The Abbot's Tale

by Conn Iggulden

  On the fourth day, messengers came riding through the streets crying that the king was coming home. Elflaed was flushed with excitement as she and her servants made ready for an audience.

  Still somewhat feverish, with my fingers splinted and wrapped in clean strips of cloth, I was sent tottering out into the sun as if I held white mice in my hands. There are certain difficulties to losing the use of one’s fingers, some vital and some merely irritating. Like a child, I had been dressed in an itchy new shirt and belt, with fine woollen trews and soft boots. I’d argued for the black habit I’d worn before. I’ve always thought the colour carried a certain authority all on its own. I resolved to find one, but I was still too weak and ill when the king returned from London and his capital came alive.

  Æthelstan brought hundreds of men and women with him wherever he went: counsellors and reeves, judges and scribes. The ealdormen of his roving court sealed his laws for him; hunted, flogged and fought for him; even executed in his name. The king lived at the centre of a feast in those days.

  I went to the great hall in Winchester, surrounded and protected as I walked by a dozen solemn servants from Elflaed’s household. Free men and thralls alike paused in their labours to see what grand person might command such a crew. I felt their scorn, but I looked ahead, to the royal estate walls and the buildings they enclosed, rising above the rest of the city. I was pleased I had seen an abbey before. If I had not, I might have been overwhelmed.

  Elflaed had gone ahead to whisper in the right ears and prepare them for me. It gives me grief to remember this. My first entrance to court was a disaster.

  It did not help that I was sweating as if I’d run all the way from Glastonbury. Master Gregory had thought no more of hammering my fingers than he would have of plucking a bird for his dinner. He’d gone about it with the skill and thoroughness he brought to all his tasks. As a result, it was almost impossible for me not to jar the splinted bones every other moment.

  It was another mark on the list. In some ways, it was almost calming to discover I had only one aim then, one purpose – to gather whatever influence I needed to return to Glastonbury with power over my enemies. While I stood and reeked of sweat in a line of men and women waiting to glimpse the high king, I resolved to work harder than I ever had to achieve that simple aim. I would go back. I would tear that place down, brick from mortared brick. The abbey would be my Carthage; I would sow its fields with salt.

  The thought was cheering, though I felt lost in the murmuring swell of that crowd. I passed into the royal hall and saw King Æthelstan for the first time.

  He stood on a raised dais, slightly to the side as I entered and looked up to him. I confess my first reaction was disappointment. He did not wear the spiked crown I’d heard described at his coronation, but a simpler band of iron, set with red stones. He was blond-bearded and wore his hair long and loose, so that it made him look like the great cats I have seen in tapestry. Yet he was shorter than I had expected. For a man who summoned princes and kings to kneel to him, I had thought to see a giant.

  The man at his shoulder was more the sort I had imagined. Egill Skiallgrimmson was his champion then, a berserker from lands of ice, far in the north. He too was blond, though his hair was almost white in comparison. I had seen fighting men before and remembered a boxing match of ninety rounds that my father took me to Bath to watch. Yet even those men did not have a skull like Egill. It looked to be a bone of the ancients, of giants in the old tales. It sat atop a body built along the lines of a carthorse. Egill was not a man you ever wished to face on the field of battle. He stood less than two yards tall, but a warrior is more than mere height. The short-handled mace Egill carried was one of the reasons Æthelstan had a peaceful reign. Not a single one of the small kings who knelt to him wanted to put his rule to challenge. Not that day, at least. No, the challenge would come the following spring.

  As I approached the king’s dais, Æthelstan’s senior men were listening to the concerns of those coming in, one by one, either passing them along the line to some factor or scribe, refusing a plea entirely, or, much more rarely, turning to the king himself to rule on a petition. Æthelstan stood by a finely carved chair, with his earls and his champion and perhaps a hundred others in attendance on him. They wore an array of bright colours and the mood was light as they talked and laughed together. I was caught up in the wonder of it all, as if I approached a bench of seraphim and could only marvel at their glories. I saw my sponsor Elflaed on the dais, one of the few women among them. She smiled to me as I wound my way through to the front, patient and calm.

