The Empty Throne. Bernard Cornwell
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said something, but too low for any of us to hear. Bishop Wulfheard stooped to listen, then straightened and turned to the hall. ‘It is the pleasure of our dear Lord Æthelred,’ he announced, ‘that his daughter be married on the feast of Saint Æthelwold.’
Some of the priests began stamping their feet and the rest of the hall followed. ‘When is Saint Æthelwold’s Day?’ I asked Osferth.
‘There are two Æthelwolds,’ he said pedantically, ‘and you should know that, lord, as they both come from near Bebbanburg.’
‘When?’ I snarled.
‘The nearest is in three days, lord. But Bishop Æthelwold’s feast day was last month.’
Three days? Far too soon for Æthelflaed to interfere. Her daughter Ælfwynn would be married to an enemy before she even knew about it. That enemy was still kneeling to Æthelred while the Witan cheered him. Just minutes before they had been scornful of Eardwulf because of his low birth, but they could see which way the wind blew, and it blew strong from the south, from Wessex. Eardwulf was at least a Mercian, and so Mercia would be spared the indignity of begging a West Saxon to lead them.
Then my son came back into the church and bent to my ear. He whispered to me.
And I understood at last why Æthelhelm approved of the marriage and why I had been invited to the Witan.
I should have known, or I should have guessed. This meeting of the Witan was not just about Mercia’s future but about the fate of kings.
I told Uhtred what he must do, then I stood. I stood laboriously and slowly, letting the pain show on my face. ‘My lords,’ I shouted, and that hurt so much. ‘My lords!’ I shouted again, letting the pain rip at me.
They turned to look at me. Every man in the room knew what was about to happen, indeed Æthelhelm and the bishop had feared this would happen, which is why they had hoped to silence me with flattery. Now they knew the flattery had failed because I was going to protest. I was going to argue that Æthelflaed should have a say in her daughter’s fate. I was going to challenge Æthelred and Æthelhelm, and now they waited for that challenge in silence. Æthelred was staring at me, so was Æthelhelm. The bishop’s mouth hung open.
But, to their relief, I said nothing.
I just fell to the floor.
There was commotion. I was shaking and moaning. Men ran to kneel at my side and Finan bellowed at them to give me room. He also shouted to my son, telling him to come to me, but Uhtred had gone to do my bidding. Father Penda pushed through the crowd and, seeing me stricken, loudly announced that this was God’s righteous judgement on me, and even Bishop Wulfheard frowned at that. ‘Silence, man!’
‘The heathen is struck down,’ Father Penda said, trying too hard to earn his gold.
‘Lord? Lord!’ Finan was rubbing my right hand.
‘Sword,’ I said faintly, then louder, ‘sword!’
‘Not in the hall,’ some fool insisted.
‘No swords in the hall,’ Eardwulf said sternly.
So Finan and four other men carried me outside and laid me on the grass. A thin rain was falling as Sihtric brought me Serpent-Breath and closed my right hand about her hilt. ‘Paganism!’ Father Penda hissed.
‘Does he live?’ the bishop asked, bending down to peer at me.
‘Not for long,’ Finan said.
‘Carry him to shelter,’ the bishop said.
‘Home,’ I muttered, ‘take me home. Finan! Take me home!’
‘I’ll take you home, lord,’ Finan said.
Æthelhelm arrived, driving the crowd apart like a bull scattering sheep. ‘Lord Uhtred!’ he exclaimed, kneeling beside me. ‘What happened?’
Osferth made the sign of the cross. ‘He can’t hear you, lord.’
‘I can,’ I said. ‘Take me home.’
‘Home?’ Æthelhelm asked. He sounded anxious.
‘Home to the hills,’ I said, ‘I want to die on the hills.’
‘There’s a convent nearby,’ Æthelhelm was holding my right hand, tightening my grip on Serpent-Breath. ‘They can minister to you there, Lord Uhtred.’
‘The hills,’ I said, sounding weak, ‘just take me to the hills.’
‘It’s pagan nonsense,’ Father Penda said scornfully.
‘If Lord Uhtred wants to go to the hills,’ Æthelhelm said firmly, ‘then he must go!’ Men muttered as they watched me. My death took away Æthelflaed’s strongest supporter, and doubtless they were wondering what would happen to her lands and mine when Eardwulf became Mercia’s lord. It was raining harder and I moaned. It was not all pretence.
‘You’ll catch cold, lord bishop,’ Father Penda said.
‘And we still have much to discuss,’ Wulfheard said, straightening. ‘Send us news,’ he said to Finan.
‘It is God’s judgement,’ Penda insisted as he walked away.
‘It is indeed!’ Wulfheard said heavily. ‘And let it be a lesson to all the heathen.’ He made the sign of the cross, then followed Penda towards the hall.
‘You will let us know what happens?’ Æthelhelm asked Finan.
‘Of course, lord. Pray for him.’
‘With all my might.’
I waited to make certain that everyone from the Witan had retreated from the rain, then looked up at Finan. ‘Uhtred’s bringing a wagon,’ I said. ‘Get me in it. Then we go east, all of us. Sihtric?’
‘Lord?’
‘Find our men. Look in the taverns. Get them ready to travel. Go!’
‘Lord?’ Finan asked, puzzled by my sudden energy.
‘I’m dying,’ I explained, then winked at him.
‘You are?’
‘I hope not, but tell people I am.’
It took time, but at last my son brought the wagon harnessed with two horses and I was lifted onto the damp bed of straw. I had brought most of my men to Gleawecestre, and they rode in front, behind and alongside the cart as we threaded the streets. Folk pulled off their hats as we passed. Somehow the news of my imminent death had spread through the city and people spilled out of shops and houses to watch my passing. Priests made the sign of the cross as the wagon rolled by.
I feared I was already too late. My son, going to join Penda for a piss against the church wall, had heard the priest’s real news. Æthelhelm had sent men to Cirrenceastre.
And I should have known.
That was why I had been invited to the Witan, not because Æthelred and Æthelhelm wanted to persuade Mercia that someone had spoken in support of Æthelflaed, but to get me out of Cirrenceastre, or rather to get my household warriors out of the town, because there was something Æthelhelm desperately wanted in Cirrenceastre.
He wanted Æthelstan.
Æthelstan was a boy, just ten years old as far as I could remember, and his mother had been a pretty Centish girl who had died giving birth to him. But his father was alive, very much alive, and his father Edward, son of King Alfred, was now the King of Wessex himself. Edward had since married Æthelhelm’s daughter and fathered another son, which made Æthelstan an inconvenience. Was he the eldest son? Or was he, as Æthelhelm insisted, a bastard? If he was a bastard then he had no rights, but there was a persistent rumour that Edward had married the Centish girl. And I knew that rumour was true because Father Cuthbert had performed the marriage ceremony. The people of Wessex pretended to believe that Æthelstan was