The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) (22 page)

I smiled at that. ‘Perhaps he was right.’

‘He wasn’t a bad man.’

‘I thought he was.’

‘Because you were his wife’s lover. We pick sides, lord, and sometimes loyalty gives us no choice in our opinions.’ She dropped the first cloth on the floor, then placed another on my ribs. The warmth seemed to dissolve the pain.

‘You loved him,’ I said.

‘He loved me,’ she said.

‘And he raised your brother high.’

She nodded. In the candlelight her face was stern, only the lips soft. ‘He raised my brother high,’ she said, ‘and Eardwulf is a clever warrior.’

‘Clever?’

‘He knows when to fight and when not to fight. He knows how to trick an enemy.’

‘But he doesn’t fight in the front rank,’ I said scornfully.

‘Not every man can do that, lord,’ she said, ‘but would you call the men in your second rank cowards?’

I ignored that question. ‘And your brother would have killed me and the Lady Æthelflaed.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he would.’

I smiled at that honesty. ‘So did Lord Æthelred leave you money?’

She looked at me, taking her eyes from my wound for the first time. ‘The will, I am told, depended on my brother marrying the Lady Ælfwynn.’

‘So you’re penniless.’

‘I have the jewels Lord Æthelred gave me.’

‘How long will they last?’

‘A year, perhaps two,’ she said bleakly.

‘But you’ll get nothing from the will,’ I said.

‘Unless the Lady Æthelflaed is generous.’

‘Why should she be generous?’ I asked. ‘Why should she give money to a woman who slept with her husband?’

‘She won’t,’ Eadith said calmly, ‘but you will.’

‘I will?’

‘Yes, lord.’

I winced slightly as she began wiping the wound clean. ‘Why would I give you money?’ I asked harshly. ‘Because you’re a whore?’

‘Men call me that.’

‘And are you?’

‘I hope not,’ she answered evenly, ‘but I think you will give me money, lord, for another reason.’

‘And what reason is that?’

‘Because I know what happened to Cnut’s sword, lord.’

I could have kissed her and, when she had cleaned the wound, I did.

I was woken by the harsh sound of a church bell tolling. I opened my eyes and for a moment had no idea where I was. The candle had long guttered out and the only light came from a small gap above the door. It was daylight, which meant I had slept long, then I smelt the woman and turned my face into a tangle of red hair. Eadith stirred, made a mewing noise in her sleep, and snaked an arm across my chest. She stirred again, coming awake, and rested her head on my shoulder, and after a few heartbeats began to weep.

I let her cry as I counted the bell tolling twenty-two times. ‘Regret?’ I finally asked her.

She sniffed and shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, no, no. It’s the bell.’

‘The funeral, then?’ I asked, and she nodded. ‘You loved him,’ I said, almost accusingly.

She must have thought about her response because she did not answer until the bell had rung another sixteen times. ‘He was kind to me.’

It was strange to think of my cousin Æthelred being kind, but I believed her. I kissed her forehead and held her close. Æthelflaed, I thought, would kill me for this, but I found myself strangely unworried by the thought. ‘You must go to the funeral,’ I said.

‘Bishop Wulfheard said I can’t.’

‘Because of adultery?’ I asked and she nodded. ‘If no adulterers go,’ I said, ‘the church will be empty. Wulfheard himself couldn’t go!’

She sniffed again. ‘Wulfheard hates me.’ I began to laugh. The pain in my rib was still there, but duller now. ‘What’s funny?’ she asked.

‘He hates me too.’

‘He once …’ she began, then stopped.

‘He once what?’

‘You know.’

‘He did?’

She nodded. ‘He demanded to hear my confession, then said he’d only shrive me if I showed him what I did with Æthelred.’

‘And did you?’

‘Of course not,’ she sounded offended.

‘Sorry.’

She raised her head and looked into my eyes. Her eyes were green. She looked for a long time, then put her head down again. ‘Ælfwynn told me you were a good man.’

‘And you said?’

‘I told her you were a brute.’

I laughed at that. ‘You’d never met me!’

‘That’s what she said.’

‘But you were right,’ I said, ‘and she was wrong.’

She laughed softly. It was better than crying.

And we lay listening to the cocks crow.

The bell still tolled as I dressed. Eadith lay under the bed pelts, watching me. I dressed in the clothes I had travelled in, damp, stained and smelly, then bent to kiss her, and the pain stabbed at me. It was less severe, but it had not vanished. ‘Come and have some breakfast,’ I told her, then went into the central courtyard. A mist seeped from the river, mingling with a drizzle from low grey clouds.

