‘Me too,’ I said, and looked back to the man who faced us. ‘You can take the weapons from us,’ I told him, ‘or you can live and let us through the gate.’
He decided he wanted to live and so ordered his men to remove the barrels and logs, then pull the gates wide, and we rode into the courtyard where torches had just been lit and their wild flames cast fluttering shadows from saddled horses that waited for riders. I counted about thirty men, some in mail and all armed, waiting with the horses, but not one challenged us. Instead they looked nervous. ‘He’s getting ready to flee,’ I said.
‘You are not to talk here,’ Father Coenwulf said testily.
‘Be quiet, you dull priest,’ I told him.
Servants came to take our horses and, as I expected, a steward demanded that Steapa and I give up our swords before we went into the great hall. ‘No,’ I said.
‘My sword stays,’ Steapa said menacingly.
The steward looked flustered, but Father Coenwulf just pushed past the man and we followed him into the great hall that was lit by a blazing fire and by candles arrayed on two tables between which was a throne. There was no other word to do justice to that great chair, which reared high above the massed candles and in which ?thelwold sat, though the moment we appeared he jumped to his feet and strode to the edge of the dais on which the throne had pride of place. There was a second chair on the dais, much smaller and pushed to one side, and ?thelflaed sat there, flanked by two men carrying spears. She saw me, smiled wryly and raised a hand to indicate that she was unharmed. Over fifty men were in the hall. Most were armed, despite the steward’s efforts, but again no one threatened us. Our appearance seemed to have caused a sudden silence. These men, like those in the courtyard, were nervous. I knew a few of them and sensed that the hall was in two minds. The youngest men closest to the dais were ?thelwold’s supporters, while the older men were his thegns, and they were the ones who were plainly unhappy at what was unfolding. Even the dogs in the hall looked whipped. One whined as we entered, then slunk to the hall’s edge, where he then lay shivering. ?thelwold was standing at the dais’s edge with folded arms, trying to look regal, but to me he seemed as nervous as the dogs, though a fair-haired young man beside him was full of energy. ‘Take them prisoner, lord,’ the young man urged ?thelwold.
There is no cause so hopeless, no creed so mad, no idea so ludicrous that it will not attract some believers, and the fair-haired youngster had plainly adopted ?thelwold’s cause as his own. He was a handsome brute, bright-eyed, strong-jawed and strongly built. He wore his hair long and tied behind his neck with a leather ribbon. A second ribbon was around his neck like a thin scarf and it looked oddly feminine because it was pink and made of the precious and delicate silk that is brought to Britain by traders from some far-off land. The tails of the silk ribbon hung over his mail, which was finely wrought, probably made by the expensive smiths in Frankia. His belt was panelled with gold squares and the hilt of his sword was decorated by a crystal pommel. He was rich, he was confident and he faced us belligerently. ‘Who are you?’ Father Coenwulf demanded of the youngster.
‘My name is Sigebriht,’ the young man said proudly, ‘Lord Sigebriht to you, priest.’ So that was the young man who had carried messages between ?thelwold and the Danes, Sigebriht of Cent, who had loved the Lady Ecgwynn and lost her to Edward. ‘Don’t let them talk,’ Sigebriht urged his patron, ‘kill them!’
?thelwold did not know what to do. ‘Lord Uhtred,’ he greeted me, for want of anything else to say. He should have ordered his men to chop us to pieces, then led his forces out to attack Edward, but he was not man enough, and he probably knew that only a handful of the men in the hall would follow him.
‘Lord ?thelwold,’ Father Coenwulf spoke sternly, ‘we are here to summon you to the court of King Edward.’
‘There is no such king,’ Sigebriht yapped.
‘You will be accorded the dignity of your rank,’ Father Coenwulf ignored Sigebriht and spoke directly to ?thelwold, ‘but you have disturbed the king’s peace and for that you must answer to the king and his Witan.’
‘I am king here,’ ?thelwold said. He drew himself up in an attempt to look regal. ‘I am king,’ he said, ‘and I shall live or die here in my kingdom!’
