LITMIR.BIZ

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reluctantly return to whatever text he was forcing me to decipher. ‘Read it aloud,’ he would say, then protest wildly. ‘No, no, no! Forliðan is to suffer shipwreck! This is a life of Saint Paul, Uhtred, and the apostle suffered shipwreck! Not the word you read at all!’

      I looked at it again. ‘It’s not forlegnis?’

      ‘Of course it’s not!’ he said, going red with indignation. ‘That word means …’ he paused, realising that he was not teaching me English, but how to read it.

      ‘Prostitute,’ I said, ‘I know what it means. I even know what they charge. There’s a redhead in Chad’s tavern who …’

      ‘Forliðan,’ he interrupted me, ‘the word is forliðan. Read on.’

      Those weeks were strange. I was a warrior now, a man, yet in Beocca’s room it seemed I was a child again as I struggled with the black letters crawling across the cracked parchments. I learned from the lives of the saints, and in the end Beocca could not resist letting me read some of his own growing life of Swithun. He waited for my praise, but instead I shuddered. ‘Couldn’t we find something more interesting?’ I asked him.

      ‘More interesting?’ Beocca’s good eye stared at me reproachfully.

      ‘Something about war,’ I suggested, ‘about the Danes. About shields and spears and swords.’

      He grimaced. ‘I dread to think of such writings! There are some poems,’ he grimaced again and evidently decided against telling me about the belligerent poems, ‘but this,’ he tapped the parchment, ‘this will give you inspiration.’

      ‘Inspiration! How Swithun mended some broken eggs?’

      ‘It was a saintly act,’ Beocca chided me. ‘The woman was old and poor, the eggs were all she had to sell, and she tripped and broke them. She faced starvation! The saint made the eggs whole again and, God be praised, she sold them.’

      ‘But why didn’t Swithun just give her money?’ I demanded, ‘or take her back to his house and give her a proper meal?’

      ‘It is a miracle!’ Beocca insisted, ‘a demonstration of God’s power.’

      ‘I’d like to see a miracle,’ I said, remembering King Edmund’s death.

      ‘That is a weakness in you,’ Beocca said sternly. ‘You must have faith. Miracles make belief easy, which is why you should never pray for one. Much better to find God through faith than through miracles.’

      ‘Then why have miracles?’

      ‘Oh, read on, Uhtred,’ the poor man said tiredly, ‘for God’s sake, read on.’

      I read on. But life in Cippanhamm was not all reading. Alfred hunted at least twice a week, though it was not hunting as I had known it in the north. He never pursued boar, preferring to shoot at stags with a bow. The prey was driven to him by beaters, and if a stag did not appear swiftly he would get bored and go back to his books. In truth I think he only went hunting because it was expected of a king, not because he enjoyed it, but he did endure it. I loved it, of course. I killed wolves, stags, foxes and boars and it was on one of those boar hunts that I met Æthelwold.

      Æthelwold was Alfred’s oldest nephew, the boy who should have succeeded his father, King Æthelred, though he was no longer a boy for he was only a month or so younger than me, and in many ways he was like me, except that he had been sheltered by his father and by Alfred and so had never killed a man or even fought in a battle. He was tall, well-built, strong and as wild as an unbroken colt. He had long dark hair, his family’s narrow face, and strong eyes that caught the attention of serving girls. All girls, really. He hunted with me and with Leofric, drank with us, whored with us when he could escape the priests who were his guardians, and constantly complained about his uncle, though those complaints were only spoken to me, never to Leofric whom Æthelwold feared. ‘He stole the crown,’ Æthelwold said of Alfred.

      ‘The witan thought you were too young,’ I pointed out.

      ‘I’m not young now, am I?’ he asked indignantly, ‘so Alfred should step aside.’

      I toasted that idea with a pot of ale, but said nothing.

      ‘They won’t even let me fight!’ Æthelwold said bitterly. ‘He says I ought to become a priest. The stupid bastard.’ He drank some ale before giving me a serious look. ‘Talk to him, Uhtred.’

      ‘What am I to say? That you don’t want to be a priest?’

      ‘He knows that. No, tell him I’ll fight with you and Leofric.’

      I thought about that for a short while, then shook my head. ‘It won’t do any good.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because,’ I said, ‘he fears you making a name for yourself.’

      Æthelwold frowned at me. ‘A name?’ he asked, puzzled.

      ‘If you become a famous warrior,’ I said, knowing I was right, ‘men will follow you. You’re already a prince, which is dangerous enough, but Alfred won’t want you to become a famous warrior prince, will he?’

      ‘The pious bastard,’ Æthelwold said. He pushed his long black hair off his face and gazed moodily at Eanflæd, the redhead who was given a room in the tavern and brought it a deal of business. ‘God, she’s pretty,’ he said. ‘He was caught humping a nun once.’

      ‘Alfred was? A nun?’

      ‘That’s what I was told. And he was always after girls. Couldn’t keep his breeches buttoned! Now the priests have got hold of him. What I ought to do,’ he went on gloomily, ‘is slit the bastard’s gizzard.’

      ‘Say that to anyone but me,’ I said, ‘and you’ll be hanged.’

      ‘I could run off and join the Danes,’ he suggested.

      ‘You could,’ I said, ‘and they’d welcome you.’

      ‘Then use me?’ he asked, showing that he was not entirely a fool.

      I nodded. ‘You’ll be like Egbert or Burghred, or that new man in Mercia.’

      ‘Ceolwulf.’

      ‘King at their pleasure,’ I said. Ceolwulf, a Mercian Ealdorman, had been named king of his country now that Burghred was on his knees in Rome, but Ceolwulf was no more a real king than Burghred had been. He issued coins, of course, and he administered justice, but everyone knew there were Danes in his council chamber and he dared do nothing that would earn their wrath. ‘So is that what you want?’ I asked. ‘To run off to the Danes and be useful to them?’

      He shook his head. ‘No.’ He traced a pattern on the table with spilt ale. ‘Better to do nothing,’ he suggested.

      ‘Nothing?’

      ‘If I do nothing,’ he said earnestly, ‘then the bastard might die. He’s always ill! He can’t live long, can he? And his son is just a baby. So if he dies I’ll be king! Oh, sweet Jesus!’ This blasphemy was uttered because two priests had entered the tavern, both of them in Æthelwold’s entourage, though they were more like jailers than courtiers and they had come to find him and take him off to his bed.

      Beocca did not approve of my friendship with Æthelwold. ‘He’s a foolish creature,’ he warned me.

      ‘So am I, or so you tell me.’

      ‘Then you don’t need your foolishness encouraged, do you? Now let us read about how the holy Swithun built the town’s East Gate.’

      By the Feast of the Epiphany I could read as well as a clever twelve-year-old, or so Beocca said, and that was good enough for Alfred who did not, after all, require me to read theological texts, but only to decipher his orders, should he ever decide to give me any, and that, of course, was the heart of the matter. Leofric and I wanted to command troops, to which end I had endured Beocca’s teaching and had

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