Because a king had come and a king now fled.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Finan said.
We were sitting on the lowest step of the stairs leading to the ramparts that were rapidly emptying of the enemy. I lifted off my helmet and dropped it on the ground. ‘It’s so damned hot,’ I said.
‘Summer,’ Finan said bleakly.
Still more of Æthelstan’s men were streaming through the gate. The East Anglians who had first threatened us had dropped their shields and seemed to have no interest in what happened in the city. A few had wandered back to the gate in search of ale, and they took no notice of us and we took no notice of them. Immar had brought me Wasp-Sting. She lay on the ground in front of me, waiting for her blade to be cleaned, while Serpent-Breath lay on my knees and I kept touching her blade, scarce able to believe I had found her again.
‘You gutted that bastard,’ Finan said, nodding towards Waormund’s corpse. There were perhaps forty of fifty other corpses left from Æthelhelm’s shield wall. The wounded had been helped into the shade where they groaned.
‘He was fast,’ I said, ‘but he was clumsy. I didn’t expect that. I thought he was better.’
‘Big bastard though.’
‘Big bastard,’ I agreed. I looked down at my left thigh. The bleeding had stopped. The wound was shallow and I started laughing.
‘What’s funny?’ Finan asked.
‘I swore an oath.’
‘You always were an idiot.’
I nodded agreement. ‘I swore to kill Æthelhelm and Ælfweard, and I didn’t.’
‘You tried.’
‘I tried to keep the oath,’ I said.
‘They’re probably dead by now,’ Finan said, ‘and they wouldn’t be dead if you hadn’t taken the gate, so yes, you kept your oath. And if they’re not dead they soon will be.’
I stared across the city where the killing continued. ‘It would be nice to kill them both though,’ I said wistfully.
‘For Christ’s sake, you’ve done enough!’
‘We’ve done enough,’ I corrected him. Æthelstan and his men were hunting through the streets and alleys of Lundene, seeking out Æthelhelm, Ælfweard, and their supporters, and those supporters were few. The East Anglians did not want to fight for them, and many of the West Saxons simply threw down their shields and weapons. Æthelhelm’s vaunted army, as large an army as had been seen in Britain for many a year, had proved as fragile as an eggshell. Æthelstan was king.
And that evening as the smoke above Lundene glowed red in the light of the sinking sun, the king sent for me. He was King of Wessex now, King of East Anglia, and King of Mercia. ‘It is all one country,’ he told me that night. We were in the great hall of Lundene’s palace, originally built for the kings of Mercia, then occupied by Alfred of Wessex, then by his son, Edward of Wessex, and now the property of Æthelstan, but Æthelstan of what? Of Englaland? I looked into his dark, clever eyes, so like the eyes of his grandfather Alfred, and knew he was thinking of the fourth Saxon kingdom, Northumbria.
‘You swore an oath, lord King,’ I reminded him.
‘I did indeed,’ he said, not looking at me, but gazing down the hall where the leaders of his warriors were gathered at two long tables. Finan was there with Brihtwulf, as were Wihtgar and Merewalh, all drinking ale or wine because this was a feast, a celebration, and the victors were eating the food that had belonged to the defeated. Some of the defeated West Saxons were there too, those who had surrendered quickly and sworn allegiance to their conqueror. Most men still wore their mail, though Æthelstan had stripped off his own armour and wore a costly black coat beneath a short cloak dyed a deep and rich blue. The cloak’s hems were embroidered with gold thread, he had a gold chain about his neck from which hung a golden cross, and about his head was a simple gold circlet. He was no longer the boy I had protected through the long years when his enemies had tried to destroy him. Now he had the stern face of a warrior king. He looked like a king too; he was tall, straight-backed, and handsome, but that was not why his enemies had called him Faeger Cnapa. They had used that derisive name because Æthelstan had let his dark hair grow long and then twisted it into a dozen ringlets that were threaded with gold wires. Before the feast, when I had been summoned to share the high table, he had seen me staring at the glittering strands beneath the golden circlet and he had given me a defiant look.
‘A king,’ he had said defensively, ‘must appear kingly.’
‘He must indeed, lord King,’ I had said. He had looked at me with those clever eyes, judging whether I mocked him, but before he could say more I had dropped to one knee. ‘I take pleasure at your victory, lord King,’ I had said humbly.
‘As I am grateful for all you did,’ he had said, then raised me up and insisted that I should sit at his right hand where, gazing down at the celebrating warriors, I had just reminded him of the oath he had sworn to me.
‘I did indeed swear an oath,’ he said. ‘I swore not
