The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) (27 page)

Seven of us slipped ashore before dawn. I took Finan, of course, my son, Gerbruht because he had been to the shrine before, and two other warriors. Eadith insisted she came too. ‘You’re safer on the ship,’ I told her, but she shook her head stubbornly and, persuading myself that the presence of a woman made the pretence of being pilgrims more convincing, I let her come. We all wore cloaks, and I had changed my hammer for a cross. The cloaks hid short-swords.

Once ashore we scrambled up the western side of the dragon’s mouth, and, by the time we had reached the stony crest and my rib was feeling as though every devil in Christendom was stabbing it with red-hot forks, Sihtric had taken the
Ðrines
back to sea. If the unseen watcher of the dragon’s mouth had sent word to his lord, then warriors would come to the inlet and find it empty. They would assume we had sheltered for the night and voyaged on, or rather I hoped they would believe that, and I had told Sihtric to keep the ship offshore until twilight and then slip back into the inlet.

And we walked.

It was not far, not far at all.

By the time the rising sun was slanting across the world we had found Tyddewi and, just like the hovels at the dragon’s mouth, it was empty. I had expected to hear the usual cacophony of howling dogs and crowing cocks, but there was silence beneath the sifting smoke, which still rose to besmirch the morning sky. There had been a settlement here, but now it was ashes and smouldering timbers, all except a gaunt stone church that lay in a hollow. I had seen this so often, indeed I had caused it myself. Raiders had come, they had burned and plundered, but as we went closer I saw no bodies. The attackers would have taken the young and the nubile for slaves and for pleasure, such raiders usually killed the old and the sick, but there were no bodies being ripped by crows, no blood splashed on stone, no shrunken black corpses stinking in the embers. The village smoked and lay empty.

‘If Cnut’s sword was ever here,’ Finan said grimly, ‘it’s gone now.’

I said nothing, not wanting to think about what he had just said, though of course he was right. Someone, either sea-raiders or men from another Welsh kingdom, had come to Tyddewi and left it a wilderness of ash. A cat arched its back and hissed at us, but nothing else lived. We walked towards the church that was built of dark, stark stone. Beyond it was a mess of burned buildings that smoked more heavily than the rest and I guessed that had been the monastery where Asser had gone to die. At the far side of the ruins, built against the northern hill’s lower slope, were small stone cabins shaped like beehives. A couple had been pulled apart, but a dozen others looked whole. ‘Stone huts,’ Gerbruht told us, ‘where the monks live.’

‘I wouldn’t put a dog in one of those,’ I said.

‘You like dogs,’ Finan pointed out, ‘so of course you wouldn’t. But you’d put a monk in one of them. Jesus! What was that?’ He was startled because a lump of charred timber had just been hurled from the church’s western door. ‘Christ,’ Finan said, ‘someone’s here.’

‘Sing,’ my son said.

‘Sing?’ I looked at him.

‘We’re pilgrims,’ he said, ‘so we should be singing.’

‘He’s right,’ Finan growled.

‘A psalm,’ my son said.

‘Then sing,’ I snarled. And so they sang, though it was hardly impressive, and only Gerbruht knew more than a few words. My son had supposedly been educated by monks, but he just roared nonsense as we walked between the burned-out cottages. The place stank of smoke.

A flight of stone steps led down into the hollow, and just as we reached the steps a monk appeared at the church door. He stared at us for a frightened moment, threw down more charred timber, then fled back into the shadows. The psalm faltered as we went down the slope, then I was at the church door and went inside.

Three monks faced me. One, a brave fool, carried a baulk of half-burned wood like a club. His face was white, tense, and determined, and he did not lower the makeshift weapon even as my men came through the door. Behind him was the blackened remains of an altar, above which hung a painted wooden crucifix that had caught the flames, but not the fire. The feet of the nailed god were scorched, and the paint of his naked body smeared smoke-black, but the crucifix had survived the blaze. The monk holding the charred club spoke to us, but in his own language, which none of us understood.

‘We’re pilgrims,’ I said, feeling foolish.

