Читать книгу Sword of Kings - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 11

We swung Spearhafoc against one of the western wharves. The two men still watched from the tavern as we secured her lines, and then as Gerbruht, Folcbald and I came ashore. Folcbald, like Gerbruht, was a Frisian and, also like Gerbruht, a huge man, strong as any two others.

‘You know what to say?’ I asked Gerbruht.

‘Of course, lord.’

‘Don’t call me lord.’

‘No, lord.’

The rain was slashing into our faces as we walked towards the tavern. All three of us were wearing mail beneath sodden cloaks, but we had neither helmets nor swords, just rough woollen caps and the knives any seaman wears at his belt. I was limping, half supported by Gerbruht. The ground was mud, the rain pouring off the tavern’s thatch.

‘That’s enough! Stop there!’ The taller of the two red-cloaked men called as we neared the tavern door. We stopped obediently. The two men were standing under a porch and seemed amused that we were forced to wait in the pelting rain. ‘And what’s your business here?’ the taller man demanded.

‘We need shelter, lord,’ Gerbruht said.

‘I’m no lord. And ships pay for shelter here,’ the man said. He was tall, broad-faced, with a thick beard cut short and square. He wore mail beneath his red cloak, had an enamelled cross on his chest and a long-sword at his side. He looked confident and capable.

‘Of course, master,’ Gerbruht said humbly. ‘Do we pay you, master?’

‘Of course you pay me, I’m the town reeve. It’s three shillings.’ He held out his hand.

Gerbruht was not my quickest thinker and he just gaped, which was the right response to the outrageous demand. ‘Three shillings!’ I said. ‘We only pay a shilling in Lundene!’

The man smiled unpleasantly. ‘Three shillings, grandpa. Or do you want my men to search your miserable boat and take what we want?’

‘Of course not, master,’ Gerbruht found his voice. ‘Pay him,’ he ordered me.

I took the coins from a pouch and held them towards the man. ‘Bring it to me, you old fool,’ the man demanded.

‘Yes, master,’ I said and limped through a puddle.

‘And who are you?’ he demanded, scooping the silver from my palm.

‘His father,’ I said, nodding back towards Gerbruht.

‘We’re pilgrims from Frisia, master,’ Gerbruht explained, ‘and my father seeks the blessing of Saint Gregory’s slippers at Contwaraburg.’

‘I do,’ I said. I had hidden my hammer amulet beneath my mail, but both my companions were Christians and wore crosses at their necks. The wind was tearing at the tavern’s thatch and swinging the barrel sign dangerously. The rain was unrelenting.

‘God damn Frisian foreigners,’ the tall man said suspiciously. ‘And pilgrims? Since when do pilgrims wear mail?’

‘The warmest clothes we have, master,’ Gerbruht said.

‘And there are Danish ships at sea,’ I added.

The man sneered. ‘You’re too old to fight anyone, grandpa, let alone take on some Danish raider!’ He looked back to Gerbruht. ‘You’re looking for holy slippers?’ he asked mockingly.

‘A touch of Saint Gregory’s slippers cures the sick, master,’ Gerbruht said, ‘and my father suffers ague in his feet.’

‘You’ve brought a lot of pilgrims to cure one old man’s feet!’ the man said suspiciously, nodding towards Spearhafoc.

‘They’re mostly slaves, master,’ Gerbruht said, ‘and some of them we’ll sell in Lundene.’

The man still stared at Spearhafoc, but my crew was either slumped on the benches or huddling under the steering platform, and in the day’s dull light and because of the sheeting rain he could not tell whether they were slaves or not. ‘You’re slave-traders?’

‘We are,’ I said.

‘Then there’s customs duty to pay! How many slaves?’

‘Thirty, master,’ I said.

He paused. I could see he was wondering how much he dared ask. ‘Fifteen shillings,’ he finally said, thrusting out a hand. This time I just gaped at him, and he put a hand on his sword hilt. ‘Fifteen shillings,’ he said slowly, as if he suspected a Frisian could not understand him, ‘or we confiscate your cargo.’

