* * * * *
Hands bound behind his back, a halter round his neck and an optimistic grin on his ill-favoured face, Edwin the Lawless looked down from the horse as the priest said the Last Rites. He took a quick breath, gagging a little at the stench that rose from the gallows. Unless his plan worked, he would need to be thinking of some famous last words to pass on to the crowd.
Glancing at his audience, Edwin frowned, his vanity piqued to see that he was no longer the centre of attention. The mob was surging forward towards a tall figure that stood, sword-drawn, trying to beat them back. A group of mounted thanes was struggling towards him through the crowd.
Edwin’s eyes narrowed. Wasn’t that the king himself, trying to force his horse through the press?
The thief glanced down at the priest and his two guards. The latter were glancing uneasily at the ugly mob, the former was still chanting. Was this his chance?
‘Come on, Bork,’ he said under his breath. Aloud, he addressed the priest.
‘You might want to halt the ceremony there, Father. Looks like I’m not the star of the show any more.’
The priest broke off, and darted a look towards the crowd.
‘He’s right,’ said one of the guards. ‘Looks like things are getting too hot for someone there.’
The priest shook his head in annoyance.
‘By Our Lady!’ he exclaimed. ‘We can’t just stop here!’ He broke off. ‘What’s that?’ he demanded
Edwin and the guards followed his gaze to spy a mounted figure pounding out from under the trees at the edge of the field.
The Sword of Wayland Page 2