  The man ahead was some farmer who had refused a dowry to his daughter, though the marriage had gone ahead even so. He’d delayed the payment for so long, it seemed the girl’s new husband had brought a petition to the king against him. There was a council for such things, of course, the Witan, where judgements could be discussed and set down in ink. Yet some men had no trust in earls and thanes. They preferred to seek a ruling from the king himself. It was a dangerous choice, though I understood it.

  Men are all the same, in their desire to follow. It is too simple a description, but men are either kings or slaves. Some slaves are kings and some kings, slaves, but that is because the world is corrupt and in ruins, no matter how high we build. Women, of course, are all slaves. I would not say this to one, obviously, not if peace were my aim.

  I could smell horses coming off the farmer as he made his argument. In his passion, he flung out one of his arms and struck me with it, standing behind him. The blow twisted my fingers cruelly and I shrieked, rather higher and longer than I would have liked.

  The entire hall fell silent in surprise. I was a few months shy of sixteen and I had screamed like a woman in front of every lord, lady and bishop in that place. I wanted to vanish from sight but I could not. The shit-farmer apologised, but laughter still crashed over us at the sight of my bandaged hands and red, sweating face. I saw the king grinning and saying something to his niece. In her turn, Elflaed covered her face with a palm. I knew her too well to think she would be laughing, but I had caused her great embarrassment.

  ‘Your Highness, my lords and ladies,’ I said, though I don’t suppose anyone heard me. I bowed as deeply as I could. The farmer shouted something in my ear, but he was guided away down the line of scribes. He tried to protest, but the king’s men were used to that and he only moved faster out of my sight.

  I was left facing the king.

  ‘My niece tells me you are the child of Glastonbury, carried in wings. She commends you to me,’ he said. His voice had kingship in it, as his stature did not. It reminded me of my father and I found myself dropping to one knee.

  ‘I am honoured, Your Grace,’ I murmured, still feeling the heat in my cheeks.

  ‘I see you are injured. It would be unseemly to make mock of you just for that.’

  Across the hall, smiles vanished at his words, which interested me. Even the enormous Egill stopped showing his big teeth. It seemed Æthelstan really did rule in that place. He was my first sight of a king, and I thought they were a different breed of men, a thread of gold above the rest of us. How I wish that were true.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said.

  To my surprise, I felt a strong grip on my shoulder and I too was borne away down the line. There was no question of my struggling, you may be sure. I passed the hapless farmer, counting out coins to be weighed, then found myself facing a scribe in brown wool, whose nose dripped.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Dunstan, son of Heorstan,’ I said, still unsure what I was meant to be doing.

  ‘Nephew of Archbishop Athelm,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see a man who looked enough like my father to give me a moment of panic before I understood. I did not know him as kin, but he claimed me in that place.

  Uncle Athelm had my father’s height, though he was no man of arms. He carried weight around his waist, like a woman heavy with child. It gave him a sense of huge
bulk as he beamed at me, resting clean, pink fingers over that enormous mass. I was just pleased to meet one of my own blood. I opened my mouth to greet him formally and Athelm clapped me on the shoulder, sending a spike of pain running up from my broken right hand.

  ‘You are truly hurt? What happened to your hands?’

  ‘It was . . . an accident in the forge, that is all. They will heal soon enough, but it was only a few days ago.’

  ‘The forge? Well, you’ll love the royal smithies here. There are things made . . . well, you’ll see. I have heard all about you, lad, from my poor brother and of course your mother, but also Lady Elflaed. She sought me out, to demand my support of you. As if I would not have come.’

  I was armoured against weakness by my earlier humiliation. I think he sensed that coldness in me, so that he reached out and patted my cheek.

