must have cost as much as the church, and if a man bent down and looked through the small crystals he could dimly see a skeleton lying on a bed of costly blue silk. On special days the coffin was opened and the skeleton displayed and I had heard of miracles being performed on folk who paid to touch the yellow bones. Boils were magically healed, warts vanished, and the crippled walked, and all because the bones were said to be those of Saint Oswald, which, if true, would have been a miracle in itself because I had found the bones. They had probably belonged to some obscure monk, though for all I knew the remains might have come from a swineherd, though when I’d said that to Father Cuthbert he said that more than one swineherd had become a saint. You cannot win with Christians.
Besides the thirty or forty priests there must have been at least a hundred and twenty men in the church, all standing beneath the high beams where sparrows flew. This ceremony in the church was supposed to bring the nailed god’s blessing on the Witan’s deliberations, so it was no surprise when Bishop Wulfheard delivered a powerful sermon about the wisdom of listening to the advice of sober men, good men, older men, and rulers. ‘Let the elders be treated with double honour,’ he harangued us, ‘because that is the word of God!’ Maybe it was, but in Wulfheard’s mouth it meant that no one had been summoned to give advice, but rather to agree with whatever had already been decided between the bishop, Æthelred, and, as I had just learned, Æthelhelm of Wessex.
Æthelhelm was the richest man in Wessex after the king, his son-in-law. He owned vast tracts of land and his household warriors formed almost a third of the West Saxon army. He was Edward’s chief counsellor and his sudden presence in Gleawecestre surely meant that Edward of Wessex had decided what he wanted with Mercia. He must have sent Æthelhelm to announce the decision, but Edward and Æthelhelm both knew that Mercia was proud and prickly. Mercia would not simply accept Edward as king, so he must be offering something in return, but what? True, Edward could just declare himself king on Æthelred’s death, but that would provoke unrest, even outright opposition. Edward, I was sure, wanted Mercia to beg, and so he had sent Æthelhelm, genial Æthelhelm, generous Æthelhelm, gregarious Æthelhelm. Everyone liked Æthelhelm. I liked Æthelhelm, but his presence in Gleawecestre suggested mischief.
I managed to sleep through most of Wulfheard’s sermon and then, after the choir had chanted an interminable psalm, Osferth and Finan helped me leave the church while my son carried Serpent-Breath and my crutches. I exaggerated my weakness by leaning heavily on Finan’s shoulders and shuffling my feet. Most of it was pretence, but not all. I was tired of the pain, and tired of the stinking pus that seeped from the wound. A few men stopped to express their regret at my feeble appearance, and some of that sympathy was genuine, but many men took an obvious pleasure in my downfall. Before I had been wounded they had been frightened of me, now they could safely despise me.
Father Penda’s news had hardly been necessary because Æthelhelm was waiting in the great hall, but I supposed the young priest had wanted to give me what small warning he could as well as show that he was earning the gold I gave him. The West Saxon ealdorman was surrounded by lesser men, all of whom understood that the real power in this hall was his because he spoke for Edward of Wessex, and without the West Saxon army there would be no Mercia. I watched him, wondering why he was here. He was a big man, broad faced, with thinning hair, a ready smile and kindly eyes that looked shocked when he saw me. He shook off the men who spoke with him and hurried to my side. ‘My dear Lord Uhtred,’ he said.
‘Lord Æthelhelm.’ I made my voice slow and hoarse.
‘My dear Lord Uhtred,’ he said again, taking one of my hands in both of his. ‘I cannot express what I feel! Tell me what we can do for you.’ He pressed my hand. ‘Tell me!’ he urged.
‘You can let me die in peace,’ I said.
‘I’m sure you have many years yet,’ he said, ‘unlike my dear wife.’
That was news to me. I knew Æthelhelm was married to a pale, thin creature who had brought him half of Defnascir as her dowry. She had somehow given birth to a succession of fat, healthy babes. It was a marvel she had lasted this long. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said weakly.
‘She ails, poor thing. She wastes away and the end can’t be long now.’ He did not sound particularly upset, but I supposed the marriage to the wraith-like wife had only ever been a convenience that brought Æthelhelm land. ‘I’ll marry again,’ he said, ‘and I trust you will come to the wedding!’
‘If I live,’ I said.
‘Of course you will! I’ll pray for you!’
He needed to pray for Æthelred too. The Lord of Mercia had not attended the church service, but was waiting enthroned on the dais at the western end of the great hall. He slumped there, vacant-eyed, his body swathed in a great cloak of beaver fur. His red hair had turned white, though most of it was hidden beneath a woollen cap which, I supposed, hid his wound. I had no love for Æthelred, but I felt sorry for him. He seemed to become aware of my gaze because he stirred, raised his head and looked down the hall to where I had taken a bench at the back. He stared at me for a moment, then he leaned his head against the chair’s high back and his mouth fell slackly open.
Bishop Wulfheard climbed the dais. I feared he would deliver another sermon, but instead he rapped on the wooden boards with the base of his staff, and when silence fell over the hall contented himself with a brief blessing. Æthelhelm, I noticed, took a modest place to one side of the assembly, while Eardwulf stood against the other wall and between them the leading men of Mercia sat on uncomfortable benches. Æthelred’s household warriors lined the walls, the only men allowed to carry weapons in the hall. My son slipped through the door and crouched beside me. ‘The swords are safe,’ he muttered.
‘Sihtric’s there?’
‘He is.’
Bishop Wulfheard spoke so softly that I had to lean forward to hear what he said, and leaning forward hurt me. I endured the pain to listen. It was the Lord Æthelred’s pleasure, the bishop said, to see the kingdom of Mercia safer and larger than it had been for many years. ‘We have gained land by the strength of our swords,’ Wulfheard said, ‘and by the grace of God we have driven the pagans from the fields our forefathers tilled. We thank God for this!’
‘Amen,’ Lord Æthelhelm interjected loudly.
‘We owe this blessing,’ Wulfheard continued, ‘to the victory won last year by our Lord Æthelred with the help of his staunch West Saxon allies,’ he gestured towards Æthelhelm and the hall was filled with the noise of men stamping their feet in approbation. The bastard, I thought. Æthelred had been wounded from behind, and the battle had been gained by my men, not his.
The bishop waited for silence. ‘We have gained land,’ he went on, ‘good farmland, and it is Lord Æthelred’s pleasure to grant that land to those who fought for him last year,’ and the bishop pointed to a table at the side of the hall where two priests sat behind a heap of documents. The bribe was obvious. Support whatever Æthelred proposed and a man could expect a grant of land.
‘There’ll be none for me,’ I growled.
Finan chuckled. ‘He’ll give you enough land for a grave, lord.’
‘And yet,’ the bishop was speaking a little louder now, which meant I could lean back against the wall, ‘the pagans still hold towns which were a part of our ancient kingdom. Our land is still fouled by their presence, and if we are to bequeath to our children the fields that our forefathers ploughed then we must gird our loins and expel the heathen just as Joshua drove out the sinners of Jericho!’ He paused, perhaps expecting to hear foot-stamping again, but the hall was quiet. He was suggesting we had to fight, which we did,
