; I'm sure that information drifted to you here in Aachen. As for other candidates . . ." Osmod shrugged again. "I don't know how much you recall of how the Witan operates."
"I wasn't too young to recall them agreeing with Beortric to exile me."
"A boy, yes, then. A man, now. Oh, and before you ask," Osmod added cheerfully, "yes, I did reach Aachen with astonishing speed: lucky winds and the like."
"Even so late in the year."
Osmod shrugged. "I didn't say the trip had been easy, just swift. Very swift. Believe me, Your Highness, the Witan is still meeting." Osmod took a small step forward, blue eyes earnest. "The Witan will choose you. They must."
"But you know nothing about me!"
"More than you think, I suspect. You aren't totally isolated here at Charlemagne's court, Your Highness. Not for the . . . ah . . . curious."
"The ambitious, you mean."
"Why, Your Highness, is there anything wrong with ambition?"
Egbert hesitated, wondering. "No," he said at last.
"So. You have the strongest claim to the throne, you are strong and handsome—don't wave that away, Your Highness, we both know that folk, contrary to all the priestly teachings, do judge by outer appearances. So," Osmod repeated, ticking off the points on his fingers, "you are tall, handsome, hale and young—but no longer too young."
"I blush," Egbert said dryly, and saw the man grin.
"More important, Your Highness, you look so much like your late father, Heaven rest him, that no one can deny your lineage. I . . . ah . . . don't suppose you have some token of his as further proof? Of—your pardon— legitimacy?"
"His seal ring." Egbert had held it safely hidden all these years.
"Ah, splendid. The Witan will choose you, Your Highness. Particularly," Osmod added with the slightest of dramatic pauses, "when you are there to remind them you still live."
"What—"
"Yes. I can get us away from here as easily as I got myself in."
"You can guarantee lucky winds back again, eh? Winter weather notwithstanding."
"Something like that." Osmod paused, grin fading. "I can do my part, Your Highness. I can and will get you safely back to Wessex. But before we go a step further, you must decide. Do you want the throne of Wessex?"
God, yes! "Words are all well and good," Egbert hedged warily. "But who stands behind them? I'm not naive: good looks aren't enough to win a throne. And I've been out of sight for sixteen years; the people aren't going to know who I am."
"The golden delight of the Witan, that's all they'll need to know. That will win you initial support. What happens after that . . . well now, Your Highness, once you're on the throne, that will be up to you."
"That still doesn't answer my question: If I leave my 'sanctuary' here and risk returning home, who will I find willing to back my claim?"
"Everyone."
It was said so flatly that Egbert wondered just how bad things had gotten in Wessex. Or just how influential Osmod had become. Yet, oddly enough for an ealdorman, there seemed to be no guile at all in the pleasant face or those clear blue eyes. I've been an actor all these years, Egbert reminded himself. Why shouldn't he be acting as well?
And yet . . . and yet . . . there was something honest about those eyes, something that told him, whispering in his mind, this is a man you can trust.
Could he? Egbert frowned slightly. "Why are you doing this? And please don't give me those tired old words, 'rightful ruler.' "
"Ah, but you are!" But Osmod was smiling again, eyes alight with wry humor. "Of course I want to see you on the throne of Wessex."
"And you beside me as advisor. Weren't you that for Beortric?"
"Of course. One of his several ealdormen, at any rate. But he had lost most of his interest in the wider world. He listened only to his . . . favorite."
"Ah." Egbert hadn't missed the subtle emphasis on favorite. "A pity. And you expect me to have larger concerns?"
"Expect? I know it, Your Highness."
His grin was infectious. Even as a small part of his mind was wondering why, after sixteen years of perpetual caution, he was being so suddenly, so completely trusting of a virtual stranger (almost as though Osmod had cast a spell—no, ridiculous), Egbert felt himself grinning as well.
"We shall see, ealdorman. Get me out of this comfortable prison, get me the throne of Wessex, and we shall see."
"I can ask no more," Osmod said, and bowed.
Ambassador at Large
Chapter 10
Springtime, Ardagh thought, clinging to the rail of the merchant ship (no, no, boat is more the word, and a wallowing awkward one at that). Or at least what might conceivably be passing for such a season if one were of a charitable mind. He would not care to try plunging into those chilly "springtime" waters.
Aedh, not really surprisingly, was rushing the season a bit, desperate to win those Wessex allies be
fore the Lochlannach could set sail.
Optimist.
The king must have paid the ship's owner well to get him to travel this early in the year. But the journey so far hadn't been exciting or romantic or even particularly dangerous. What it had been, Ardagh decided, was out-and-out tedious.