The monk spoke again, still hefting the length of wood, but then the youngest of the three, a pale-faced, skimpy-bearded youth, spoke to us in our own tongue. ‘Who are you?’

‘I told you, pilgrims. Who are you?’

‘Have you come to harm us?’ he asked.

‘If I wanted to harm you,’ I said, ‘you’d be dead by now. We come in peace. So who are you?’ The young monk made the sign of the cross, then gently pushed his companion’s baulk of wood down and spoke to him in Welsh. I heard the word
season
, which is their name for the Saxons, and I saw the relief on all their faces when they realised we had not come to kill them. The oldest monk, a white-bearded man, fell to his knees and wept. ‘So who are you?’ I asked the young monk again.

‘My name is Brother Edwyn,’ the young monk said.

‘A Saxon?’

‘From Scireburnan.’

‘From Scireburnan, lord,’ I told him harshly.

‘Yes, lord, from Scireburnan.’

‘You came here with Bishop Asser?’ I asked. It seemed an obvious explanation for why a Saxon monk should be in this smoke-stinking corner of Wales.

‘I did, lord.’

‘Why?’

He frowned, apparently puzzled by my question. ‘To learn from him, lord. He was a most holy man and a great teacher. He asked me to accompany him, to take down his words, lord.’

‘And what happened here? Who burned the place?’

Norsemen had happened. Somewhere to the north of Tyddewi was a river mouth, Brother Edwyn called it Abergwaun, though the name meant nothing to me, and Norsemen from Ireland had settled there. ‘They had permission, lord,’ Edwyn said.

‘Permission?’

‘From the king, lord, and they promised to pay him tribute.’

I laughed at that. Other kings in Britain had invited the Northmen to settle and had believed their promises to live in peace and to pay land-rent, and gradually more ships had arrived, and the settlers’ war-band had grown in strength, and suddenly instead of tenants the king discovered he has a marauding band of savage warriors, cuckoos with claws, who wanted his fields, his women, his treasury, and his throne. ‘So who leads these Norsemen?’ I asked.

‘His name is Rognvald, lord.’

I looked at Finan, who shrugged to show the name meant nothing to him. ‘He came from Ireland?’ I asked the monk.

‘Many Norsemen have fled Ireland these last few years, lord.’

‘I wonder why,’ Finan said, amused.

‘And how many men does Rognvald lead?’

‘At least a hundred, lord, but we knew he was coming! We were watching from the hills and received warning, so we had time to flee. But the treasures.’ His voice trailed away and he looked in despair around the gaunt church.

‘Treasures?’

‘We took the small reliquaries and the altar goods, but the rest? The great gold chest of Saint Dewi, the silver crucifix, they were too heavy, and we had no time to rescue them, lord. We only had moments. They came on horses.’

‘They took the saint?’

‘We rescued his bones, lord, but his coffins? There was no time to take them.’

‘When was this?’

‘Two days ago, lord. We three came back yesterday.’ He hesitated. The monk who had held the great baulk of wood like a club was speaking urgently and Brother Edwyn looked nervous. He summoned his courage and turned back to us. ‘And you, lord? May I ask where you’re from?’

‘We come from King Edward,’ I said. It was sensible to claim we had come from Wessex rather than Mercia. Wessex was further away and its warriors rarely fought against the Welsh, while Mercia was a neighbour and perpetually fighting raiders from the hills.

‘King Edward! God be praised,’ Edwyn said, ‘a good Christian.’

‘As are we all,’ I said piously.

‘And the king, lord, he sent you?’

‘To see the grave of Bishop Asser,’ I said.

‘Of course!’ Brother Edwyn exclaimed, smiling. ‘The bishop was a great friend to Wessex! And such a holy man! What a servant of God he was! A soul of such kindness and generosity.’

Such a piece of slug-shit, I thought, but managed a sickly smile. ‘He is missed in Wessex,’ I said.

‘He was bishop here,’ Brother Edwyn said, ‘and we may never see his equal again, but now he is joined to the saints in heaven where he deserves to be!’

‘He does indeed,’ I said fervently, thinking just what dull company the saints must be.

‘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
ā
ræd.

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.