Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [78]
There is no cause so hopeless, no creed so mad, no idea so ludicrous that it will not attract some believers, and the fair-haired youngster had plainly adopted Æthelwold’s cause as his own. He was a handsome brute, bright-eyed, strong-jawed and strongly built. He wore his hair long and tied behind his neck with a leather ribbon. A second ribbon was around his neck like a thin scarf and it looked oddly feminine because it was pink and made of the precious and delicate silk that is brought to Britain by traders from some far-off land. The tails of the silk ribbon hung over his mail, which was finely wrought, probably made by the expensive smiths in Frankia. His belt was panelled with gold squares and the hilt of his sword was decorated by a crystal pommel. He was rich, he was confident and he faced us belligerently. ‘Who are you?’ Father Coenwulf demanded of the youngster.
‘My name is Sigebriht,’ the young man said proudly, ‘Lord Sigebriht to you, priest.’ So that was the young man who had carried messages between Æthelwold and the Danes, Sigebriht of Cent, who had loved the Lady Ecgwynn and lost her to Edward. ‘Don’t let them talk,’ Sigebriht urged his patron, ‘kill them!’
Æthelwold did not know what to do. ‘Lord Uhtred,’ he greeted me, for want of anything else to say. He should have ordered his men to chop us to pieces, then led his forces out to attack Edward, but he was not man enough, and he probably knew that only a handful of the men in the hall would follow him.
‘Lord Æthelwold,’ Father Coenwulf spoke sternly, ‘we are here to summon you to the court of King Edward.’
‘There is no such king,’ Sigebriht yapped.
‘You will be accorded the dignity of your rank,’ Father Coenwulf ignored Sigebriht and spoke directly to Æthelwold, ‘but you have disturbed the king’s peace and for that you must answer to the king and his Witan.’
‘I am king here,’ Æthelwold said. He drew himself up in an attempt to look regal. ‘I am king,’ he said, ‘and I shall live or die here in my kingdom!’
For a moment I almost felt sorry for him. He had indeed been cheated of the throne of Wessex, thrust aside by his uncle Alfred and forced to watch as Alfred made Wessex into the most powerful kingdom of Britain. Æthelwold had found consolation in ale, mead and wine, and in his cups he could be good company, yet always there had been that ambition to right what he saw was the great wrong done to him in childhood. Now he tried so hard to be kingly, yet even his own followers were not prepared to follow him, all but for a handful of young fools like Sigebriht.
‘You are not king, lord,’ Father Coenwulf said simply.
‘He is king!’ Sigebriht insisted and stepped towards Father Coenwulf as if he would beat the priest down, and Steapa took one pace forward.
I have seen many formidable men in my life, and Steapa was the most frightening. In truth he was a gentle soul, kind and endlessly considerate, but he was a head taller than most men and blessed with a bony face over which the skin seemed to be stretched into a permanently bleak expression that suggested ferocity without pity. At one time men had called him Steapa Snotor, which meant Steapa the Stupid, but it was years since I had heard that jibe. Steapa had been born a slave, but had risen to become the head of the royal bodyguard, and though he was not swift of thought, he was loyal, painstaking and thorough. He was also the most feared warrior of all Wessex and now, as he put one hand on the hilt of his enormous sword, Sigebriht just stopped and I saw the sudden fear on that arrogant young face.
I also saw Æthelflaed smile.
Æthelwold knew he had lost, but he still tried to hold on to his dignity. ‘Father Coenwulf, isn’t it?’ he asked.