Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [57]
‘That I shall, lord,’ he said, ‘and I knew you’d come! I have to tell them you’re here, of course, but I knew everything would be all right.’
‘All right?’ I asked, puzzled by his words.
‘I knew it would be, lord!’ he grinned, then waved us on. I went to the Two Cranes where the owner knew me. He shouted at his servants to look after our horses, brought us ale and gave us a large chamber at the back of the tavern where the straw was clean.
The landlord was a one-armed man with a beard so long that he tucked its lower end into a wide leather belt. He was named Cynric, had lost his lower left arm fighting for Alfred, and had owned the Two Cranes for over twenty years, and there was not much that went on in Wintanceaster that he did not know about. ‘The churchmen rule,’ he told me.
‘Not Alfred?’
‘Poor bastard’s sick as a drunken dog. It’s a miracle he still lives.’
‘And Edward’s under the thumb of the clergy?’ I asked.
‘The clergy,’ Cynric said, ‘his mother, and the Witan. But he’s not nearly as pious as they think. You heard about the Lady Ecgwynn?’
‘The bishop’s daughter?’
‘That’s the one, and she was a lovely thing, God knows. Just a little girl she was, but so beautiful.’
‘She’s dead?’
‘Died giving birth.’
I stared at him, the implications tumbling in my head. ‘Are you sure?’
‘God’s teeth, I know the woman who midwifed her! Ecgwynn produced twins, a boy called Æthelstan and a girl called Eadgyth, but the poor mother died that same night.’
‘Edward was the father?’ I asked and Cynric nodded. ‘Twin royal bastards,’ I said softly.
Cynric shook his head. ‘But are they bastards?’ He kept his voice low. ‘Edward claims he married her, his father says it wasn’t legal, and his father wins that argument. And they kept the whole thing quiet! God knows they paid the midwife well enough.’
‘The children lived?’
‘They’re in Saint Hedda’s nunnery, with the Lady Æthelflaed.’
I stared into the fire. So the perfect heir had proved as sinful as the next man. And Alfred was sweeping away the fruits of that sin, tucking them into a nunnery in hope no one would notice them. ‘Poor Edward,’ I said.
‘He’s marrying Ælflæd now,’ Cynric said, ‘which pleases Alfred.’
‘And he already has two children,’ I said in wonderment. ‘That’s a royal mess. You say Æthelflaed is in Saint Hedda’s?’
‘Locked away there,’ Cynric said. He knew of my attachment to Æthelflaed, and his tone suggested she had been locked away to keep her from me.
‘Her husband’s here?’
‘In Alfred’s palace. The whole family is here, even Æthelwold.’
‘Æthelwold!’
‘Came here two weeks back, weeping and wailing for his uncle.’
Æthelwold was braver than I thought. He had made his alliance with the Danes, yet was brazen enough to come to his dying uncle’s court. ‘Is he still drunk?’ I asked.
‘Not that I know of. He hasn’t been in here. They say he spends his time praying,’ he spoke scornfully, and I laughed. ‘We’re all praying,’ he finished glumly, meaning that everyone worried about what happened when Alfred died.
‘And Saint Hedda’s?’ I asked. ‘Is it still Abbess Hildegyth?’
‘She’s a saint herself, lord, yes she’s still there.’
I took Osferth to Saint Hedda’s. The rain was spitting, making the streets greasy. The convent lay on the northern edge of the town, close by the earthen bank with its high palisade. The only door to the nunnery lay at the end of a long, muddy alley that, just like the last time I had visited, was crowded with beggars who were waiting for the alms and food that the nuns distributed morning and evening. The beggars shuffled out of our way. They were nervous because Osferth and I were both in mail and both carrying swords. Some held out hands or wooden bowls, but I ignored them, puzzled by the presence of three soldiers at the nunnery door. The three wore helmets and carried spears, swords and shields, and as we approached they stepped away from the door to bar our path. ‘You can’t go inside, lord,’ one of them said.
‘You know who I am?’
‘You