‘Me?’ Finan said.
‘You’re a Christian! I’ll give you forty men, maybe fifty, all Christians. And you’ll ask the priest to come and bless the fort.’
‘Which won’t be finished,’ Finan said.
‘It will never be finished,’ I said, ‘because you’ll show the priest the gold. You’ll give him some gold!’
‘And in a week,’ Egil said slowly, ‘every man in the Tesa valley will know of the gold.’
‘Within a week,’ I said, ‘Guthfrith and Ealdred will know of the gold.’ I turned to stare at the mounds. ‘There’s only one problem.’
‘Which is?’ Finan asked.
‘We’re a long way from Scotland.’
‘That’s a problem?’ Egil asked.
‘Maybe it doesn’t matter.’
We would bait the trap, not for one king, but for three. Æthelstan had forecast that any new war in Britain would be the most terrible ever known, and claimed he did not want that war, yet he had started a war against Bebbanburg. True, it was a strange war with no deaths and small harm, but war it was and he had started it.
Now I would finish it.
Bishop Oda came as spring began to turn into summer. He arrived with a younger priest and six warriors who all showed Æthelstan’s badge of the dragon and lightning bolt on their shields. The day had dawned unusually warm, but by the time Oda rode to the Skull Gate the first fret of the year had drifted in from the sea.
‘I didn’t even need a cloak this morning,’ Oda complained as he greeted me, ‘and now this fog!’
‘A fret,’ I said, ‘what you Danes call a haar.’ On hot summer days a thick North Sea fog would shroud the fortress. As often as not the sun would burn the fret away, but if an east wind blew from the sea the fret would be continually pushed ashore and might linger all day, sometimes dense enough to hide our seaward ramparts from the great hall.
‘I bring you a gift,’ Oda said as I ushered him into the hall.
‘Ealdred’s head?’ I asked.
‘A gift from the king,’ he ignored my poor jest. He held out a hand to the young priest who gave him a leather-wrapped bundle which, in turn, was given to me.
The bundle was secured with string which I snapped. Inside the soft leather wrapping was a book. ‘A book,’ I said sourly.
‘Indeed! But fear not! It isn’t a gospel book. The king does not believe in casting pearls before swine. Dear lady!’ He raised his hands in warm greeting of Benedetta who came towards us. ‘You look more beautiful than ever.’ Oda embraced her chastely. ‘And I have brought you a gift from the king, a book!’
‘A book,’ I repeated, still sourly.
‘We need books,’ Benedetta said, then clapped her hands to summon servants. ‘We have wine, bishop, and it is even good wine!’
‘Your friends in Eoferwic, bishop,’ I said bitterly, ‘have tried to stop ships trading with us. Yet the ships still come, and they bring us wine.’
I took Oda to the dais, out of earshot of the six warriors who had dutifully surrendered their swords and had been shown to a table at the lower end of the hall where they were given bread, cheese, and ale. ‘This is Father Edric, one of my chaplains,’ Oda introduced the young priest. ‘He was eager to meet you, lord.’
‘You’re welcome, Father Edric,’ I said unenthusiastically. He was a thin, pale-faced young man, scarce more than a boy, with a nervous expression. He kept glancing at the hammer I wore as if he had never seen such a thing before.
‘Father Edric found the book for the king.’ Oda touched the volume that I had placed unopened on the table. ‘Tell Lord Uhtred about it, father.’
Edric opened and closed his mouth, swallowed, then tried again. ‘It is De Consolatione Philosophiae, lord.’ He stammered the title, then stopped abruptly, as if too scared to continue.
‘And that is translated how?’ Bishop Oda enquired gently of Edric.
‘The consolation of philosophy,’ Benedetta answered instead, ‘by Boethius? An Italian.’
‘A clever Italian,’ Oda said, ‘like you, dear lady.’
Benedetta had opened the book and her eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘But this is in the Saxon tongue!’
‘It was translated, dear lady, by King Alfred himself. And King Alfred was a friend to Lord Uhtred, was he not?’ The question was directed at me.
‘He never liked me,’ I said, ‘he just needed me.’
‘He liked you,’ Oda insisted, ‘but disliked your religion. King Æthelstan, on the other hand, fears you.’
I stared at him. ‘Fears me!’
‘You are a warrior, lord, and you defy him. Men notice that, and if you can defy him so can others. How can Æthelstan be God’s anointed king if his lords will not submit to him?’
‘You say I defy him?’ I snarled. ‘I made him king!’
‘And the king,’ Oda said calmly, ‘is convinced that God intended him to be the Monarchus Totius Brittaniae. He is persuaded that he is the child of God’s destiny, fated to bring a time of peace and plenty to Britain.’
‘So he encourages Ealdred to raid my lands.’
Oda ignored that. ‘There is a hierarchy on earth as there is in heaven,’ he continued, still calm, ‘and just as Almighty God sits in power above all creatures of heaven and of earth, so must a king be exalted above all people who live in his lands. Constantine of Alba has submitted to Æthelstan, Hywel of Dyfed has kissed his hands, Owain of Strath Clota has bowed his head, Guthfrith of Northumbria is his servant, and only Uhtred of Bebbanburg has refused to take the oath.’
‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I said bitterly, ‘swore an oath to protect Æthelstan. I protected him as a child, I taught him to fight, I gave him his throne, I have kept that oath and I need give him no other.’
‘For the king’s dignity,’ Oda said, ‘you must be seen to submit.’
‘Dignity!’ I laughed.
‘He is a proud man,’ Oda said gently.
‘Then tell the proud man to call off his hounds, to publicly declare that