‘Yes, master,’ I said, and carefully counted fifteen silver shillings and dropped them into his palm.

He grinned, happy to have fooled foreigners. ‘Got any juicy women in that ship?’

‘We sold the last three at Dumnoc, master,’ I said.

‘Pity,’ he said.

His companion chuckled. ‘Wait a few days and we might have a couple of young boys to sell you.’

‘How young?’

‘Infants.’

‘It’s none of your business!’ The first man interrupted, plainly angered that his companion had mentioned the boys.

‘We pay well for small boys,’ I said. ‘They can be whipped and trained. A plump docile boy can fetch a good price!’ I took a gold coin from my purse and tossed it up and down a couple of times. I was doing my best to imitate Gerbruht’s Frisian accent and was evidently successful because neither man seemed to suspect anything. ‘Young boys,’ I said, ‘sell almost as well as young women.’

‘The boys might or might not be for sale,’ the first man said grudgingly, ‘and if you do buy them you’ll have to sell them abroad. Can’t be sold here.’ He was eyeing the gold coin that I slipped back into the pouch, making sure it clinked against the other coins.

‘Your name, master?’ I asked respectfully.

‘Wighelm.’

‘I am Liudulf,’ I said, using a common Frisian name. ‘And we seek shelter, nothing more.’

‘How long are you staying, old man?’

‘How far to Contwaraburg?’ I asked.

‘Ten miles,’ he said. ‘A man can walk there in a morning, but it might take you a week. How do you plan to get there? Crawl?’ He and his companion laughed.

‘I would stay long enough to reach Contwaraburg and then return,’ I said.

‘And we crave shelter, master,’ Gerbruht added from behind me.

‘Use one of the cottages over there,’ Wighelm said, nodding towards the further bank of the small harbour, ‘but make sure your damned slaves stay shackled.’

‘Of course, master,’ I said, ‘and thank you, master. God will bless your kindness.’

Wighelm sneered at that, then he and his companion stepped back into the tavern. I had a glimpse of men at tables, then the door was slammed and I heard the bar drop into its brackets.

‘Was he the town reeve?’ Folcbald asked as we walked back to the ship.

It was not a foolish question. I knew Æthelhelm had land all across southern Britain, and he probably did own parts of Cent, but it was most unlikely that Eadgifu would seek refuge anywhere near one of those estates. ‘He’s a lying bastard is what he is,’ I said, ‘and he owes me eighteen shillings.’

I assumed Wighelm or one of his men was watching from the tavern as we rowed Spearhafoc across the creek and moored against a half-rotted wharf. I made most of my crew shuffle as they left the ship, pretending to be shackled. They grinned at the deception, but the rain was so hard and the day so dark that I doubted anyone would notice the pretence. Most of the crew had to use a store hut for their shelter because there was no room in the small cottage, where a driftwood fire blazed furiously. The cottager, a big man called Kalf, was a fisherman. He and his wife watched sullenly as a dozen of us filled his room. ‘You were mad to be at sea in this weather,’ he finally said in broken English.

‘The gods preserved us,’ I answered in Danish.

His face brightened. ‘You’re Danes!’

‘Danes, Saxons, Irish, Frisians, Norsemen, and everything in between.’ I put two shillings on a barrel that was used as their table. I was not surprised to find Danes here, they had invaded this part of Cent years before and many had stayed, had married Centish women, and adopted Christianity. ‘One of those,’ I said, nodding at the silver shillings, ‘is for sheltering us. The other is for opening your mouth.’

‘My mouth?’ he was puzzled.

‘To tell me what’s happening here,’ I said as I took Serpent-Breath and my helmet from the big leather bag.

‘Happening?’ Kalf asked nervously, watching as I buckled the big sword at my waist.

