Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [60]
‘And who had the clever idea to send me to East Anglia so Sigurd could kill me?’ I demanded.
‘King Eohric assures us that Sigurd went without his invitation, and that had he known he would have launched an attack on those forces,’ Plegmund said.
‘Eohric is an earsling,’ I said, ‘and in case you didn’t know, archbishop, an earsling is a thing like Bishop Asser that is squirted out of an arse.’
‘You will be respectful!’ Plegmund snarled, glaring at me.
‘Why?’ I demanded.
He blinked at that. Asser was whispering in his ear, the sibilance urgent and demanding, while Bishop Erkenwald tried to discover something useful from me. ‘What did the witch Ælfadell tell you?’ he asked.
‘That the Saxon would destroy Wessex,’ I said, ‘and that the Danes would win and Wessex would be no more.’
All three were checked by that. They might have been Christians, and important Christians at that, but they were not immune to the real gods and their magic. They were scared, though none made the sign of the cross because to have done so would have been an admission that the pagan prophetess might have some access to the truth, a thing they would want to deny to each other. ‘And who is the Saxon?’ Asser hissed the question.
‘That,’ I said, ‘is what I came to Wintanceaster to tell the king.’
‘So tell us,’ Plegmund demanded.
‘I’ll tell the king,’ I said.
‘You snake,’ Asser said, ‘you thief in the night! The Saxon who will destroy Wessex is you!’
I spat to show my derision, but the spittle did not reach the table.
‘You came here,’ Erkenwald said wearily, ‘because of a woman.’
‘Adulterer!’ Asser snapped.
‘That is the only explanation for your presence here,’ Erkenwald said, then looked at the archbishop, ‘sicut canis qui revertitur ad vomitum suum.’
‘Sic inprudens qui iterat stultitiam suam,’ the archbishop intoned.
I thought for a moment they were cursing me, but little Bishop Asser could not resist demonstrating his learning by providing me with a translation. ‘As the dog returns to its vomit, so the fool returns to his filth.’
‘The words of God,’ Erkenwald said.
‘And we must decide what to do with you,’ Plegmund said, and at those words Godric’s men moved closer. I was aware of their spears behind me. A log cracked in the fire, shooting sparks onto the rushes that began to smoke. Normally a servant, or one of the soldiers, would have rushed forward to stamp out the tiny fire, but no one moved. They wanted me dead. ‘It has been demonstrated to us,’ Plegmund broke the silence, ‘that you have been consorting with our king’s enemies, that you have conspired with them, that you have eaten their bread and taken their salt. Worse, you have admitted to slaying the holy Abbot Deorlaf and two of his brethren and…’
‘The holy Abbot Deorlaf,’ I interrupted him, ‘was in league with the witch Ælfadell, and the holy Abbot Deorlaf wished to kill me. What was I supposed to do? Turn the other cheek?’
‘You will be silent!’ Plegmund said.
I took two steps forward and ground out the burning rushes with my boot. One of Godric’s soldiers, thinking I was about to attack the clergymen, had drawn back his spear and I turned and looked at him. Just looked. He reddened and, very slowly, the spear went down. ‘I have fought your king’s enemies,’ I said, still gazing at the spearman, but then turning towards Plegmund, ‘as Bishop Erkenwald well knows. While other men cowered behind burh walls I was leading your king’s army. I stood in the shield wall. I cut down foemen, I reddened the soil with the blood of your enemies, I burned ships, I took the fort at Beamfleot.’
‘And you wear the hammer!’ Asser’s voice was shrill. He was pointing