The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) (13 page)

‘Red?’

‘Red as blood.’ I watched the far door where the guards clustered. ‘Ælfwynn will come if Stiorra tells her we’re here,’ I said, hoping I was right.

‘And if she’s not under guard.’

I should never have let Stiorra go inside. This whole wet morning was madness. I was no better than Brice, just charging blindly into a place without any real idea how to achieve what I wanted. I had let Stiorra talk me into this madness because at least she had given it some thought, but now, as I watched the guards across the courtyard, I was regretting my impulsiveness. ‘We might have to fetch her out,’ I said.

‘Us against all those house-warriors?’ Finan asked.

‘There’s only about twenty of them,’ I said. There were the two men on the gate and the others in the courtyard.

‘Twenty we can see. Most of the bastards will be sheltering from the rain. Still, if that’s what you want?’

I shook my head. It was not just Æthelred’s men, but all the West Saxon warriors too. Perhaps if I had felt well, if I could have swung Serpent-Breath without doubling over in sudden pain, I would have gone into the palace. Palace! A group of stinking timber houses around the remnants of a Roman hall. I imagined the pleasure Æthelred would take if he could seize Stiorra. He was my cousin and we had hated each other since childhood. I would have to negotiate her release, and that would cost me dear. ‘I’m a fool,’ I muttered.

‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ Finan said, ‘but your daughter’s clever. She’s like her mother.’

Thunder sounded far away. I looked up into the rain and saw only dark clouds, but I knew Thor had sent a storm eagle, maybe Ræsvelg himself, the giant eagle that would bring wind behind his wings and, sure enough, the rain that had been falling straight down suddenly bent and shivered as a gust blew through Gleawecestre’s streets. Finan crossed himself. The shop signs creaked as they swung. The spearmen guarding the palace gate had retreated deep under the arch, while the guards in the courtyard huddled beneath the thatched porch of the big hall. Cenwulf and Eadric sat patiently on their horses, waiting.

Sihtric splashed through the puddles. ‘They’re lighting candles in the church, lord,’ he almost had to shout to be heard above the seething rain. ‘And the roof leaks.’

‘So the wedding isn’t over?’

‘Over? They say they might wait till tomorrow.’

‘They’ll surely wait for this to blow over before they marry the poor girl,’ Finan said.

Thunder sounded louder, a great crack in the sky, and that time I saw a flash of lightning split the clouds. I touched the cloak hiding the hammer that hung from my neck, and sent a prayer to Thor, begging him for my daughter’s safety. The rain beat on my cloak’s hood. It was a malevolent rain, drenching and vicious.

And Stiorra appeared.

She came into the courtyard and gazed up at the clouds as though revelling in the pelting rain. She spread her arms, and I could see she was laughing, and just then a half-dozen other girls followed her. They were all laughing, squealing in delight at the heavy rain. They splashed through puddles and danced in crazy joy, watched by two guards who had followed them through the door. Then Stiorra ran to the horses and I saw Ælfwynn was following her, and I wondered how she could be a friend to my daughter. Stiorra was so grave and solemn, so controlled and thoughtful, while Ælfwynn was frivolous and silly. Like Stiorra she was dressed in white, and the rain had soaked her dress so it clung to her thin body. The guards watched as she stroked the grey mare’s nose. The other girls clustered behind her. Ælfwynn’s bright fair hair hung flat, rain-soaked. She turned to Stiorra and jumped for joy, squealing again as the water splashed up from her bare feet. Then, quite suddenly, she, Stiorra and Hella climbed into their saddles. The guards took no apparent notice. This was a wedding gift, after all, and if the girl was mad enough to come into this rainstorm then she was mad enough to ride the horse around the courtyard.

They rode towards the great hall. Cenwulf and Eadric followed them. My men were mounting. I beckoned to my servant, and the boy brought me my stallion and I took a deep breath, knowing I was about to be hit by a stab of pain as I climbed into the saddle. The pain came, making me wince. I managed to stifle a moan, then I pushed my foot into the stirrup and leaned forward to see through the gate arch, but the pain hit again and I straightened. Finan, still dismounted, could see into the palace’s courtyard. ‘Are you ready?’ he called to the men with the hay wagon. ‘They’re coming,’ he added to me, and pulled himself onto his horse.

