The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8)

by Bernard Cornwell

  Mercia, he said, had been without a king for a generation. It was God’s will, he claimed, that a kingdom should have a king, a statement that brought a murmur of agreement from the assembled lords. ‘A kingdom without a king,’ the bishop said, ‘is like a diocese without a bishop, or a ship without a master. And no one here,’ he glanced towards me as he said this, ‘would deny that Mercia is one of the ancient kingdoms of Britain.’ Another and louder murmur of agreement filled the hall, and the bishop, heartened by the support, ploughed on. ‘Our Lord Æthelred,’ he raised his voice, ‘was too modest to claim the kingship!’ I almost laughed out loud when he said that. Æthelred would have given an eye, an arm, and both his balls to have worn the crown of Mercia, but knew only too well that his West Saxon paymasters would have punished him because Wessex wanted no king in Mercia except their own West Saxon king. ‘Yet he was a king in all but name!’ Wulfheard was shouting now, probably because he knew his argument was weak. ‘And on his deathbed our Lord of Mercia, our dear departed Lord Æthelred, announced that it was his wish that his brother-in-law, King Edward of Wessex, should be invited to assume the ancient crown of our beloved country!’ The bishop paused, presumably to allow a bellow of acclamation, but the hall remained silent except for Æthelhelm and his men, who stamped their feet in agreement.

  And that silence, I thought, was interesting. The vast majority of the nobles in the hall was ready to do whatever Wulfheard and Æthelhelm wanted, yet they were not enthusiastic about that fate. There was still a good deal of pride in Mercia. They would accept a West Saxon king, but it would be a loveless marriage, and so they remained quiet, all except one, Ealdorman Aidyn. ‘This Witan has the power to choose a king,’ he growled. He was a noble from the eastern part of Mercia, a man whose troops had long been allied with the West Saxons in their forays against the East Anglian Danes, and a man I would have expected to be an enthusiastic supporter of Edward’s claim, but even he had sounded sceptical.

  ‘It has ever been the prerogative of the Witan to choose their king,’ Bishop Wulfheard allowed somewhat grudgingly, ‘do you have a proposal?’

  Aidyn shrugged. Did he hope to be chosen himself, I wondered. ‘Mercia should be ruled by a Mercian,’ he said.

  ‘But who?’ Bishop Wulfheard barked, and it was a good question. Aidyn sensed that few men in the hall would support his claim, if indeed he had any claim, and so he said nothing more.

  ‘The crown,’ another man spoke up, but I could not see who it was, ‘should go to the king’s son.’

  ‘Lord Æthelred had no son,’ the bishop snapped.

  ‘Then to the nearest kin,’ the man said.

  ‘The nearest kin is his widow’s brother, King Edward,’ Wulfheard said, and that, interestingly, was not true, though I did not say so. ‘And let me remind this Witan,’ the bishop went on, ‘that King Edward’s mother was a Mercian.’ That was true, and some men in the hall nodded. Wulfheard waited for another comment, but none came. ‘I therefore propose …’ he began, but then stopped because I had stood.

  ‘I have a question, lord bishop,’ I said respectfully.

  ‘Lord Uhtred?’ he responded cautiously.

  ‘Can Mercia’s ruler,’ I asked, ‘appoint a successor if he has no heir?’

  Wulfheard frowned, looking for the trap in the question, then decided to lay a trap of his own. ‘Are you saying, Lord Uhtred,’ he asked in a silky voice, ‘that Lord Æthelred was the ruler of this realm?’

  ‘Of course he was,’ I said, giving Wulfheard the answer he wanted, ‘but I am not expert in Mercian law as you are, so I just wished to know if the Lord Æthelred’s last wishes have any legal validity.’

  ‘They do!’ Wulfheard answered triumphantly. ‘The ruler’s wishes carry great force, and only need this noble assembly’s support to be enacted.’

  Silence again. Men turned and looked at me. They knew I wanted Æthelflaed to rule Mercia, but my question and humble answer suggested I was ready to support her brother. Wulfheard, smiling because he believed he had just scored a great triumph over me, spoke again. ‘We would be remiss,’ he said unctuously, ‘if we were not to give great weight to Lord Æthelred’s dying wish, and that wish was for his brother-in-law, King Edward of Wessex, to become Mercia’s king.’ He paused, but again there was silence. The Witan might recognise the inevitability of the choice, but that did not mean they liked it. These men were witnessing the death of a proud country, a country once led by the great King Offa who had dominated all Britain. Wulfheard gestured to Æthelhelm. ‘The Lord Æthelhelm of Wessex,’ he said, ‘is not a member of this Witan …’

  ‘Yet,’ a man interrupted and was rewarded with laughter.

