Kitabı oku: «The Last Kingdom Series Books 1-6», sayfa 31

Five

Mildrith was excited by the summons. The Witan gave the king advice and her father had never been wealthy or important enough to receive such a summons, and she was overjoyed that the king wanted my presence. The witanegemot, as the meeting was called, was always held on the Feast of St Stephen, the day after Christmas, but my summons required me to be there on the twelfth day of Christmas and that gave Mildrith time to wash clothes for me. They had to be boiled and scrubbed and dried and brushed, and three women did the work and it took three days before Mildrith was satisfied that I would not disgrace her by appearing at Cippanhamm looking like a vagabond. She was not summoned, nor did she expect to accompany me, but she made a point of telling all our neighbours that I was to give counsel to the king. ‘You mustn’t wear that,’ she told me, pointing to my Thor’s hammer amulet.

‘I always wear it,’ I said.

‘Then hide it,’ she said, ‘and don’t be belligerent!’

‘Belligerent?’

‘Listen to what others say,’ she said. ‘Be humble. And remember to congratulate Odda the Younger.’

‘For what?’

‘He’s to be married. Tell him I pray for them both.’ She was happy again, sure that by paying the church its debt I had regained Alfred’s favour and her good mood was not even spoilt when I announced I would take Iseult with me. She bridled slightly at the news, then said that it was only right that Iseult should be taken to Alfred. ‘If she is a queen,’ Mildrith said, ‘then she belongs in Alfred’s court. This isn’t a fit place for her.’ She insisted on taking silver coins to the church in Exanceaster where she donated the money to the poor and gave thanks that I had been restored to Alfred’s favour. She also thanked God for the good health of our son, Uhtred. I saw little of him, for he was still a baby and I have never had much patience for babies, but the women of Oxton constantly assured me that he was a lusty, strong boy.

We allowed two days for the journey. I took Haesten and six men as an escort for, though the shire-reeve’s men patrolled the roads, there were plenty of wild places where outlaws preyed on travellers. We were in mail coats or leather tunics, with swords, spears, axes and shields. We all rode. Iseult had a small black mare I had bought for her, and I had also given her an otterskin cloak, and when we passed through villages, folk would stare at her for she rode like a man, her black hair bound up with a silver chain. They would kneel to her, as well as to me, and call out for alms. She did not take her maid for I remembered how crowded every tavern and house had been in Exanceaster when the Witan met, and I persuaded Iseult that we would be hard-pressed to find accommodation for ourselves, let alone a maid.

‘What does the king want of you?’ she asked as we rode up the Uisc valley. Rainwater puddled in the long furrows, gleaming in the winter sunshine, while the woods were glossy with holly leaves and bright with the berries of rowan, thorn, elder and yew.

‘Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?’ I asked her.

She smiled. ‘Seeing the future,’ she said, ‘is like travelling a strange road. Usually you cannot see far ahead, and when you can it is only a glimpse. And my brother doesn’t give me dreams about everything.’

‘Mildrith thinks the king has forgiven me,’ I said.

‘Has he?’

I shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ I hoped so, not because I wanted Alfred’s forgiveness, but because I wanted to be given command of the fleet again. I wanted to be with Leofric. I wanted the wind in my face and the sea rain on my cheek. ‘It’s odd, though,’ I went on, ‘that he didn’t want me there for the whole witanegemot.’

‘Maybe,’ Iseult suggested, ‘they discussed religious things at first?’

‘He wouldn’t want me there for that,’ I said.

‘So that’s it,’ she said. ‘They talk about their god, but at the end they will talk of the Danes, and that is why he summoned you. He knows he needs you.’

‘Or perhaps he just wants me there for the feast,’ I suggested.

‘The feast?’

‘The Twelfth Night feast,’ I explained, and that seemed to me the likeliest explanation; that Alfred had decided to forgive me and, to show he now approved of me, would let me attend the winter feast. I secretly hoped that was true, and it was a strange hope. I had been ready to kill Alfred only a few months before, yet now, though I still hated him, I wanted his approval. Such is ambition. If I could not rise with Ragnar then I would make my reputation with Alfred.

‘Your road, Uhtred,’ Iseult went on, ‘is like a bright blade across a dark moor. I see it clearly.’

‘And the woman of gold?’

She said nothing to that.

‘Is it you?’ I asked.

‘The sun dimmed when I was born,’ she said, ‘so I am a woman of darkness and of silver, not of gold.’

‘So who is she?’

‘Someone far away, Uhtred, far away,’ and she would say no more. Perhaps she knew no more, or perhaps she was guessing.

We reached Cippanhamm late on the eleventh day of Yule. There was still frost on the furrows and the sun was a gross red ball poised low above the tangling black branches as we came to the town’s western gate. The city was full, but I was known in the Corncrake tavern where the red-headed whore called Eanflæd worked and she found us shelter in a half-collapsed cattle byre where a score of hounds had been kennelled. The hounds, she said, belonged to Huppa, Ealdorman of Thornsæta, but she reckoned the animals could survive a night or two in the yard. ‘Huppa may not think so,’ she said, ‘but he can rot in hell.’

