‘And what is that?’ I asked.
Swithun opened the small box reverently. ‘It is the toenail of Lazarus, whom our Lord rose from the dead.’
‘I’ll swear it on your toenails,’ I said, ‘but you won’t believe a pagan’s oath so I wonder why you bothered coming at all?’
‘Because I was instructed to come,’ Swithun said primly. He was a dry, clever man and I knew his kind well. King Alfred had loved such churchmen, prizing their mastery of detail, their honesty and their dedication to truth. Such men had written Alfred’s code of laws, but Father Swithun was now in Northumbria where the prevailing law was the sword. ‘Did you kill Lord Ealdred?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No.’
Quills scratched on parchment.
‘Yet it is known you disliked him?’
‘No.’
Swithun frowned. The quills scratched. ‘You’re denying that dislike, lord?’
‘I didn’t dislike him,’ I said, ‘I hated him. He was a pompous, privileged, impertinent piece of shit.’
Scratch, scratch. One of the younger priests was smiling secretly.
‘The Scots deny sending warriors, lord,’ Swithun pressed on.
‘Of course they do.’
‘And point out that the death of Lord Ealdred occurred many miles from any Scottish lands. At least a three-day ride?’
‘Probably five,’ I said helpfully.
‘And King Constantine remarks that he has never raided that far into King Æthelstan’s kingdom.’
‘How old are you?’ I asked.
Swithun paused, slightly unsettled by the question, then shrugged. ‘I am thirty-nine, lord.’
‘You’re too young! Constantine must have come to the throne when you were what? Eleven? Twelve? And the year after that he had three hundred Scottish warriors burning the barns around Snotengaham! There were other raids too. I watched his men from the walls of Ceaster, you remember that, Finan?’
‘Like it was yesterday,’ Finan said.
‘And those places were far south of,’ I paused, frowning, ‘where was it that Ealdred died? The valley of the Tesa?’
‘Indeed.’
‘You should look in the chronicles, Father,’ I said, ‘and discover how often the Scots raid deep into Northumbria. Even northern Mercia!’ I was lying through my teeth, as was Finan, and I very much doubted that Father Swithun would want to visit all the monasteries of Northumbria and Mercia that might have monks keeping a chronicle, because if he did he would only have to plough through page after page of ill-informed nonsense. I shook my head sadly. ‘Besides,’ I said, as if the thought had only just struck me, ‘I don’t believe those men came from Constantine’s land.’
‘You don’t?’ Swithun sounded surprised.
‘My belief is they came from Cumbria. Much closer. And the Scots are stirring up trouble there.’
‘True,’ Swithun said, ‘but King Constantine has sent assurances that they were not his men.’
‘Of course not! They were Strath Clotans. They’re his ally now so he used them so he could deny that his own men came south.’
‘He denied that too,’ Swithun said primly.
‘If you were a Northumbrian, father, you would know that the Scots can never be trusted.’
‘And King Constantine has sworn the truth of his assertions on the girdle of Saint Andrew, lord.’
‘Oh!’ I looked convinced. ‘Then he must be telling the truth!’ The young priest smiled again.
Father Swithun frowned, then found a new page of the notes that he had on the table. ‘I have been in Eoferwic, lord, and spoken with some of King Guthfrith’s men who survived the fight. One of them was certain he recognised your horse.’
‘No he did not,’ I said firmly.
‘No?’ Swithun raised a delicate eyebrow.
‘Because my horse was in the stables here. I was on board my ship.’
‘We heard that too,’ Swithun allowed, ‘yet the man was quite certain. He says your horse,’ he paused to look at his notes, ‘displayed a stark white blaze.’
‘And my stallion is the only horse in Britain that has a white blaze?’ I laughed. ‘Let’s go to the stables, father. You’ll find twenty horses like that!’ He would also discover Ealdred’s fine white stallion that I had named Snawgebland, snowstorm, but I doubted Swithun wanted to explore our stables.
Nor did he, because he ignored the invitation. ‘And the gold?’ he asked.
I scoffed at that. ‘There was no gold! No dragon either.’
‘No dragon?’ Swithun enquired delicately.
‘Guarding the hoard of gold,’ I explained. ‘Do you believe in dragons, father?’
‘They must exist,’ he said cautiously, ‘because they are mentioned in the scriptures.’ He looked pained for a moment as he collected his notes. ‘You do realise the consequences of King Guthfrith’s death, lord?’
‘Women are safer in Eoferwic.’
‘And Anlaf of Dyflin will claim the throne of Northumbria. He’s probably claiming it already! That is not a desirable consequence.’ He looked at me almost accusingly.
‘I thought Æthelstan claims Northumbria,’ I answered.
‘He does, but Anlaf might contest it.’
‘Then Anlaf will have to be beaten,’ I said, and that was probably the truest thing I spoke in that long meeting. I had lied happily, as had my men, even the Christians among them had sworn ignorance of Ealdred’s death. It helped that they had been promised absolution by Father Cuthbert who, that evening at dinner, I introduced to Father Swithun.
‘He was properly married, you know!’ Father Cuthbert said as soon as I named Father Swithun.
‘He was …’ Swithun was totally confused.
‘Married in church!’ Cuthbert said happily, his empty eyes appearing to look past Swithun’s right ear.
‘Who was married in church?’ Swithun, still astonished, asked.
‘King Edward, of course! He was Prince Edward then, but I assure you he was properly married to King Æthelstan’s mother! By me!’ Father Cuthbert spoke proudly. ‘And all those tales of his mother being a shepherd’s daughter are simply nonsense! She was Bishop Swithwulf’s daughter, Ecgwynn. I still had my sight then and she was a pretty little creature,’ he sighed wistfully, ‘so very pretty.’
‘I never believed the king was born out of wedlock,’ Swithun said stiffly.
‘Enough folk did!’ I said forcefully.
He frowned at that, but nodded reluctantly, and once the meal was served I regaled him with tales of Æthelstan’s youth and how I
