Death of Kings_ A Novel - Bernard Cornwell [89]
‘It’s a sign to the gods,’ I said, ‘it tells them that we remember them, and it begs them to bring new life to the year.’
‘It’s a sign to Jesus?’ she asked, not quite comprehending.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and to the other gods.’
There was a cheer when the wheel collapsed and then men and women competed to jump over the flames. I held my two children in my arms and leaped with them, flying through the smoke and sparks. I watched those sparks fly into the cold night and I wondered how many other wheels were burning in the north where the Danes dreamed of Wessex.
Yet if they dreamed they did nothing about those dreams. That, of itself, was surprising. Alfred’s death, it seemed to me, should have been a signal to attack, but the Danes had no one leader to unite them. Sigurd was still sick, we heard Cnut was busy beating the Scots into submission, and Eohric did not know whether his loyalties were to the Christian south or to the Danish north and so did nothing. Haesten still lurked in Ceaster, but he was weak. Æthelwold remained in Eoferwic, but he was helpless to attack Wessex until Cnut allowed it and so we were left in peace, though I was sure that could not last.
I was tempted, so tempted, to go north and consult Ælfadell again, yet I knew that was stupid, and I knew it was not Ælfadell I wished to see, but Erce, that strange, silent beauty. I did not go, but I had news when Offa came to Fagranforda and I sat him in my new hall and piled the fire high to warm his old bones.
Offa was a Mercian who had once been a priest, but whose faith had weakened. He abandoned the priesthood and instead walked about Britain with a pack of trained terriers who amused folk at fairs by walking on their hind legs and dancing. The few coins those dogs collected would never have paid for Offa’s fine house in Liccelfeld, but his real talent, the skill that had made him wealthy, was his ability to learn about men’s hopes, dreams and intentions. His ludicrous dogs were welcome in every great hall, whether Dane or Saxon, and Offa was sharp-eared and sharp-minded, and he listened, he questioned, and then he sold what he had learned. Alfred had used him, but so did Sigurd and Cnut. It was Offa who told me what happened in the north. ‘Sigurd’s sickness doesn’t seem fatal,’ he told me, ‘just weakening. He has fevers, he recovers, then they come back.’
‘Cnut?’
‘He won’t attack south till he knows Sigurd will join him.’
‘Eohric?’
‘Pisses himself with worry.’
‘Æthelwold?’
‘Drinks and humps servant girls.’
‘Haesten?’
‘Hates you, smiles, dreams of revenge.’
‘Ælfadell?’
‘Ah,’ he said, and smiled. Offa was a lugubrious man who rarely smiled. His long, deep-lined face was guarded and shrewd. He cut a slice of the cheese made in my dairy. ‘I hear you’re building a mill?’
‘I am.’
‘Sensible, lord. A good place for a mill. Why pay a miller when you can grind your own wheat?’
‘Ælfadell?’ I asked again, placing a silver coin on the table.
‘I hear you visited her?’
‘You hear too much,’ I said.
‘You compliment me,’ Offa said, scooping up the coin. ‘So you met her granddaughter?’
‘Erce.’
‘So Ælfadell calls her,’ he said, ‘and I envy you.’
‘I thought you had a new young wife?’
‘I do,’ he said, ‘but old men shouldn’t take young wives.’
I laughed. ‘You’re tired?’
‘I’m getting too old to keep straying the roads of Britain.’
‘Then stay home in Liccelfeld,’ I said, ‘you don’t need the silver.’
‘I have a young wife,’ he said, amused, ‘so I need the peace of constant travel.’
‘Ælfadell?’ I asked yet again.
‘She was a whore in Eoferwic,’ he said, ‘years ago. That’s where Cnut found her. She told fortunes as well as whoring, and she must have told