Free The Lords of the North by Bernard Cornwell Page A

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dawn his monk's robes would be dry. He drew water from parched ground during a drought and when

birds stole newly-sewn barley seed he commanded them to return it, which they did. Or so I

was told. He was certainly the greatest saint of Northumbria, the holy man who watched over

us and to whom we were supposed to direct our prayers so that he could whisper them into the

ear of God, and here he was in a carved and gilded elm box, flat on his back, nostrils gaping,

mouth slightly open, cheeks fallen in, and with five yellow-black teeth from which the gums

had receded so they looked like fangs. One fang was broken. His eyes were shut. My

stepmother had possessed Saint Cuthbert's comb and she had liked to tell me that she had

found some of the saint's hair on the comb's teeth and that the hair had been the colour of

finest gold, but this corpse had hair black as pitch. It was long, lank and brushed away from a

high forehead and from his monkish tonsure. Eadred gently restored the mitre, then leaned

forward and kissed the ruby ring. 'You will note,' he said in a voice made hoarse by emotion,

'that the holy flesh is uncorrupted,' he paused to stroke one of the saint's bony hands,
    'and that miracle is a sure and certain sign of his sanctity.' He leaned forward and this

time kissed the saint full on the open, shrivelled lips. 'Oh most holy Cuthbert,' he prayed

aloud, 'guide us and lead us and bring us to your glory in the name of Him who died for us and

upon whose right hand you now sit in splendour everlasting, amen.'
    'Amen,' the monks chimed. The closest monks had got up from the floor so they could see the

uncorrupted saint and most of them cried as they gazed at the yellowing face.
    Eadred looked up at me again. 'In this church, young man,' he said, 'is the spiritual soul

of Northumbria. Here, in these chests, are our miracles, our treasures, our glory, and the

means by which we speak with God to seek his protection. While these precious and holy things

are safe, we are safe, and once,' he stood as he said that last word and his voice grew much

harder,
    'once all these things were under the protection of the lords of Bebbanburg, but that

protection failed! The pagans came, the monks were slaughtered, and the men of Bebbanburg

cowered behind their walls rather than ride to slaughter the pagans. But our forefathers in

Christ saved these things, and we have wandered ever since, wandered across the wild lands,

and we keep these things still, but one day we shall make a great church and these relics will

shine forth across a holy land. That holy land is where I lead these people!' He waved his hand

to indicate the folk waiting outside the church. 'God has sent me an army,' he shouted, 'and

that army will triumph, but I am not the man to lead it. God and Saint Cuthbert sent me a dream

in which they showed me the king who will take us all to our promised land. He showed me King

Guthred!' He stood and raised Guthred's arm aloft and the gesture provoked applause from the

congregation. Guthred looked surprised rather than regal, and I just looked down at the dead

saint.
    Cuthbert had been the abbot and bishop of Lindisfarena, the island that lay just north

of Bebbanburg, and for almost two hundred years his body had lain in a crypt on the island

until the Viking raids became too threatening and, to save the saintly corpse, the monks had

taken the dead man inland. They had been wandering Northumbria ever since. Eadred disliked

me because my family had failed to protect the holy relics, but the strength of Bebbanburg

was its position on the sea-lashed crag, and only a fool would take its garrison beyond

the walls to fight. If I had a choice between keeping Bebbanburg and abandoning a relic,

then I would have surrendered the whole calendar of dead saints. Holy corpses are cheap, but

fortresses like Bebbanburg are rare.
    'Behold!' Eadred shouted, still holding