The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8)

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘His tomb is here,’ he crossed to the far side of the burned altar and pointed to a great slab of stone that had been lifted and slid aside. ‘The Norsemen, dear God, would not even let the dead rest in peace!’

  I crossed to the grave and stared into the stone-lined tomb where Bishop Asser’s simple wooden coffin had been splintered open. The bastard was still there, wrapped in grey cloth that was stained black. His whole body was wrapped so I could not see his pinched face, but I could smell his decay. I was tempted to spit into the tomb, but managed to resist the urge and at that moment I had an inspiration, an idea so brilliant that I wondered why I had not thought of it earlier. ‘King Edward,’ I turned back to Brother Edwyn and adopted my most earnest voice, ‘has asked us to bring back a remembrance of Asser.’

  ‘I understand, lord! He was so beloved in Wessex.’

  ‘He was indeed,’ I said, ‘and the king gave Bishop Asser a sword, a Danish sword, and asked that we might take it to place on the high altar of Wintanceaster’s new church.’

  ‘Ah! The sword,’ Edwyn said. He sounded nervous again.

  ‘We would pay for it, of course,’ I said.

  Edwyn looked close to tears. ‘The bishop was very fond of that sword,’ he said, ‘and yet he was not a warlike man.’

  ‘He would value it,’ I said, ‘as a king’s gift.’

  ‘Oh, he valued it! He did indeed, but alas, we cannot give it to King Edward.’

  ‘Cannot?’

  ‘Bishop Asser’s final wishes were to be buried with the sword. It was in the grave. The Norsemen must have known, for they took it.’

  ‘How would they know?’

  ‘It was no secret,’ Brother Edwyn said, ‘and the missionaries might have mentioned it.’

  ‘Missionaries?’

  ‘Rognvald was given permission to settle, lord, on condition that he gave a home to two of our missionaries and listen to their message. It was Father Elidell who sent us warning of Rognvald’s coming.’

  And the bastard missionaries, I thought, must also have boasted of the sword. ‘King Edward desired the blade,’ I said helplessly.

  ‘Perhaps King Edward would like another relic of the bishop?’ Edwyn suggested helpfully. ‘We have some shoes the bishop wore? At least I think we do. Oh, I know! We still have some of the cloths we used to wipe up the vomit of his final illness, the king would like one of those?’

  ‘A vomit cloth?’ I asked.

  ‘The vomit has dried, lord! It’s nothing but a crust now and somewhat delicate, but if he becomes a saint, as well he might, then the crust will surely work miracles!’

  ‘And the king will surely treasure it,’ I said, ‘but he had set his heart on the sword.’

  ‘No wonder,’ Edwyn said, ‘for he killed the pagan who carried it! We heard the story often!’

  ‘King Edward killed him?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, indeed! Bishop Asser was quite sure of that. And Bishop Asser said he would use the blade to fight valiantly against the devil even from the grave. Such a holy man!’ Such a mean-spirited, tight-fisted, cunning piece of lying weasel-shit, I thought. ‘He was a great fighter against evil,’ Edwyn continued enthusiastically, ‘why, he even begged that the sword be wrapped in nettle leaves so it would sting the demons who taunt the Christian dead!’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Even in death the bishop fights for Christ.’

  Even in death he went on torturing me, except now the sword was in the hands of some Norseman, but I did not doubt that whatever Christian sorcery Asser had used on the blade would still be potent. But it was gone, and to find it I would have to treat with Rognvald. ‘This Norseman,’ I asked Edwyn, ‘he’s still at Abergwin?’

  ‘Abergwaun, lord, yes, as far as we know.’

  ‘And how far …’ I began to ask, but was interrupted by my son.

  ‘Father!’ Uhtred’s voice was urgent. He was standing at the church door, gazing into the day’s new sunlight, and as I turned to him I heard the voices. Men’s voices, and then the sound of footsteps. A lot of footsteps. I walked to the door, and there, not twenty paces away, were warriors.

  A horde of warriors. Men in mail and helmets, some men in leather armour, and a few with nothing but padded jackets that will stop a sword slash, but not a lunge. Most had shields, almost all had swords, though a few were armed only with heavy, wide-bladed spears. They were bearded, dark-faced, hostile, but they had crosses hanging at their necks and some had the cross painted on their shields, which meant they were not Rognvald’s men, but Welshmen. I started to count them, but there were too many.

