The Empty Throne

Besides the thirty or forty priests there must have been at least a hundred and twenty men in the church, all standing beneath the high beams where sparrows flew. This ceremony in the church was supposed to bring the nailed god’s blessing on the Witan’s deliberations, so it was no surprise when Bishop Wulfheard delivered a powerful sermon about the wisdom of listening to the advice of sober men, good men, older men, and rulers. ‘Let the elders be treated with double honour,’ he harangued us, ‘because that is the word of God!’ Maybe it was, but in Wulfheard’s mouth it meant that no one had been summoned to give advice, but rather to agree with whatever had already been decided between the bishop, Æthelred, and, as I had just learned, Æthelhelm of Wessex.

Æthelhelm was the richest man in Wessex after the king, his son-in-law. He owned vast tracts of land and his household warriors formed almost a third of the West Saxon army. He was Edward’s chief counsellor and his sudden presence in Gleawecestre surely meant that Edward of Wessex had decided what he wanted with Mercia. He must have sent Æthelhelm to announce the decision, but Edward and Æthelhelm both knew that Mercia was proud and prickly. Mercia would not simply accept Edward as king, so he must be offering something in return, but what? True, Edward could just declare himself king on Æthelred’s death, but that would provoke unrest, even outright opposition. Edward, I was sure, wanted Mercia to beg, and so he had sent Æthelhelm, genial Æthelhelm, generous Æthelhelm, gregarious Æthelhelm. Everyone liked Æthelhelm. I liked Æthelhelm, but his presence in Gleawecestre suggested mischief.

I managed to sleep through most of Wulfheard’s sermon and then, after the choir had chanted an interminable psalm, Osferth and Finan helped me leave the church while my son carried Serpent-Breath and my crutches. I exaggerated my weakness by leaning heavily on Finan’s shoulders and shuffling my feet. Most of it was pretence, but not all. I was tired of the pain, and tired of the stinking pus that seeped from the wound. A few men stopped to express their regret at my feeble appearance, and some of that sympathy was genuine, but many men took an obvious pleasure in my downfall. Before I had been wounded they had been frightened of me, now they could safely despise me.

Father Penda’s news had hardly been necessary because Æthelhelm was waiting in the great hall, but I supposed the young priest had wanted to give me what small warning he could as well as show that he was earning the gold I gave him. The West Saxon ealdorman was surrounded by lesser men, all of whom understood that the real power in this hall was his because he spoke for Edward of Wessex, and without the West Saxon army there would be no Mercia. I watched him, wondering why he was here. He was a big man, broad faced, with thinning hair, a ready smile and kindly eyes that looked shocked when he saw me. He shook off the men who spoke with him and hurried to my side. ‘My dear Lord Uhtred,’ he said.

‘Lord Æthelhelm.’ I made my voice slow and hoarse.

‘My dear Lord Uhtred,’ he said again, taking one of my hands in both of his. ‘I cannot express what I feel! Tell me what we can do for you.’ He pressed my hand. ‘Tell me!’ he urged.

‘You can let me die in peace,’ I said.

‘I’m sure you have many years yet,’ he said, ‘unlike my dear wife.’

That was news to me. I knew Æthelhelm was married to a pale, thin creature who had brought him half of Defnascir as her dowry. She had somehow given birth to a succession of fat, healthy babes. It was a marvel she had lasted this long. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said weakly.

‘She ails, poor thing. She wastes away and the end can’t be long now.’ He did not sound particularly upset, but I supposed the marriage to the wraith-like wife had only ever been a convenience that brought Æthelhelm land. ‘I’ll marry again,’ he said, ‘and I trust you will come to the wedding!’

‘If I live,’ I said.

‘Of course you will! I’ll pray for you!’

He needed to pray for Æthelred too. The Lord of Mercia had not attended the church service, but was waiting enthroned on the dais at the western end of the great hall. He slumped there, vacant-eyed, his body swathed in a great cloak of beaver fur. His red hair had turned white, though most of it was hidden beneath a woollen cap which, I supposed, hid his wound. I had no love for Æthelred, but I felt sorry for him. He seemed to become aware of my gaze because he stirred, raised his head and looked down the hall to where I had taken a bench at the back. He stared at me for a moment, then he leaned his head against the chair’s high back and his mouth fell slackly open.

Bishop Wulfheard climbed the dais. I feared he would deliver another sermon, but instead he rapped on the wooden boards with the base of his staff, and when silence fell over the hall contented himself with a brief blessing. Æthelhelm, I noticed, took a modest place to one side of the assembly, while Eardwulf stood against the other wall and between them the leading men of Mercia sat on uncomfortable benches. Æthelred’s household warriors lined the walls, the only men allowed to carry weapons in the hall. My son slipped through the door and crouched beside me. ‘The swords are safe,’ he muttered.