  ‘Yet,’ the bishop agreed, ‘but with your permission he will tell us how King Edward will rule this land.’

  Æthelhelm stood. He had always been a good-looking and affable man, and his demeanour now was friendly, humble, and earnest. He declared what an honour the Witan would do to Edward and how Edward would be forever grateful, and how Edward would labour ‘night and day’ to nurture Mercia, to protect her frontiers and to expel those Danes who still remained in the northern part of the country. ‘He will do nothing,’ Æthelhelm said fervently, ‘without the guidance of this Witan. Advisers from Mercia will be the king’s constant companions! And the king’s eldest son, my grandson Ælfweard, the ætheling, will spend half his time in Gleawecestre so that he will learn to love this country as much as his father does, indeed, as much as all West Saxons do!’

  He had spoken well, but his words were still met with the same sullen silence. I saw Wulfheard was about to speak again, so it was time, I thought, to toss a turd into the pottage. ‘And what of King Edward’s sister?’ I asked before the bishop could draw breath. ‘The Lady Æthelflaed?’

  She was listening, I knew. She had not been allowed into the Witan because women had no voice in the council, but she was waiting just beyond the door that was closest to the dais. Æthelhelm knew she was listening too. ‘The Lady Æthelflaed,’ he said carefully, ‘is now a widow. She will doubtless wish to retire to her estates, or else join a nunnery where she can pray for the soul of her departed husband.’

  ‘And will she be safe in any nunnery?’ I asked.

  ‘Safe?’ Bishop Wulfheard bridled at the question. ‘She will be in God’s hands, Lord Uhtred. Of course she will be safe!’

  ‘Yet just two days ago,’ I said, raising my voice and speaking slowly so that the oldest and deafest members of the Witan could hear my words, ‘Ealdorman Æthelhelm allied his men with the traitor Eardwulf’s troops in an attempt to kill her. Why should we believe that he won’t try again?’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Wulfheard sputtered.

  ‘You dream dreams,’ Æthelhelm said, though his voice had lost its friendly tone.

  ‘You deny it?’ I asked.

  ‘I deny it absolutely,’ he said, angry now.

  ‘Then I call witnesses to testify before this Witan,’ I said, and beckoned to the hall’s main door. Hoggar appeared there, leading the men who had accompanied Eardwulf, and with them came Finan who had Grindwyn as his prisoner. Grindwyn’s hands were bound. Finan came and stood beside me. ‘Sihtric’s back,’ he whispered, ‘and he has what you want.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, then raised my voice. ‘That man,’ I pointed at Grindwyn, ‘is sworn to Lord Æthelhelm’s service. He is Lord Æthelhelm’s oath-man, and I will bring further witnesses who will swear before this Witan that he was doing Lord Æthelhelm’s bidding when he accompanied the traitor Eardwulf in his attempt to kill the Lady Æthelflaed.’ I clapped my hands, and the sound brought Eadith into the hall. She stood, pale-faced and straight-backed, beside Grindwyn. ‘This woman needs no introduction,’ I said, ‘but she will testify to her brother’s treachery and to Lord Æthelhelm’s approval of that treachery. I demand that a priest administer the oath of truthfulness to my witnesses.’

  ‘This is unseemly,’ Bishop Wulfheard snarled.

  ‘The ki
lling of Lady Æthelflaed would have been unseemly,’ I snarled back.

  ‘The word of an adulteress can carry no truth!’ Wulfheard bellowed. ‘I demand that you remove that woman from this assembly and that you withdraw your foul lies and that you …’

  Whatever else he was going to demand went unsaid because again I had clapped my hands, and this time Sihtric appeared with three more women. One, like Eadith, was tall, red-haired and slender, the second was fair-haired and plump, the third was black-haired and tiny. All three looked scared, though all three were earning more silver in five minutes than they made on their backs in a week. Some men in the hall laughed when the women appeared, and a few men looked angry, but almost every man present knew who the three were. They were whores from the Wheatsheaf, and Father Penda had somewhat reluctantly given me their names. He told me he had frequently escorted one, two or even all three from the tavern to the bishop’s house inside Æthelred’s palace.

