by Katy Moran
Edge’s father is a merciful High King, but even he is not fool enough to lock up Wulfhere of Mercia with the rest of his kind. When the Mercian prisoners were brought here last night, a straggling line of weary men, I thought they’d all be put to the sword. But the High King is a Christian, and he has sworn to spare them. Cenry was not among them, and he was not found with the dead, either. The word is he got away, took up his grandfather’s torn standard and rode deep into Mercia with those of his people still standing. I wish it may be true, and Cenry is not dead in some unmarked grave, unrecognized, unknown.
How dare they keep Wulf trapped in here, though, shut in this dark, shadowy dog-byre? I feel Tasik’s hand rest light on my shoulder – we must be quick. In moments, we’re crouching before him. Wulf’s wrists are bound, and I feel that flicker of anger again. How dare they? I have out my dagger and saw through the knots, just as Tasik leans forwards and hisses, “Wulf!”
Wulf sits up, eyes open, reaching straight away to his belt for a knife that isn’t there. The High King allows his prisoners no weapons, of course. Then Wulf laughs, leaning back against the damp wall.
He and Tasik look at each other for what seems a long while, as if they speak without framing any words.
“Come, you fool,” Tasik says then, “do you want them to find us?” He speaks as if no more than an afternoon has passed since they last saw each other, and not the whole of my life.
Wulf shakes his head. “Not a drop of sense between you.” And then he grins, and my heart lifts to see it again, that flashing, half-crazed smile. I know now that Cenry must be alive and Wulf’s sure of it. If he were not, it would show in his face. “Well enough,” he says, “where are the horses? I trust you’ve thought of that?”
“On the hillside.” Tasik gets to his feet, moving towards the door. “Quick!”
In answer, Wulf follows me, loping across the dark dog-byre, grinning all over his face like a boy. I shut the lock again as we close the door behind us – that should fool them for a while. Not long, though. We run: me, Tasik and Wulf.
It’s a long ride, and a long journey ahead, but it has started well.
Endnote
BLOODLINE RISING is just a story, but a fair few of the people and places in it creep into the history books, some casting a greater shadow than others. Constantinople in the seventh century was the last bastion of the Roman Empire, which had by this time split itself in two parts, eastern and western, and claimed the already ancient city of Byzantium as capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. Its citizens renamed it in honour of their emperor,
Constantine. More than a hundred years later, when Bloodline
Rising is set, the people of Constantinople were speaking Greek rather than Latin, but still saw themselves as citizens of a great Roman civilization, albeit one that was no longer in reality a world power.
Although there is barely thirteen years between Bloodline and Bloodline Rising, change was gathering pace in Britain, too. By this time, Christianity had taken hold of the island again, and the Church was growing in power. The old ways were changing, slipping away, but the many different kingdoms still fought for supremacy. It would be another couple of hundred years before England emerged as a nation, north and south, east and west, bound in an uneasy peace.
There are places in Cai’s story that you can visit even now. The great dome of Saint Sophia still dominates the skyline of Constantinople – now Istanbul, in Turkey – a city with one foot in Europe and the other in Asia. Now a museum, Saint Sophia is over 1,500 years old, and in her great lifetime she has been both church and mosque. Anyone lucky enough to visit Istanbul can also take a trip to the Basilica Cistern, a vast, underground palace, forested with ancient stone pillars, awash with water where blind fish swim.
As for Britain, its history at this point is hard to pin down – hardly anyone could write, so it’s difficult to know what really happened and when, but according to the tales that have survived, after the battle of Winwaed-river, and the death of King Penda, Mercia was subdued at last – but not for long. A few years later, in 658, the Mercians rebelled against their Northumbrian overlords and chose a king from their own ranks. Wulfhere of Mercia ruled with great skill – and some of his father’s ruthlessness – for the next seventeen years. Wulfhere was finally defeated by the new young king of Northumbria: Egfrith son of Oswiu. In Bloodline Rising, I translated the names of these forgotten kings (probably without much accuracy, I’m afraid to say) from Egfrith to Peaceblade, or Edge, and from Oswiu to Godsway. Whether Wulfhere led his men away from that last battle or was captured by the Northumbrians only to be spared, no one knows, but he did survive it, despite being defeated. And the story goes, of course, that as a young man Egfrith or Edge of Northumbria was held hostage in a Mercian court.
Acknowledgements
THANKS VERY MUCH to Catherine Clarke, Denise Johnstone-Burt, Chris Kloet, Ellen Holgate and Nic Knight for all their help while I wrote this book. It wouldn’t be here without them.
I also owe thanks to a whole host of other people who very kindly lent me their time and expert knowledge of all sorts of different things. They are…
David Hill, John Julius Norwich and Chris West, who read the book checking for historical accuracy – any mistakes left behind are most definitely my fault.
Clare Purcell, who shared her knowledge of horses with me again, even though she was busy looking after young Harlan.
Edge Llewellyn, whose name I borrowed without asking – I did mean to, but kept forgetting. Sorry, Edge – hope you don’t mind…
Will Llewellyn, Martin Llewellyn and Alec Birkbeck, who built the shed where I wrote most of this book. Extra thanks to Will, who knows everything there is to know about boats and ships, to Martin for making a flowerbed for me to gaze at, and Alec for buying copies of Bloodline and getting everyone he knows to read it!
I’d also like to thank Philip Reeve for his support – the man is a complete genius, and if you haven’t already, you should read his books: the Mortal Engines quartet, Here Lies Arthur, the whole lot.
About the author
KATY MORAN is an author with a unique ability for capturing the atmosphere of the times and places she describes, which she attributes to the strong connection she felt to the landscape around her when she was growing up. Her first novel, Bloodline, was written whilst she was still a student at Manchester University. Bloodline Rising is her second novel and was written in her garden shed. Katy is now a full-time writer and lives in London with her husband and young son.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein are included for entertainment purposes only and should not be relied on for accuracy or replicated as they may result in injury.
First published in Great Britain 2009 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
This edition published 2013
Text © 2009 Katy Moran
Cover photograph: Photodisc / Getty Images
The right of Katy Moran to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:
a catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4063-4892-7 (ePub)
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