‘He doesn’t pay?’ I asked her.

She spat for answer, then looked at me curiously. ‘I hear Leofric’s here?’

‘He is?’ I said, heartened by the news.

‘I haven’t seen him,’ she said, ‘but someone said he was here. In the royal hall. Maybe Burgweard brought him?’ Burgweard was the new fleet commander, the one who wanted his ships to sail two by two in imitation of Christ’s disciples. ‘Leofric had better not be here,’ Eanflæd finished.

‘Why not?’

‘Because he hasn’t come to see me!’ she said indignantly, ‘that’s why.’ She was five or six years older than I with a broad face, a high forehead and springy hair. She was popular, so much so that she had a good deal of freedom in the tavern, that owed its profits more to her abilities than to the quality of the ale. I knew she was friendly with Leofric, but I suspected from her tone that she wanted to be more than friends. ‘Who’s she?’ she asked, jerking her head at Iseult.

‘A queen,’ I said.

‘That’s another name for it, I suppose. How’s your wife?’

‘Back in Defnascir.’

‘You’re like all the rest, aren’t you?’ She shivered. ‘If you’re cold tonight bring the hounds back in to warm you. I’m off to work.’

We were cold, but I slept well enough and, next morning, the twelfth after Christmas, I left my six men at the Corncrake and took Iseult and Haesten to the king’s buildings that lay behind their own palisade to the south of the town where the river curled about the walls. A man expected to attend the witanegemot with retainers, though not usually with a Dane and a Briton, but Iseult wanted to see Alfred and I wanted to please her. Besides, there was the great feast that evening and, though I warned her that Alfred’s feasts were poor things, Iseult still wanted to be there. Haesten, with his mail coat and sword, was there to protect her, for I suspected she might not be allowed into the hall while the witanegemot debated and so might have to wait until evening for her chance to glimpse Alfred.

The gatekeeper demanded that we surrender our weapons, a thing I did with a bad grace, but no man, except the king’s own household troops, could go armed in Alfred’s presence. The day’s talking had already begun, the gatekeeper told us, and so we hurried past the stables and past the big new royal chapel with its twin towers. A group of priests was huddled by the main door of the great hall and I recognised Beocca, my father’s old priest, among them. I smiled in greeting, but his face, as he came towards us, was drawn and pale. ‘You’re late,’ he said sharply.

‘You’re not pleased to see me?’ I asked sarcastically.

He looked up at me. Beocca, despite his squint, red hair and palsied left hand, had grown into a stern authority. He was now a royal chaplain, confessor and a confidant to the king, and the responsibilities had carved deep lines on his face. ‘I prayed,’ he said, ‘never to see this day.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Who’s that?’ he stared at Iseult.

‘A queen of the Britons,’ I said.

‘She’s what?’

‘A queen. She’s with me. She wants to see Alfred.’

I don’t know whether he believed me, but he seemed not to care. Instead he was distracted, worried, and, because he lived in a strange world of kingly privilege and obsessive piety, I assumed his misery had been caused by some petty theological dispute. He had been Bebbanburg’s mass priest when I was a child and, after my father’s death, he had fled Northumberland because he could not abide living among the pagan Danes. He had found refuge in Alfred’s court where he had become a friend of the king. He was also a friend to me, a man who had preserved the parchments that proved my claim to the lordship of Bebbanburg, but on that twelfth day of Yule he was anything but pleased to see me. He plucked my arm, drawing me towards the door. ‘We must go in,’ he said, ‘and may God in his mercy protect you.’

‘Protect me?’

‘God is merciful,’ Beocca said, ‘and you must pray for that mercy,’ and then the guards opened the door and we walked into the great hall. No one stopped Iseult and, indeed, there were a score of other women watching the proceedings from the edge of the hall.

There were also more than a hundred men there, though only forty or fifty comprised the witanegemot, and those thegns and senior churchmen were on chairs and benches set in a half circle in front of the dais where Alfred sat with two priests and with Ælswith, his wife, who was pregnant. Behind them, draped with a red cloth, was an altar on which stood thick candles and a heavy silver cross, while all about the walls were platforms where, in normal times, folk slept or ate to be out of the fierce draughts. This day, though, the platforms were crammed with the followers of the thegns and noblemen of the Witan and among them, of course, were a lot of priests and monks, for Alfred’s court was more like a monastery than a royal hall. Beocca gestured that Iseult and Haesten should join those spectators, then he drew me towards the half circle of privileged advisers.

