Free Death of Kings by Bernard Cornwell Page B

the bright cold stars, walked all the way past Bedanford, and only when I found a wooded hill that could serve as a place to defend did I let them stop. No fires that night. I watched the country, waiting for the Danes, but they did not come.
    And next day we were home.

Three
     
    Yule came, Yule went, and storms followed, bellowing from the North Sea to drift snow across the dead land. Father Willibald, the West Saxon priests, the Mercian twins and the singing monks were forced to stay at Buccingahamm until the weather cleared, then I gave them Cerdic and twenty spearmen to escort them safe home. They took the magic fish with them, and also Ivann, the prisoner. Alfred, if he still lived, would want to hear of Eohric’s treachery. I gave a letter for Æthelflaed with Cerdic, and on his return he promised me he had given it to one of her trusted maidservants, but he brought back no answer. ‘I wasn’t allowed to see the lady,’ Cerdic told me, ‘they’ve got her mewed up tight.’
    ‘Mewed up?’
    ‘In the palace, lord. They’re all weeping and wailing.’
    ‘But Alfred lived when you left?’
    ‘He still lived, lord, but the priests said it was only prayer keeping him alive.’
    ‘They would say that.’
    ‘And Lord Edward is betrothed.’
    ‘Betrothed?’
    ‘I went to the ceremony, lord. He’s going to marry the Lady Ælflæd.’
    ‘The ealdorman’s daughter?’
    ‘Yes, lord. She was the king’s choice.’
    ‘Poor Edward,’ I said, remembering Father Willibald’s gossip that Alfred’s heir had wanted to marry a girl from Cent. Ælflæd was daughter to Æthelhelm, Ealdorman of Sumorsæte, and presumably Alfred had wanted the marriage to tie Edward to the most powerful of Wessex’s noble families. I wondered what had happened to the girl from Cent.
    Sigurd had gone back to his lands from where, in petulance, he sent raiders into Saxon Mercia to burn, kill, enslave and steal. It was border war, no different from the perpetual fighting between the Scots and the Northumbrians. None of his raiders touched my estates, but my fields lay south of Beornnoth’s wide lands and Sigurd concentrated his anger on Ealdorman Ælfwold, the son of the man who had died fighting beside me at Beamfleot, and he left Beornnoth’s territory unscathed, and that I thought was interesting. So in March, when stitchwort was whitening the hedgerows, I took fifteen men north to Beornnoth’s hall with a new year’s gift of cheese, ale and salted mutton. I found the old man wrapped in a fur cloak and slumped in his chair. His face was sunken, his eyes watery, and his lower lip trembled uncontrollably. He was dying. Beortsig, his son, watched me sullenly.
    ‘It’s time,’ I said, ‘to teach Sigurd a lesson.’
    Beornnoth scowled. ‘Stop pacing around,’ he ordered me, ‘you make me feel old.’
    ‘You are old,’ I said.
    He grimaced at that. ‘I’m like Alfred,’ he said, ‘I’m going to meet my god. I’m going to the judgement seat to find out who lives and who burns. They’ll let him into heaven, won’t they?’
    ‘They’ll welcome Alfred,’ I agreed, ‘and you?’
    ‘At least it will be warm in hell,’ he said, then feebly wiped some spittle from his beard. ‘So you want to fight Sigurd?’
    ‘I want to kill the bastard.’
    ‘You had your chance before Christmas,’ Beortsig said. I ignored him.
    ‘He’s waiting,’ Beornnoth said, ‘waiting for Alfred to die. He won’t attack till Alfred’s dead.’
    ‘He’s attacking now,’ I said.
    Beornnoth shook his head. ‘Just raiding,’ he said dismissively, ‘and he’s pulled his fleet ashore at Snotengaham.’
    ‘Snotengaham?’ I asked, surprised. That was about as far inland as any seagoing ship could travel in Britain.
    ‘That tells you he’s not planning anything other than raids.’
    ‘It tells me he’s not planning seaborne raids,’ I said, ‘but what’s to stop him marching overland?’
    ‘Perhaps he will,’ Beornnoth allowed,