  ‘I know you’ve had a hard time of it. Your father, your brother’s injury, the death of your friend. This has been a dark year or two for you, but it is in the past. We’ll find a place for my own nephew in the royal court, I imagine. If half the things I’m told are true, we’ll make you the king’s right hand in a year.’

  I smiled at him and rubbed furiously at the tears in my eyes. I certainly did not correct him about Godwin having been my friend. Still, I found myself shaking my head.

  ‘After what just occurred, Uncle? After crying out like a child in front of them all?’

  He waved his hand as if it meant nothing. Yet I know even better now what I sensed then, that King Æthelstan revered warriors in those days. He treasured physical courage above music, above wit, above even piety and holiness. I had damned myself in his court with that one great shriek – and my uncle knew that as well as anyone. He had put the crown on Æthelstan’s head. He had anointed him like a Roman emperor and guided him through hard years.

  Archbishop Athelm had no sons of his own and he had adored his older brother. He took me on as a pile of stones and tried to build something out of me. I was in the king’s court and I had hands raising me up. So I smiled, though my fingers throbbed in agony and I could smell myself sweating.

  ‘I would like to see those smithies and forges, Uncle, if you don’t mind showing me.’

  ‘I would be delighted. This evening, we’ll dine at the king’s table, but until then, I will be your guide.’

  To be shown forges while your hands are splinted is a peculiar strain, almost cruelty. I could see the king’s artificers had no belief in me. They thought me the privileged son of some great family, which was not far from the mark. They failed to understand my blood and upbringing were mere candles in the furnace of my ambition. Oh, they were polite enough and stood with their heads bowed in the presence of my uncle. He patted them and chuckled as he spoke, for all the world like a cheerful, red-faced shire reeve presented with a line of local children. They grinned when he told them they were the backbone of the royal household, that without such fine fellows, there would be no iron brackets to hold the lamps, no locks on the doors, no knives or nails to make anything! One of the men twisted his cap to rope in his hands while the bishop spoke, blushing like it was Christmas morning.

  I looked sideways at my uncle, seeing no guile in him. Yet a man does not become an archbishop by being a fool. He becomes one when other men of power trust him enough to raise him up.

  It was not lost on me that conversations were hushed as Uncle Athelm swept through the royal estate. Harsh words were stilled and great men bowed to a prince of the Church. I watched and I learned.

  Those first weeks fled in frustration from me. I could neither write nor gild, nor work at almost anything. I walked the circumference of the city walls, climbing down to trot along the banks of the Itchen and see the barges, laden with bales and men. The royal city of Wessex teemed then. Ships and tenders carried coal and iron ore – and Winchester grew all around me, from those black stones and that mortar.

  For a time, I filled my head with numbers and theorems of mathematics, making plans of all I might do the moment my hands healed. It took an age and my lady Elflaed had to employ one delicate young gentleman named Mannon to help me with the privy. I do not know which of us enjoyed it less, but we bore it and offered up the humiliation, as I had been taught to do.

  I had already discovered I liked Winchester. If I was to succeed there, I knew I would have to learn whom to flatter and whom to scorn. It was not difficult to know which path to choose when I met the king’s younger brother. Æthelstan bore no children of his own. There will always be some to suggest he had a weak seed, but I do not believe that. He had agreed at the beginning of his reign to favour his father’s other sons in return for the crown, and that was all it took. Æthelstan kept his word as if he had cut the letters in iron. I wish I had known him longer, or perhaps just that he hadn’t thought of me as a right lily.

  I met the king’s heir as my uncle was showing me the royal stables. I have never liked horses, so I was merely feigning interest as Athelm swept through row upon row of stalls, all with an overpowering smell of their ordure and sweat.

  Those stables were built with columns of gold Wessex stone that would not have looked out of place on a cathedral. Fired brick and flint walls made up the rest, the work of hundreds and no expense spared. Racing tracks had been cut and laid with wood chips, so that at any moment of the day there could be a dozen horses trotting round in the sunshine, mending their wind or being trained for war. It was a town within the city, almost. In some ways, it was the iron heart of Winchester, lit by forge light when the sun set and darkness came.