‘In the town,’ I said, nodding southwards. Ora and its small harbour lay a short walk from Fæfresham itself, which was built on the higher ground inland. ‘And those men in red cloaks,’ I went on, ‘how many are they?’

‘Three crews.’

‘Ninety men?’

‘About that, lord.’ Kalf had heard Berg address me as ‘lord’.

‘Three crews,’ I repeated. ‘How many are here?’

‘There are twenty-eight men in the tavern, lord,’ Kalf’s wife answered confidently and, when I looked enquiringly at her, she nodded. ‘I had to cook for the bastards, lord. There are twenty-eight.’

Twenty-eight men to guard the ships. Our story of being Frisian slave-traders must have convinced Wighelm or else he would surely have tried to stop us landing. Or possibly, knowing his small force could not fight my much larger crew, he was being cautious, first by insisting we landed on the creek’s far side from the tavern, and then by sending a messenger south to Fæfresham. ‘So the rest of the crews are in Fæfresham?’ I asked Kalf.

‘We don’t know, lord.’

‘So tell me what you do know.’

Two weeks before, he said, at the last full moon, a ship had come from Lundene carrying a group of women, a small boy, two babies, and a half-dozen men. They had gone to Fæfresham, he knew, and the women and children had vanished into the convent. Four of the men had stayed in the town, the other two had purchased horses and ridden away. Then, just three days ago, the three ships with their red-cloaked crews had arrived in the harbour, and most of the newcomers had gone south to the town. ‘They don’t tell us what they’re doing here, lord.’

‘They’re not nice!’ the wife put in.

‘Nor are we,’ I said grimly.

I could only guess what had happened, though it was not hard. Eadgifu’s plan had plainly been betrayed and Æthelhelm had sent men to thwart her. The priest who came to Bebbanburg had told me that she had endowed a convent in Fæfresham, and Æthelhelm might well have assumed she would flee there and have sent men to trap her. ‘Are the women and children still in Fæfresham?’ I asked Kalf.

‘We haven’t heard that they’ve left,’ he said uncertainly.

‘But you’d have heard if the men in red cloaks had invaded the convent?’

Kalf’s wife made the sign of the cross. ‘We’d have heard that, lord!’ she said grimly.

So the king still lived, or at least the news of his death had yet to reach Fæfresham. It was obvious what Æthelhelm’s men had come to do in Cent, but they would not dare lay hands on Queen Eadgifu and her sons until they were certain Edward was dead. The king had recovered before, and while he lived he still possessed the power of the throne and there would be trouble if he recovered again and then discovered his wife had been forcibly detained by Æthelhelm’s men. Thunder hammered close and the wind seemed to shake the small cottage. ‘Is there a way to reach Fæfresham,’ I asked Kalf, ‘without being seen from the tavern across the water?’

He frowned for a moment. ‘There’s a drainage ditch back yonder,’ he pointed eastwards. ‘Follow that south, lord, and you’ll find reed beds. They’ll hide you.’

‘What about the creek?’ I asked. ‘Do we need to cross it to reach the town?’

‘There’s a bridge,’ Kalf’s wife said.

‘And the bridge might be guarded,’ I said, though I doubted any guards would be alert in this filthy weather.

‘It’ll be low tide soon,’ Kalf assured me, ‘you can wade it.’

‘Don’t tell me we’re going back into this rain,’ Finan said.

‘We’re going back into this rain. Thirty of us. You want to stay and guard Spearhafoc?’

‘I want to watch what you’re doing. I like watching crazy people.’

‘Do we take shields?’ Berg asked, more sensibly.

I thought about that. We had to cross the creek, and shields were heavy, and my plan was to turn back once we were on the far bank and rid ourselves of Wighelm and his men. The fight, I thought, would be inside the tavern and I did not intend to give the enemy time to equip themselves for battle. In a small room the large shields would be an encumbrance, not a help. ‘No shields,’ I said.

