Free The Lords of the North by Bernard Cornwell

arm. 'That is the most holy Saint Oswald,' Eadred said, 'once king of Northumbria

and now a saint most beloved of almighty God.' His voice quivered with emotion. Guthred took a

half-pace backwards, repelled by the head, but I shook off his grip and stepped forward to

gaze down at Oswald. He had been the lord of Bebbanburg in his time, and he had been king of

Northumbria too, but that had been two hundred years ago. He had died in battle against the

Mercians who had hacked him to pieces, and I wondered how his head had been rescued from the

charnel-house of defeat. The head, its cheeks shrunken and its skin dark, looked quite

unscarred. His hair was long and tangled, while his neck had been hidden by a scrap of

yellowed
    linen. A gilt-bronze circlet served as his crown. 'Beloved Saint Oswald,'
    Eadred said, making the sign of the cross, 'protect us and guide us and pray for us.' The

king's lips had shrivelled so that three of his teeth showed. They were like yellow pegs. The

monks kneeling closest to Oswald bobbed up and down in silent and fervent prayer. 'Saint

Oswald,' Eadred announced, 'is a warrior of God and with him on our side none can stand

against us.'
    He stepped past the dead king's head to the last and biggest of the chests. The church was

silent. The Christians, of course, were aware that by revealing the relics, Eadred was

summoning the powers of heaven to witness the oaths, while the pagan Danes, even if they

did not understand exactly what was happening, were awed by the magic they sensed in the

big building. And they sensed that more and greater magic was about to happen, for the monks

now prostrated themselves flat on the earthen floor as Eadred silently prayed beside the

last box. He prayed for a long time, his hands clasped, his lips moving and with his eyes raised

to the rafters where sparrows fluttered and then at last he unlatched the chest's two heavy

bronze locks and lifted the big lid.
    A corpse lay inside the big chest. The corpse was wrapped in a linen cloth, but I could see

the body's shape clearly enough. Guthred had again taken my arm as if I could protect him

against Eadred's sorcery. Eadred, meanwhile, gently unwrapped the linen and so revealed a

dead bishop robed in white and with his face covered by a small white square of cloth that was

hemmed with golden thread. The corpse had an embroidered scapular about its neck and a

battered mitre had fallen from its head. A cross of gold, decorated with garnets, lay

half-hidden by his hands that were prayerfully clasped on his breast. A ruby ring shone on

one shrunken finger. Some of the monks were gasping, as though they could not endure the holy

power flowing from the corpse and even Eadred was subdued. He touched his forehead against

the edge of the coffin, then straightened to look at me. 'You know who this is?' he asked.
    'No.'
    'In the name of the Father,' he said, 'and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,'
    and he took the square of golden-hemmed linen away to reveal a yellowed face blotched with

darker patches. 'It is Saint Cuthbert.' Eadred said with a tearful catch in his voice. 'It is

the most blessed, the most holy, the most beloved Cuthbert. Oh dear sweet God,' he rocked

backward and forward on his knees, 'this is Saint Cuthbert himself.'
    Until the age of ten I had been raised on stories of Cuthbert. I learned how he had trained

a choir of seals to sing psalms, and how the eagles had brought food to the small island off

Bebbanburg where he lived in solitude for a time. He could calm storms by prayer and had

rescued countless sailors from drowning. Angels came to talk with him. He had once rescued a

family by commanding the flames that consumed their house to return to hell, and the fire

had miraculously vanished. He would walk into the winter sea until the cold water reached

his neck and he would stay there all night, praying, and when he came back to the beach in