Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [84]
‘Jacob’s dream was Alfred’s dream,’ Plegmund’s voice was hoarse by this point in his long sermon, ‘and Alfred now lies here, in this place, and this land shall be given to his children and to his children’s children till the day of judgement itself! And not just this land! Alfred dreamed that we Saxons should spread the light of the gospel through all Britain, and all other lands, until every voice on earth is lifted in praise of God Almighty.’
I remember smiling to myself. I stood at the back of the old church, watching the smoke from the incense burners swirl around the gilded rafters, and it amused me that Plegmund believed that we Saxons should spread like the dust of the earth to the north, south, east and west. We would be lucky if we kept what land we had, let alone spread, but the congregation was moved by Plegmund’s words. ‘The pagans press upon us,’ Plegmund declared, ‘they persecute us! Yet we shall preach to them and we shall pray for them, and we shall see them bow their knee to Almighty God and then Alfred’s dream will come true and there shall be rejoicing in heaven! God will preserve us!’
I should have listened more carefully to that sermon, but I was thinking of Æthelflaed and Fagranforda. I had asked Edward’s permission to go to Mercia, and his reply was to send Beocca to the Two Cranes. My old friend sat by the hearth and chided me for ignoring my eldest son. ‘I don’t ignore him,’ I said. ‘I’d like him to come to Fagranforda as well.’
‘And what will he do there?’
‘What he should do,’ I said, ‘train as a warrior.’
‘He wants to be a priest,’ Beocca said.
‘Then he’s no son of mine.’
Beocca sighed. ‘He’s a good boy! A very good boy.’
‘Tell him to change his name,’ I said. ‘If he becomes a priest he’s not worthy to be called Uhtred.’
‘You’re so like your father,’ he said, which surprised me because I had been frightened of my father. ‘And Uhtred is so like you!’ Beocca went on. ‘He looks like you, and he has your stubbornness,’ he chuckled, ‘you were a most stubborn child.’
I am often accused of being Uhtredærwe, the wicked enemy of Christianity, yet so many I have loved and admired have been Christians, and Beocca was chief among them. Beocca and his wife, Thyra, Hild, Æthelflaed, dear Father Pyrlig, Osferth, Willibald, even Alfred, the list is endless, and I suppose they were all good people because their religion insists they must behave in a certain way, which mine does not. Thor and Woden demand nothing of me except respect and some sacrifice, but they would never be so foolish as to insist that I love my enemy or turn the other cheek. Yet the best Christians, like Beocca, struggle daily to be good. I have never tried to be good, though nor do I think I am wicked. I am just me, Uhtred of Bebbanburg. ‘Uhtred,’ I said to Beocca, talking of my eldest son, ‘will be Lord of Bebbanburg after me. He can’t hold that fortress by prayer. He needs to learn how to fight.’
Beocca stared into the fire. ‘I always hoped I would see Bebbanburg again,’ he said wistfully, ‘but I doubt that will happen now. The king says you may go to Fagranforda.’
‘Good,’ I said.
‘Alfred was generous to you,’ Beocca said sternly.
‘I don’t deny it.’
‘And I had some influence there,’ Beocca said with a little pride. ‘Thank you.’
‘You know why