  ‘Who are those creatures?’ Æthelhelm demanded.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ I said, ‘the tall lady is called …’

  ‘Lord Uhtred!’ The bishop was shouting now. I noticed that Ceolnoth and Ceolberht had stopped writing.

  ‘Bishop?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Do you have something to propose?’ He knew why the whores were there, knew too that given the chance I would have all three squawking like geese. And Wulfheard, of course, was a married man. ‘Do you insist, bishop,’ I asked, ‘that adulterers cannot speak in this council?’

  ‘I asked what you proposed!’ he insisted. He was red-faced.

  ‘I propose that the arrangements between Mercia and Wessex continue as before,’ I said, ‘and that the Lady Æthelflaed assumes her husband’s responsibilities.’

  ‘A woman?’ someone snarled.

  ‘A woman cannot rule!’ Aidyn said, and maybe a third of the men in the room growled agreement.

  I walked to the platform, trying not to limp because of the pain in my rib. No one disputed my right to climb up beside Æthelhelm and the bishop, though for a moment Wulfheard looked as if he was going to protest, then glanced at the whores and abruptly shut his mouth. ‘It is not unusual,’ I said, ‘for the ruler’s closest relative to take the throne. May I remind this Witan that my mother was a Mercian and that I am first cousin to Æthelred?’

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then a sudden protest erupted from a group of priests sitting to one side of the hall. I heard the word ‘pagan’ being shouted, most loudly by two abbots who were on their feet shaking fists, so I simply pulled aside my cloak to show them the big cross hanging at my breast. The sight of the silver brought a moment of utter silence, then an outburst of more protests. ‘Are you trying to convince us you’re a Christian now?’ The fat abbot, Ricseg, bellowed.

  ‘I was baptised this morning,’ I said.

  ‘You mock Christ!’ Abbot Ricseg shouted. He was not wrong.

  ‘Father Penda?’ I said.

  So Father Penda defended my conversion, struggling to convince a sceptical Witan that my baptism was genuine. Did he believe that? I doubt it, but on the other hand I was a notable convert for him and he fiercely defended my integrity. Æthelhelm half listened to the wrangling clerics, then took me aside. ‘What are you doing, Uhtred?’ he asked.

  ‘You know what I’m doing.’

  He grunted. ‘And those three women?’

  ‘Wulfheard’s favourite whores.’

  He laughed. ‘You clever bastard,’ he said. ‘Where are they from?’

  ‘The Wheatsheaf.’

  ‘I must try them.’

  ‘I recommend the redhead,’ I said.

  ‘And Eadith?’

  ‘What of her?’

  ‘A week ago she was saying how much she hated you.’

  ‘I have a golden tongue.’

  ‘I thought that was her asset.’ He looked at the rows of men on the benches, who were listening to the furious argument raging between the priests. ‘So Wulfheard won’t speak against you now,’ he said, ‘and I run the risk of having you depict me as a tyrant who’d kill women, so what do you want?’

  ‘That,’ I said, nodding at the throne.

  He frowned, not in disapproval but because I had surprised him. ‘You want to be Lord of Mercia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And suppose we allow it,’ he said, ‘what will you do?’

  I shrugged. ‘Wessex already has Lundene, and you can keep it. You’re fighting into East Anglia, so go on doing that with Lundene as your base. I want Mercia to be fighting on our northern frontier, out of Ceaster.’

  He nodded. ‘And the boy Æthelstan? Where is he?’

  ‘Safe,’ I said curtly.

  ‘He’s not legitimate.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘I have evidence that his mother was already married when she rutted Edward.’

  I laughed. ‘You’re rich enough to buy witnesses who’ll say that.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But it isn’t true.’

  ‘The Witan of Wessex will believe it, that’s all that matters.’

  ‘Then your grandson will probably be the next King of Wessex,’ I said.

  ‘That’s all I want,’ he paused to look at the Witan again. ‘I don’t want to make an enemy of you,’ he said, ‘so swear an oath to me.’

  ‘What oath?’

  ‘That when the time comes,’ he said, ‘you will use all your strength to ensure Ælfweard succeeds to his father’s throne.’

  ‘I’ll die long before Edward,’ I said.

  ‘No one knows when any of us will die. Swear it.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘And swear that the throne of Wessex will be united with Mercia’s throne,’ he growled.

