said he was good, not perfect.’
Æthelstan crossed himself. ‘Tomorrow we must all be good,’ he said, ‘and spare the life of a Welshman.’
And discover the name of an enemy. I was fairly sure I already knew that name, though I could not be certain of it, though I was certain that one day I would have to kill the man. So a Welshman must live so that a Saxon could die.
Edling, a Welsh title, the same as our ætheling, meaning the son of the king who would be the next king. Gruffudd of Gwent, who I assumed was a chieftain of some kind, even maybe a minor king himself, had used the title to flatter Æthelstan, because no one knew who would succeed King Edward. Æthelstan was the oldest son, but malicious rumour, spread by the church, insisted he was a bastard, and almost all the ealdormen of Wessex supported Ælfweard, Edward’s second son, who was indubitably legitimate. ‘They should make me King of Wessex,’ I told Æthelstan next morning.
He looked shocked. Perhaps he was not fully awake and thought he had misheard. ‘You!’
‘Me.’
‘For God’s sake, why?’
‘I just think the best-looking man in the kingdom should be king.’
He understood I was joking then, but he was in no mood for laughter. He just grunted and urged his horse on. He led sixty of his warriors, while I led all of mine who were not already guarding the arena where Father Bledod was waiting for us. I had told the Welsh priest to join us. ‘How else will we know who Gruffudd’s boy is?’ I had explained. Away to our left, many of Cynlæf’s defeated men were already walking eastwards with their wives and children. I had sent Finan with twenty men to spread the news that they should leave or else face my warriors, and Finan’s small force had met no opposition. The rebellion, at least in this part of Mercia, had collapsed without a fight.
‘Father Swithred,’ Æthelstan said as he watched the beaten men walk away, ‘thought we should kill one man in ten. He said it was the Roman way.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘You think I should?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘I think you should let them go. Most of them aren’t warriors. They’re the folk who tend the fields, raise the cattle, dig ditches, and plant the orchards. They’re carpenters and fullers, leather-workers and ploughmen. They came here because they were ordered to come, but once home they’ll go back to work. Your father needs them. Mercia is no use to him if it’s hungry and poor.’
‘It’s little use to him if it’s rebellious.’
‘You’ve won,’ I said, ‘and most of those men wouldn’t know a rebellion from a wet fart. They were led here. So let them go home.’
‘My father might disagree.’
I scoffed at that statement. ‘So why didn’t your father send a relief force?’
‘He’s ill,’ Æthelstan said, and made the sign of the cross.
I let Tintreg walk around an unburied corpse, one of Cynlæf’s house-warriors we had killed the previous day. Snow had settled on the body to make a soft shroud. ‘What’s wrong with the king?’ I asked.
‘Tribulations,’ Æthelstan said curtly.
‘And how do you cure that?’
He rode in silence for a few paces. ‘No one knows what ails him,’ he finally said, ‘he’s grown fat, and short of breath. But he has days when he seems to recover, thank God. He can still ride, he likes to hunt, he can still rule.’
‘The problem,’ I said, ‘sounds like an old sword in a new scabbard.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It sounds as if his new bride is wearing him out.’
Æthelstan bridled at that, but did not argue. Instead he looked up at the sky that had cleared overnight. A bright sun glinted from the snow. It would melt quickly, I thought, as quickly as the siege had ended. ‘I suppose he’s waiting for the weather to improve,’ Æthelstan went on, ‘which means he might be coming soon. And he won’t be happy that the rebels are leaving unpunished.’
‘So punish their leaders,’ I said. The leaders of the rebellion, at least in northern Mercia, had trapped themselves in the arena.
‘I intend to.’
‘Then your father will be happy,’ I said, and urged Tintreg on to the arena entrance where Finan waited. ‘Any trouble?’ I called out to him. Finan had relieved Berg in the middle of the night, taking fresh troops to guard the arena. Æthelstan had also sent a score of men, and, like Finan, they all looked cold and tired.
Finan spat, evidently a gesture of scorn for the men trapped in the arena. ‘They made one feeble effort to get out. Didn’t even get past their own barricade. Now they want to surrender.’
‘On what terms?’ Æthelstan asked. He had heard Finan, and had spurred his horse forward.
‘Exile,’ Finan said laconically.
‘Exile?’ Æthelstan asked sharply.
Finan shrugged, knowing what Æthelstan’s answer would be. ‘They’re willing to surrender their lands and go into exile, lord Prince.’
‘Exile!’ Æthelstan exclaimed. ‘Tell them my answer is no. They can surrender to my justice, or else they fight.’
‘Exile them to Northumbria,’ I said mischievously. ‘We need warriors.’ I meant we needed warriors to resist the inevitable invasion that would engulf Northumbria when the Mercian troubles were over.
Æthelstan ignored me. ‘How are you talking to them?’ he asked Finan. ‘Are you just shouting through the entrance?’
‘No, you can go inside, lord Prince,’ Finan said, pointing to the closest staircase leading up to the tiered seating. It seemed that at first light Finan had ordered the barricade removed from that entrance and had led a score of men up to the arena’s seats from where they could look down on the trapped enemy.
‘How many are there?’ Æthelstan asked.
‘I counted eighty-two, lord Prince,’ Finan said, stepping forward to hold Æthelstan’s bridle. ‘There may be some we haven’t seen inside the building. And some of those we saw are servants, of course. Some women too.’
‘They’re all rebels,’ Æthelstan snarled. He dismounted and strode towards the staircase, followed by his men.
Finan looked up at me. ‘What does he want to do?’
‘Kill the lot.’
‘But he’s letting the Welsh live?’
‘One enemy at a time.’
Finan turned to watch as Æthelstan and all his warriors filed into the nearest staircase. ‘He’s changed, hasn’t he?’
‘Changed?’
