The Empty Throne

‘I would never think that,’ I said gently.

‘Your men will stay inside the walls,’ he ordered, ‘and you will bring the boy outside.’

I frowned as if I was considering that proposal, which, of course, made sense for Brice. He had worked out that my men could ambush him in Cirrenceastre’s narrow streets, but if the exchange was made in the fields outside the town then there was no danger of such a trap.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

I stared at the man on the wall and, very slowly, raised my head. I paused, then nodded fast. The man on the wall vanished, but Brice, of course, believed the nod was for him. ‘We shall do it your way,’ I said to Brice, ‘but I want your word of honour.’

‘My word, lord?’

‘That the man who struck my daughter will be punished.’

‘I said so, didn’t I?’

I spurred my horse a little closer. The hooves were loud on the Roman paving. ‘I want you to give the man to me,’ I said.

‘He will be punished,’ Brice said stubbornly.

Then the shouts started and the unmistakable sound of swords clashing and I knew Finan and his men were inside the house. They had not bothered to clear the thatch and break the wattles beneath, but simply jumped onto the roof, which instantly gave way. Gerbruht, a Frisian who never seemed to stop eating and who weighed as much as a horse, had evidently jumped first, and the rest of Finan’s men followed through the gaping hole he had made. I did not react to the sounds, but just kept looking at Brice. ‘You will give the man to me,’ I said, and might have saved my breath because Brice suddenly heard the commotion and realised he had been tricked. I was ready to spur my horse at him, using the stallion’s weight to throw him down, but instead he drew his sword and ran at me.

‘You bastard!’ he shouted. He was quick. No warrior stays alive by being slow, but for a big man he was surprisingly fast. He covered the few paces towards me, sword swinging to take my horse in the face and I wrenched the reins and almost blacked out with the stab of pain that seared from my lower ribs, and I knew I had lost, that he was too fast, that he would drag me from the saddle and either kill me or, if he had a grain of sense, hold me as another hostage.

Yet if he was fast, my son was like lightning.

Brice’s sword never struck me or my horse. I was hardly aware what happened, but I learned that Uhtred drew his seax, Attor, and threw it. The short blade struck Brice’s legs, tripping him. I heard the clatter as he fell, but I was still trying to calm my breathing. Brice stood immediately, but Uhtred had his long-sword, his precious Raven-Beak, drawn. He had thrust Æthelstan back, away from the fight. ‘Come on, earsling,’ he taunted Brice. The crowd that had been so silent suddenly cheered.

‘Bastard,’ Brice said. He kicked Attor away, then went for my son. Brice, remember, was an experienced sword-warrior, a man who had spent his life training with blades, a man who had become wealthy with sword-skill. He had no fear, and Uhtred, my son, had an open face that looked forever cheerful and gave him the appearance of innocence. Brice reckoned he could chop him down with two or three strokes, and the first stroke was a scything blow that would have opened my son’s belly like a knife slashing across a sack of eels.

Uhtred skipped back, he laughed. He lowered Raven-Beak and laughed again, and Brice took the bait and attacked a second time, this time lunging and, as Raven-Beak rose to parry, he twisted the lunge, turning it about my son’s blade and dragging his sword back so it would saw across his enemy’s neck. That was fast and that was skilful, and Uhtred just leaned back and away, the edge of Brice’s blade missing by the breadth of a finger, and Brice was slightly off balance and my son just reached out and pushed him with Raven-Beak’s tip. ‘You’re slow,’ he said reprovingly as the West Saxon staggered.

‘Bastard,’ Brice muttered. It seemed to be his only curse. He had gained his balance and now looked at my son, saw that insolent grin on the innocent face, and the fury surged in him again. ‘Bastard,’ he shouted, and drove forward, lunging again, and Uhtred simply deflected the blade and Brice, with his extraordinary speed, kept the sword moving into a savage cut aimed at my son’s head, and again Raven-Beak was there, and I heard the crash of the blades and there was a harshness to the sound.

Blades ring together. Not like a bell rings, but there is an echo of that sound in the clash of blades, but Brice’s last cut had ended in a crack, like the noise of Æthelflaed’s bell. The blade was not broken, but the sound was ominous and he knew it. He stepped back.

Men were coming from the house. They were Brice’s men, but pursued by mine and none interfered as my son attacked for the first time. Thus far he had been content to defend and to taunt Brice, but now he went forward with a lunge that was never intended to strike home, but merely to force a parry, and then a waist-high cut that Brice parried again, and the cut did not seem too fast or vicious, yet when Brice’s sword met Raven-Beak it broke. It just broke into two pieces, and Uhtred turned his wrist over and held the point of his sword at Brice’s neck. ‘What shall I do with him, father?’