  ‘Thank Christ!’ Brother Edwyn had come to the door. ‘The king is here.’

  ‘King?’

  ‘King Hywel!’ he said reprovingly, as though I should have known what savage ruled this corner of Wales. ‘He will be pleased to meet you, lord.’

  ‘The honour will be mine,’ I said, and I thought of all the men who had gone into Wales and never returned. There were stories of great caves into which the souls of Saxons were trapped by Welsh magicians. ‘What we should call our land,’ Father Pyrlig had once told me with a most unchristian relish, ‘is the graveyard of the Saxons! We do love them to visit! It gives the boys sword practice.’

  And the leader of the Welsh warriors, a grim beast with a red scarf wrapped about his helmet and a beard that hung to his waist and a shield on which a dragon breathed fire, drew his long-sword.

  Wyrd bið ful āræd.

  The grim man with the red scarf about his helmet stepped aside, and a much smaller man walked towards us. He too was in mail and wore a helmet, but he carried no shield. He had a pale green cloak of very fine linen, its edges hemmed with golden crosses. I might have thought him a priest, except for the splendour of his helmet and the richness of the scabbard fittings that hung from a belt plated with small gold panels. A chain of gold held a golden crucifix, which he touched as he stopped to stare at us. Something about him reminded me of Alfred. His face had none of the drawn lines of constant sickness and unending worry that had etched Alfred, but he did have a look of keen intelligence. This man was no fool. He took another pace towards us and I saw his calm confidence. He called out in his own language, and Brother Edwyn stepped two paces forward and bowed. ‘The king,’ he hissed at us.

  ‘Bow,’ I ordered my companions, then offered a bow myself.

  So this was King Hywel. I guessed he was about thirty years of age, a head shorter than me, but strongly built. I had heard of him, though taken small notice because kings come and go in Wales like mice in thatch, but there was something about this man that suggested he was far more formidable than most of his kind. He seemed to be amused as he asked Brother Edwyn questions and listened to the translation of our answers. We had come as pilgrims, I said. From King Edward? I hesitated, not wanting to claim to be an official embassy because we had brought neither gifts nor letters, but then I said the king had known we were coming and had instructed us to offer Christian greetings. Hywel smiled at that. He knew a lie when he heard one. He looked along my men, recognising them for what they were. His eyes lingered appreciatively on Eadith for a moment, then came back to me. He spoke to Brother Edwyn, who turned to me. ‘The king wishes to know your name, lord,’ he said.

  ‘Osbert,’ I answered.

  ‘Osbert,’ Brother Edwyn told the king.

  ‘Osbert,’ Hywel repeated the name thoughtfully, then turned and listened as the brute with the red scarf about his helmet whispered in his ear. Whatever was said made Hywel smile again. He spoke to Brother Edwyn, who looked at me nervously. ‘The creed,’ the monk translated, ‘the king wishes you to recite the creed.’

  ‘The creed,’ I said, and for the life of me could not remember those words that had been hammered into my childhood mind by Father Beocca.

  ‘We believe in one god,’ my son said, ‘the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ,’ Finan and the others joined in, ‘the only-begott
en Son of God,’ they all made the sign of the cross as they chanted the last three words, and I hurriedly copied the gesture, ‘begotten of the Father before all worlds, Light of Light, very God of very God, begotten, not made …’

  King Hywel held up a hand to check the recitation. He spoke to Edwyn again, though keeping his shrewd eyes on me. ‘The king wants to know,’ Brother Edwyn interpreted, ‘why you don’t speak the words?’

  ‘Being of one substance with the Father,’ I said as the words suddenly came back to me from the mists of childhood, ‘by whom all things were made and who for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven and was incarnate by the holy ghost of the Virgin Mary, and was made man.’

  Again the king held up his hand and I dutifully stopped as Hywel looked at Brother Edwyn. The monk nodded, presumably confirming I had repeated the words correctly. Hywel was still smiling as he spoke to Edwyn, who suddenly looked terrified. ‘The king says,’ he began, hesitated, then found the courage to continue, ‘the king says that he is impressed that the infamous Lord Uhtred knows the creed.’ I said nothing, but just stared at the king, who spoke again. ‘He wishes to know,’ Brother Edwyn said, ‘why you lied about your name.’

