Gruffudd liked the gesture and grinned. He also saw his son who was still guarded by Folcbald and Oswi. He said something in Welsh that none of us understood.
‘Gruffudd of Gwent begs you to release his son, lord Prince,’ Father Bledod translated.
‘He agreed to give us a name first,’ Æthelstan said, ‘and his chain, and a pledge that he will keep the peace for a year.’
Gruffudd must have understood Æthelstan’s words because he immediately took the gold links from around his neck, handed them to Bledod, who, in turn, gave them to Æthelstan, who immediately handed the chain to Father Swithred. Then Gruffudd began telling a tale that Father Bledod did his best to interpret even as it was being told. It was a long tale, but the gist of it was that a priest had come from Mercia to talk with King Arthfael of Gwent, and an agreement had been made, gold had been given, and Arthfael had summoned his kinsman, Gruffudd, and ordered him to take his best warriors north to Ceaster.
‘The king,’ Æthelstan interrupted at one point, ‘says the priest came from Mercia?’
That provoked a hurried discussion in Welsh. ‘The priest offered us gold,’ Father Bledod told Æthelstan, ‘good gold! Enough gold to fill a helmet, lord Prince, and to earn it we simply had to come here to fight.’
‘I asked if the priest was from Mercia,’ Æthelstan insisted.
‘He was from the sais,’ Bledod said.
‘So he could have been a West Saxon?’ I asked.
‘He could, lord,’ Bledod said unhelpfully.
‘And the name of the priest?’ Æthelstan demanded.
‘Stigand, lord.’
Æthelstan turned and looked at me, but I shook my head. I had never heard of a priest named Stigand. ‘But I doubt the priest used his own name,’ I said.
‘So, we’ll never know,’ Æthelstan said bleakly.
Gruffudd was still speaking, indignant now. Father Bledod listened, then looked embarrassed. ‘Father Stigand is dead, lord Prince.’
‘Dead!’ Æthelstan exclaimed.
‘On his way home from Gwent, lord Prince, he was waylaid. King Gruffudd says he is not to blame. Why would he kill a man who might bring him more sais gold?’
‘Why indeed?’ Æthelstan asked. Had he expected to hear his enemy’s name? That was naive. He knew as well as I did that Æthelhelm the Younger was the likely culprit, but Æthelhelm was no fool, and would have taken care to conceal the treachery of hiring men to fight against his own king. So the man who had negotiated with Arthfael of Gwent was dead, and the dead take their secrets to the grave.
‘Lord Prince,’ Bledod asked nervously, ‘the king’s son?’
‘Tell King Gruffudd of Gwent,’ Æthelstan said, ‘that he may have his son.’
‘Thank you—’ Bledod began.
‘And tell him,’ Æthelstan interrupted, ‘that if he fights again for men who rebel against my father’s throne then I will lead an army into Gwent and I will lay Gwent waste and turn it into a land of death.’
‘I will tell him, lord Prince,’ Bledod said, though none of us who were listening believed for one heartbeat that the threat would be translated.
‘Then go,’ Æthelstan commanded.
The Welshmen left. The sun was higher now, melting the snow, though it was still cold. A blustery wind came from the east to lift the banners hanging from Ceaster’s walls. I had crossed Britain to rescue a man who did not need rescuing. I had been tricked. But by whom? And why?
I had another enemy, a secret enemy, and I had danced to his drumbeat. Wyrd bið ful a¯ræd.
The next day dawned bright and cold, the pale sky only discoloured by smoke from the fires as Æthelstan’s men burned the remnants of Cynlæf’s encampment. Finan and I, mounted on horses captured from the rebels, rode slowly through the destruction. ‘When do we leave?’ Finan asked.
‘As soon as we can.’
‘The horses could do with a rest.’
‘Maybe tomorrow, then.’
‘That soon?’
‘I’m worried about Bebbanburg,’ I confessed. ‘Why else would someone drag me across Britain?’
‘Bebbanburg’s safe,’ Finan insisted. ‘I still think it was Æthelhelm who tricked you.’
‘Hoping I’d be killed here?’
‘What else? He can’t kill you while you’re inside Bebbanburg, so he has to get you outside the walls somehow.’
‘I spend enough time with Stiorra and her children,’ I pointed out. My daughter, Queen of Northumbria, lived in Eoferwic’s rambling palace, which was a mix of Roman grandeur and solid timber halls.
‘He can’t reach you in Eoferwic either. He wanted you out of Northumbria.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, unconvinced.
‘I’m always right. I’m from Ireland. I was right about the snow, wasn’t I? And I’m still waiting for the two shillings.’
‘You’re a Christian. Patience is one of your virtues.’
‘I must be a living saint then.’ He looked past me. ‘And talking of saints.’
I twisted in the saddle to see Father Swithred approaching. The priest was mounted on a fine grey stallion that he rode well, calming the beast when it shied sideways as a man threw an armful of dirty thatch onto a fire. Smoke billowed and sparks flew. Father Swithred rode through the smoke and curbed the stallion near us. ‘The prince,’ he said brusquely, ‘requests your company today.’
‘Requests or requires?’ I asked.
‘It’s the same thing,’ Swithred said, and turned his horse, beckoning us to follow him.
I stayed where I was and held out a hand to check Finan. ‘Tell me,’ I called after Swithred, ‘you’re a West Saxon?’
‘You know I am,’ he said, turning back suspiciously.
‘Do you give orders to West Saxon ealdormen?’
He looked angry, but had the sense to suppress the fury. ‘The prince requests your company,’ he paused, ‘lord.’
‘Back in the city?’
‘He’s waiting at the north gate,’ Swithred said curtly, ‘we’re riding to Brunanburh.’
I spurred my horse alongside the priest’s grey. ‘I remember the day I first met you, priest,’ I said, ‘and Prince Æthelstan told me he didn’t trust you.’
He looked shocked at that. ‘I cannot believe—’ he began to protest.
‘Why would I lie?’ I interrupted him.
‘I am devoted to the prince,’ he said forcefully.
‘You were his father’s choice, not his.’
‘And does that matter?’ he asked. I deliberately did not answer, but just waited until, reluctantly, he added, ‘lord.’
‘The