Sword of Kings. Bernard Cornwell

she knows I’m the enemy of her enemy.’

      ‘Æthelhelm.’

      ‘Who hates her,’ I said.

      That hatred was easy to understand. Edward had met Eadgifu while he was still married to Æfflaed, Æthelhelm’s sister and Ælfweard’s mother. The new, younger and prettier woman had won that rivalry, usurping Æfflaed’s place in the king’s bed and even persuading Edward to name her as Queen of Mercia. To make Æthelhelm’s hatred even more intense she had given Edward two more sons, Edmund and Eadred. Both boys were infants, yet the eldest, Edmund, had a claim on the throne if, so some believed, Æthelstan was illegitimate, and, as many realised, Ælfweard was simply too stupid, cruel and unreliable to be the next king. Æthelhelm understood that danger to his nephew’s future, which was why Eadgifu, in her desperation, had sent the priest to Bebbanburg.

      ‘She knows what Æthelhelm is planning for her,’ I told Finan.

      ‘She knows?’

      ‘She has spies, just as he does, and she was told that as soon as Edward dies Æthelhelm plans to carry her off to Wiltunscir. She’s to be placed in a nunnery and her two boys are to be raised in Æthelhelm’s household.’

      Finan gazed across the summer sea. ‘Meaning,’ he said slowly, ‘that both boys will have their throats slit.’

      ‘Or else die of a convenient illness, yes.’

      ‘So what are we going to do? Rescue her?’

      ‘Rescue her,’ I agreed.

      ‘But, Christ! She’s protected by the king’s household troops! And Æthelhelm will be watching her like a hawk.’

      ‘She’s already rescued herself,’ I said. ‘She and her children went to Cent. She told her husband she was going to pray for him at the shrine of Saint Bertha, but in truth she wants to raise troops who’ll protect her and the boys.’

      ‘Dear God,’ Finan looked appalled. ‘And men will follow her?’

      ‘Why not? Remember that her father was Sigehelm.’ Sigehelm had been the ealdorman of Cent until he was killed fighting the Danes in East Anglia. He had been wealthy, though nothing like as rich as Æthelhelm, and Sigehelm’s son, Sigulf, had inherited that wealth along with his father’s household warriors. ‘Sigulf probably has three hundred men,’ I said.

      ‘And Æthelhelm has double that, at least! And he’ll have the king’s warriors too!’

      ‘And those warriors will be watching Æthelstan in Mercia,’ I said. ‘Besides, if Eadgifu and her brother march against Æthelhelm then others will follow them.’ That, I thought, was a slender hope, but not an impossible one.

      Finan frowned at me. ‘I thought your oath was to Æthelstan. Now it’s to Lavender Tits?’

      ‘My oath is to Æthelstan,’ I said.

      ‘But Eadgifu will expect you to make her son the next king!’

      ‘Edmund is too young,’ I said firmly. ‘He’s an infant. The Witan will never appoint him king, not till he’s of age.’

      ‘By which time,’ Finan pointed out, ‘Æthelstan will be on the throne with sons of his own!’

      ‘I’ll be dead by then,’ I said, and touched the hammer again.

      Finan gave a mirthless laugh. ‘So we’re sailing to join a Centish rebellion?’

      ‘To lead it. It’s my best chance to kill Æthelhelm.’

      ‘Why not join Æthelstan in Mercia?’

      ‘Because if the West Saxons hear that Æthelstan is using Northumbrian troops they’ll regard that as a declaration of war by Sigtryggr.’

      ‘That won’t matter if Æthelstan wins!’

      ‘But he has fewer men than Æthelhelm, he has less money than Æthelhelm. The best way to help him win is to kill Æthelhelm.’ Far to the east a speck of sail showed. I had been watching it for some time, but saw now that the distant ship was travelling northwards and would come nowhere near us.

      ‘Damn your oaths,’ Finan said mildly.

      ‘I agree. But remember, Æthelhelm has tried to kill me. So oath or no oath I owe him a death.’

      Finan nodded because that explanation made sense to him even if he did believe we were on a voyage to madness. ‘And his nephew? What of him?’

      ‘We’ll kill Ælfweard too.’

      ‘You swore an oath to kill him too?’ Finan asked.

      ‘No,’ I admitted, but then touched my hammer once more. ‘But I swear one now. I’ll kill that little earsling along with his uncle.’

      Finan grinned. ‘One ship’s crew, eh? Forty of us! Forty men to kill the King of Wessex and his most powerful ealdorman?’

      ‘Forty men,’ I said, ‘and the troops of Cent.’

      Finan laughed. ‘I sometimes think you’re moon-crazed, lord,’ he said, ‘but, God knows, you’ve not lost yet.’

      We spent the next two nights sheltering in East Anglian rivers. We saw no one, just a landscape of reeds. On the second night the wind freshened in the darkness and the sky, that had been clear all day, clouded over to hide the stars, while far off to the west I saw lightning flicker and heard Thor’s growl in the night. Spearhafoc, even though she was tied securely in a safe haven, shivered under the wind’s assault. Rain spattered on the deck, the wind gusted, and the rain fell harder. Few of us slept.

      The dawn brought low clouds, drenching rain, and a hard wind, but I judged it safe enough to turn the ship and let the wind carry us downriver. We half-hoisted the sail, and Spearhafoc leaped ahead like a wolfhound loosed from the leash. The rain drove from astern, heavy and slanting in the wind’s grip. The steering-oar bent and groaned and I called on Gerbruht, the big Frisian, to help me. Spearhafoc was defying the flooding tide, racing past mudbanks and reeds, then at last we were clear of the shoals at the river’s mouth and could turn southwards. The ship bent alarmingly to the wind and I released the larboard sheet and still she drove on, shattering water at the bows. This, I thought, was madness. Impatience had driven me to sea when any sensible seaman would have stayed in shelter. ‘Where are we going, lord?’ Gerbruht shouted.

      ‘Across the estuary of the Temes!’

      The wind rose. Thunder hammered to the west. This coast was shallow, shortening the waves that shattered against our hull and drenched the rain-sodden crew with spray. Men clung to the benches as they bailed water. They were praying. I was praying. They were praying to survive, while I was asking the gods to forgive my stupidity in thinking a ship could survive this wind’s anger. It was dark, the sun utterly hidden by the roiling clouds, and we saw no other ships. Sailors were letting the storm blow over, but we hammered on southwards across the wide mouth of the Temes.

      The estuary’s southern shore appeared as a sullen stretch of sand pounded by foam beyond which were dark woods on low hills. The thunder came closer. The sky above distant Lundene was black as night, sometimes split by a jagged stab of lightning. The rain teemed down, and I searched the shore for a landmark, any landmark that I might recognise. The steering-oar, taking all my and Gerbruht’s strength, quivered like a live thing.

      ‘There!’ I shouted at Gerbruht, pointing. I had seen the island ahead, an island of reeds and mud, and to its left was the wide, wind-whipped entrance to the Swalwan Creek. Spearhafoc pounded on, clawing her way towards the creek’s safety. ‘I had a ship called Middelniht once!’ I bellowed to Gerbruht.

      ‘Lord?’ he asked, puzzled.

      ‘She’d been stranded on that island,’ I shouted, ‘on Sceapig! And the Middelniht proved to be a good ship! A Frisian ship! It’s a good omen!’

      He