Free The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) by Bernard Cornwell Page A

missing and my warriors now outnumbered his, but Brice did not have the sense to abandon his mission, instead he would tackle it as he did every other problem, by savage directness. He turned his head towards the house. ‘Bring her!’ he called.
    The house door opened and a man brought Stiorra into the sunlight. A murmur sounded through the crowd because my daughter’s face was smeared with blood and she was clutching her torn robe to her breasts. Finan leaned from his saddle and put a hand on my arm, restraining me, but I had no need of his gesture. I was angry, yes, but I was no fool. I was too weak to attack Brice, and besides, my anger was cold. I was going to win this confrontation, but not by brute force. Not yet. Brice, meanwhile, was certain I had no choice but to obey him. ‘You bring me the boy,’ he said with a sneer, ‘and your daughter is freed.’
    ‘And if I don’t?’
    He shrugged. ‘You’ll find out, won’t you?’
    I turned and jerked my head at my son. ‘Come here.’ I waited till Uhtred had dismounted and joined me. ‘Where is he?’ I asked quietly. If anyone knew where Æthelstan was hiding it would be my son.
    He glanced at Brice, then half turned his back on the West Saxon. ‘He spends time at the smithy,’ he told me.
    ‘The smithy?’
    ‘Godwulf’s smithy. He’s got friends there.’ He spoke too low for Brice to hear what he was saying. ‘Godwulf’s son and daughter. He goes to see her, really.’
    ‘He’s just ten!’
    ‘Nine, I think. And she’s twelve.’
    ‘He likes older women, does he?’ I asked. ‘So go and find the little brute and bring him here, but take your time. Don’t hurry.’
    He nodded and left, pushing through the sullen crowd. ‘Where’s he going?’ Brice demanded.
    ‘To fetch the boy, of course,’ I said.
    He was suspicious, but not clever enough to think beyond the next step, though he must have thought that step was a good idea. ‘Tell your men to leave,’ he demanded.
    ‘Leave?’ I pretended to be as stupid as Brice.
    ‘Leave!’ he snarled. ‘I want them out of sight, now!’
    He thought he was ridding himself of their threat, though in truth he was demanding just what I wanted him to demand. ‘Take the men onto the city wall,’ I told Finan quietly, ‘and when I give the signal go in through the stable roof.’
    ‘What are you telling him?’ Brice wanted to know.
    ‘To wait in the Barley inn,’ I said, ‘the ale’s good there, much better than the stale muck they serve in the Muddy Goose.’ I nodded to Finan and he led my men away, vanishing into one of the narrow alleys that opened from the church square. I waited till the sound of their hooves had faded, then walked slowly towards my daughter. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked the man holding her.
    ‘Hrothard,’ he said.
    ‘Quiet!’ Brice snarled at him.
    ‘If you hurt her, Hrothard,’ I said, ‘you will die very slowly.’
    Brice took two fast paces to stand in my face. ‘Hrothard will do what I tell him to do,’ he said and I smelt his rotten breath, but then he could probably smell the filthy pus that was seeping from my wound.
    ‘And you’ll tell him to let her go when I bring you Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘isn’t that what you want?’
    He nodded. He was still suspicious, but too stupid to see the trap. May the gods always send me stupid enemies. ‘You know where the boy is?’ he asked.
    ‘We think so,’ I said, ‘and, of course, if the king wants his son then who am I to stand in his way?’
    He thought about that question for a few heartbeats and must have decided that I had yielded altogether to his demands. ‘The king asked Lord Æthelhelm to fetch the boy,’ Brice said, trying to shade his lies into truth.
    ‘You should have told me that from the beginning,’ I said, ‘because I’ve always liked Æthelhelm.’ Brice half smiled, placated by the words. ‘But I don’t like men who strike my daughter,’ I added.
    ‘It was an accident,