It was madness. Not just to go into the afternoon’s storm and wade through a flooding ditch, but to be here at all. It was an easy excuse to say I was trapped by my oath to Æthelstan, but I could have discharged that oath by simply riding with a handful of followers to join Æthelstan’s forces in Mercia. Instead I was wading through a mucky ditch, soaked to the skin, cold, deep inside a country that thought me an enemy, and relying on a fickle queen to let me fulfil my oath.

Eadgifu had failed. If what the priest had told me was true she had come south to raise forces from her brother Sigulf, the Ealdorman of Cent, and instead she was inside a convent that was ringed by her enemies. Those enemies would wait until the king died before they seized her, but seize her they would and then arrange for the death of her two young sons. She had claimed to be making a pilgrimage to Contwaraburg, but Æthelhelm, who was staying close to the dying king, had seen through that pretence, he had sent men to find her, and, I suspected, despatched more men to persuade Sigulf that any attempt to support his sister would be met with overwhelming force. So Æthelhelm had won.

Except Æthelhelm did not know I was in Cent. That was a small advantage.

The ditch led south. For a time we waded with the water up to our waists, well hidden from Ora by the thick reeds. I tripped twice on eel traps, cursed the weather, but after a half mile or so the ditch bent east to skirt higher ground and we could clamber from the mucky water and cross a soggy pasture only to see the creek in front of us. The track from the harbour to Fæfresham lay beyond the creek. No one moved there. To my left was Fæfresham, hidden behind wind-tossed trees and sheeting rain, and to my right the harbour, still hidden by the small swell of land we had just crossed.

Kalf had said the creek could be waded at low tide, which was soon, but the rain was flooding from a dozen ditches, and the creek’s water was running fast and high. Lightning split the dark clouds ahead of us and the thunder crashed across the low clouds. ‘I hope that’s a sign from your god,’ Finan grumbled. ‘How in hell do we cross that?’

‘Lord!’ Berg called from my left. ‘A fish trap!’ He was pointing upstream where water churned and foamed around willow stakes.

‘That’s how we cross,’ I told Finan.

It was hard, it was wet, and it was treacherous. The willow stakes with their netting were not made to support a man, but they gave us a tenuous safety as we struggled through the creek. At its deepest the water came to my chest and tried to drag me under. I stumbled in the creek’s centre and would have gone underwater if it had not been for Folcbald hauling me upright. I was grateful none of us was carrying a heavy iron-rimmed shield. The wind screeched. It was already late in the day, the hidden sun was sinking, the rain was in our faces, the thunder was crashing above, and we crawled out of the water, sodden and chilled. ‘We go that way,’ I pointed right, northwards.

The first thing to do was to retrieve eighteen shillings and to destroy the ship guards in Ora’s tavern. We were between those men and Fæfresham now. It was possible that Wighelm had warned the larger force in the town of our arrival and that his few men would be reinforced, but I doubted it. Weather like this persuaded men to stay near the hearth, so perhaps Thor was on my side. I had no sooner thought that than a deafening clap of thunder sounded and the skies were ripped by jagged light. ‘We’ll be warm soon,’ I promised my men.

It was a short walk to the harbour. The track was raised on an embankment and floodwaters lapped at the sides. ‘I need prisoners,’ I said.

I half drew Serpent-Breath then let her fall back into her fleece-lined scabbard. ‘You know what this storm means?’ Finan had to shout to make himself heard above the wind’s noise and the pelting rain.

‘That Thor is on our side!’

‘It means the king has died!’

I stepped over a flooded rut. ‘There was no storm when Alfred died.’

‘Edward is dead!’ Finan insisted. ‘He must have died yesterday!’

‘We’ll find out,’ I said, unconvinced.

