Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [83]
‘Off your horses,’ I said, ‘all of you.’ I watched them dismount. ‘Now kneel.’ They knelt. ‘Give me one reason not to kill you,’ I said as I walked towards them.
‘We have yielded to you, lord,’ Sigebriht said, head lowered.
‘You yielded,’ I said, ‘because your two fools failed to kill me.’
‘They were not my fools, lord,’ Sigebriht said humbly, ‘they were Æthelwold’s men. These three are my men.’
‘Did he order those two idiots to attack me?’ I called back to Æthelflaed.
‘No,’ she said.
‘They wanted glory, lord,’ Sigebriht said, ‘they wanted to be known as the slayers of Uhtred.’
I touched the bloodied tip of Serpent-Breath to his cheek. ‘And what do you want, Sigebriht of Cent?’
‘To make my peace with the king, lord.’
‘Which king?’
‘There is only one king in Wessex, lord. King Edward.’
I let Serpent-Breath’s tip lift the long tail of fair hair tied with leather. The blade, I thought, would cut through his neck so easily. ‘Why do you seek peace with Edward?’
‘I was wrong, lord,’ Sigebriht said humbly.
‘Lady?’ I called, not taking my eyes from him.
‘They saw you following,’ Æthelflaed explained, ‘and this man,’ she pointed at Sigebriht, ‘offered to bring me back to you. He told Æthelwold that I would persuade you to join him.’
‘Did he believe that?’
‘I told him I would try and persuade you,’ she said, ‘and he believed me.’
‘He’s a fool,’ I said.
‘And instead I told Sigebriht to make his peace,’ Æthelflaed went on, ‘and that his best hope of living beyond today’s dusk was to abandon Æthelwold and swear allegiance to Edward.’
I put the sword under Sigebriht’s clean-shaven chin and tilted his face up towards me. He was so handsome, so bright-eyed, and in those eyes I could see no guile, only the eyes of a frightened man. Yet I knew I should kill him. I touched the sword-blade to the silk ribbon around his neck. ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t cut through your miserable neck,’ I ordered him.
‘I’ve yielded, lord,’ he said, ‘I beg mercy.’
‘What’s the ribbon?’ I asked, flicking the pink silk with Serpent-Breath’s tip and leaving a smear of blood.
‘It was a gift from a girl,’ he said.
‘The Lady Ecgwynn?’
He gazed up at me. ‘She was beautiful,’ he said wistfully, ‘she was like an angel, she drove men to madness.’
‘And she preferred Edward,’ I said.
‘And she’s dead, lord,’ Sigebriht said, ‘and I think King Edward regrets that as much as I do.’
‘Fight for someone who lives,’ Æthelflaed said, ‘not for the dead.’
‘I was wrong, lord,’ Sigebriht said, and I was not sure I believed him, and so I pressed the sword against his neck and saw the fear in his blue eyes.
‘It is my brother’s decision,’ Æthelflaed said gently, knowing what was in my mind.
I let him live.
That night, so we heard later, Æthelwold crossed the border into Mercia and kept riding north until he reached the safety of Sigurd’s hall. He had escaped.
Eight
Alfred was buried.
The burial took five hours of praying, chanting, weeping and preaching. The old king had been placed in an elm coffin painted with scenes from the lives of the saints, while the lid depicted a surprised looking Christ ascending into heaven. A splinter of the true cross was placed in the dead king’s hands and his head was pillowed by a gospel book. The elm coffin was sheathed in a lead box, which in turn was enclosed by a third casket, this one of cedar and carved with pictures of saints defying death. One saint was being burned, though the flames could not touch her, a second was being tortured yet was smiling forgiveness on her hapless tormentors, while a third was being pierced by spears and still was preaching. The whole cumbersome coffin was carried down to the crypt of the old church where it was sealed in a stone