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

lord,’ he said too quickly. ‘The man will be punished.’
    ‘Good,’ I said, ‘and now we wait.’ We waited while Finan’s men dismounted and then climbed to the city wall by steps hidden beyond the church and far from Brice’s sight. The old fort, most of which had been pulled down, had stood in a corner of those walls and so the ramparts formed the northern and western sides of Æthelflaed’s house. The servant quarters and stables were on the northern side, and over the years their roofs had decayed to be replaced by thatch held up by rafters and wattles. Tear the thatch aside and break through the wattles and a man could drop into the stables. I could see Finan and his men on the wall now, and Brice would have seen them too had he turned around, but I kept his attention by asking him about Teotanheale and listening as he described his part in that battle. I pretended to be impressed, encouraging him to tell me more while Finan’s men ducked down low. Only one stayed upright, leaning lazily against the outer rampart. ‘What about the boy’s twin sister?’ I asked Brice.
    ‘The king wants her too,’ he said.
    ‘Where is she now?’
    ‘In the house. With the kitchen maids.’
    ‘She’d better be safe and unharmed,’ I said.
    ‘She is,’ Brice said.
    I turned away. ‘You will forgive me,’ I said, ‘but my wound still hurts. I need to sit.’
    ‘I pray for your recovery,’ he said, though it took an effort for him to say it.
    ‘The gods will have their will,’ I said and turned back to my horse, which was being held by Edric, a lad of some eight or nine years who was my new servant. I braced myself against the pain, then climbed into the saddle. Brice had also turned away and walked back to the house door where he waited close to Stiorra.
    She was staring at me. I have been a bad father, though I have ever loved my children. Yet small children bore me, and as they grew I was forever away fighting. I trained my son to be a warrior, and I was proud of him, but Stiorra puzzled me. She was my youngest, and it hurt to look at her because she so resembled her dead mother; she was tall and lithe and had her mother’s long face, the same black hair, the same dark eyes, and the same grave expression that could light into beauty with a smile. I did not know her well because I had been fighting as she grew, and Æthelflaed had raised her. She had been sent to the nuns in Cracgelad for much of her youth, schooled there in religion and the womanly arts. She was sweet-natured, though there was steel beneath that honey, and she was affectionate, though I never did know what she was thinking. It was time, I knew, that she was married, but I had found no one to whom I wanted to give my daughter, and she had never spoken of wanting to be married. Indeed she never spoke much, guarding her truth-hoard behind silence and stillness.
    Her lower lip had been broken. It was swollen and bloody. Someone had hit her hard to do that and I would find that man and kill him. Stiorra was my daughter and no one hit her without my permission, and she was too old to be struck now. Children should be whipped into obedience, but once a child comes of age then the beatings stop. Husbands beat wives, of course, though I had never beaten Gisela, nor any of my lovers. I was not alone in that. Many men do not beat their wives, even though the law allows it and the church encourages it, but a man gains no reputation by beating a weaker person. Æthelred had beaten Æthelflaed, but he was a weak man, and it takes a weak man to prove his strength by striking a woman.
    I was thinking these thoughts and watching my daughter, who stood very straight and still. A gust of wind brought a spatter of rain. I looked up, surprised, because most of the day had been fair, but the rain was brief and light.
    ‘Lord,’ Brice called harshly. He was becoming suspicious again, but before he could voice his fears my son appeared with Æthelstan. ‘Bring