Then Gisela gave the smallest jerk of her head and I looked to see that a young monk was standing nearby and staring at me. He had obviously been waiting to catch my eye, and he was just as obviously nervous. He was thin, not very tall, brown haired and had a pale face that looked remarkably like Alfred’s. There was the same drawn and anxious look, the same serious eyes and thin mouth, and evidently the same piety judging by the monk’s robe. He was a novice, because his hair was untonsured, and he dropped to one knee when I looked at him. “Lord Uhtred,” he said humbly.
“Osferth!” Beocca said, becoming aware of the young monk’s presence. “You should be at your studies! The wedding is over and novices are not invited to the feast.”
Osferth ignored Beocca. Instead, with his head bowed, he spoke to me. “You knew my uncle, lord.”
“I did?” I asked suspiciously. “I have known many men,” I said, preparing him for the refusal I was sure I would offer to whatever he requested of me.
“Leofric, lord.”
And my suspicion and hostility vanished at the mention of that name. Leofric. I even smiled. “I knew him,” I said warmly, “and I loved him.” Leofric had been a tough West Saxon warrior who had taught me about war. Earsling, he used to call me, meaning something dropped from an arse, and he toughened me, bullied me, snarled at me, beat me, and became my friend and remained my friend until the day he died on the rain-swept battlefield at Ethandun.
“My mother is his sister, lord,” Osferth said.
“To your studies, young man!” Beocca said sternly.
I put a hand on Beocca’s palsied arm to hold him back. “Your mother’s name?” I asked Osferth.
“Eadgyth, lord.”
I leaned down and tipped Osferth’s face up. No wonder he looked like Alfred, for this was Alfred’s bastard son who had been whelped on a palace servant-girl. No one ever admitted that Alfred was the boy’s father, though it was an open secret. Before Alfred found God he had discovered the joys of palace maids, and Osferth was the product of that youthful exuberance. “Does Eadgyth live?” I asked him.
“No, lord. She died of the fever two years ago.”
“And what are you doing here, in Wintanceaster?”
“He is studying for the church,” Beocca snapped, “because his calling is to be a monk.”
“I would serve you, lord,” Osferth said anxiously, staring up into my face.
“Go!” Beocca tried to shoo the young man away. “Go! Go away! Back to your studies, or I shall have the novice-master whip you!”
“Have you ever held a sword?” I asked Osferth.
“The one my uncle gave me, lord, I have it.”
“But you’ve not fought with it?”
“No, lord,” he said, and still he looked up at me, so anxious and frightened, and with a face so like his father’s face.
“We are studying the life of Saint Cedd,” Beocca said to Osferth, “and I expect you to have copied the first ten pages by sundown.”
“Do you want to be a monk?” I asked Osferth.
“No, lord,” he said.
“Then what?” I asked, ignoring Father Beocca who was spluttering protests, but unable to advance past my sword arm that held him back.
“I would follow my uncle’s steps, lord,” Osferth said.
I almost laughed. Leofric had been as hard a warrior as ever lived and died, while Osferth was a puny, pale youth, but I managed to keep a straight face. “Finan!” I shouted.
The Irishman appeared at my side. “Lord?”
“This young man is joining my household troops,” I said, handing Finan some coins.
“You can’t…” Beocca began protesting, then went silent when both Finan and I stared at him.
“Take Osferth away,” I told Finan, “find him clothes fit for a man, and get him weapons.”
Finan looked dubiously at Osferth. “Weapons?” he asked.
“He has the blood of warriors,” I said, “so now we will teach him to fight.”
“Yes, lord,” Finan said, his tone suggesting he thought I was mad, but then he looked at the coins I had given him and saw a chance of profit. He grinned. “We’ll make him a warrior yet, lord,” he said, doubtless believing he lied, then he led Osferth away.
Beocca rounded on me. “Do you know what you’ve just done?” he spluttered.
“Yes,” I said.
“You know who that boy is?”
“He’s the king’s bastard,” I said brutally, “and I’ve just done Alfred a favor.”
“You have?” Beocca asked, still bristling, “and what kind of favor, pray?”
“How long do you think he’ll last,” I asked, “when I put him in the shield wall? How long before a Danish blade slits him like a wet herring? That, father, is the favor. I’ve just rid your pious king of his inconvenient bastard.”
We went to the feast.
The wedding feast was as ghastly as I expected. Alfred’s food was never good, rarely plentiful, and his ale was always weak. Speeches were made, though I heard none, and harpists sang, though I could not hear them. I talked with friends, scowled at various priests who disliked my hammer amulet, and climbed the dais to the top table to give ?thelflaed a chaste kiss. She was all happiness. “I’m the luckiest girl in all the world,” she told me.
“You’re a woman now,” I said, smiling at her upswept woman’s hair.
She bit her lower lip, looked shy, then grinned mischievously as Gisela approached. They embraced, golden hair against the dark, and ?lswith, Alfred’s sour wife, glowered at me. I bowed low. “A happy day, my lady,” I said.
?lswith ignored that. She was sitting beside my cousin, who gestured at me with a pork rib. “You and I have business to discuss,” he said.
“We do,” I said.
“We do, lord,” ?lswith corrected me sharply. “Lord ?thelred is the Ealdorman of Mercia.”
“And I’m the Lord of Bebbanburg,” I said with an asperity that matched hers. “How are you, cousin?”
“In the morning,” ?thelred said, “I shall tell you our plans.”
“I was told,” I said, ignoring the truth that Alfred had asked me to devise the plans for the capture of Lundene, “that we were to meet the king tonight?”
“I have other matters for my attention tonight,” ?thelred said, looking at his young bride, and for an eyeblink his expression was feral, almost savage, then he offered me a smile. “In the morning, after prayers.” He waved the pork rib again, dismissing me.
Gisela and I lay in the principal chamber of the Two Cranes tavern that night. We lay close, my arm around her, and we said little. Smoke from the tavern hearth sifted up through the loose floorboards and men were singing beneath us. Our children slept across the room with Stiorra’s nurse, while mice rustled in the thatch above. “About now, I suppose,” Gisela said wistfully, breaking our silence.
“Now?”
“Poor little ?thelflaed is becoming a woman,” she said.
“She can’t wait for that to happen,” I said.
Gisela shook her head. “He’ll rape her like a boar,” she said, whispering the words. I said nothing. Gisela put her head on my chest so that her hair was across my mouth. “Love should be tender,” she went on.
“It is tender,” I said.
“With you, yes,” she said, and for a moment I thought she was crying.
I stroked her hair. “What is it?”
“I like her, that is all.”
“?thelflaed?”
“She has spirit and he has none.” She tilted her face to look at me and in the darkness I could just see the
