The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) (7 page)

Bishop Wulfheard had sat through Æthelhelm’s words, but now stood again. ‘It is necessary, lords,’ he said, ‘that we keep an army of Mercia that will free the northern part of our land of the last pagans and so spread the rule of Christ to every part of our ancient kingdom.’ Someone in the hall began to speak, though I could not catch the words, and the bishop interrupted him. ‘The new lands that we grant will pay for the warriors we need,’ he said sharply, and his words stilled any protest that might have been made. Doubtless the protest had been about the cost of keeping a permanent army. An army has to be fed, paid, armed, and supplied with horses, weapons, armour, shields and training, and the Witan had scented new taxes, but the bishop seemed to be suggesting that the captured Danish farmlands would pay for the army. And so they might, I thought, and it was not a bad idea either. We had defeated the Danes, driven them from great swathes of Mercian land, and it made sense to keep them running. That was what Æthelflaed was doing near Ceaster, but she was doing it without the support of her husband’s money or men.

‘And an army needs a leader,’ Bishop Wulfheard said.

The serpent was flickering its tongue now.

There was silence in the hall.

‘We have thought long about this,’ Wulfheard said piously, ‘and we have prayed too! We have laid the problem before Almighty God and he, in his omniscience, has suggested an answer.’

The serpent slithered into the light, small eyes glinting.

‘There are a dozen men in this hall,’ the bishop continued, ‘who could lead an army against the heathen, but to raise one man above the rest is to provoke jealousy. If the Lord Uhtred was well then there would be no other choice!’ You lying bastard, I thought. ‘And we all pray for the Lord Uhtred’s recovery,’ the bishop went on, ‘but until that happy day we need a man of proven ability, of fearless character, and of godly reputation.’

Eardwulf. Every eye in the hall looked at him, and I sensed rebellion stirring among the ealdormen. Eardwulf was not one of them. He was an upstart who owed his command of Æthelred’s household warriors to his sister, Eadith, who shared Æthelred’s bed. I had half expected to see her at the Witan, perhaps pretending to be Æthelred’s nurse, but she had the sense, or someone had the sense, to make sure she had stayed hidden.

And then the bishop sprang his surprise, and the serpent’s mouth opened to show the long curved fangs. ‘It is the Lord Æthelred’s pleasure,’ he said, ‘that his dear daughter should marry Eardwulf.’

There was a gasp in the hall, a murmur, and then silence again. I could see men frowning, more in perplexity than disapproval. Eardwulf, by marrying Ælfwynn, was joining Æthelred’s family. He might not be nobly born, but no one could deny his wife’s royal lineage. Ælfwynn was King Alfred’s granddaughter, King Edward’s niece. The open thighs of Eardwulf’s sister had given him command of Æthelred’s household warriors, but now Ælfwynn could spread her legs to lift him higher still. Clever, I thought. A few men started to speak, their voices a low grumble in the big hall, but then came another surprise: Æthelred himself spoke.

‘It is my pleasure,’ Æthelred said, then paused to gulp in a breath. His voice had been weak and men hushed each other in the hall to hear him. ‘It is my pleasure,’ he said again, his words halting and slurred, ‘that my daughter Ælfwynn should marry my Lord Eardwulf.’

Lord, I thought? Lord Eardwulf? I stared in amazement at Æthelred. He seemed to be smiling. I looked at Æthelhelm. What did Wessex gain from the marriage? Maybe, I thought, it was simply that no Mercian ealdorman could marry Ælfwynn and so inherit Æthelred’s power, thus leaving the throne open for Edward, but what was to stop Eardwulf himself aspiring to the throne? Yet Æthelhelm was smiling and nodding his approval, then he crossed the hall and held his arms out to embrace Eardwulf. There could be no plainer signal than that. King Edward of Wessex wanted his niece to marry Eardwulf. But why?

Father Penda scuttled past, heading for the door. He glanced at me, and Osferth stiffened, expecting another assault from the young priest, but Penda kept walking. ‘Go after that priest,’ I told my son.

‘Father?’

‘He’s gone for a piss. Piss beside him. Go!’

‘I don’t need a …’

‘Go and piss!’

Uhtred went and I watched Æthelhelm lead Eardwulf onto the dais. The younger man looked handsome, confident, and strong. He knelt to Æthelred, who reached out a hand. Eardwulf kissed the hand and Æthelred 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 a bastard, but Æthelhelm feared those persistent rumours. He feared that Æthelstan could be a rival to his own grandson for the throne of Wessex, and so Æthelhelm had plainly decided to do something about that. According to Penda he had sent twenty or more men to Cirrenceastre where Æthelstan was living in Æthelflaed’s house, but my absence meant that the boy was protected by only six household warriors. Would Æthelhelm dare kill him? I doubted that, but he would certainly dare capture him and have him removed far away so that he could not threaten the ealdorman’s ambitions. And if Penda was right then the men sent to take Æthelstan had a day’s start on us. But Æthelhelm had plainly been frightened I was going to Cirrenceastre, or perhaps Fagranforda, which suggested his men might still be there, and that was why I had muttered the nonsense about dying on the hills. When I die I want it to be in a girl’s warm bed, not on some rainswept Mercian hilltop.

I dared not hurry. People watched us from the walls of Gleawecestre, so we travelled painfully slowly, as if the men did not want to jolt a wagon in which a man lay dying. We could not abandon that pretence until we reached the beech woods on the steep slope that climbed to the hills where sheep would keep the pale grass short all summer, and once among those trees and thus safely hidden from curious eyes, I climbed off the cart and onto my horse’s back. I left Godric Grindanson, my son’s servant boy, to bring the cart, while the rest of us spurred ahead. ‘Osferth!’ I called.

‘Lord?’

‘Don’t stop in Cirrenceastre,’ I told him. ‘Ride on with two men and make sure Father Cuthbert’s safe. Get the blind bastard out of bed and bring them both to Cirrenceastre.’

‘Them? Out of bed?’ Osferth could be slow to understand sometimes.

‘Where else will they be?’ I asked, and Finan laughed.

Father Cuthbert was my priest. I did not want a priest, but he had been sent to me by King Edward and I liked Cuthbert. He had been blinded by Cnut. He was, I was constantly assured, a good priest, meaning he did his work well enough. ‘What work?’ I had asked Osferth once and had been assured that Cuthbert visited the sick and said his prayers and preached his sermons, but every time I visited his small house beside Fagranforda’s church I had to wait while he dressed. He would then appear smiling, dishevelled and flustered, followed a moment later by Mehrasa, the dark-skinned slave girl he had married. She was a beauty.

And Cuthbert was in danger. I was not certain that Æthelhelm knew that it had been Father Cuthbert who had married Edward to his Centish love. If he did know, then Cuthbert would have to be silenced, though it was possible Edward had never revealed the priest’s identity. Edward was fond of his son, and he was fond of Cuthbert too, but how far did that affection reach? Edward was not a weak king, but he was a lazy one, happy to leave most of the kingdom’s affairs to Æthelhelm and to a pack of diligent priests who, in truth, ruled Wessex fairly and firmly. That left Edward free to hunt and to whore.