Finan was waiting in the courtyard and grinned at me. ‘Sleep well, lord?’ he asked.

‘Go and jump in a lake, you Irish bastard,’ I said. ‘Where’s the boy?’

‘He’s awake. Eadric’s watching him.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Not a good day to bury a soul.’

‘Any day they bury Æthelred is a good day.’

‘I’ll take another sniff outside,’ he said, nodding towards the arched gate. ‘See what’s happening. It was all quiet an hour ago.’

I went with him, but the palace grounds looked asleep. A few guards were visible by the great hall, some geese cropped the wet grass, and a lone priest hurried towards the private chapel by the main gate. ‘Did you look into the hall?’ I asked Finan.

‘All’s well. Her ladyship’s in the upper chamber and our two Frisians are blocking the stairway like a pair of bullocks. No one can get past those two.’ I had sent Gerbruht and Folcbald to reinforce Æthelflaed’s own warriors. ‘And no one tried,’ Finan added.

‘And Æthelhelm?’

‘He’s in the main hall with his daughter and Bishop Wulfheard. He said to say a good morning to you.’ Finan grinned. ‘You’ve no need to worry, lord.’

‘I should have slept in the hall,’ I said.

‘Aye that would have been wise. Lady Æthelflaed’s lover giving her a good swiving on the night before her husband’s funeral? Why didn’t I think of that?’

I smiled ruefully, then went to the kitchen where my son and daughter were eating breakfast. Both looked at me reproachfully, presumably because gossip had told them who had shared my bed. ‘Welcome to one of the best days of my life,’ I greeted them.

‘Best?’ my son asked.

‘We’re burying Æthelred,’ I said, then sat and tore a lump from the loaf and cut some cheese. ‘You remember Father Penda?’ I asked my son.

‘I remember pissing with him.’

‘When you’ve finished stuffing your belly,’ I said, ‘I want you to find him. He’s probably in the great hall, so find him and tell him I need to see him. But tell him privately. Make sure the bishop doesn’t know!’

‘Father Penda?’ Stiorra asked.

‘He’s one of Bishop Wulfheard’s priests,’ I said.

‘A priest!’ She sounded surprised.

‘I’m turning Christian,’ I said, and my son choked on his ale just as Æthelstan came into the room and bowed his head in greeting to me. ‘You’re going to the funeral,’ I told the boy, ‘and you’ll pretend to be sad.’

‘Yes, lord, I will.’

‘And you’ll stay by Finan’s side.’

‘Of course, lord.’

I pointed the knife at him. ‘I mean it! There are bastards out there who want you dead.’ I paused, letting the knife drop point first into the table. ‘Come to think of it, though, that might make my life easier.’

‘Sit down,’ Stiorra told the grinning boy.

The bell still tolled. I supposed it would ring till the funeral began, and that could not happen until the lords of Mercia decided to go to the church. ‘What they’ll do,’ I said, ‘is hold a meeting of the Witan right after they’ve buried the bastard. Maybe today, but for sure tomorrow.’

‘Without issuing a summons?’ my son asked.

‘They don’t need to. Everyone who matters is here.’

‘Except King Edward.’

‘He’s not a member of the Mercian Witan, you numbskull,’ I told him. ‘He’s a West Saxon.’

‘He wants to be invited,’ Stiorra said.

‘To the Witan?’ my son asked.

‘To take the crown,’ she said patiently. ‘If he’s here it will look as if he just took it. It’s better to be invited.’

‘And he will be invited,’ I added. ‘That’s why Bishop Wulfheard and Lord Æthelhelm are here. To make sure he is.’

‘And Æthelflaed?’ Stiorra asked. ‘What happens to …’ She abruptly fell silent as Eadith came nervously into the room, pausing at the door. Her hair was piled on her head and held by ivory combs, but strands had escaped to fall raggedly about her face. The green dress looked crumpled.

‘Make room for Lady Eadith,’ I told Æthelstan who was sitting beside Stiorra. ‘You can sit beside Prince Æthelstan,’ I told Eadith. ‘It’s all right,’ I looked back to the boy, ‘she’s decided not to kill you after all.’

‘I’m not hungry, lord,’ Eadith said.

‘Yes you are. Sit down. Stiorra will pour you ale. You were asking,’ I had turned to my daughter, ‘what will happen to the Lady Æthelflaed? They’ll try to put her in a nunnery.’

‘And you’ll stop them,’ my son said.

‘No, you and the Lady Eadith will.’

