Death of Kings. Bernard Cornwell

happen, lord,’ he said, ‘they really do. They say little Rumwold sang God’s praises whenever he suckled.’

      ‘I feel much the same when I get hold of a tit,’ I said, ‘so does that make me a saint?’

      Willibald shuddered, then sensibly changed the subject. ‘I’ve brought you a message from the ætheling,’ he said, meaning King Alfred’s eldest son, Edward.

      ‘So tell me.’

      ‘He’s the King of Cent now,’ Willibald said happily.

      ‘He sent you all this way to tell me that?’

      ‘No, no. I thought perhaps you hadn’t heard.’

      ‘Of course I heard,’ I said. Alfred, King of Wessex, had made his eldest son King of Cent, which meant Edward could practise being a king without doing too much damage because Cent, after all, was a part of Wessex. ‘Has he ruined Cent yet?’

      ‘Of course not,’ Willibald said, ‘though…’ he stopped abruptly.

      ‘Though what?’

      ‘Oh it’s nothing,’ he said airily and pretended to take an interest in the sheep. ‘How many black sheep do you have?’ he asked.

      ‘I could hold you by the ankles and shake you till the news drops out,’ I suggested.

      ‘It’s just that Edward, well,’ he hesitated, then decided he had better tell me in case I did shake him by the ankles, ‘it’s just that he wanted to marry a girl in Cent and his father wouldn’t agree. But really that isn’t important!’

      I laughed. So young Edward was not quite the perfect heir after all. ‘Edward’s on the rampage, is he?’

      ‘No, no! Merely a youthful fancy and it’s all history now. His father’s forgiven him.’

      I asked nothing more, though I should have paid much more attention to that sliver of gossip. ‘So what is young Edward’s message?’ I asked. We were standing in the lower meadow of my estate in Buccingahamm, which lay in eastern Mercia. It was really Æthelflaed’s land, but she had granted me the food-rents, and the estate was large enough to support thirty household warriors, most of whom were in church that morning. ‘And why aren’t you at church?’ I asked Willibald before he could answer my first question, ‘it’s a feast day, isn’t it?’

      ‘Saint Alnoth’s Day,’ he said as though that was a special treat, ‘but I wanted to find you!’ He sounded excited. ‘I have King Edward’s news for you. Every day is ordinary…’

      ‘Until it isn’t,’ I said brusquely.

      ‘Yes, lord,’ he said lamely, then frowned in puzzlement, ‘but what are you doing?’

      ‘I’m looking at sheep,’ I said, and that was true. I was looking at two hundred or more sheep that looked back at me and bleated pathetically.

      Willibald turned to stare at the flock again. ‘Fine animals,’ he said as if he knew what he was talking about.

      ‘Just mutton and wool,’ I said, ‘and I’m choosing which ones live and which ones die.’ It was the killing time of the year, the grey days when our animals are slaughtered. We keep a few alive to breed in the spring, but most have to die because there is not enough fodder to keep whole flocks and herds alive through the winter. ‘Watch their backs,’ I told Willibald, ‘because the frost melts fastest off the fleece of the healthiest beasts. So those are the ones you keep alive.’ I lifted his woollen hat and ruffled his hair, which was going grey. ‘No frost on you,’ I said cheerfully, ‘otherwise I’d have to slit your throat.’ I pointed to a ewe with a broken horn, ‘Keep that one!’

      ‘Got her, lord,’ the shepherd answered. He was a gnarled little man with a beard that hid half his face. He growled at his two hounds to stay where they were, then ploughed into the flock and used his crook to haul out the ewe, then dragged her to the edge of the field and drove her to join the smaller flock at the meadow’s farther end. One of his hounds, a ragged and pelt-scarred beast, snapped at the ewe’s heels until the shepherd called the dog off. The shepherd did not need my help in selecting which animals should live and which must die. He had culled his flocks since he was a child, but a lord who orders his animals slaughtered owes them the small respect of taking some time with them.

      ‘The day of judgement,’ Willibald said, pulling his hat over his ears.

      ‘How many’s that?’ I asked the shepherd.

      ‘Jiggit and mumph, lord,’ he said.

      ‘Is that enough?’

      ‘It’s enough, lord.’

      ‘Kill the rest then,’ I said.

      ‘Jiggit and mumph?’ Willibald asked, still shivering.

      ‘Twenty and five,’ I said. ‘Yain, tain, tether, mether, mumph. It’s how shepherds count. I don’t know why. The world is full of mystery. I’m told some folk even believe that a three-day-old baby is a saint.’

      ‘God is not mocked, lord,’ Father Willibald said, attempting to be stern.

      ‘He is by me,’ I said, ‘so what does young Edward want?’

      ‘Oh, it’s most exciting,’ Willibald began enthusiastically, then checked because I had raised a hand.

      The shepherd’s two dogs were growling. Both had flattened themselves and were facing south towards a wood. Sleet had begun to fall. I stared at the trees, but could see nothing threatening among the black winter branches or among the holly bushes. ‘Wolves?’ I asked the shepherd.

      ‘Haven’t seen a wolf since the year the old bridge fell, lord,’ he said.

      The hair on the dogs’ necks bristled. The shepherd quietened them by clicking his tongue, then gave a short sharp whistle and one of the dogs raced away towards the wood. The other whined, wanting to be let loose, but the shepherd made a low noise and the dog went quiet again.

      The running dog curved towards the trees. She was a bitch and knew her business. She leaped an ice-skimmed ditch and vanished among the holly, barked suddenly, then reappeared to jump the ditch again. For a moment she stopped, facing the trees, then began running again just as an arrow flitted from the wood’s shadows. The shepherd gave a shrill whistle and the bitch raced back towards us, the arrow falling harmlessly behind her.

      ‘Outlaws,’ I said.

      ‘Or men looking for deer,’ the shepherd said.

      ‘My deer,’ I said. I still gazed at the trees. Why would poachers shoot an arrow at a shepherd’s dog? They would have done better to run away. So maybe they were really stupid poachers?

      The sleet was coming harder now, blown by a cold east wind. I wore a thick fur cloak, high boots and a fox-fur hat, so did not notice the cold, but Willibald, in priestly black, was shivering despite his woollen cape and hat. ‘I must get you back to the hall,’ I said. ‘At your age you shouldn’t be outdoors in winter.’

      ‘I wasn’t expecting rain,’ Willibald said. He sounded miserable.

      ‘It’ll be snow by midday,’ the shepherd said.

      ‘You have a hut near here?’ I asked him.

      He pointed north. ‘Just beyond the copse,’ he said. He was pointing at a thick stand of trees through which a path led.

      ‘Does it have a fire?’

      ‘Yes, lord.’

      ‘Take us there,’ I said. I would leave Willibald beside the fire and fetch him a proper cloak and a docile horse to get him back to the hall.

      We walked north and the dogs growled again. I turned to look south and suddenly there were men at the wood’s edge. A ragged line of men who were staring at us. ‘You know them?’ I asked the shepherd.

      ‘They’re