border, in Leicester and Lincoln. You’re going there anyway. It’s no extra burden.’
Wulfgar looked at his shoes, conscious of a courtyard full of fascinated eyes. The gyrfalcon rustled her feathers and jingled her bells. Fallow snorted and shifted her weight to a different hoof.
‘Trust me, Wuffa.
She
does, you know.’
It was no more than the truth, Wulfgar knew that. But was the Lady right to do so? Did her cousin have her best interests at heart, any more than her brother Edward did? Wulfgar felt the world shifting beneath him.
‘I’m a good friend to my friends. You know that, Wuffa.’
It was the truth. But he was also known to be a bitter foe to those who opposed him. Wulfgar tightened his grip on the bridle. He felt a sudden overwhelming desire to know what the Lady would think, but there was no time to consult her.
Fate had indeed been very cruel to the Atheling, there was no contesting that point. And he had always been very kind to Wulfgar, even when there had been nothing obvious to gain by that kindness. There was a debt there which Wulfgar would never be able fully to repay.
‘
We light the fire at All Hallows
.’ The Atheling sounded on the verge of exasperation. ‘That is the message you need to deliver. Can you remember that? Find the Jarls. Hakon Grimsson in Leicester, and Toli Hrafnsson in Lincoln.’
Danish names.
‘Tell no one else. No one, do you hear me?’ He gave Wulfgar’s elbow a little shake. ‘Only Hakon Grimsson and Toli Hrafnsson.
We light
–’
‘–
the fire at All Hallows
.’ All Hallows, he thought, that’s the first of November. It was more than half the year away. Or did he mean a church dedicated to All Saints, All Hallows? Wulfgar frowned.
The Atheling prompted him: ‘The names?’
‘Hakon Grimsson in Leicester. Toli …’
‘Toli Hrafnsson.’
He repeated it without stumbling this time. Hrafnsson. Raven’s son, he thought. Something about it chilled him.
Leicester and Lincoln.
Mercian cities, once upon a time … with Mercian cathedrals, and Mercian bishops.
Not anymore.
Not for thirty years.
The Atheling smiled at him.
‘Good man! I knew I could rely on you.’ He turned to go, saluting Ednoth with a friendly clap on the shoulder, wishing them Godspeed as he went. The hooded falcon screamed, a wild, harsh sound that made the hairs rise on Wulfgar’s nape.
He noticed Kenelm, still loitering outside the Bishop’s bower, watching them shamelessly. Wulfgar, doing his best to ignore the Deacon’s curious gaze, climbed back up onto the mounting block. He grabbed his reins and a fistful of Fallow’s coarse mane, and heaved himself onto her back, scrabbling with his right foot for the other stirrup. The cobbles looked very far away but at least he had scrambled up without overly embarrassing himself.
‘That was the Atheling!’ Ednoth said, excitement infusing his words.
‘I know,’ Wulfgar said absently, still groping for his right stirrup with his foot.
‘Athelwald Seiriol!’ Ednoth was glowing. ‘He should be king in Wessex instead of Edward, my father says. Because he’s the son of the old King’s elder brother, the one who was king before him.’ He turned to look at Wulfgar. ‘Do you know him, then?’
Wulfgar nodded, still deep in thought.
‘Of course. He’s the Lady’s cousin. We all grew up together in Winchester, the cathedral oblates like me, and the royal children, and the thanes’ sons at the King’s school.’ So much older than me, away so often, first at weapon-training, then making his name in battle. But always someone to hero-worship. Always someone you wanted to trot along after, even after the old King named Edward as his heir.
Ednoth was bright-eyed, his hangover and his bad temper apparently forgotten.
‘Wait till I tell my little brothers!’ he exclaimed. ‘We saw him before, once, in Bristol. He’s famous, you know. In the battle of Farnham, when he was younger than me …’
But, as they walked
Wulfgar looked at his shoes, conscious of a courtyard full of fascinated eyes. The gyrfalcon rustled her feathers and jingled her bells. Fallow snorted and shifted her weight to a different hoof.
‘Trust me, Wuffa.
She
does, you know.’
It was no more than the truth, Wulfgar knew that. But was the Lady right to do so? Did her cousin have her best interests at heart, any more than her brother Edward did? Wulfgar felt the world shifting beneath him.
‘I’m a good friend to my friends. You know that, Wuffa.’
It was the truth. But he was also known to be a bitter foe to those who opposed him. Wulfgar tightened his grip on the bridle. He felt a sudden overwhelming desire to know what the Lady would think, but there was no time to consult her.
Fate had indeed been very cruel to the Atheling, there was no contesting that point. And he had always been very kind to Wulfgar, even when there had been nothing obvious to gain by that kindness. There was a debt there which Wulfgar would never be able fully to repay.
‘
We light the fire at All Hallows
.’ The Atheling sounded on the verge of exasperation. ‘That is the message you need to deliver. Can you remember that? Find the Jarls. Hakon Grimsson in Leicester, and Toli Hrafnsson in Lincoln.’
Danish names.
‘Tell no one else. No one, do you hear me?’ He gave Wulfgar’s elbow a little shake. ‘Only Hakon Grimsson and Toli Hrafnsson.
We light
–’
‘–
the fire at All Hallows
.’ All Hallows, he thought, that’s the first of November. It was more than half the year away. Or did he mean a church dedicated to All Saints, All Hallows? Wulfgar frowned.
The Atheling prompted him: ‘The names?’
‘Hakon Grimsson in Leicester. Toli …’
‘Toli Hrafnsson.’
He repeated it without stumbling this time. Hrafnsson. Raven’s son, he thought. Something about it chilled him.
Leicester and Lincoln.
Mercian cities, once upon a time … with Mercian cathedrals, and Mercian bishops.
Not anymore.
Not for thirty years.
The Atheling smiled at him.
‘Good man! I knew I could rely on you.’ He turned to go, saluting Ednoth with a friendly clap on the shoulder, wishing them Godspeed as he went. The hooded falcon screamed, a wild, harsh sound that made the hairs rise on Wulfgar’s nape.
He noticed Kenelm, still loitering outside the Bishop’s bower, watching them shamelessly. Wulfgar, doing his best to ignore the Deacon’s curious gaze, climbed back up onto the mounting block. He grabbed his reins and a fistful of Fallow’s coarse mane, and heaved himself onto her back, scrabbling with his right foot for the other stirrup. The cobbles looked very far away but at least he had scrambled up without overly embarrassing himself.
‘That was the Atheling!’ Ednoth said, excitement infusing his words.
‘I know,’ Wulfgar said absently, still groping for his right stirrup with his foot.
‘Athelwald Seiriol!’ Ednoth was glowing. ‘He should be king in Wessex instead of Edward, my father says. Because he’s the son of the old King’s elder brother, the one who was king before him.’ He turned to look at Wulfgar. ‘Do you know him, then?’
Wulfgar nodded, still deep in thought.
‘Of course. He’s the Lady’s cousin. We all grew up together in Winchester, the cathedral oblates like me, and the royal children, and the thanes’ sons at the King’s school.’ So much older than me, away so often, first at weapon-training, then making his name in battle. But always someone to hero-worship. Always someone you wanted to trot along after, even after the old King named Edward as his heir.
Ednoth was bright-eyed, his hangover and his bad temper apparently forgotten.
‘Wait till I tell my little brothers!’ he exclaimed. ‘We saw him before, once, in Bristol. He’s famous, you know. In the battle of Farnham, when he was younger than me …’
But, as they walked
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