Stiorra had led Ælfwynn towards the hall, then swerved towards the gate. I heard them before I saw them, heard the sudden clatter of hooves on the stone paving just beyond the arch, and then the three girls and my two men appeared through the gateway. ‘Now!’ Finan shouted, and the men whipped the cart forward to block the palace arch. One carried an axe to splinter a wheel, and once the cart was crippled they would use the big draught horses to follow us. I had riding horses waiting for them, and for the men on the wagon that would block the cross street halfway to the gate.

The rain had emptied the streets. We trotted over the crossroads and I shouted at those men to block the street. Æthelred’s men would have to use one of the city’s other two gates to join us. The carts were just there to hamper the pursuit I was sure would follow. Even a few minutes would gain us precious time.

We trotted beneath the city’s gate. I paused to look down at the black-bearded man who had fought at Teotanheale. ‘I’m sorry for what’s about to happen,’ I told him.

‘Lord?’ he asked, puzzled.

‘Your gate’s about to be blocked,’ I said, ‘and just trust me that I know what I’m doing.’

‘You always did know, lord,’ he said, grinning.

We overturned the third wagon at the gate, spilling the hay under the archway. Our pursuers could use the other gates, of course, but it would take time for them to discover this direct path was blocked. The rain would delay them, as would the need to saddle horses, and I guessed we had at least an hour before they followed us. The men who had manned the carts rode north, using the road that ran closest to the Welsh frontier and that led directly towards Ceaster. They would take the news of what I had just done to Æthelflaed, and should arrive in Ceaster in two or three days.

‘Uncle!’ Ælfwynn rode alongside me. She had always called me that.

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Freezing!’ She was grinning. She liked mischief, and this exploit was mischievous enough. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To your mother.’

That took the smile from her face. Æthelflaed had never approved of her daughter, finding Ælfwynn flippant and irresponsible. ‘A head full of feathers,’ she had said often enough. ‘To mother?’ Ælfwynn asked anxiously.

‘I can take you back to Gleawecestre instead?’ I suggested.

‘No, no!’ She grinned again. ‘She’s always nicer when you’re with her.’

‘I’ll be with you,’ I said.

‘They said you were dying!’

‘I am.’

‘Oh, I hope not.’

Finan rode alongside her and handed her a cloak. My men probably regretted that because she was wearing nothing but a light linen shift which, soaked through, clung to her skin. ‘You ride well!’ I told her.

‘So does Stiorra!’

I let my horse slow so I could ride beside my daughter. ‘I was worried,’ I told her.

She gave me a quick smile. ‘She wasn’t even out of bed when I arrived. I had to wait.’

‘And no trouble?’

She shook her head. ‘The guards suspected nothing. I told them I had the horse as a gift and they let her go outside to see it. They thought she was mad to go into the rain, but they’re used to her whims.’

I twisted in the saddle, instantly regretting it, but there was no sign of any pursuit. The city lay grey under its own smoke and beneath the wind-thrashed rain. ‘They’ll be coming after us,’ I said grimly.

Ælfwynn had slowed to join us. ‘Is mother in Cirrenceastre?’ she asked.

‘She’s in Ceaster.’

‘Isn’t Ceaster that way?’ she asked, pointing north.

‘I want your father to think we’re riding to Cirrenceastre,’ I said.

‘Oh, he won’t think anything,’ she said happily.

‘He’ll be angry!’ I warned her.

‘No, he won’t.’

‘He’ll send men to catch us,’ I told her, ‘and to take you back.’

‘Eardwulf might send men,’ she said, ‘and Uncle Edward might, but not father.’

‘And why not?’ I asked.

‘Because he died yesterday,’ she said. Stiorra and I just stared at her.

‘He died …’ I began.

‘No one’s supposed to know,’ she went on airily, ‘it’s a secret, but you can’t keep secrets in a palace. The servants told me, and of course they know! They know everything.’

