Bernard Cornwell - Death of Kings

‘I am,’ I said.

‘And I am Father Cuthbert,’ he introduced himself, ‘and so very pleased to meet you. Do I bow?’

‘Grovel, if you like.’

To my surprise he went down on his knees. He bowed his head almost to the frost-whitened grass, then unfolded and stood. ‘There,’ he said, ‘I grovelled. Greetings, lord, from your new chaplain.’

‘My what?’

‘Your chaplain, your own priest,’ he said brightly. ‘It’s my punishment.’

‘I don’t need a chaplain.’

‘I’m sure you don’t, lord. I’m unnecessary, I know. I am not needed, I am a mere blight on the eternal church. Cuthbert the Unnecessary.’ He smiled suddenly as an idea struck him. ‘If I’m ever made into a saint,’ he said, ‘I shall be Saint Cuthbert the Unnecessary! It would distinguish me from the other Saint Cuthbert, would it not? It would, indeed it would!’ He capered a few steps of gangling dance. ‘Saint Cuthbert the Unnecessary!’ he chanted. ‘Patron saint of all useless things. Nevertheless, lord,’ he composed his face into a serious expression, ‘I am your chaplain, a burden upon your purse, and I require food, silver, ale and especially cheese. I’m very fond of cheese. You say you don’t need me, lord, but I am here nonetheless, and at your humble service.’ He bowed again. ‘You wish to say confession? You want me to welcome you back into the bosom of Mother Church?’

‘Who says you’re my chaplain?’ I asked.

‘King Edward. I’m his gift to you.’ He smiled beatifically, then made a sign of the cross towards me. ‘Blessings on you, lord.’

‘Why did Edward send you?’ I asked.

‘I suspect, lord, because he has a sense of humour. Or,’ he frowned, thinking, ‘perhaps because he dislikes me. Except I don’t think he does, in fact he doesn’t dislike me at all, he’s very fond of me, though he believes I need to learn discretion.’

‘You’re indiscreet?’

‘Oh, lord, I am so many things! A scholar, a priest, an eater of cheese, and now I am chaplain to Lord Uhtred, the pagan who slaughters priests. That’s what they tell me. I’d be eternally grateful if you refrained from slaughtering me. May I have a servant, please?’

‘A servant?’

‘To wash things? To do things? To look after me? A maid would be a blessing. Something young with nice breasts?’

I was grinning by then. It was impossible not to like Saint Cuthbert the Unnecessary. ‘Nice breasts?’ I asked sternly.

‘If it pleases you, lord. I was warned you were more likely to slaughter me, to make me into a martyr, but I would much prefer breasts.’

‘Are you really a priest?’ I asked him.

‘Oh indeed, lord, I am. You can ask Bishop Swithwulf! He made me a priest! He laid his hands on me and said all the proper prayers.’

‘Swithwulf of Hrofeceastre?’ I asked.

‘The very same. He’s my father and he hates me!’

‘Your father?’

‘My spiritual father, yes, not my real father. My real father was a stonemason, bless his little hammer, but Bishop Swithwulf educated me and raised me, God bless him, and now he detests me.’

‘Why?’ I asked, already suspecting the answer.

‘I’m not allowed to say, lord.’

‘Say it anyway, you’re indiscreet.’

‘I married King Edward to Bishop Swithwulf’s daughter, lord.’

So the twins who were now in Æthelflaed’s care were legitimate, a fact that would upset Ealdorman Æthelhelm. Edward was pretending otherwise in case the Witan of Wessex decided to offer the throne elsewhere, and the evidence of his first marriage had been sent to my care.

‘God, you’re a fool,’ I said.

‘So the bishop tells me. Saint Cuthbert the Foolish? But I was a friend of Edward, and he begged me, and she was a delightful little thing. So pretty,’ he sighed.

‘She had nice breasts?’ I asked sarcastically.

‘They were like two young fawns, lord,’ he said earnestly.

I’m sure I gaped at him. ‘Two young fawns?’

‘The holy scriptures describe perfect breasts as being like two young fawns, lord. I have to say I’ve researched the matter thoroughly,’ he paused to consider what he had just said, then nodded approval, ‘very thoroughly! Yet still the similarity escapes me, and who am I to question the holy scriptures?’

‘And now,’ I said, ‘everyone is saying the marriage never happened.’

‘Which is why I can’t tell you that it did,’ Cuthbert said.

‘But it did,’ I said, and he nodded. ‘So the twin babies are legitimate,’ I went on, and he nodded again. ‘Didn’t you know Alfred would disapprove?’ I asked.

‘Edward wanted the marriage,’ he said simply and seriously.

‘And you’re sworn to silence?’

‘They threatened to send me to Frankia,’ he said, ‘to a monastery, but King Edward preferred I came to you.’

‘In hope that I’d kill you?’

‘In hope, lord, that you would protect me.’

‘Then for God’s sake don’t go around telling people that Edward was married.’

‘I shall keep silence,’ he promised, ‘I shall be Saint Cuthbert the Silent.’

The twins were with Æthelflaed, who was building her convent in Cirrenceastre, a town not far from my new estate. Cirrenceastre had been a great place when the Romans ruled in Britain and Æthelflaed lived in one of their houses, a fine building with large rooms enclosing a pillared courtyard. The house had once belonged to the older Æthelred, Ealdorman of Mercia and husband to my father’s sister, and I had known it as a child when I fled south from my other uncle’s usurpation of Bebbanburg. The older Æthelred had expanded it so that Saxon thatch was joined to Roman tile, but it was a comfortable house and well protected by Cirrenceastre’s walls. Æthelflaed had men pulling down some ruined Roman houses and was using the stone to make her convent. ‘Why bother?’ I asked her.

‘Because it was my father’s wish,’ she said, ‘and because I promised to do it. It will be dedicated to Saint Werburgh.’

‘She’s the woman who frightened the geese?’

‘Yes.’

Æthelflaed’s household was loud with children. There was her own daughter, Ælfwynn, and my two youngest, Stiorra and Osbert. My oldest, Uhtred, was still at school in Wintanceaster from where he wrote me dutiful letters that I did not bother to read because I knew they were filled with tedious pieties. The youngest children at Cirrenceastre were Edward’s twins who were just babies. I remember looking at Æthelstan in his swaddling clothes and thinking that so many problems could be solved with one plunge of Serpent-Breath. I was right in that, but wrong too, and little Æthelstan would grow into a young man I loved. ‘You know he’s legitimate?’ I asked Æthelflaed.

‘Not according to Edward,’ she said tartly.

‘I have the priest who married them in my household,’ I told her.

‘Then tell him to keep his mouth shut,’ she said, ‘or he’ll be buried with it open.’

We were in Cirrenceastre, which lay not that far from Gleawecestre where Æthelred had his hall. He hated Æthelflaed, and I worried he would send men to capture her, then either simply kill her or immure her in a nunnery. She no longer had the protection of her father, and I doubted Edward frightened Æthelred nearly as much as Alfred had, but Æthelflaed dismissed my fears. ‘He might not be worried by Edward,’ she said, ‘but he’s terrified of you.’

‘Will he make himself King of Mercia?’ I asked.

She watched a mason chip at a Roman statue of an eagle. The poor man was attempting to make it look like a goose, and so far had only managed to make it resemble an indignant chicken. ‘He won’t,’ Æthelflaed said.

‘Why not?’