  ‘Tell him I have a bad memory,’ I said.

  Hywel laughed, and I noted he did not wait for Brother Edwyn’s translation. He had laughed as soon as I spoke, and then he smiled at me. ‘A bad memory,’ he said, using our language.

  ‘It seems, lord,’ I said, ‘that your memory has just remembered that you speak the English tongue.’

  ‘The church,’ he said, ‘teaches us to love our enemies. My father believed you should know them too.’ I realised he had pretended to need a translator so he could listen, watch, and make up his mind about us. He seemed to like us well enough. He pointed to the man who had whispered in his ear. ‘Idwal was one of the men who followed Father Pyrlig to your battle with Cnut. He recognised you. So, Lord Uhtred with the bad memory, you’re no pilgrim, so why are you here?’

  And there was no choice but to tell the truth, or as little of the truth as I wanted to reveal. We had come, I said, because Jarl Cnut’s sword had been stolen from me, that the sword belonged to the man who had cut him down, and that man was me. I had come to find Ice-Spite.

  ‘Which is now in Rognvald’s possession,’ Hywel said, ‘so you are fortunate.’

  ‘Fortunate, lord?’ I asked.

  ‘Because we have come to kill him. And you can join us.’

  So we would go to war.

  Nine

  King Hywel’s chief adviser was a shrewd priest called Anwyn who spoke our tongue and who questioned me closely as we rode north. He wanted to know who ruled in Mercia and was surprised at, and even dubious of, my answer. ‘The Lady Æthelflaed?’ he asked. ‘Truly?’

  ‘I was there when the Witan chose her.’

  ‘You astonish me,’ he said, ‘you astonish me indeed.’ He frowned, thinking. He was bald as an egg with a long, bony face and thin, unfriendly lips, though his dark eyes could light with amusement or understanding. He was one of those clever priests who rise high in royal service, and I suspected Anwyn was an honest, loyal servant to the equally shrewd Hywel. ‘I understood Wessex was determined the Lady Æthelflaed should not assume her husband’s burden,’ he continued, still frowning, ‘so what happened?’

  ‘Mercians are proud of their country,’ I said, ‘and they’re not ready to lie back and open their legs to a foreign king quite yet.’

  He smiled at my crudity. ‘I understand that, lord, but to appoint a woman! The last news we heard was that Eardwulf was to marry Æthelflaed’s daughter and then administer the country in Edward’s name!’

  ‘Eardwulf is an outlaw,’ I said, surprising Anwyn. It was plain that King Hywel had his sources in the Saxon kingdoms and those sources were good, but any news those spies might have sent about Eardwulf’s bid for power and Æthelflaed’s success had still not reached western Wales. I told him of Eardwulf’s attack on Æthelflaed and of its failure, though I did not mention my part in it, nor did I tell him how I had influenced the Witan.

  ‘I can’t say I feel any sorrow for Eardwulf,’ Father Anwyn said with evident relish, ‘he was always an enemy to the Welsh.’

  ‘He was a Mercian,’ I said drily, and the priest smiled.

  ‘So Æthelflaed will rule!’ he said, amused. ‘A woman! On the throne!’

  ‘A very capable woman,’ I said, ‘and she’s more of a warrior than her brother.’

  He shook his head, still trying to comprehend the idea of a woman on a throne. ‘We live in strange times, lord.’

  ‘We do,’ I agreed. We had been given ponies to ride, while the rest of Hywel’s force were on war horses that followed a stony track which led north through small fields and rocky outcrops. The king had brought over three hundred men, and Father Anwyn believed that would be sufficient. ‘Rognvald doesn’t lead more than a hundred and thirty warriors. Scarce enough to man his palisade!’

  I watched a falcon spiral high above a hill, and followed as it slid away to the east. ‘How long has Rognvald lived here?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘Your king,’ I said, nodding at Hywel, who rode just ahead of his two standard-bearers, ‘strikes me as a very clever man. Why did he allow Rognvald to settle?’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t! That was the last king, a fool called Rhodri.’

  ‘So Rognvald,’ I said, ‘has been here six years, and in all that time he’s never made trouble?’

  ‘Some cattle raids,’ Anwyn said dismissively, ‘but nothing more.’

