western horizon, and her father came to find her.
III
SCHOLAR AD 878-892
I
It was with a glad heart, that bleak January evening, that Cynewulf at last came to Alfred's hall at Cippanhamm. With Aebbe at his side, Cynewulf had to line up with the other petitioners at the gate to be checked over by the guard, a thickset thegn with a handful of hardfaced warriors. The royal estate was outside the village, and the hall and its subsidiary buildings were protected by their own palisade of cruelly barbed stakes.
The sky was clear, the sun low. There was no snow, but the midwinter frost made the mud hard as Roman concrete under his leather shoes, and the heavy woollen cloaks of the people in the line, musty with a winter's use, steamed softly.
The cold did nothing to dampen Cynewulf's spirits. He murmured to Aebbe, 'In the King's hall we will be warm.'
'Nowhere in England is warm,' the girl said cynically.
Aebbe, twenty years old and ten years Cynewulf's junior, was dark, compact, wary. She wore a cloak so filthy it was almost as dark as Cynewulf's own priest's habit. With her hair matted and pulled back from her brow, she barely looked female at all. But then she had born on Lindisfarena, in a community of fisher-folk eking out a living in the ruins of the abandoned monastery, and had been a refugee from the Northmen since she had been an infant.
'This is the belly of Wessex,' Cynewulf said, forcing a smile. 'There are no Danes here. We really will be safe.'
'If they let us in.'
'Have faith,' Cynewulf murmured.
At last they reached the gate. From here Cynewulf could glimpse the hall itself, the door posts elaborately carved with vine motifs, the gables adorned with horns. It was built according to old pagan traditions, although a crucifix had been fixed above the door. They were nearly there, nearly safe.
But they still had to get past the thegn and his guard.
They reached the head of the line. The thegn was a bear-like man with a tangle of greying beard, and a barrel of a chest under a mail tunic. At his side was a much smaller man in a drab, much-repaired cloak. The skin of his face was a rich acorn brown. This foreigner held a scroll of paper before him that he marked with a bit of charcoal as each petitioner passed. He shivered, seeming to suffer the winter cold more than those around him.
The thegn faced Cynewulf. 'State your business.'
'My name is Cynewulf. I am a priest. I grew up in Wessex, where my father Cynesige was a thegn of the then king. I lived in a monastery in Snotingaham, which is in Mercia-'
'I know where it is.' The thegn eyed the girl. 'I didn't know priests took concubines.'
Cynewulf flared. 'She is no concubine, and you should have more respect for my holy office. This is Aebbe, whom I have brought here from the heart of Mercia, at no small risk to myself, to meet the King.'
'Why?'
'She has a message for him.'
'What sort of message?'
'A prophecy,' Cynewulf admitted reluctantly. 'A prophecy that speaks of dark times for Alfred, but ultimate glory which-'
The thegn grinned. 'The King follows the Christ. I doubt very much if he will be interested in the hokum you peddle.'
'The prophecy is not for sale,' Cynewulf snapped. 'I bring it here out of duty. And it is not hokum.' He babbled, 'The internal consistency – a correlation with past events of record – the visitations of a certain comet which-'
The thegn held up a gloved hand. 'Just hand it over and be on your way.'
Cynewulf sighed. 'It is not written down. It is in her memory-in her head – and nowhere else.'
The girl glared at the thegn. 'So what now, greybeard? Will you cut off my head and give it to the King?'
To Cynewulf's relief the thegn seemed more amused than angry. 'You need to get this one under better control, priest.'
'Believe me, I've tried.'
'You see, my problem is this. If nothing is written down, what proof do you have of what you say?'
'This.' Cynewulf reached into his robe and produced a letter on vellum, crumpled and stained by his own sweat; he had carried it across the country and back. 'This is a safe-conduct signed by the King himself. It has kept me alive, more than once – for even among the heathen Northmen Alfred's name carries weight.'
The thegn took the letter. Cynewulf noted that he held it upside down. He passed it to the foreigner. 'Read it, Ibn Zuhr.' The foreigner murmured something Cynewulf couldn't hear, and passed the letter back to the thegn – who, to Cynewulf's horror, crumpled it and trod it into the dirt. 'An obvious forgery. On your way, priest, if you don't want to leave your head behind.'
'But – but-' Cynewulf got to his knees, retrieved his precious note, and tried to smooth it out. 'Can you not read, man? Can't you see?'
Aebbe placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Priest. Calm down.'
'But these dolts – I have been across the country, I have faced down the heathen, only for this…'
But Aebbe was smiling. When Cynewulf looked up, wondering, he saw that the thegn was smiling too. And though his grin through the beard looked like a wound in a bear's thigh, something in his eyes, the shape of his mouth, was familiar.
'Arngrim? Is it you?'
Arngrim grinned wider. 'You always were easy to tease, cousin!' And he leaned down to clap Cynewulf on the shoulder.
Amgrim and Aebbe had to help Cynewulf up from his knees, and then they guided him into the hall of King Alfred.
II
Inside the hall Cynewulf was immersed in smoky warmth. A fire blazed in a huge central hearth, and rush torches on the walls cast bright light. There was a hubbub of rumbling conversation, for the hall was already crowded.
He breathed deep of the fuggy air and rubbed his hands, gleeful. 'At last, at last.'
Aebbe was unimpressed. 'You're glad to be here? In this tavern?'
Arngrim laughed. 'You'll have to forgive him. He grew up in places like this, so he feels at home. Come on, let's find somewhere to sit.'
They walked into the body of the hall. Two rows of century-old oaks divided the open floor into three aisles, like the Roman basilicas of older times. It was a massive wooden structure, an ark surely strong enough to withstand the mightiest storm. And if there was security here, there was wealth too. Though boar spears and deer skins hung on the walls, gold glinted everywhere, woven into the fabric of the tapestries on the walls, even inlaid into the mead benches.
The hall was packed. Cynewulf knew he would find many of the great men of Wessex here: bishops, thegns, and ealdormen, the great land-owners. They had been summoned on Saint Stephen's Day for the King's witan, and were still here this January evening, the end of the feast of the Twelve Days of Christmas. The town of
