Bernard Cornwell - The Empty Throne

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The eighth novel in Bernard Cornwell’s epic and bestselling series on the making of England and the fate of his great hero, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.BBC2’s major Autumn 2015 TV show THE LAST KINGDOM is based on the first two books in the series.In the battle for power, there can be only one ruler.The ruler of Mercia is dying, leaving no apparent heir. His wife is a born leader, but no woman has ever ruled over an English kingdom. And she is without her greatest warrior and champion, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.An empty throne leaves the kingdom exposed to rival West Saxons and to the Vikings, who are on a bloody rampage once more.A hero is needed, a hero who has been in battle all his life, who can destroy the double threat to Mercia. A hero who will ultimately decide the fate of a nation…

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‘I hope not, but tell people I am.’

It took time, but at last my son brought the wagon harnessed with two horses and I was lifted onto the damp bed of straw. I had brought most of my men to Gleawecestre, and they rode in front, behind and alongside the cart as we threaded the streets. Folk pulled off their hats as we passed. Somehow the news of my imminent death had spread through the city and people spilled out of shops and houses to watch my passing. Priests made the sign of the cross as the wagon rolled by.

I feared I was already too late. My son, going to join Penda for a piss against the church wall, had heard the priest’s real news. Æthelhelm had sent men to Cirrenceastre.

And I should have known.

That was why I had been invited to the Witan, not because Æthelred and Æthelhelm wanted to persuade Mercia that someone had spoken in support of Æthelflaed, but to get me out of Cirrenceastre, or rather to get my household warriors out of the town, because there was something Æthelhelm desperately wanted in Cirrenceastre.

He wanted Æthelstan.

Æthelstan was a boy, just ten years old as far as I could remember, and his mother had been a pretty Centish girl who had died giving birth to him. But his father was alive, very much alive, and his father Edward, son of King Alfred, was now the King of Wessex himself. Edward had since married Æthelhelm’s daughter and fathered another son, which made Æthelstan an inconvenience. Was he the eldest son? Or was he, as Æthelhelm insisted, a bastard? If he was a bastard then he had no rights, but there was a persistent rumour that Edward had married the Centish girl. And I knew that rumour was true because Father Cuthbert had performed the marriage ceremony. The people of Wessex pretended to believe that Æthelstan was a bastard, but Æthelhelm feared those persistent rumours. He feared that Æthelstan could be a rival to his own grandson for the throne of Wessex, and so Æthelhelm had plainly decided to do something about that. According to Penda he had sent twenty or more men to Cirrenceastre where Æthelstan was living in Æthelflaed’s house, but my absence meant that the boy was protected by only six household warriors. Would Æthelhelm dare kill him? I doubted that, but he would certainly dare capture him and have him removed far away so that he could not threaten the ealdorman’s ambitions. And if Penda was right then the men sent to take Æthelstan had a day’s start on us. But Æthelhelm had plainly been frightened I was going to Cirrenceastre, or perhaps Fagranforda, which suggested his men might still be there, and that was why I had muttered the nonsense about dying on the hills. When I die I want it to be in a girl’s warm bed, not on some rainswept Mercian hilltop.

I dared not hurry. People watched us from the walls of Gleawecestre, so we travelled painfully slowly, as if the men did not want to jolt a wagon in which a man lay dying. We could not abandon that pretence until we reached the beech woods on the steep slope that climbed to the hills where sheep would keep the pale grass short all summer, and once among those trees and thus safely hidden from curious eyes, I climbed off the cart and onto my horse’s back. I left Godric Grindanson, my son’s servant boy, to bring the cart, while the rest of us spurred ahead. ‘Osferth!’ I called.

‘Lord?’

‘Don’t stop in Cirrenceastre,’ I told him. ‘Ride on with two men and make sure Father Cuthbert’s safe. Get the blind bastard out of bed and bring them both to Cirrenceastre.’

‘Them? Out of bed?’ Osferth could be slow to understand sometimes.

