Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [131]
The sight of a man dancing on a rope while he chokes to death has a calming influence on a crowd. The street went quiet. The king and a dozen men had appeared at the palace door and men bowed or knelt in homage.
‘One more fight,’ I shouted, ‘and you’ll all die!’ I looked for one of my men. ‘Pull on the bastard’s ankles,’ I said, pointing at the hanged man.
‘You just killed one of my men,’ a voice said, and I turned to see a slight man with a sharp fox-like face and long red plaited moustaches. He was an older man, perhaps close to fifty, and his red hair was greying at the temples. ‘You killed him without trial!’ he accused me.
I towered over him, but he faced me pugnaciously. ‘I’ll hang a dozen more of your men if they fight in the street,’ I said, ‘and who are you?’
‘Ealdorman Sigelf,’ he said, ‘and you call me lord.’
‘I’m Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I said and was rewarded by a blink of surprise, ‘and you can call me lord.’
Sigelf evidently decided he did not want to fight me. ‘They shouldn’t have been fighting,’ he acknowledged grudgingly. He frowned. ‘You met my son, I believe?’
‘I met your son,’ I said.
‘He was a fool,’ Sigelf said in a voice as sharp as his face, ‘a young fool. He’s learned his lesson.’
‘The lesson of loyalty?’ I asked, looking across the street to where Sigebriht was bowing low to the king.
‘So they both liked the same bitch,’ Sigelf said, ‘but Edward was a prince and princes get what they want.’
‘So do kings,’ I said mildly.
Sigelf caught my meaning and gave me a very hard glance. ‘Cent doesn’t need a king,’ he said, clearly trying to scotch the rumour that he wanted the throne for himself.
‘Cent has a king,’ I said.
‘So we hear,’ he spoke sarcastically, ‘but Wessex needs to take more care of us. Every damned Northman who gets his arse kicked in Frankia comes to our shores, and what does Wessex do? It scratches its own arse then sniffs its fingers while we suffer.’ He watched his son bow a second time and spat, though whether that was because of his son’s obeisance or because of Wessex it was hard to tell. ‘Look what happened when Harald and Haesten came!’ he demanded.
‘I defeated both of them,’ I said.
‘But not before they’d raped half of Cent and burned fifty or more villages. We need more defences.’ He glared at me. ‘We need some help!’
‘At least you’re here,’ I said emolliently.
‘We’ll help Wessex,’ Sigelf said, ‘even if Wessex doesn’t help us.’
I had thought that the arrival of the Centishmen would provoke some action from Edward, but instead he waited. There was a council of war every day, but it decided nothing except to wait and see what the enemy would do. Scouts were watching the Danes and sent reports back every day and those reports said the Danes were still not moving. I urged the king to attack them, but I might as well have begged him to fly to the moon. I begged him to let me lead my own men to scout the enemy, but he refused.
‘He thinks you’ll attack them,’ Æthelflaed told me.
‘Why doesn’t he attack?’ I asked, frustrated.
‘Because he’s frightened,’ she said, ‘because there are too many men giving him advice, because he’s scared of doing the wrong thing, because he only has to lose one battle and he’s no longer king.’
We were on the top floor of a Roman house, one of those astonishing buildings that had stairs climbing to floor after floor. The moon shone through a window, and through the holes in the roof where the slates had fallen. It was cold and we were wrapped in fleeces. ‘A king shouldn’t be frightened,’ I said.
‘Edward knows men compare him to his father. He wonders what Father would have done now.’
‘Alfred would have called for me,’ I said, ‘preached to me for ten