For a moment I almost felt sorry for him. He had indeed been cheated of the throne of Wessex, thrust aside by his uncle Alfred and forced to watch as Alfred made Wessex into the most powerful kingdom of Britain. ?thelwold had found consolation in ale, mead and wine, and in his cups he could be good company, yet always there had been that ambition to right what he saw was the great wrong done to him in childhood. Now he tried so hard to be kingly, yet even his own followers were not prepared to follow him, all but for a handful of young fools like Sigebriht.
‘You are not king, lord,’ Father Coenwulf said simply.
‘He is king!’ Sigebriht insisted and stepped towards Father Coenwulf as if he would beat the priest down, and Steapa took one pace forward.
I have seen many formidable men in my life, and Steapa was the most frightening. In truth he was a gentle soul, kind and endlessly considerate, but he was a head taller than most men and blessed with a bony face over which the skin seemed to be stretched into a permanently bleak expression that suggested ferocity without pity. At one time men had called him Steapa Snotor, which meant Steapa the Stupid, but it was years since I had heard that jibe. Steapa had been born a slave, but had risen to become the head of the royal bodyguard, and though he was not swift of thought, he was loyal, painstaking and thorough. He was also the most feared warrior of all Wessex and now, as he put one hand on the hilt of his enormous sword, Sigebriht just stopped and I saw the sudden fear on that arrogant young face.
I also saw ?thelflaed smile.
?thelwold knew he had lost, but he still tried to hold on to his dignity. ‘Father Coenwulf, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Yes, lord.’
‘Your counsel will be wise, I am sure. Perhaps you would give it to me?’
‘That is why I am here,’ Coenwulf said.
‘And say a prayer in my chapel?’ ?thelwold gestured to a door behind him.
‘It would be a privilege,’ Coenwulf said.
‘You too, my dear,’ ?thelwold said to ?thelflaed. He sounded resigned. He beckoned a half-dozen others, his closest companions, who included the abashed Sigebriht, and they all went through the small door at the back of the dais. ?thelflaed looked quizzically at me and I nodded because I had every intention of going to the chapel with her and so she followed Sigebriht, but as soon as we started towards the dais ?thelwold raised a hand. ‘Just Father Coenwulf,’ he said.
‘Where he goes, we go,’ I said.
‘You want to pray?’ Father Coenwulf asked me sarcastically.
‘I want you safe,’ I said, ‘though only your god knows why.’
Coenwulf looked at ?thelwold. ‘I have your word that I am safe in your chapel, lord?’
‘You are my safety, father,’ ?thelwold said with surprising humility, ‘and I want your counsel, I want your prayers, and yes, you have my word that you are safe.’
‘Then wait here,’ Coenwulf snapped at me, ‘both of you.’
‘You trust the bastard?’ I asked, loud enough for ?thelwold to hear.
‘I trust in Almighty God,’ Coenwulf said grandly, and climbed nimbly onto the dais and followed ?thelwold out of the hall.
Steapa put his hand on my arm. ‘Let him go,’ he said, and so he and I waited. Two of the older men came to us and said this had not been their idea and that they had believed ?thelwold when he had assured them that the Witan of Wessex had agreed to his assumption of the throne, and I told them they had nothing to fear so long as they had not raised a weapon against their rightful king. That king, so far as I knew, was still waiting on the old chalk-walled fort to the north of the town, waiting as the long night fell and the stars appeared. And we waited too. ‘How long does a prayer take?’ I asked.
‘I’ve known them to last two hours,’ Steapa said gloomily, ‘and the sermons can take even longer.’
I turned to the steward who had tried to take our swords. ‘Where is the chapel?’ I asked him.
The man looked terrified, then stammered, ‘There is no chapel, lord.’
I swore, hurried to the door at the rear of the hall and pushed it open to see a sleeping chamber. There were fur rugs, woollen blankets, a wooden bucket and a tall unlit candle in a silver holder, beyond which was a second door that led to a smaller courtyard. It was an empty courtyard with an open gate guarded by a lone spearman. ‘Which way did they go?’ I shouted at the guard who answered by pointing west down the street outside.
We ran back to the larger courtyard where our horses were waiting. ‘Go to Edward,’ I suggested to Steapa,