‘I will?’ Uhtred asked.

‘By finding me that priest. Now! Go! Bring him here.’

My son left. As he opened the door I could see it was raining harder. ‘And what will I do, lord?’ Eadith asked quietly.

‘Whatever I tell you,’ I said brusquely, ‘and you’ll go to the funeral with Stiorra. Not in that dress, though. Find her a black cloak,’ I added the last words to my daughter, ‘with a hood.’

‘A hood?’

‘A big one,’ I said, ‘so no one can see her face and tell her to leave the church.’ I turned as Finan barged through the door.

He swore, took off a piece of sacking he was wearing as a cape, and flung it onto a stool. ‘There’ll be more floods if this goes on,’ he grumbled. ‘Raining like the devil’s piss, it is.’

‘What’s happening out there?’

‘Nothing. Bastards are all in bed. Best place to be.’

The great bell tolled on. Rain hammered the thatched roof and dripped through to puddle on the stone floor. The house had been roofed with tiles once, now the old rafters were covered by straw thatch in need of repair, but at least the fire in the hearth burned bright and there was a plentiful supply of wood.

Father Penda arrived after an hour or so. He looked miserable and indignant, forced to walk through the downpour that had soaked through his long black robe, but he nodded to me guardedly. ‘Lord,’ he said. He was puzzled that so many people were in the room, and even more puzzled when he saw Eadith. His loyalty to me was supposed to be a secret, and he did not understand why I had fetched him into company.

So I explained it to him. ‘Father,’ I said respectfully, ‘I want you to baptise me.’

He just stared at me. They all did. My son, who had returned with the priest, opened his mouth to speak, but found nothing to say and so closed it again.

‘Baptise you?’ Father Penda managed to ask.

‘I have seen the wickedness of my ways,’ I said humbly, ‘and I wish to return to God’s church.’

Father Penda shook his head, not in refusal, but because his wits were rain-soaked and scattered. ‘You are sincere, lord?’ he asked.

‘I am a sinner, father, and seek forgiveness.’

‘If you are sincere …’ he began.

‘I am.’

‘You will have to confess your sins,’ he said.

‘I shall.’

‘And a gift to the church will show your sincerity.’

‘Consider it given,’ I said, still speaking with humility. Stiorra was gazing at me in shock, the rest were just as astonished.

‘You truly desire this?’ Father Penda asked. He was suspicious. I was, after all, the most prominent pagan in Saxon Britain, a man who had been forthright in my opposition to the church, a killer of priests, and a notorious heathen. Yet the priest was also hopeful. My conversion and baptism would make Penda famous.

‘I desire it with all my heart,’ I said.

‘Might I ask why?’

‘Why?’

‘It is sudden, lord. Did God speak to you? Did his blessed Son appear to you?’

‘No, father, but he did send an angel.’

‘An angel!’

‘She came in the night,’ I said, ‘and she had hair like flames of fire and eyes that glowed like emeralds and she took away my pain and replaced it with joy.’

Stiorra choked. Father Penda looked at her and she quickly lowered her head into her hands. ‘I’m crying for happiness,’ she said in a strangled voice. Eadith was blushing deeply, but Father Penda did not notice her. ‘Praise God,’ Stiorra managed to say.

‘Praise him indeed,’ Father Penda said faintly.

‘I believe,’ I said, ‘that you baptise converts in the river here?’

He nodded. ‘But in this rain, lord …’ he began.

‘God’s rain,’ I said, ‘has been sent to cleanse me.’

‘Hallelujah,’ he said. What else could he say?

So we took Penda to the river and there he ducked me, and that was the third time I had been baptised. I was too young to remember the first time, but later, when my elder brother died and my father gave me the name Uhtred, my stepmother insisted I was washed again in case Saint Peter did not recognise me at heaven’s gate, and so I had been dunked in a barrel of North Sea water, but this third baptism was in the chill waters of the Sæfern, though before Father Penda could perform the rite he insisted that I kneel and confess all of my sins. I asked whether he really meant all, and he nodded enthusiastically, so I began with childhood, though it seemed stealing freshly churned butter was not what he wanted to hear. ‘Lord Uhtred,’ he said carefully, ‘did you not tell me you were raised a Christian? So did you not confess your sins as a child?’

‘I did, father,’ I said humbly.

‘Then we don’t need to hear them again.’

‘But I never confessed about the holy water, father,’ I said ruefully.

‘Holy water? You didn’t drink it, surely?’

‘I peed in it, father.’

‘You …’ he seemed incapable of further speech.