  ‘You say he leads only a hundred and thirty men, and he must know how many warriors you can bring against him. So is he a fool? Why attack Tyddewi? He must know you’ll want revenge.’

  ‘Opportunity!’ Anwyn said brusquely. ‘Idwal,’ he paused to nod towards the big man with the red scarf, ‘usually has a score of men at Tyddewi, but the king needed him elsewhere.’

  ‘Elsewhere?’

  Anwyn ignored that question. Whatever squabble Hywel had just settled was evidently none of my business. ‘We thought it safe to leave the shrine unguarded for a few days,’ Anwyn admitted ruefully, ‘and we were wrong, but we headed back as soon as we heard of the fleet.’

  ‘Fleet?’ I repeated the word dourly. With Sihtric at sea, waiting for us, fleet was not a word I wanted to hear.

  ‘Some days ago,’ Anwyn explained, ‘twenty or more ships appeared off the coast. At least one of them put into Abergwaun, but she didn’t stay. They all sailed northwards a day later, and we just received word that they’re coming south again.’

  ‘Norse ships?’

  He nodded. ‘Ivar Imerson sent the fleet, led by his son. It seems they’re looking for land.’

  ‘Ivar Imerson?’

  Anwyn seemed surprised that I had not heard of Ivar. ‘He’s a formidable man, but so are his Irish enemies.’

  I knew Mercia and Wessex, Northumbria and East Anglia, but now I was in a different world, a place where warlords with strange names fought to make petty kingdoms at the sea’s edge. Hywel, I realised, had enemies on three sides. He had Saxons to his east, rival Welsh kingdoms to the north, while to his west the Norse and the Irish struggled with each other, both ever ready to raid his coasts, and, if what Anwyn had heard was true, ready to take more land from Dyfed.

  The horsemen ahead of us had halted, and a group of men had gathered around Hywel and his standard-bearers. I assumed one of the Welsh scouts had brought back news, and now the king held a hasty council of war, which Anwyn hurried to join. We had climbed to a wide plateau with small, stone-walled fields interrupted by shallow valleys, which Hywel’s scouts diligently explored. Rognvald would surely be expecting trouble and must have his own scouts on the plateau, but if Anwyn was right then the Norseman was severely outnumbered. I suspected he would be cautious, preferring to retreat to some easily defended high ground rather than seek a running fight with Hywel’s warriors on this bare upland.

&nbs
p; ‘So there’s a fleet nearby,’ Finan said. He had been listening to my conversation with the priest.

  ‘Let’s hope it’s nowhere near Sihtric,’ I said.

  ‘Sihtric’s canny,’ Finan said, ‘and he’ll keep out of their way. But something’s got them worried,’ the Irishman nodded at the horsemen bunched about the king, ‘and Ivar Imerson is a man that should worry you.’

  ‘You know of him?’

  ‘Of course! He’s a big bad man. But the Irish are just as big and bad and they’re pushing on him. Pushing hard.’

  ‘So he’s looking for land over here?’

  ‘And sent his son to find it. I wonder which son.’ I was always surprised how much Finan knew of what happened in Ireland. He pretended to take no interest, insisting he had abandoned his native land for ever, but for somebody who claimed no interest he knew a lot. Someone there must send him news. ‘Now what’s happening?’ he asked, nodding towards the war council.

  Two of Hywel’s scouts had come galloping from the north to push their way into the knot of horsemen around the king. They had only been there a moment before all the Welshmen began whooping and hurrying north. Whatever news the scouts had brought was being shouted back along the column, each repetition provoking more and louder cheers. Some men had drawn swords. Father Anwyn waited with the king’s two standard-bearers. ‘The pagans are fleeing!’ he called to me. ‘They’re running away!’ He kicked his horse to follow Hywel’s warriors, who were now racing towards the plateau’s northern crest where smoke was just appearing. At first I thought the smoke to be mist, but it was thickening too quickly. A village or a hall was burning.

  ‘Someone got there before us?’ Finan called to me, kicking his pony to ride beside me.

  ‘Looks that way,’ I said. I twisted in the saddle, wincing at the inevitable pain. ‘Stay together!’ I called to my men. If there was about to be a fight I did not want my men separated because it would be too easy to mistake one of them for an enemy. The Welshmen all knew each other, but if they saw a stranger they might attack without thinking. ‘And you,’ I called to Eadith, ‘stay away from the fighting!’