‘Sihtric’s there?’

‘He is.’

Bishop Wulfheard spoke so softly that I had to lean forward to hear what he said, and leaning forward hurt me. I endured the pain to listen. It was the Lord Æthelred’s pleasure, the bishop said, to see the kingdom of Mercia safer and larger than it had been for many years. ‘We have gained land by the strength of our swords,’ Wulfheard said, ‘and by the grace of God we have driven the pagans from the fields our forefathers tilled. We thank God for this!’

‘Amen,’ Lord Æthelhelm interjected loudly.

‘We owe this blessing,’ Wulfheard continued, ‘to the victory won last year by our Lord Æthelred with the help of his staunch West Saxon allies,’ he gestured towards Æthelhelm and the hall was filled with the noise of men stamping their feet in approbation. The bastard, I thought. Æthelred had been wounded from behind, and the battle had been gained by my men, not his.

The bishop waited for silence. ‘We have gained land,’ he went on, ‘good farmland, and it is Lord Æthelred’s pleasure to grant that land to those who fought for him last year,’ and the bishop pointed to a table at the side of the hall where two priests sat behind a heap of documents. The bribe was obvious. Support whatever Æthelred proposed and a man could expect a grant of land.

‘There’ll be none for me,’ I growled.

Finan chuckled. ‘He’ll give you enough land for a grave, lord.’

‘And yet,’ the bishop was speaking a little louder now, which meant I could lean back against the wall, ‘the pagans still hold towns which were a part of our ancient kingdom. Our land is still fouled by their presence, and if we are to bequeath to our children the fields that our forefathers ploughed then we must gird our loins and expel the heathen just as Joshua drove out the sinners of Jericho!’ He paused, perhaps expecting to hear foot-stamping again, but the hall was quiet. He was suggesting we had to fight, which we did, but Bishop Wulfheard was no man to inspire others to the bloody business of facing a shield wall of snarling spear-Danes.

‘But we shall not fight alone,’ the bishop continued. ‘The Lord Æthelhelm has come from Wessex to assure us, indeed to promise us, that the forces of Wessex will fight beside us!’

That provoked applause. Someone else would do the fighting, it seemed, and men stamped their feet as Æthelhelm climbed the wooden steps to the dais. He smiled at the hall, a big man, easy in his authority. A gold chain glinted from his mail-clad breast. ‘I have no right to speak at this noble gathering,’ he said modestly, his rich voice filling the hall, ‘but with Lord Æthelred’s permission?’ He turned and Æthelred managed to nod.

‘My king,’ Æthelhelm said, ‘prays daily for the kingdom of Mercia. He prays that the pagans will be defeated. He thanks God for the victory you gained last year and, my lords, let us not forget that it was the Lord Uhtred who led that fight! Who suffered in that fight! Who trapped the heathen and delivered them to our swords!’

That was a surprise. There was not a man in the hall who did not know that I was an enemy to Æthelred, yet here, in Æthelred’s own hall, I was being praised? Men turned to look at me, then one or two started to stamp their feet and soon the great hall was filled with noise. Even Æthelred managed to rap the arm of his chair twice. Æthelhelm beamed and I kept a straight face, wondering what serpent was hidden in this unexpected flattery.

‘It is the pleasure of my king,’ Æthelhelm waited for the racket to subside, ‘to keep a large force in Lundene, which army will be ever ready to oppose the Danes who infest the eastern parts of our land.’ That was greeted by silence, though it was hardly a surprise. Lundene, the greatest town of Britain, was part of Mercia, but it had been under West Saxon rule for years now. What Æthelhelm meant, and was not quite making plain, was that the city would now formally become a part of Wessex, and the men in the hall understood that. They might not like it, but if that was the price of West Saxon help against the Danes then it was already paid and so was acceptable.

‘We shall keep that mighty army in the east,’ Æthelhelm said, ‘an army dedicated to the task of bringing East Anglia back to Saxon rule. And you, my lords, will keep an army here, in the west, and together we shall clear the heathen from our land! We shall fight together!’ He paused, staring around the hall, then repeated the last word. ‘Together!’

He stopped there. It was a very abrupt ending. He smiled at the bishop, smiled at the silent men on the benches beneath him, then stepped back down to the floor. ‘Together,’ he had said, by which he surely meant a forced marriage between Wessex and Mercia. The serpent, I thought, was about to be let loose.

