Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [103]
‘Lord?’ Willibald half stood at one of the lower tables.
‘Have we heard from our missionaries?’
‘We will, lord!’ Willibald said, ‘I’m sure we will.’
‘Missionaries?’ I asked.
‘Among the Danes,’ Edward said. ‘We will convert them.’
‘We shall beat Danish swords into ploughshares,’ Willibald said, and it was just after those hopeful words were said that a messenger arrived. He was a mud-spattered priest who had come from Mercia, and he had been sent to Wessex by Werferth, who was the Bishop of Wygraceaster. The man had plainly ridden hard and there was a hush in the hall as we waited to hear his news. Edward raised a hand and the harpist lifted his fingers from the strings.
‘Lord,’ the priest went on his knees before the dais on which the high table was bright with candles, ‘great news, lord King.’
‘Æthelwold’s dead?’ Edward asked.
‘God is great!’ the priest said. ‘The age of miracles is not over!’
‘Miracles?’ I asked.
‘It seems there is an ancient tomb, lord,’ the priest explained, looking up at Edward, ‘a tomb in Mercia, and angels have appeared there to foretell the future. Britain will be Christian! You will rule from sea to sea, lord! There are angels! And they have brought the prophecy from heaven!’
There was a sudden spate of questions that Edward silenced. Instead he and Æthelhelm questioned the man, learning that Bishop Werferth had sent trusted priests to the ancient tomb and they had confirmed the heavenly visitation. The messenger could not contain his joy. ‘The angels say the Danes will turn to Christ, lord, and you shall rule one kingdom of all the Angelcynn!’
‘You see?’ Father Coenwulf, who had survived being locked in a stable on the night he had gone to pray with Æthelwold, could not resist the temptation to be triumphant. He was looking at me. ‘You see, Lord Uhtred! The age of miracles is not over!’
‘Glory be to God!’ Edward said.
Goose feathers and tavern whores. Glory be to God.
Natangrafum became a place of pilgrimage. Hundreds of people went there, and most were disappointed because the angels did not appear every night, indeed whole weeks went by with no lights showing at the tomb and no strange singing sounding from its stony depths, but then the angels would come again and the valley beneath Natangrafum’s sepulchre would echo with the prayers of folk seeking help.
Only a few were permitted into the tomb, and those were chosen by Father Cuthbert, who led them past the armed men who protected the ancient mound. Those men were mine, led by Rypere, but the banner planted on the hill’s top, close to the tomb’s entrance, was Æthelflaed’s flag, which showed a rather ungainly goose that was somehow holding a cross in one webbed foot and a sword in the other. Æthelflaed was convinced Saint Werburgh protected her, just as the saint had once protected a wheatfield by driving out a flock of hungry geese. That was supposed to be a miracle, in which case I am a miracle worker too, but I was also too sensible to tell that to Æthelflaed. The goose banner suggested that the guards belonged to Æthelflaed, and anyone invited into the tomb would assume that it was under Æthelflaed’s protection, and that was believable because no one would credit Uhtred the Wicked with guarding a place of Christian pilgrimage. The visitor, led past the guards, would come to the tomb entrance, which, at night, was lit by dim rushlights that showed two heaps of skulls, one on each side of the low, cave-like opening. Cuthbert would kneel with them, pray with them, then command them to take off their weapons and mail. ‘No one can go into the angelic presence with war gear,’ he would say sternly and, once they had obeyed him, he offered them a potion in a silver cup. ‘Drink it all down,’ he would order them.
I never tried that liquid, which was cooked up by Ludda. My memory of Ælfadell’s drink was more than sufficient. ‘It gives them dreams, lord,’ Ludda explained