  I hesitated. An oath is a serious promise. We break oaths at the risk of fate, at the risk of the revenge of the Norns, those vicious goddesses who spin our life’s thread and can cut it on a whim. I had broken other oaths and survived, but for how long would the gods allow me to do that?

  ‘Well?’ Æthelhelm prompted me.

  ‘If I’m ruler of Mercia when your son-in-law dies,’ I said, touching the silver cross around my neck, ‘then I shall …’

  He roughly swatted my hand away. ‘Swear it, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘on whatever god you truly worship.’

  ‘As the lord and ruler of Mercia,’ I said, picking my words with care, ‘then I shall use all my strength to ensure Ælfweard succeeds to his father’s throne. And that the kingdoms of Wessex and Mercia will be united to the throne of Wessex. I swear it by Thor and by Woden.’

  ‘And swear that you will be a true and loyal ally to Wessex,’ he demanded.

  ‘I swear that too,’ I said, and meant it.

  ‘And Æthelflaed,’ he said.

  ‘What of her?’

  ‘She must go to the nunnery her mother founded. Make sure she does.’

  I wondered why he was so insistent. Was it because Æthelflaed protected Æthelstan? ‘I can’t command a king’s daughter,’ I said. ‘Edward must tell his sister what she must do.’

  ‘He’ll insist she goes to a nunnery.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘She shines brighter than he does. Kings don’t like that.’

  ‘She fights Danes,’ I said.

  ‘Not if she’s in a nunnery, she won’t,’ he said caustically. ‘Tell me you won’t oppose Edward’s wishes.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ I said, ‘it’s a matter for you and him.’

  ‘And you’ll leave it to us? You won’t interfere?’

  ‘I’ll leave it to you,’ I said.

  He frowned at me for a few heartbeats, then decided I had offered him enough reassurance. ‘The Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelhelm turned from me and raised his voice to still the clamour in the hall, ‘agrees with me that the thrones of Wessex and Mercia should be united! That one king should rule us all, that we become one country!’ At least half the men in the hall were frowning. Mercia had
its ancient pride, and it was being trampled by the more powerful Wessex. ‘But the Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelhelm continued, ‘convinces me that the time is not yet ripe. King Edward’s forces are concentrated in the east to drive the foreigners from East Anglia, while Mercia’s business is in the north, to whip the pagans from your land. Only when those pagan foreigners are gone can we call ourselves one blessed country. For that reason I support the Lord Uhtred’s claim to the overlordship of Mercia.’

  And so it happened. I was made Lord of Mercia, heir to all Æthelred’s fortune, to his troops and all his land. Bishop Wulfheard looked disgusted, but the three whores left him helpless, and so he pretended to approve the choice. Indeed it was Wulfheard who beckoned me towards the empty throne.

  The men in the hall were stamping their feet. I was not their first choice, maybe not the choice of even one tenth of the assembled lords. These men had mostly supported Æthelred, and knew of the hatred he bore me, but to their minds there was no obvious candidate to succeed him, and I was better than a foreign king whose loyalty would surely be to Wessex first. And, more, I was the son of a Mercian and Æthelred’s closest male relative. By choosing me they salved their pride and many, surely, believed I could not live long. Soon, perhaps, they would be given the chance to elect another ruler.

  I walked to the throne and picked up the helmet. A few men cheered. Even more cheered when I swept up the black cloth that draped the seat and tossed it aside.

  ‘Sit, Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelhelm said.

  ‘Lord Bishop!’ I called.

  Wulfheard forced a smile. He even managed a hint of a bow as he turned to me. ‘Lord Uhtred?’ he asked.

  ‘You persuaded us earlier that the ruler’s wishes for his successor possess great weight.’

  ‘They do,’ he said, frowning in puzzlement.

  ‘And you said that those wishes need only the Witan’s support to be enacted?’

  ‘I did,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Then let me remind this Witan,’ I said, ‘that the new lands we have gained have been through the efforts of the Lady Æthelflaed.’ I crossed to the table and lifted the parchments, the land-grants, the riches that these men wanted. ‘It is the Lady Æthelflaed who has garrisoned Ceaster and defended its territory from the Northmen.’ I dropped the parchments. ‘It is therefore my wish that I relinquish the throne of Mercia in favour of Lord Æthelred’s widow, the Lady Æthelflaed.’