Bishop Wulfheard had sat through Æthelhelm’s words, but now stood again. ‘It is necessary, lords,’ he said, ‘that we keep an army of Mercia that will free the northern part of our land of the last pagans and so spread the rule of Christ to every part of our ancient kingdom.’ Someone in the hall began to speak, though I could not catch the words, and the bishop interrupted him. ‘The new lands that we grant will pay for the warriors we need,’ he said sharply, and his words stilled any protest that might have been made. Doubtless the protest had been about the cost of keeping a permanent army. An army has to be fed, paid, armed, and supplied with horses, weapons, armour, shields and training, and the Witan had scented new taxes, but the bishop seemed to be suggesting that the captured Danish farmlands would pay for the army. And so they might, I thought, and it was not a bad idea either. We had defeated the Danes, driven them from great swathes of Mercian land, and it made sense to keep them running. That was what Æthelflaed was doing near Ceaster, but she was doing it without the support of her husband’s money or men.

‘And an army needs a leader,’ Bishop Wulfheard said.

The serpent was flickering its tongue now.

There was silence in the hall.

‘We have thought long about this,’ Wulfheard said piously, ‘and we have prayed too! We have laid the problem before Almighty God and he, in his omniscience, has suggested an answer.’

The serpent slithered into the light, small eyes glinting.

‘There are a dozen men in this hall,’ the bishop continued, ‘who could lead an army against the heathen, but to raise one man above the rest is to provoke jealousy. If the Lord Uhtred was well then there would be no other choice!’ You lying bastard, I thought. ‘And we all pray for the Lord Uhtred’s recovery,’ the bishop went on, ‘but until that happy day we need a man of proven ability, of fearless character, and of godly reputation.’

Eardwulf. Every eye in the hall looked at him, and I sensed rebellion stirring among the ealdormen. Eardwulf was not one of them. He was an upstart who owed his command of Æthelred’s household warriors to his sister, Eadith, who shared Æthelred’s bed. I had half expected to see her at the Witan, perhaps pretending to be Æthelred’s nurse, but she had the sense, or someone had the sense, to make sure she had stayed hidden.

And then the bishop sprang his surprise, and the serpent’s mouth opened to show the long curved fangs. ‘It is the Lord Æthelred’s pleasure,’ he said, ‘that his dear daughter should marry Eardwulf.’

There was a gasp in the hall, a murmur, and then silence again. I could see men frowning, more in perplexity than disapproval. Eardwulf, by marrying Ælfwynn, was joining Æthelred’s family. He might not be nobly born, but no one could deny his wife’s royal lineage. Ælfwynn was King Alfred’s granddaughter, King Edward’s niece. The open thighs of Eardwulf’s sister had given him command of Æthelred’s household warriors, but now Ælfwynn could spread her legs to lift him higher still. Clever, I thought. A few men started to speak, their voices a low grumble in the big hall, but then came another surprise: Æthelred himself spoke.

‘It is my pleasure,’ Æthelred said, then paused to gulp in a breath. His voice had been weak and men hushed each other in the hall to hear him. ‘It is my pleasure,’ he said again, his words halting and slurred, ‘that my daughter Ælfwynn should marry my Lord Eardwulf.’

Lord, I thought? Lord Eardwulf? I stared in amazement at Æthelred. He seemed to be smiling. I looked at Æthelhelm. What did Wessex gain from the marriage? Maybe, I thought, it was simply that no Mercian ealdorman could marry Ælfwynn and so inherit Æthelred’s power, thus leaving the throne open for Edward, but what was to stop Eardwulf himself aspiring to the throne? Yet Æthelhelm was smiling and nodding his approval, then he crossed the hall and held his arms out to embrace Eardwulf. There could be no plainer signal than that. King Edward of Wessex wanted his niece to marry Eardwulf. But why?

Father Penda scuttled past, heading for the door. He glanced at me, and Osferth stiffened, expecting another assault from the young priest, but Penda kept walking. ‘Go after that priest,’ I told my son.

‘Father?’

‘He’s gone for a piss. Piss beside him. Go!’

‘I don’t need a …’

‘Go and piss!’

Uhtred went and I watched Æthelhelm lead Eardwulf onto the dais. The younger man looked handsome, confident, and strong. He knelt to Æthelred, who reached out a hand. Eardwulf kissed the hand and Æthelred said something, but too low for any of us to hear. Bishop Wulfheard stooped to listen, then straightened and turned to the hall. ‘It is the pleasure of our dear Lord Æthelred,’ he announced, ‘that his daughter be married on the feast of Saint Æthelwold.’

Some of the priests began stamping their feet and the rest of the hall followed. ‘When is Saint Æthelwold’s Day?’ I asked Osferth.

‘There are two Æthelwolds,’ he said pedantically, ‘and you should know that, lord, as they both come from near Bebbanburg.’

‘When?’ I snarled.

‘The nearest is in three days, lord. But Bishop Æthelwold’s feast day was last month.’