And then we were in the outskirts of the village, the street lined by small hovels. The tavern was in front of us. It had sheds at the back, probably stables or storage. The wind streamed the hearth-smoke eastwards from the tavern’s roof. ‘Folcbald,’ I said, ‘you keep two men with you and stop anyone escaping.’ Kalf had told me the tavern had only two doors, a front and a back, but men could easily escape through the shuttered windows. Folcbald’s task was to stop any fugitive from reaching Fæfresham. I could see the masts of Æthelhelm’s three ships swaying in the wind above the roof. My plan was simple enough, to burst in through the tavern’s back door and overwhelm the men inside, who, I assumed, would be huddled as close to the flaming hearth as possible.

We were about fifty paces from the tavern’s back door when a man came outside. He hunched against the rain, hurried to a shed, struggled with the latched door and, as he pulled it open, turned and saw us. For a heartbeat he just gazed, then he ran back inside. I swore.

I shouted at my men to hurry, but we were so cold, so drenched, that we could manage little more than a fast, stumbling walk, and Wighelm’s men, warm and dry, reacted swiftly. Four men appeared first, each carrying a shield and spear. More men followed, no doubt cursing that they were forced into the storm, but all carrying shields which showed the dark outline of a leaping stag, Æthelhelm’s symbol. I had planned a bloody tavern brawl, and instead the enemy was making a shield wall between the sheds. They faced us with levelled spears, and we had none. They were protected by shields, and we had none.

We stopped. Despite the seething rain and the howl of the wind I could hear the clatter of iron-rimmed shields touching each other. I could see Wighelm, tall and black-bearded, at the centre of the wall that was just thirty paces away.

‘Wolf trap!’ I said, then swerved to my right, beckoning my men to follow, and hurried between two hovels. Once out of sight of Wighelm and his spearmen I turned back the way we had come. We broke down a rough driftwood fence, skirted a dung heap, and filed into another narrow alley between two of the cottages. Once hidden in the alley I held up a hand.

We stopped and none of my men made a noise. A dog howled nearby and a baby cried from inside a hovel. We drew our swords. Waited. I was proud of my men. They knew what I meant by a wolf trap and not one had questioned me or asked what we were doing. They knew because we had trained for this. Wars are not only won on the battlefield, but in the practice yard of fortresses.

Wolves are the enemies of shepherds. Dogs are their friends, but shepherds’ dogs rarely kill a wolf, though they might frighten them away We hunt wolves in Northumbria’s hills and our wolfhounds will kill, yet the wolves are never defeated. They come back, they prey on flocks, they leave bloody carcasses strewn on the grass. I offer a bounty to folk who bring in a fresh, stinking wolf pelt, and I pay the bounty often, yet still the wolves ravage livestock. They can be deterred, they can be hunted, yet wolves are a cunning and subtle enemy. I have known flocks to be regularly attacked, and we have beaten the surrounding woods and hills, ridden with our sharpened wolf spears, sent the hounds searching, and found no trace of a wolf, and next day another dozen sheep or lambs are ripped apart. When that happens we might set a wolf trap, which means that instead of searching for the wolves, we invite them to search for us.

My father liked to use an old ram for the trap. We would tether the beast close to where the wolf pack had made its last kill, then wait in ambush upwind of the bait. I preferred to use a pig, which was more expensive than an aging ram, but more effective too. The pig would squeal in protest at being tethered, a sound that seemed to attract wolves, and squeal even louder when a wolf appeared. Then we would release the hounds, lower spears, and spur to the kill. We lost the pig as often as not, but we killed the wolf.

I had few doubts that my men were better fighters than Wighelm’s troops, but to ask men to attack a shield wall without shields of their own, and without axes to haul down an enemy’s shield or spears to pierce the gaps between the enemy’s shields, is to invite death. We would win, but at a cost I was not willing to pay. I needed to break Wighelm’s shield wall and do it without leaving a couple of my men gutted by his spears. So we waited.