‘Drop what’s left of your sword,’ I ordered Brice. He hesitated, and so I drew Wasp-Sting, my seax, and held the hilt towards Æthelstan who had taken refuge beside my horse. ‘If he doesn’t drop his sword, boy,’ I told him, ‘then use that to cut his spine at the back of his neck. It’s time you learned how to kill a man.’ Æthelstan hesitated, not sure I was serious. I thrust the seax at him. ‘Take it,’ I said. The boy took hold of the short-sword, then looked back at me. ‘You’re the son of a king,’ I told him, ‘and one day you might be a king yourself. Life and death will be your gifts, so learn how to give them, boy.’

He walked towards Brice who half turned, then went very still when my son prodded his neck with Raven-Beak’s tip. Then, at last, some sense leaked into Brice’s brain and he dropped the remnant of his sword. ‘Let him live,’ I told Æthelstan, who looked relieved at the command.

Sixteen of Brice’s men had fled the house. They had no fight in them and Finan’s men were now taking their weapons. Stiorra was free and ran to my side. I smiled down at her and held her hand. ‘Who hit you?’ I asked her.

‘The priest,’ she said.

‘The priest?’ I asked, surprised, then saw the man among the West Saxon prisoners. He was scowling, an angry man in a black robe, with a heavy silver cross hanging at his neck. He was older, perhaps in his forties, with thick grey eyebrows and thin lips. ‘Was he the one who made you scream?’

‘I heard the hooves,’ she said, ‘and hoped it was you. So I screamed.’

‘And that’s when he hit you?’

‘He hit me before that,’ she said bitterly, ‘and tore this,’ she showed me the ripped breast of her linen dress.

Finan strolled across the small square. ‘There’s no fight in the bastards,’ he said, sounding disappointed.

Brice and his remaining men were standing by the house door, guarded by my swords. ‘Take them back inside the house,’ I ordered, then took a deep, painful breath. ‘It’s over!’ I called to the crowd. ‘Nothing more to see! So go back to work!’

Father Creoda, the priest who looked after Æthelflaed’s church and who taught in the town’s small school, hurried to Æthelstan’s side. He took the boy’s face in his hands, closed his eyes, and seemed to be saying a prayer of thanks for his safety.

‘Father Creoda!’ I called. ‘So the little bastard wasn’t at school?’

‘He was not, lord.’

‘And he should have been?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘So thrash him,’ I said.

‘It does no good, lord,’ the priest said plaintively. Father Creoda was a decent man, earnest and honest. He had come to Mercia from Wessex and believed in King Alfred’s dream of an educated community, pious and diligent, and I did not doubt that Æthelstan, who was as clever as a weasel, had long ago decided that Father Creoda’s authority was easily defied.

‘It doesn’t do any good,’ I agreed, ‘but it might make you feel better.’ I leaned down to take the seax from Æthelstan. ‘And if you don’t thrash him, I will. And take the grin off your ugly face,’ I added to the boy.

But I was grinning too. And wondering what new enemies I had just made.

And knowing I was about to make a lot more.

Æthelflaed’s house was built around a courtyard. It was not unlike the house in Lundene where I had lived with Gisela, only this building was larger. The courtyard had a square pool in the centre where frogs left thick skeins of spawn. I often tried to imagine the Romans in these houses. They had left pictures of themselves, either painted on the wall plaster or made of small floor tiles, but the paintings were all faded and water-streaked, while the tiles were usually broken. Yet enough could be seen to tell us that Roman men had worn a kind of white sheet wrapped about themselves, or else a skirt sewn with metal panels that was worn beneath a breastplate. They were often naked too, especially the women. In the largest room of Æthelflaed’s house there was a picture on the floor that showed naked women running through leafy trees and being pursued by a man with goat horns and hairy goat legs. Father Creoda, when he first arrived in Cirrenceastre, had insisted that the picture be destroyed because, he said, it showed a pagan god, but Æthelflaed had refused. ‘He never stopped looking at it,’ she had told me, amused, ‘so I told him it was a warning about the dangers of paganism.’

Father Creoda was staring at the picture now, or rather gazing at one lissom girl who was looking over her shoulder at the pursuing goat-god. ‘She’s pretty, father,’ I said, and he immediately looked away, cleared his throat, and found nothing to say. I had not asked him to join us in the house, but he had come anyway, staying protectively close to Æthelstan. ‘So,’ I said to the boy, ‘you weren’t at school?’

‘I forgot to go, lord,’ he said.

‘You were at the smithy?’ I demanded, ignoring his grin.

‘I was, lord.’

‘Because your girlfriend is there?’

‘Girlfriend, lord?’ he asked innocently, then shook his head. ‘No, lord, I was there because Godwulf is making me a sword. He’s teaching me how to work the metal.’

I took the boy’s hands in mine and looked at his wrists and saw the small burn marks where sparks had scorched him.

‘Doesn’t Godwulf know you should be at school?’ I asked.

The boy grinned. ‘He does, lord, but he also thinks I should learn something useful.’

‘Useful,’ I growled and tried to look stern, but he must have sensed my pleasure at his answer because he smiled. I looked at Father Creoda. ‘What are you teaching him, father?’