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?’
‘Become stern. He used to laugh a lot, remember?’
‘He was a boy then,’ I said, ‘and I tried to teach him how to be a king.’
‘You taught him well, lord.’
‘Too well,’ I said softly, because Æthelstan had come to resemble his grandfather, and Alfred had never been my friend. I thought of Æthelstan as a son. I had protected him through boyhood, I had trained him in the skills of a warrior, but he had hardened in the last few years, and now believed his destiny led to a throne despite all the obstacles that ambitious men would place in his way. And when he was king, I thought, he would lead swords and spears into Northumbria, he would be our conqueror, he would demand my homage and he would require my obedience. ‘If I had any sense,’ I said to Finan as I dismounted, ‘I would side with Cynlæf.’
He laughed. ‘It’s not too late.’
‘Wyrd bið ful a¯ræd,’ I said, and that is true. Fate is inexorable. Destiny is all. We make oaths, we make choices, but fate makes our decisions.
Æthelstan was my enemy, but I had sworn to protect him.
So I told Finan that he should stay outside the arena, told him what he was to do there, then followed my enemy up the stairs.
‘You will throw down your weapons,’ Æthelstan called to the men in the arena, ‘and you will kneel!’ He had taken off his helmet so that the trapped men would have no trouble recognising him. He usually wore his dark hair cropped very short, but it had grown during the siege and the cold morning wind lifted it and swirled his dark blue cloak around his mailed figure. He stood in the centre of a line of warriors, all implacable in mail and helmets, all with shields painted with Æthelstan’s symbol of a dragon holding a lightning bolt. Behind them, standing on one of the snow-covered stone tiers, Father Swithred was holding a wooden cross high above his head.
‘What is our fate?’ a man called up from the arena floor.
Æthelstan made no answer. He just stared at the man.
A second man stepped forward and knelt. ‘What is our fate, lord Prince?’ he asked.
‘My justice.’ That answer was said in a voice as cold as the snow-shrouded corpses we had passed on our way to the arena.
Silence. There had to be a hundred horses in the arena. A score of them had been saddled, perhaps readied for a desperate dash through the entrance tunnel, and in front of them, huddled like the horses, were Cynlæf’s men. I looked for Cynlæf himself and finally saw him at the back of the crowd, close to the saddled stallions. He was a tall, good-looking man. Æthelflaed had been fond of him and had chosen him as her daughter’s husband, but if there was such a place as the Christian heaven and she was looking down now she would approve of Æthelstan’s grim resolve to kill Cynlæf.
‘Your justice, lord Prince?’ the kneeling man, who had the sense to use Æthelstan’s title, asked humbly.
‘Which is the same as my father’s justice,’ Æthelstan said harshly.
‘Lord Prince,’ I said softly. I was standing barely two paces behind him, but he ignored me. ‘Lord Prince,’ I said again, louder.
‘Silence, Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelstan said without turning. He also spoke softly, but with a trace of anger that I had dared to intervene.
I wanted to tell him that he should offer mercy. Not to all of them, of course, and certainly not to Cynlæf. They were, after all, rebels, but tell close to a hundred men that they will face grim justice and you have close to a hundred desperate men who would rather fight than surrender. But if some thought they would live, then those men would subdue the others, and none of our men need die. Yet it seemed Æthelstan had no use for mercy. This was a rebellion, and rebellions destroy kingdoms, so rebellions must be utterly destroyed.
Father Bledod had joined me and now tugged nervously at my mail sleeve. ‘Gruffudd’s son, Cadwallon, lord,’ he said, ‘he’s the tall beardless boy. The one in the dun cloak.’ He pointed.
‘Quiet!’ Æthelstan growled.
I took the Welsh priest away from Æthelstan, leading him around the lowest tier until we were out of earshot. ‘Half of them have dun cloaks,’ I said.
‘The boy with reddish hair, lord.’
He pointed, and I saw a tall young man with long dark red hair tied at the nape of his neck. He wore mail, but had no sword, suggesting that he was indeed a hostage, though any value he possessed as a hostage had long since vanished.
Only one man in Cynlæf’s band had knelt, and he only because he had understood that Æthelstan would not talk unless he was shown respect. That man glanced around uncertainly and, seeing his companions still standing, began to rise.
‘I said kneel!’ Æthelstan called sharply.
The answer came from a tall man standing close to Cynlæf. He pushed men aside, bellowed a challenge, and hurled a spear at Æthelstan. It was a good throw. The spear flew straight and fast, but Æthelstan had time to judge its flight and he simply stepped one pace to his left and the spear crashed harmlessly into the stones at Father Swithred’s feet. And then Cynlæf and his immediate companions were hauling themselves into saddles. More spears were thrown, but now Æthelstan and his men were crouching behind their shields. I had brought just two men with me, Oswi and Folcbald, the first a Saxon, lithe and serpent-quick, the second a Frisian built like an ox. They put up their shields, and Father Bledod and I crouched with them. I heard a blade thump into a willow board, another spear flew over my head, then I peered between the shields to see Cynlæf