  As I turned a corner in conversation with my uncle, I was almost knocked down by a big rangy fellow striding fast around it. I flinched from a shape in dark leather and wool. I am pleased to say I made no sound or cry of surprise, but I jerked back to protect my poor hands from further insult. Yet the boy moved well. His gaze was steady as he came to a halt, without so much as touching, though he had been moving at a fair gallop.

  ‘My lord Edmund,’ Uncle Athelm said warmly, bowing his head.

  The young man looked across and dipped one knee as soon as he recognised the archbishop. Athelm chuckled, a rich and throaty sound. He always spoke as if he was finishing a mouthful of milk pudding.

  ‘Please, my lord, dear me, please rise.’

  Both of them were smiling as Edmund sprang up, delighting in his youth and strength.

  In later years, when Edmund was full-grown, he would be called ‘the Just’, ‘the Deed-doer’, by some, ‘the Magnificent’. Edmund could have been the great king of the age, more so even than Æthelstan. His story is a hard thing to tell.

  When I met him, he was sixteen, with the look of eagles. A rook will chase away a red kite, though the kite has twice its reach and speed. Fighting spirit matters and Edmund had it. He stood tall and lithe, in perfect balance. My fat uncle was an ancient compared to him, but still they chuckled and exchanged pleasantries. The prince had that gift as well – he could talk to anyone. Add. to it that he used a blade like a cat uses claws, as if it was part of him, and that he had a great soul. He was born to rule. Why not? Like his brother Æthelstan, Edmund was the grandson of King Alfred, the son of King Edward the Elder. When I think of a king, I always mean him.

  ‘May I present Dunstan, my brother’s son,’ Athelm said.

  I bowed, though I was of a height with Edmund and not sure then who he was.

  ‘What happened to your hands?’ Edmund said to me.

  I found myself challenged by calm brown eyes, so did not want to lie. Equally, I did not want to be drawn on the events of that cliff edge.

  ‘I tried to make them fireproof,’ I said. ‘It did not work.’

  He blinked at me, caught between delight and suspicion.

  ‘Oh, you did not! That is not true,’ Edmund said, though he hoped it was.

  ‘They were bitten off by a wolf,’ I said. ‘I am growing them back.’

  He grinned then, understanding it was a game.

  ‘
You sharpened them into claws,’ he said.

  ‘I did,’ I replied. ‘But it made me hungry, so I cut them off and fried them.’

  ‘How did they taste?’ he asked.

  ‘I could not pick them up to find out.’

  He laughed and his merriment set me off, so that I could no longer keep a straight face. For a few moments, we howled and snorted, delighted by silliness. I doubt it will amuse when written down. It was funny then – and I had met Æthelstan’s brother and the heir to the throne. I was never again a face in the crowd to Edmund after that morning.

  ‘Do you ride, Dunstan?’ Edmund said, still chuckling.

  In answer, I just held up my hands, showing him the wrapped fingers.

  ‘Ah, of course. You prefer puppets,’ he said.

  Well, I confess that set me off in gales again, Edmund with me, until we were giggling and snorting. I liked him, I really did. He is the great failure of my life, but God forgive me, I was young. I thought we would all live for ever then.

  13

  In the gleam of lamps, I stood in the shelter of my uncle’s arm, a gosling under his wing. The last of the splints had come off that morning and I flexed my hands with a wince.

  The Witan council on that frozen night was the first of its kind I had seen. I was in awe of those who’d ridden or sailed to Winchester from all over the country. Great lords of the north were there, taking seats by men of Kent and Essex, of Mercia, of Wessex, all come at Æthelstan’s call. They were far too many for the sort of round table old King Arthur had known. In the Witan hall, thanes, reeves, earls and family of the king sat in rows like teeth, all facing inwards to the heart.