He glanced sideways. Cadwal, looking definitely the worse for wear, was clinging to the rail as though he meant to leave the imprints of his fingers in the wood. "Feeling better?" the prince asked, and got a glare in response. "I take that for a no."
Cadwal stalked away, face desperately rigid. The prince shook his head, amused, and raised the tiny amulet to his lips once more. "Forgive the interruption," he said softly to the far-off Sorcha. "Let me see, where were we?"
" ' . . . and so here we are,' " Sorcha said, mimicking his voice with, he thought, fair success, " 'sailing across an obnoxiously rough sea on an obnoxiously smelly boat.'"
"Ah. Yes." The prince glanced up to make sure that no one was watching him talking earnestly into half an amulet. The little thing did work exactly as intended, but its weak Power meant that he had to hold it practically to his mouth and use a fair amount of will to make it work; they'd quickly discovered that Sorcha, having no magic of her own, could not spark the amulet into life at all.
No one was watching. Ardagh continued, "The captain keeps his craft clean enough, I'll grant him that. But smelly it most certainly is. I will never be able to get the stench of fish out of my nostrils."
Sorcha's voice sounded, not surprisingly, distant and faint but it also was disconcertingly amused. "My poor, put-upon darling. At least you didn't get seasick."
"There is that. Cadwal hasn't been so lucky."
"Och, poor man. He must be so embarrassed."
Ardagh snorted. "Not really. It takes a good deal to disconcert someone who's managed to survive whatever crises life throws his way."
Sorcha chuckled. "Such as you, my love, such as you."
"Ha." But the prince was still thinking about Cadwal. Ever since learning that Ardagh really was of the Sidhe, the mercenary hadn't said more than a dozen words to him. He's nervous—no, no, he's out-and-out afraid of me, Ardagh thought, though the man would never admit it. Afraid, rather, of what I am, or what he thinks I've become. What a ridiculous nuisance!
And how ridiculous to realize just how much he'd been depending on Cadwal's friendship. How much he'd been depending upon having someone he knew at his side.
How much he'd been dreading a return to the total aloneness of his first arrival in the human Realm—
No. Time enough to deal with that when they came ashore. At least there was this: Cadwal's eerie dreams had ceased since they'd come aboard this boat. Not surprising. Sendings, if such they were, would be blocked by running water. That, Ardagh thought wryly, must be worth a good deal of physical and mental discomfort to the man. "Ardagh?"
He started in guilt. "Yes, love, I'm still here. We should be reaching shore soon enough, or so the captain assures me." Ardagh glanced up again. "And here the man comes now. Till later, love."
At first the prince had thought hopefully that this collection of buildings coming into view was royal Uintacaester. But no, he was assured that they had merely reached the trading port of Hamwic, which lay at the mouth of the River Itchen; there was still a journey inland to be made.
Ae, humans.
But it was hardly fair to blame them for not owning the Power to lightly enchant themselves here or there.
Bah.
They came ashore by the simple means of beaching the tough little ship on the wide strip of bare shore; apparently the tide rose high enough to neatly float the ship off again when its owner was ready to set sail. The sailors quickly put a gangplank down, then stood aside. "If you would, Your Highness."
Ardagh stepped gladly down onto dry land, followed by Cadwal (even more grateful than he, judging from the relief in the man's eyes, to be ashore) and their Eriu escort: five of those in all. Not a grand retinue, perhaps, but, the prince thought, more than sufficient. As he stood waiting for his body to adjust to land, his nostrils full of the scents of sea and fish—and, as the wind shifted about to blow from the north, massed humanity—Ardagh looked about in sharp Sidhe curiosity. Hamwic, rather surprisingly, had no defensive walls, only what looked like a boundary ditch.
They clearly haven't yet run afoul of the Lochlannach!
Within the ditch's circle lay some unexpectedly straight streets paved with what looked from here like gravel (no such thing as a city plan back in Fremainn, he thought, or, for that matter, paved streets) and a good many more houses than the prince had expected. Most, at least as far as he could see from out here, were single-storied, their walls of wood, their roofs of thatch.
Which, of course, makes the whole town highly flammable. But with all this water easily to hand, people probably don't worry very much. I wonder if the same is true of cities inland.
His nose wrinkled at the smell of garbage; that, alas, did seem to be a normal part of human places, with their lack of civilized or magical sanitation. But even so, Hamwic seemed clean enough; the midden heaps, or however else they disposed of waste, were out of sight.