‘Servants’ gossip?’ I asked. ‘It might not be true.’

‘Oh, there were priests all over the palace!’ Ælfwynn said. ‘It was commotion all night and doors slamming and lots of mumbled prayers. I think it’s true.’ She did not sound in the least upset.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Sorry?’

‘That your father’s dead,’ I said awkwardly.

‘I suppose I ought to be sorry,’ she said, ‘but he didn’t like me and I didn’t like him.’ She looked at Stiorra and grinned, and I wondered whether that was what the two girls had in common: bad fathers. ‘And he was evil-tempered,’ Ælfwynn went on, ‘even more than mother! And I didn’t want to marry Eardwulf so I know I ought to be sorry, but I’m not.’

‘That’s why they’re keeping his death a secret,’ I said. ‘So they can marry you to Eardwulf before they announce it.’

‘Well they can’t do that now, uncle, can they?’ she said happily.

But they could and they would, because without her Eardwulf was nothing, but with her he inherited his father-in-law’s power and became Æthelhelm’s deputy in Mercia.

So he had to find his bride. I looked behind and saw an empty road, but that meant nothing.

We would be pursued.

The rain settled into a steady downpour. The thunder had faded and with it the gusting winds, but the rain persisted. It seemed impossible that the sky could hold so much water. It was as though the oceans of the gods were being emptied on us, relentlessly, endlessly, a drenching rainstorm that soaked us as we climbed the steep hills and, once at their summit, turned north to follow sheep paths across the gently rolling slopes. The men on Gleawecestre’s walls would have seen us going east towards Cirrenceastre, and I hoped Eardwulf assumed that was our destination, but now we left the Roman road to cross the hills and join the road that led to Alencestre.

The paths were slippery, but there was little mud until we dropped down into the wide valley of Eveshomme, and there the tracks became deep and difficult. I had once heard a Christian priest proclaim that Adam and Eve had lived in this wide, fertile valley, and that it was in this Eden that sin had entered the world. The man had preached like a crazy person, waving his arms, spitting his words, and glaring at the church. ‘Woman!’ he had snarled. ‘It is woman who brought sin into this world! It is woman who spoiled God’s paradise! It is woman who brought evil!’ I had been young then, too young to realise what rubbish he spewed. Besides, Father Beocca had told me that the real Eden lay far off beyond the rising sun in a land that was guarded by angels and hidden by golden mists, while Eveshomme, he claimed, was named for a swineherd who had chatted with the Virgin Mary while his pigs rooted about in the beech woods. ‘What did they talk about?’ I had asked him.

‘God’s grace, I’m sure!’

‘That sounds thrilling.’

‘It is, Uhtred, it is!’ he had insisted. ‘And men and women go to Eveshomme in hope of meeting our Lady.’

‘And do they meet her?’

‘I pray so.’ He had sounded dubious.

‘Have you been?’ I had asked him, and he nodded, rather reluctantly. ‘And did you see her?’

‘Alas, no.’

‘Maybe you’d have had better luck if you’d taken some pigs with you.’

‘Pigs?’ He had been puzzled.

‘Perhaps she likes bacon?’

‘That is not amusing,’ he had said. Poor Father Beocca, dead now.

There was no sign of any pursuit, but I knew it would come. Eardwulf needed to find Ælfwynn fast, he needed to drag her back to the church and marry her, only then could he claim some legitimacy as the heir to her father’s power. The thegns of Mercia, I thought, would not accept that power readily. They would think him an upstart, but if he had Æthelred’s daughter in his bed and the strength of Wessex behind him, then they would sullenly accept his new authority. But without Ælfwynn? Without Ælfwynn he would be nothing but a usurper. It was her virginity, if that still existed, which would tie him to Æthelred’s family and status. I thought of finding a priest somewhere in this rainswept valley and have him marry Ælfwynn to my son, then wait while Uhtred took her into a hovel and did the necessary. I thought hard about doing that, but the absence of any pursuit persuaded me to keep travelling instead.