Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [128]
Edward was in the old Mercian royal palace. Lundene was properly in Mercia, though it had been under West Saxon rule ever since I had captured it for Alfred. I found Edward in the big Roman chamber with its pillars, dome, cracked plaster and shattered tile floor. A council was in session, and the king was flanked by Archbishop Plegmund and by Bishop Erkenwald, while facing them, in a semicircle of benches and chairs, sat more churchmen and a dozen ealdormen. The banners of Wessex were propped at the back of the chamber. A lively discussion was under way as I entered, and the voices fell silent as my feet sounded loud on the broken floor. Scraps of tile skittered away. There had been a picture made with the tiles, but it had vanished by now.
‘Lord Uhtred,’ Edward greeted me warmly, though I noted a slight nervousness in his voice.
I knelt to him. ‘Lord King.’
‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘and join us.’
I had not cleaned my mail. There was blood in the gaps between the tight rings and men noticed it. Ealdorman Æthelhelm ordered a chair brought next to him and invited me to sit there. ‘How many men do you bring us, Lord Uhtred?’ Edward asked.
‘Steapa is with me,’ I said, ‘and counting his men we have five hundred and sixty-three.’ I had lost some in the fighting at Cracgelad, and others had fallen behind because of lamed horses as we rode to Lundene.
‘Which makes a total of?’ Edward asked a priest seated at a table to the side of the chamber.
‘Three thousand, four hundred and twenty-three men, lord King.’
He obviously meant household warriors, not the fyrd, and it was a respectable army. ‘And the enemy?’ Edward asked.
‘Four to five thousand men, lord, as best we may judge.’
The stilted conversation was plainly meant for my ears. Archbishop Plegmund, face as sour as a shrivelled crab apple, watched me closely. ‘So you see, Lord Uhtred,’ Edward turned back to me, ‘we did not have enough men to force an encounter on the banks of the Temes.’
‘The men of Mercia would have joined you, lord King,’ I said. ‘Gleawecestre is not so far away.’
‘Sigismund has landed from Ireland,’ Archbishop Plegmund took up the tale, ‘and has occupied Ceaster. The Lord Æthelred needs to watch over him.’
‘From Gleawecestre?’ I asked.
‘From wherever he decides,’ Plegmund said testily.
‘Sigismund,’ I said, ‘is a Norseman who’s been run out of Ireland by the native savages, and he’s hardly a threat to Mercia.’ I had never heard of Sigismund before and had no idea why he had chosen to occupy Ceaster, but it seemed a likely explanation.
‘He has brought crews of pagans,’ Plegmund said, ‘a host!’
‘He is not our business,’ Edward intervened, obviously unhappy at the sharp tone of the last few statements. ‘Our business is to defeat my cousin Æthelwold. Now,’ he looked at me, ‘you will agree our burhs are well defended?’
‘I hope so, lord.’
‘And it is our belief,’ Edward went on, ‘that the enemy will be frustrated by the burhs and so will withdraw soon.’
‘And we shall fight them as they withdraw,’ Plegmund said.
‘So why not fight them south of Cracgelad?’ I asked.
‘Because the men of Cent could not have reached that place in a timely fashion,’ Plegmund said, sounding irritated by my question, ‘and Ealdorman Sigelf has promised us seven hundred warriors. Once they have joined us,’ he went on, ‘we shall be ready to confront the enemy.’
Edward looked at me expectantly, plainly wanting my agreement. ‘It’s surely sensible,’ he finally spoke after I had made no comment, ‘to wait until we have the men of Cent? Their numbers will make our army truly formidable.’
‘I have a suggestion, lord King,’ I said respectfully.
‘All your suggestions are welcome, Lord Uhtred,’ he said.
‘I think that instead of bread and wine the church should serve ale and old cheese,’ I said, ‘and I propose that the sermon should be at the beginning of the service instead of at the end, and I think priests should be naked during the ceremonies, and…’
‘Silence!’ Plegmund shouted.
‘If your priests are going to conduct your wars, lord