The Burning Land
A Novel
Bernard Cornwell
is for
Alan and Jan Rust
PLACE-NAMES
The spelling of place names in Anglo Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whichever spelling is cited in either the
?sc’s Hill: Ashdown, Berkshire
?scengum: Eashing, Surrey
?theling?g: Athelney, Somerset
Beamfleot: Benfleet, Essex
Bebbanburg: Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
Caninga: Canvey Island, Essex
Cent: Kent
Defnascir: Devonshire
Dumnoc: Dunwich, Suffolk (now mostly vanished beneath the sea)
Dunholm: Durham, County Durham
East Sexe: Essex
Eoferwic: York
Ethandun: Edington, Wiltshire
Exanceaster: Exeter, Devon
Farnea Islands: Farne Islands, Northumberland
Fearnhamme: Farnham, Surrey
Fughelness: Foulness Island, Essex
Grantaceaster: Cambridge, Cambridgeshire
Gleawecestre: Gloucester, Gloucestershire
Godelmingum: Godalming, Surrey
H?thlegh: Hadleigh, Essex
Haithabu: Hedeby, southern Denmark
Hocheleia: Hockley, Essex
Hothlege: Hadleigh Ray, Essex
Humbre: River Humber
Hwealf: River Crouch, Essex
Lecelad: Lechlade, Gloucestershire
Liccelfeld: Lichfield, Staffordshire
Lindisfarena: Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland
Lundene: London
S?fern: River Severn
Scaepege: Isle of Sheppey, Kent
Silcestre: Silchester, Hampshire
Sumors?te: Somerset
Suthriganaweorc: Southwark, Greater London
Temes: River Thames
Thunresleam: Thundersley, Essex
Tinan: River Tyne
Torneie: Thorney Island, an island that has disappeared—it lay close to the West Drayton tube station near Heathrow Airport
Tuede: River Tweed
Uisc: River Exe, Devonshire
Wiltunscir: Wiltshire
Wintanceaster: Winchester, Hampshire
Yppe: Epping, Essex
Zegge: Fictional Frisian island
PART ONE
THE WARLORD
ONE
Not long ago I was in some monastery. I forget where except that it was in the lands that were once Mercia. I was traveling home with a dozen men, it was a wet winter’s day, and all we needed was shelter, food, and warmth, but the monks behaved as though a band of Norsemen had arrived at their gate. Uhtred of Bebbanburg was within their walls and such is my reputation that they expected me to start slaughtering them. “I just want bread,” I finally made them understand, “cheese if you have it, and some ale.” I threw money on the hall floor. “Bread, cheese, ale, and a warm bed. Nothing more!”
Next morning it was raining like the world was ending and so I waited until the wind and weather had done their worst. I roamed the monastery and eventually found myself in a dank corridor where three miserable-looking monks were copying manuscripts. An older monk, white-haired, sour-faced and resentful, supervised them. He wore a fur stole over his habit, and had a leather quirt with which he doubtless encouraged the industry of the three copyists. “They should not be disturbed, lord,” he dared to chide me. He sat on a stool beside a brazier, the warmth of which did not reach the three scribblers.
“The latrines haven’t been licked clean,” I told him, “and you look idle.”
So the older monk went quiet and I looked over the shoulders of the ink-stained copyists. One, a slack-faced youth with fat lips and a fatter goiter on his neck, was transcribing a life of Saint Ciaran, which told how a wolf, a badger, and a fox had helped build a church in Ireland, and if the young monk believed that nonsense then he was as big a fool as he looked. The second was doing something useful by copying a land grant, though in all probability