I had made a mistake. I had assumed Wighelm’s men would be sheltering from the storm, and that we could approach the tavern unseen. I should have crept behind the cottages until we were closer, but now I would invite Wighelm to make a mistake. Curiosity would be his undoing, or so I hoped. He had seen us approaching, he had made his shield wall, and then we had vanished into an alley. And we had not reappeared. He would be gazing into the storm, looking past the sheeting rain, wondering if we had retreated southwards. He could not ignore us. Just because we had vanished from his sight did not mean we had fled. He needed to know where we were. He needed to know whether we still barred his road to Fæfresham. He waited a long time, nervously hoping we had gone altogether, or hoping he would catch a glimpse that would tell him where we were, but we did not move, we made no noise, we waited.

I beckoned Oswi to my side. He was young, lithe, cunning, and savage. He had once been my servant before growing old enough and skilled enough to join the shield wall. ‘Sneak up the back of the cottages,’ I told him, pointing southwards, ‘go as far as you can, show yourself, stare at them, show them your naked arse, and then pretend to run away.’

He grinned, turned, and disappeared behind the southern hovel. Finan was lying flat at the street corner, peering towards the tavern through a patch of nettles. Still we waited. The rain was pelting, bouncing in the street, cascading from the roofs, and swirling in the gusting wind. Thunder crackled and faded. I pulled my hammer amulet free, clutched it, closed my eyes briefly and prayed that Thor would preserve me.

‘They’re coming!’ Finan called.

‘How?’ I needed to know whether Wighelm had stayed in the shield wall or was hurrying to catch us.

‘They’re running!’ Finan called. He wriggled back out of sight, stood and wiped mud from Soul-Stealer’s blade. ‘Or trying to run!’

It seemed that Oswi’s insult had worked. Wighelm, if he had possessed an ounce of sense, should have sent two or three men to explore the village, but he had kept his shield wall together and now hurried his men in pursuit of Oswi who, he must have assumed, was running with the rest of us. So Wighelm had broken his own shield wall and now chivvied his men up the street in what he fondly imagined was a pursuit.

And we burst from our alley, screaming a war cry that was as much a protest against the cold and wet as a challenge to the red-cloaked men. They were straggling in the muddy street, miserable because of the weather, and, best of all, scattered. We struck them with the force of the storm itself and Thor must have heard my prayer because he released a sky-splintering hammer of thunder directly over our heads, and I saw a young man turn towards me, terror on his face, and he raised his shield that I hit with my full weight, driving him down into the mud. Someone, I assumed it was Wighelm, was bellowing for the West Saxons to make their shield wall, but it was much too late. Berg passed me as I kicked the youngster’s sword arm away and the day’s gloom was lit by a bright spray of blood as Berg’s savage blade sliced the fallen man’s throat. Berg kept running, hamstringing a burly man who was shouting incoherently. The man screamed as Berg’s sword sliced through the back of his knees and then shrieked as Gerbruht lunged a sword into his belly.

I was running towards Wighelm who turned his spear towards me. He looked as terrified as his men. I knocked the spear aside with my sword, body-charged his shield, and threw him down into the mud. I kicked his head, stood over him and held Serpent-Breath at his throat. ‘Don’t move!’ I snarled. Finan snatched Wighelm’s spear and lunged it left-handed at the shield of a tall man half crouching to meet Folcbald’s charge. The spear struck the bottom edge of the shield, tipping it downwards, and Finan’s fast sword slashed viciously across the man’s eyes. Folcbald finished the blinded man with a savage two-handed thrust that pierced mail and ripped up from belly to breastbone. The flooded rut in the street turned red, the rain hammered and splashed pink, and the wind howled over the marshes to drown the agonised sobs.

Berg, usually so lethal in a fight, had slipped in the mud. He fell, sprawling, desperately trying to kick himself away from a red-cloaked spearman who, seeing his chance, raised his spear for the fatal lunge. I hurled Serpent-Breath at the man and the blade, whirling through the rain, struck him on the shoulder. It did no damage, but made him look towards me, and Vidarr Leifson leaped to grab his spear arm then pulled him and turned him, dragging him into Beornoth’s sword. Wighelm, seeing I had no weapon, tried to slam his shield against my thigh, but I put a boot on his face and pressed his head into the mud. He began to choke. I kept my boot there, leaned down, and plucked his sword from its scabbard.

