LITMIR.BIZ

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clean-shaven. He had good cause to hate me. I had met him in Cornwalum where I had led a slaughter of the kingdom where he was an emissary and I had tried to kill Asser too, a failure I have regretted all my life. He scowled at me and I rewarded him with a cheerful grin that I knew would annoy him.

      Alfred did not look up from his work, but gestured at me with his quill. The gesture was evidently a welcome. He was standing at the upright desk he used for writing and for a moment all I could hear was the quill spluttering scratchily on the skin. Æthelred smirked, looking pleased with himself, but then he always did.

      ‘De consolatione philosophiae,’ Alfred said without looking up from his work.

      ‘Feels as if rain is coming, though,’ I said, ‘there’s a haze in the west, lord, and the wind is brisk.’

      He gave me an exasperated look. ‘What is preferable,’ he asked, ‘and sweeter in this life than to serve and to be near to the king?’

      ‘Nothing!’ Æthelred said enthusiastically.

      I made no answer because I was so astonished. Alfred liked the formalities of good manners, but he rarely wanted obsequiousness, yet the question suggested that he wished me to express some doltish adoration of him. Alfred saw my surprise and sighed. ‘It is a question,’ he explained, ‘posed in the work I am copying.’

      ‘I look forward to reading it,’ Æthelred said. Asser said nothing, just watched me with his dark Welsh eyes. He was a clever man, and about as trustworthy as a spavined weasel.

      Alfred laid down the quill. ‘The king, in this context, Lord Uhtred, might be thought of as the representative of Almighty God, and the question suggests, does it not, the comfort to be gained from a nearness to God? Yet I fear you find no consolation in either philosophy or religion.’ He shook his head, then tried to wipe the ink from his hands with a damp cloth.

      ‘He had better find consolation from God, lord King,’ Asser spoke for the first time, ‘if his soul is not to burn in the eternal fire.’

      ‘Amen,’ Æthelred said.

      Alfred looked ruefully at his hands that were now smeared with ink. ‘Lundene,’ he said, curtly changing the subject.

      ‘Garrisoned by brigands,’ I said, ‘who are killing trade.’

      ‘That much I know,’ he said icily. ‘The man Sigefrid.’

      ‘One-thumbed Sigefrid,’ I said, ‘thanks to Father Pyrlig.’

      ‘That I also know,’ the king said, ‘but I would dearly like to know what you were doing in Sigefrid’s company?’

      ‘Spying on them, lord,’ I said brightly, ‘just as you spied on Guthrum so many years ago.’ I referred to a winter night when, like a fool, Alfred had disguised himself as a musician and gone to Cippanhamm when it was occupied by Guthrum in the days when he was an enemy of Wessex. Alfred’s bravery had gone badly wrong, and if I had not been there then I dare say Guthrum would have become King of Wessex. I smiled at Alfred, and he knew I was reminding him that I had saved his life, but instead of showing gratitude he just looked disgusted.

      ‘It is not what we heard,’ Brother Asser went onto the attack.

      ‘And what did you hear, brother?’ I asked him.

      He held up one long slender finger. ‘That you arrived in Lundene with the pirate Haesten,’ a second finger joined the first, ‘that you were welcomed by Sigefrid and his brother, Erik,’ he paused, his dark eyes malevolent, and raised a third finger, ‘and that the pagans addressed you as King of Mercia.’ He folded the three fingers slowly, as though his accusations were irrefutable.

      I shook my head in feigned wonderment. ‘I have known Haesten since I saved his life many years ago,’ I said, ‘and I used the acquaintance to be invited into Lundene. And whose fault is it if Sigefrid gives me a title I neither want nor possess?’ Asser did not answer, Æthelred stirred behind me while Alfred just stared at me. ‘If you don’t believe me,’ I said, ‘ask Father Pyrlig.’

      ‘He has been sent back to East Anglia,’ Asser said brusquely, ‘to continue his mission. But we will ask him. You may be sure of that.’

      ‘I already have asked,’ Alfred said, making a calming gesture towards Asser, ‘and Father Pyrlig vouched for you,’ he added those last words cautiously.

      ‘And why,’ I asked, ‘has Guthrum not taken revenge for the insults to his envoys?’

      ‘King Æthelstan,’ Alfred said, using Guthrum’s Christian name, ‘has abandoned any claims to Lundene. It belongs to Mercia. His troops will not trespass there. But I have promised to send him Sigefrid and Erik as captives. That is your job.’ I nodded, but said nothing. ‘So tell me how you plan to capture Lundene?’ Alfred demanded.

      I paused. ‘You attempted to ransom the city, lord?’ I asked.

      Alfred looked irritated at the question, then nodded abruptly. ‘I offered silver,’ he said stiffly.

      ‘Offer more,’ I suggested.

      He gave me a very sour look. ‘More?’

      ‘The city will be difficult to take, lord,’ I said. ‘Sigefrid and Erik have hundreds of men. Haesten will join them as soon as he hears that we have marched. We would have to assault stone walls, lord, and men die like flies in such attacks.’

      Æthelred again stirred behind me. I knew he wanted to dismiss my fears as cowardice, but he had just enough sense to keep silent.

      Alfred shook his head. ‘I offered them silver,’ he said bitterly, ‘more silver than a man can dream of. I offered them gold. They said they would take half of what I offered if I added one more thing.’ He looked at me belligerently. I gave a small shrug as if to suggest that he had rejected a bargain. ‘They wanted Æthelflaed,’ he said.

      ‘They can have my sword instead,’ Æthelred said belligerently.

      ‘They wanted your daughter?’ I asked, amazed.

      ‘They asked,’ Alfred said, ‘because they knew I would not grant their request, and because they wished to insult me.’ He shrugged, as if to suggest that the insult was as feeble as it was puerile. ‘So if the Thurgilson brothers are to be thrown out of Lundene, then you must do it. Tell me how.’

      I pretended to gather my thoughts. ‘Sigefrid does not have sufficient men to guard the whole circuit of the city walls,’ I said, ‘so we send a large attack against the western gate, and then launch the real assault from the north.’

      Alfred frowned and sifted through the parchments piled on the windowsill. He found the page he wanted and peered at the writing. ‘The old city, as I understand it,’ he said, ‘has six gates. To which do you refer?’

      ‘In the west,’ I said, ‘the gate nearest the river. The local folk call it Ludd’s Gate.’

      ‘And on the northern side?’

      ‘There are two gates,’ I said, ‘one leads directly into the old Roman fort, the other goes to the market place.’

      ‘The forum,’ Alfred corrected me.

      ‘We take the one that leads to the market,’ I said.

      ‘Not the fort?’

      ‘The fort is part of the walls,’ I explained, ‘so capture that gate and we still have to cross the fort’s southern wall. But capture the market place and our men have cut off Sigefrid’s retreat.’

      I was talking nonsense for a reason, though it was plausible nonsense. Launching an attack from the new Saxon town across the River Fleot onto the old city’s walls would draw defenders to Ludd’s Gate, and if a smaller, better-trained force could then attack from the north they might find those walls lightly guarded. Once inside the city that second force could assault Sigefrid’s men from the rear and open Ludd’s Gate to let in the rest of the army.

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