Clean enough—fortunately. Etiquette and common sense both dictated that Ardagh and his escort wait here while a messenger hurried off to the king at Uintacaester with the news of this foreign—and royal—envoy's arrival.
There was an awkward time of mutual staring: these folk, like those Ardagh had left, tended to be fair of hair and skin, though their narrow faces could never have been mistaken for any from Eriu. Most of them were clad in leather-wrapped leggings and woolen tunics dyed every shade from dull brown to startling red; some wore cloaks as well, though nothing as practical as Eriu's all-encompassing and virtually weatherproof woolen brats.
Cadwal was practically radiating tension. The prince murmured to him, "Calmness. This is better than the boat."
Cadwal snorted at that. "Most things are. I won't embarrass you, don't worry. Just don't like being studied."
"One can hardly blame them. This may be a trading town, but it still can't be every day that they see a foreign envoy." Particularly, Ardagh added to himself, one led by a prince who, despite his human garb, made such an exotic figure.
Ae-yi, let them stare and chatter as they would. It gave him the chance to adjust his ear to the Saxon tongue as it was spoken by natives. Yes . . . his lessons had been good enough for a start; he would sharpen his knowledge of the language once he'd heard a suitably noble accent to copy by magic. As for what they were saying . . . he most heartily agreed: a prince could hardly be expected to lodge in some common inn. Hardly a difficulty, surely; so busy a town must have a nobleman or woman overseeing matters for the king.
There was. Soon enough, Ardagh and his escort found themselves welcomed into the residence of the local ealdorman, one Eadric. Ardagh glanced about as he waited for his host to appear, welcoming his first look at the inside of a Saxon home. Eadric's home was basically one large, rectangular hall that could easily have held two of the common houses, while the thatched roof, supported by sturdy beams and crossbeams, was far enough overhead to be dark with shadow.
Or is it just soot from that central fire? I suppose this lord has the same problems with ventilation as the folk of Eriu. And here I was hoping that someone had discovered the joys of windows.
"I bid you welcome," a sudden voice cried, "welcome, indeed!"
A plump, cheerful man clad in a brilliant red, elaborately embroidered tunic glinting with gold and jet was hurrying down the length of the hall, an equally plump, equally brightly clad woman scuttling beside him, a flock of servants scurrying in their wake. As the gaudy couple drew near, Ardagh dipped his head politely. This could only be Ealdorman Eadric with, presumably, his wife.
Eadric hadn't stopped chattering cheerful greetings all the while. "Of course you are welcome here," he went on, his eyes bright with excitement, "welcome for as long as you choose to stay."
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Meanwhile, Eadric's wife was simpering at Ardagh like an awestruck girl. "It's not often our home is graced by someone of royal blood," she said, and all but giggled.
"Still," Eadric continued with just the slightest warning frown at his wife (which she ignored), "it shouldn't take very long to receive word back from court. King Egbert is—"
"Egbert!" Ardagh interrupted sharply. "I thought your king's name was Beortric!"
"It was, God rest him, it was. But he's gone on, as they say, dead for less than a year, and young Egbert rules now."
And isn't this splendid? A new king, a totally new personality about whom I know nothing—so much for a quick and easy mission.
The great royal hall Uintacaester was already half-full; there were always those courtiers so nervous about their status that they'd come to any such event far earlier than need be. Osmod, light blue tunic at just the right length, cloak at just the right angle, his only ornament a necklace of gleaming jet, strolled to his place, nodding at this man, smiling genially at another. Fools, many of them, ambitious fools, but not a one of them was ever going to suspect his true feelings.
Ah, here came Egbert—King Egbert, Osmod corrected silently. He did make a most thoroughly regal figure, as Beortric, soft and indecisive, never had. And it hardly hurt the royal image—even, Osmod thought smugly, as he had first pointed out to the then-exile— that Egbert's still-young face was so strongly, elegantly featured, that his hair was so golden, his bearing so proud.
Now, if only his will was just the smallest bit less firm . . .
In the sixteen years of the late king's reign and his own stagnation, he'd forgotten how difficult and overwhelming an intelligent mind could be. But: Patience, the ealdorman told himself. Continue to be friendly and useful, and every day entangle yourself just the tiniest bit more in Egbert's mind, and if the work seems maddeningly slow, no one ever said sorcery was easy.
At least Egbert was being most suitably grateful to the ealdorman who'd helped him to the throne. Of course. New king that he was, he needed to know there was at least one of the nobles he could trust—or at least not mistrust as strongly.
Forging the Runes Page 9