Three days? Far too soon for Æthelflaed to interfere. Her daughter Ælfwynn would be married to an enemy before she even knew about it. That enemy was still kneeling to Æthelred while the Witan cheered him. Just minutes before they had been scornful of Eardwulf because of his low birth, but they could see which way the wind blew, and it blew strong from the south, from Wessex. Eardwulf was at least a Mercian, and so Mercia would be spared the indignity of begging a West Saxon to lead them.

Then my son came back into the church and bent to my ear. He whispered to me.

And I understood at last why Æthelhelm approved of the marriage and why I had been invited to the Witan.

I should have known, or I should have guessed. This meeting of the Witan was not just about Mercia’s future but about the fate of kings.

I told Uhtred what he must do, then I stood. I stood laboriously and slowly, letting the pain show on my face. ‘My lords,’ I shouted, and that hurt so much. ‘My lords!’ I shouted again, letting the pain rip at me.

They turned to look at me. Every man in the room knew what was about to happen, indeed Æthelhelm and the bishop had feared this would happen, which is why they had hoped to silence me with flattery. Now they knew the flattery had failed because I was going to protest. I was going to argue that Æthelflaed should have a say in her daughter’s fate. I was going to challenge Æthelred and Æthelhelm, and now they waited for that challenge in silence. Æthelred was staring at me, so was Æthelhelm. The bishop’s mouth hung open.

But, to their relief, I said nothing.

I just fell to the floor.

There was commotion. I was shaking and moaning. Men ran to kneel at my side and Finan bellowed at them to give me room. He also shouted to my son, telling him to come to me, but Uhtred had gone to do my bidding. Father Penda pushed through the crowd and, seeing me stricken, loudly announced that this was God’s righteous judgement on me, and even Bishop Wulfheard frowned at that. ‘Silence, man!’

‘The heathen is struck down,’ Father Penda said, trying too hard to earn his gold.

‘Lord? Lord!’ Finan was rubbing my right hand.

‘Sword,’ I said faintly, then louder, ‘sword!’

‘Not in the hall,’ some fool insisted.

‘No swords in the hall,’ Eardwulf said sternly.

So Finan and four other men carried me outside and laid me on the grass. A thin rain was falling as Sihtric brought me Serpent-Breath and closed my right hand about her hilt. ‘Paganism!’ Father Penda hissed.

‘Does he live?’ the bishop asked, bending down to peer at me.

‘Not for long,’ Finan said.

‘Carry him to shelter,’ the bishop said.

‘Home,’ I muttered, ‘take me home. Finan! Take me home!’

‘I’ll take you home, lord,’ Finan said.

Æthelhelm arrived, driving the crowd apart like a bull scattering sheep. ‘Lord Uhtred!’ he exclaimed, kneeling beside me. ‘What happened?’

Osferth made the sign of the cross. ‘He can’t hear you, lord.’

‘I can,’ I said. ‘Take me home.’

‘Home?’ Æthelhelm asked. He sounded anxious.

‘Home to the hills,’ I said, ‘I want to die on the hills.’

‘There’s a convent nearby,’ Æthelhelm was holding my right hand, tightening my grip on Serpent-Breath. ‘They can minister to you there, Lord Uhtred.’

‘The hills,’ I said, sounding weak, ‘just take me to the hills.’

‘It’s pagan nonsense,’ Father Penda said scornfully.

‘If Lord Uhtred wants to go to the hills,’ Æthelhelm said firmly, ‘then he must go!’ Men muttered as they watched me. My death took away Æthelflaed’s strongest supporter, and doubtless they were wondering what would happen to her lands and mine when Eardwulf became Mercia’s lord. It was raining harder and I moaned. It was not all pretence.

‘You’ll catch cold, lord bishop,’ Father Penda said.

‘And we still have much to discuss,’ Wulfheard said, straightening. ‘Send us news,’ he said to Finan.

‘It is God’s judgement,’ Penda insisted as he walked away.

‘It is indeed!’ Wulfheard said heavily. ‘And let it be a lesson to all the heathen.’ He made the sign of the cross, then followed Penda towards the hall.

‘You will let us know what happens?’ Æthelhelm asked Finan.

‘Of course, lord. Pray for him.’

‘With all my might.’

I waited to make certain that everyone from the Witan had retreated from the rain, then looked up at Finan. ‘Uhtred’s bringing a wagon,’ I said. ‘Get me in it. Then we go east, all of us. Sihtric?’

‘Lord?’

‘Find our men. Look in the taverns. Get them ready to travel. Go!’

‘Lord?’ Finan asked, puzzled by my sudden energy.

‘I’m dying,’ I explained, then winked at him.

‘You are?’

‘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.