‘Where else will they be?’ I asked, and Finan laughed.

Father Cuthbert was my priest. I did not want a priest, but he had been sent to me by King Edward and I liked Cuthbert. He had been blinded by Cnut. He was, I was constantly assured, a good priest, meaning he did his work well enough. ‘What work?’ I had asked Osferth once and had been assured that Cuthbert visited the sick and said his prayers and preached his sermons, but every time I visited his small house beside Fagranforda’s church I had to wait while he dressed. He would then appear smiling, dishevelled and flustered, followed a moment later by Mehrasa, the dark-skinned slave girl he had married. She was a beauty.

And Cuthbert was in danger. I was not certain that Æthelhelm knew that it had been Father Cuthbert who had married Edward to his Centish love. If he did know, then Cuthbert would have to be silenced, though it was possible Edward had never revealed the priest’s identity. Edward was fond of his son, and he was fond of Cuthbert too, but how far did that affection reach? Edward was not a weak king, but he was a lazy one, happy to leave most of the kingdom’s affairs to Æthelhelm and to a pack of diligent priests who, in truth, ruled Wessex fairly and firmly. That left Edward free to hunt and to whore.

And while the king hunted deer, boars, and women, Æthelhelm gathered power. He used it well enough. There was justice in Wessex, and the burhs were kept in repair, and the fyrd practised with weapons, and the Danes had finally learned that invading Wessex led only to defeat, and Æthelhelm himself was a decent enough man except that he saw a chance to be the grandfather of a king, and a great king at that. He would guide his grandson as he guided Edward, and I did not doubt that Æthelhelm’s ambition was the same dream that had haunted Alfred. That dream was to unite the Saxons, to take the four kingdoms and make them one. And that was a good dream, but Æthelhelm wanted to be sure it was his family that made the dream come true.

And I would stop him.

If I could.

I would stop him because I knew Æthelstan was legitimate. He was the ætheling, the king’s eldest son and, besides, I loved that boy. Æthelhelm would stop at nothing to destroy him and I would do anything to protect him.

We did not have far to go. Once on the hilltops we could see the smear of smoke that marked Cirrenceastre’s hearth fires. We were hurrying and my ribs hurt. The land either side of the Roman road belonged to Æthelflaed, and it was good land. The first lambs were in the fields, guarded by men and dogs. The wealth of the land had been granted to Æthelflaed by her father, but her brother could take it away, and Æthelhelm’s unexpected presence in Gleawecestre suggested that Edward was siding with Æthelred, or rather that Æthelhelm was making the decisions that would dictate Mercia’s fate.

‘What will he do to the boy?’ Finan asked, evidently thinking much the same thoughts as those in my head. ‘Cut his throat?’

‘No. He knows Edward likes the twins.’ Æthelstan had a twin sister, Eadgyth.

‘He’ll put Æthelstan into a monastery,’ my son suggested, ‘and little Eadgyth into a convent.’

‘Like enough.’

‘Somewhere far away,’ my son went on, ‘with some bastard abbot who beats the shit out of you every two days.’

‘They’ll try to make him into a priest,’ Finan said.

‘Or hope he falls ill and dies,’ I said, then winced as my horse came down heavily on a rough patch of stone. The roads decayed. Everything decayed.

‘You shouldn’t be riding, father,’ my son said reprovingly.

‘I’m in pain all the time,’ I said, ‘and if I gave into it then I’d do nothing.’

But that journey was painful and by the time I came to Cirrenceastre’s western gate I was almost weeping with agony. I tried to hide the pain. I sometimes wonder whether the dead can see the living? Do they sit in Valhalla’s great feast-hall and watch those they left behind? I could imagine Cnut sitting there and thinking that I must join him soon, and we would raise a horn of ale together. There is no pain in Valhalla, no sadness, no tears, no broken oaths. I could see Cnut grinning at me, not with any pleasure at my pain, but rather because we had liked each other in life. ‘Come to me,’ he was saying, ‘come to me and live!’ It was tempting.

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