I had no need of Wighelm’s sword because the fight ended swiftly. Our attack had been so sudden and so savage that Wighelm’s miserable, wet men stood no chance. We had killed six of them, wounded four, and the others had thrown down their shields and weapons and were begging for mercy. Three fled into an alley, but Oswi and Berg hunted them down and brought them back to the tavern where we stripped the prisoners of their mail and sat them in a wet, miserable huddle at one end of the biggest room. We fed the hearth with more fuel. I sent Berg and Gerbruht to discover a small boat, then to cross the creek and bring Spearhafoc back with the men who had been left to guard her, and Vidarr Leifson and Beornoth were set to watch the road from Fæfresham. Oswi was cleaning Serpent-Breath while Finan was making certain our prisoners were securely tied with sealhide ropes.

I had spared Wighelm’s life. I drew him away from the other prisoners and sat him on a bench close to the hearth that was spitting sparks from the driftwood fuel. ‘Free his hands,’ I told Finan, then held out my own hand. ‘Eighteen shillings,’ I said, ‘for grandpa.’ He grudgingly took the coins from his pouch and put them in my palm. ‘And now the rest,’ I demanded.

He spat mud from his mouth. ‘The rest?’ he asked.

‘The rest of your coins, you fool. Give me all you’ve got.’

He untied the pouch and gave it to me. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I told you, Liudulf of Frisia. Believe that and you’re a bigger fool than I already think you are.’ Thunder sounded loud and the seethe of rain on the roof became stronger. I tipped the coins from Wighelm’s pouch onto my hand and gave the money to Finan. ‘I doubt these bastards have paid the tavern keeper,’ I said, ‘so find him and give him this. Then tell him we need food. Not for them,’ I looked at the prisoners, ‘but for us.’ I looked back to Wighelm and drew a short knife from my belt. I smiled at him, and drew the blade across my thumb as if testing the edge. ‘Now you’re going to talk to grandpa,’ I told him, and laid the flat of the blade on his cheek. He shuddered.

Then he talked and so confirmed much of what I had guessed. Eadgifu’s declaration that she was travelling to Contwaraburg to pray at the shrine of Saint Bertha had not deceived Æthelhelm for a moment. Even as the queen and her small entourage travelled south Æthelhelm’s men were galloping toward Wiltunscir where they roused a troop of his household warriors. Those men, in turn, went to Lundene where Æthelhelm kept ships which had brought them to this creek on the muddy shore of Cent where, just as Æthelhelm had surmised, Eadgifu had taken shelter. ‘What are your orders?’ I asked Wighelm.

He shrugged. ‘Stay here, keep her here, wait for more orders.’

‘Orders that will come when the king dies?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You weren’t told to go to Contwaraburg? To order the queen’s brother to stay quiet?’

‘Other men went there.’

‘What other men? Who? And to do what?’

‘Dreogan. He took fifty men and I don’t know why he went there.’

‘And Dreogan is?’

‘He commands fifty of Lord Æthelhelm’s household troops.’

‘What about Waormund?’ I asked.

The mention of that name made Wighelm shudder. He made the sign of the cross. ‘Waormund went to East Anglia,’ he said, ‘but why? I don’t know.’

‘You don’t like Waormund?’ I asked.

‘No one likes Waormund,’ he replied bitterly, ‘except perhaps Lord Æthelhelm. Waormund is Lord Æthelhelm’s beast.’

‘I’ve met the beast,’ I said bleakly, remembering the huge, vacant-faced warrior who was taller and stronger than any man I had ever met except for Steapa, who was another fearsome West Saxon warrior. Steapa had been a slave, but had become one of King Alfred’s most trusted warriors. He had been my enemy too, but had become a friend. ‘Does Lord Steapa still live?’ I asked.