married,’ he said censoriously.
‘You’re not,’ I retorted, ‘and it’s time you were.’
‘There will be a time for marriage,’ he said dismissively. ‘And Frigga married one of my men. She’s a Christian now.’
Poor girl, I thought. ‘But you should be married,’ I said. ‘You can practise with Sunngifu,’ I teased him, ‘she plainly adores you.’
He stopped and glared at me. ‘That is unseemly!’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘With Sister Sunngifu? With Bishop Leofstan’s widow? Never! She’s a most pious woman.’
God in his dull heaven, I thought as we walked on, and Æthelstan didn’t know her real story?
I will never understand Christians. I can understand their insistence that their nailed god rose from the dead, that he walked on water and cured diseases, because all gods can do those things. No, it’s their other beliefs that astonish me. Sunngifu had been married to Bishop Leofstan, a good man. I liked him. He was a fool, of course, but a holy fool, and I remember him telling me that one of his god’s prophets had married a whore called Gomer. I forget now why this prophet married a whore, it’s all explained in the Christian holy book. I do recall that it wasn’t just because he wanted to bounce her, it was something to do with his religion, and Bishop Leofstan, who at times had the brain of a mayfly, decided to do the same, and had plucked Sunngifu from some Mercian brothel and made her his wife. He solemnly assured me that his Gomer, as he insisted on calling her, had reformed, had been baptised, and was indeed a living saint, but when he wasn’t looking, Sunngifu was humping my men like a demented squirrel. I had never told Leofstan, but I had tried to expel Sunngifu from Ceaster to stop the frequent injuries caused by men fighting for her favours. I had failed, and here she still was, and, for all I knew, still merrily bouncing.
We were walking towards the firelit arena with snow whirling about us. ‘You do know that before Sunngifu married the bishop she was—’ I began.
‘Enough!’ Æthelstan interrupted me. He had stopped again and now looked at me fiercely. ‘If you’re about to tell me that Sister Sunngifu was a harlot before she married, I know! What you don’t understand is that she saw the sinfulness of her life and repented! She is living proof of redemption. A witness of the forgiveness that only Christ can offer! Are you telling me that is falsehood?’
I hesitated, then decided it was best to let him believe whatever he chose. ‘Of course not, lord Prince.’
‘I have suffered from malicious gossip my whole life,’ he said angrily, beckoning me onwards, ‘and I detest it. I have known women raised in the faith, pious women, women full of good works, who are less saintly than Sunngifu! She is a good woman, an inspiration to us all! And she deserves a heavenly reward for what she has achieved here. She tends the wounded, and comforts the afflicted.’
I almost asked how she administered that comfort, but managed to bite my tongue. There was no way to argue with Æthelstan’s piety, and I had watched him grow ever more pious over the years. I had done my best to convince him that the older gods were better, but I had failed, and now he was becoming more and more like his grandfather, King Alfred. He had inherited Alfred’s intelligence and his love of the church, but to those he added the skills of a warrior. He was, in short, formidable, and I had the sudden realisation that if I had just met him for the first time, instead of having known him since he was a child, I would probably dislike him. And if this young man became king, I thought, then Alfred’s dream of one Saxon country under the rule of one Christian king could well come true, indeed was likely to come true, which meant that this young man, whom I thought of as a son, was the enemy of Northumbria. My enemy. ‘Why do I always end up fighting for the wrong side?’ I asked.
Æthelstan laughed, then surprised me by clapping my shoulder, maybe regretting the angry tone he had used just a moment before. ‘Because at heart you’re a Saxon,’ he said, ‘and because, as we’ve already agreed, you’re a fool. But you’re a fool who’ll never be my enemy.’
‘I won’t?’ I asked threateningly.
‘Not by my choice!’ He strode ahead, making for the arena’s entrance, where a dozen of my men stood close to the great fire that burned in the archway. ‘Is Cynlæf still inside?’ He called out.
Berg was the closest of the sentries, and he glanced at me as if wondering whether he should answer. I nodded. ‘No one’s left the arena, lord,’ Berg said.
‘Are we sure Cynlæf’s here?’ I asked.
‘We saw him two days ago,’ Æthelstan said. He smiled at Berg. ‘I fear you’re suffering a cold night.’
‘I’m Norse, lord, the cold doesn’t worry me.’
Æthelstan laughed at that. ‘Nevertheless I’ll send men to relieve you. And tomorrow?’ He paused, distracted by Berg, who was gazing past him.
‘Tomorrow we kill them, lord?’ Berg asked, still staring northwards over Æthelstan’s shoulder.
‘Oh, we kill them,’ Æthelstan said softly, ‘we certainly kill them.’ Then he turned to see what had attracted Berg’s attention. ‘And perhaps we begin the killing now,’ he added in a sharp tone.
I also turned to see a dozen men approaching. Eleven were warriors, all in mail, all cloaked, all bearded, all wearing helmets, and three carrying shields painted with creatures I supposed to be dragons. Their swords were sheathed. The firelight reflected from gold at one man’s neck and shone silver from a cross that was worn by the one priest who accompanied them. The warriors stopped some twenty yards away, but the priest kept walking until he was a couple of paces from Æthelstan, where he dropped to his knees. ‘Lord Prince,’ he said.
‘Stand, stand! I don’t expect priests to kneel to me! You represent God. I should kneel to you.’
‘Earsling,’ I said, but too softly for Æthelstan to hear.
The priest stood. Two crusts of snow clung to his black robe where he had knelt. He was shivering, and, to my surprise, and even more to the priest’s astonishment, Æthelstan strode forward and draped his own thick cloak about the man’s shoulders. ‘What brings you here, father?’ he asked. ‘And who are you?’
‘Father Bledod,’ the priest answered. He was a skinny man with lank black hair, no hat, a straggly beard, and frightened eyes. He fidgeted with the silver cross. ‘Thank you for the cloak, lord.’
‘You’re Welsh?’
‘Yes, lord.’ Father Bledod gave an awkward gesture towards his companions. ‘That is Gruffudd of Gwent. He would speak with you, lord.’
‘With me?’
‘You are the Prince Æthelstan, lord?’
Æthelstan smiled. ‘I am.’
‘Gruffudd of Gwent, lord, would return to his home,’ the priest said.
‘I am surprised,’ Æthelstan said mildly, ‘that Gruffudd of Gwent thought to leave his home in the first place. Or did he come to Mercia to enjoy the weather?’
The priest, who seemed to be the only Welshman capable of speaking the Saxon tongue, had no reply. He just frowned, while the eleven warriors stared at us in mute belligerence.
