The Last Kingdom Series Books 4-6: Sword Song, The Burning Land, Death of Kings. Bernard Cornwell
Читать онлайн книгу.
‘The last I heard, lord, said Sigefrid had close to two thousand men.’
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Sigefrid lives?’
‘Barely,’ I said. I had received most of this news from Ulf, my Danish trader, who loved the silver I paid him. I had no doubt Ulf was receiving silver from Haesten or Erik for telling them what I did in Lundene, but that was a price worth paying. ‘Brother Osferth wounded him badly,’ I said.
The king’s shrewd eyes rested on me. ‘Osferth,’ he said tonelessly.
‘Won the battle, lord,’ I said just as tonelessly. Alfred just watched me, still expressionless. ‘You heard from Father Pyrlig?’ I asked, and received a curt nod. ‘What Osferth did, lord, was brave,’ I said, ‘and I am not certain I would have had the courage to do it. He jumped from a great height and attacked a fearsome warrior, and he lived to remember the achievement. If it was not for Osferth, lord, Sigefrid would be in Lundene today and I would be in my grave.’
‘You want him back?’ Alfred asked.
The answer, of course, was no, but Beocca gave an almost imperceptible nod of his grey head and I understood Osferth was not wanted in Wintanceaster. I did not like the youth and, judging from Beocca’s silent message, no one liked him in Wintanceaster either, yet his courage had been exemplary. Osferth was, I thought, a warrior at heart. ‘Yes, lord,’ I said, and saw Gisela’s secret smile.
‘He’s yours,’ Alfred said shortly. Beocca rolled his good eye to heaven in gratitude. ‘And I want the Northmen out of the Temes estuary,’ Alfred went on.
I shrugged. ‘Isn’t that Guthrum’s business?’ I asked. Beamfleot lay in the kingdom of East Anglia with which, officially, we were at peace.
Alfred looked irritated, probably because I had used Guthrum’s Danish name. ‘King Æthelstan has been informed of the problem,’ he said.
‘And does nothing?’
‘He makes promises.’
‘And Vikings use his land with impunity,’ I observed.
Alfred bridled. ‘Are you suggesting I declare war on King Æthelstan?’
‘He allows raiders to come to Wessex, lord,’ I said, ‘so why don’t we return the favour? Why don’t we send ships to East Anglia to hurt King Æthelstan’s holdings?’
Alfred stood, ignoring my suggestion. ‘What is most important,’ he said, ‘is that we do not lose Lundene.’ He held a hand towards Father Erkenwald who opened a leather satchel and took out a scroll of parchment sealed with brown wax. Alfred held the parchment to me. ‘I have appointed you as Military Governor of this city. Do not let the enemy retake it.’
I took the parchment. ‘Military Governor?’ I asked pointedly.
‘All troops and fyrd members will be under your command.’
‘And the city, lord?’ I asked.
‘Will be a godly place,’ Alfred said.
‘We shall cleanse it of its iniquity,’ Father Erkenwald interjected, ‘and wash it whiter than snow.’
‘Amen,’ Beocca said fervently.
‘I am naming Father Erkenwald as Bishop of Lundene,’ Alfred said, ‘and the civil governance will reside with him.’
I felt a lurch in my heart. Erkenwald? Who hated me? ‘And what about the Ealdorman of Mercia?’ I asked, ‘does he not have civil governance here?’
‘My son-in-law,’ Alfred said distantly, ‘will not countermand my appointments.’
‘And how much authority does he have here?’ I asked.
‘This is Mercia!’ Alfred said, tapping the terrace with a foot, ‘and he rules Mercia.’
‘So he can appoint a new military governor?’ I asked.
‘He will do as I tell him,’ Alfred said, and there was a sudden anger in his voice. ‘And in four days’ time we shall all gather,’ he had recovered his poise quickly, ‘and discuss what needs to be done to make this city safe and full of grace.’ He nodded brusquely to me, inclined his head to Gisela and turned away.
‘Lord King,’ Gisela spoke softly, checking Alfred’s departure, ‘how is your daughter? I saw her yesterday and she was bruised.’
Alfred’s gaze flickered to the river where six swans rode the water beneath the tumult of the broken bridge. ‘She’s well,’ he said distantly.
‘The bruising …’ Gisela began.
‘She was always a mischievous child,’ Alfred interrupted her.
‘Mischievous?’ Gisela’s response was tentative.
‘I love her,’ Alfred said, and there could have been no doubt of that from the unexpected passion in his voice, ‘but while mischief in a child is amusing, in an adult it is sinful. My dear Æthelflaed must learn obedience.’
‘So she learns to hate?’ I asked, echoing the king’s earlier words.
‘She’s married now,’ Alfred said, ‘and her duty before God is to be obedient to her husband. She will learn that, I am sure, and be grateful for the lesson. It is hard to inflict punishment on a child you love, but it is a sin to withhold such punishment. I pray God she comes to a state of good grace.’
‘Amen,’ Father Erkenwald said.
‘Praise God,’ Beocca said.
Gisela said nothing and the king left.
I should have known that the summons to the palace on top of Lundene’s low hill would involve priests. I had expected a council of war and a hard-headed discussion on how best to scour the Temes of the brigands who infested the estuary, but instead, once I had been relieved of my swords, I was shown into the pillared hall where an altar had been erected. Finan and Sihtric were with me. Finan, a good Christian, made the sign of the cross, but Sihtric, like me, was a pagan and he looked at me with alarm as though he feared some religious magic.
I endured the service. Monks chanted, priests prayed, bells were rung and men genuflected. There were some forty men in the room, most of them priests, but only one woman. Æthelflaed was seated beside her husband. She was dressed in a white robe, gathered at her waist by a blue sash, and her corn-gold hair had speedwell woven into its bun. I was behind her, but once, when she turned to look at her father, I saw the purplish bruise around her right eye. Alfred did not look at her, but stayed on his knees. I watched him, watched Æthelflaed’s slumped shoulders, and thought about Beamfleot, and how that wasps’ nest could be burned out. First, I thought, I needed to take a ship downriver and see Beamfleot for myself.
Alfred suddenly stood up and I assumed the service was at last over, but instead the king turned to us and delivered a mercifully brief homily. He encouraged us to ponder the words of the prophet Ezekiel, whoever he was. ‘“Then the heathen that are left round about you,”’ the king read to us, ‘“shall know that I the Lord build the ruined places, and plant that which was desolate”. Lundene,’ the king put down the parchment with Ezekiel’s words, ‘is again a Saxon city, and though it is in ruins, with God’s help we shall rebuild it. We shall make it a place of God, a light to the pagans.’ He paused, smiled gravely and beckoned to Bishop Erkenwald who, draped in a white cape hung with red strips on which silver crosses had been embroidered, stood to deliver a sermon. I groaned. We were supposed to be discussing how to rid the Temes of our enemies, and instead were being tortured with dull piety.
I had long learned to ignore sermons. It has been my unhappy fate to hear many, and the words of most have passed over me like rain running down newly laid thatch, but some minutes into Erkenwald’s hoarse harangue I began to take notice.
Because he was not preaching about remaking ruined cities, nor even about the heathen who threatened