No one noticed my arrival. It was dark in the hall, for little of the wintry sunshine penetrated the small high windows. Braziers tried to give some warmth, but failed, succeeding only in thickening the smoke in the high rafters. There was a large central hearth, but the fire had been taken away to make room for the witanegemot’s circle of stools, chairs and benches. A tall man in a blue cloak was on his feet as I approached. He was talking of the necessity of repairing bridges, and how local thegns were skimping the duty, and he suggested that the king appoint an official to survey the kingdom’s roads. Another man interrupted to complain that such an appointment would encroach on the privileges of the shire ealdormen, and that started a chorus of voices, some for the proposal, most against, and two priests, seated at a small table beside Alfred’s dais, tried to write down all the comments. I recognised Wulfhere, the Ealdorman of Wiltunscir, who yawned prodigiously. Close to him was Alewold, the Bishop of Exanceaster, who was swathed in furs. Still no one noticed me. Beocca had held me back, as if waiting for a lull in the proceedings before finding me a seat. Two servants brought in baskets of logs to feed the braziers, and it was then that Ælswith saw me and she leaned across and whispered in Alfred’s ear. He had been paying close attention to the discussion, but now looked past his council to stare at me.

And a silence fell on that great hall. There had been a murmur of voices when men saw the king being distracted from the argument about bridges and they had all turned to look at me and then there was the silence that was broken by a priest’s sneeze and a sudden odd scramble as the men closest to me, those sitting beside the cold stones of the hearth, moved to one side. They were not making way for me, but avoiding me.

Ælswith was smiling and I knew I was in trouble then. My hand instinctively went to my left side, but of course I had no sword so could not touch her hilt for luck. ‘We shall talk of bridges later,’ Alfred said. He stood. He wore a bronze circlet as a crown and had a fur-trimmed blue robe, matching the gown worn by his wife.

‘What is happening?’ I asked Beocca.

‘You will be silent!’ It was Odda the Younger who spoke. He was dressed in his war-glory, in shining mail covered by a black cloak, in high boots and with a red-leather sword belt from which hung his weapons, for Odda, as commander of the king’s troops, was permitted to go armed in the royal hall. I looked into his eyes and saw triumph there, the same triumph that was on the Lady Ælswith’s pinched face, and I knew I had not been brought to receive the king’s favour, but summoned to face my enemies.

I was right. A priest was called from the dark gaggle beside the door. He was a young man with a pouchy, scowling face. He moved briskly, as if the day did not have enough hours to complete his work. He bowed to the king, then took a parchment from the table where the two clerks sat and came to stand in the centre of the Witan’s circle.

‘There is an urgent matter,’ Alfred said, ‘which, with the Witan’s permission, we shall deal with now.’ No one there was likely to disagree, so a low murmur offered approval of interrupting the more mundane discussions. Alfred nodded. ‘Father Erkenwald will read the charges,’ the king said, and took his throne again.

Charges? I was confused like a boar trapped between hounds and spears, and I seemed incapable of movement so I just stood there as Father Erkenwald unrolled the parchment and cleared his throat. ‘Uhtred of Oxton,’ he said, speaking in a high and precise voice, ‘you are this day charged with the crime of taking a king’s ship without our king’s consent, and with taking that ship to the country of Cornwalum and there making war against the Britons, again without our king’s consent, and this we can prove by oaths.’ There was a small murmur in the hall, a murmur that was stilled when Alfred raised a thin hand. ‘You are further charged,’ Erkenwald went on, ‘with making an alliance with the pagan called Svein, and with his help you murdered Christian folk in Cornwalum, despite those folk living in peace with our king, and this also we can prove by oaths.’ He paused, and now there was complete silence in the hall. ‘And you are charged,’ Erkenwald’s voice was lower now, as though he could scarce believe what he was reading, ‘with joining the pagan Svein in an attack on our blessed king’s realm by committing vile murder and impious church-robbery at Cynuit.’ This time there was no murmur, but a loud outburst of indignation and Alfred made no move to check it, so Erkenwald had to raise his voice to finish the indictment. ‘And this also,’ he was shouting now, and men hushed to listen, ‘we shall prove by oaths.’ He lowered the parchment, gave me a look of pure loathing, then walked back to the edge of the dais.

‘He’s lying,’ I snarled.

‘You will have a chance to speak,’ a fierce-looking churchman sitting beside Alfred said. He was in monk’s robes, but over them he wore a priest’s half cape richly embroidered with crosses. He had a full head of white hair and a deep, stern voice.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked Beocca.

‘The most holy Æthelred,’ Beocca said softly and, seeing I did not recognise the name, ‘Archbishop of Contwaraburg, of course.’

The archbishop leaned over to speak with Erkenwald. Ælswith was staring at me. She had never liked me, and now she was watching my destruction and taking a great pleasure from it. Alfred, meanwhile, was studying the roof beams as though he had never noticed them before, and I realised he intended to take no part in this trial, for trial it was. He would let other men prove my guilt, but doubtless he would pronounce sentence, and not just on me, it seemed, because the archbishop scowled. ‘Is the second prisoner here?’

‘He is held in the stables,’ Odda the Younger said.

‘He should be here,’ the archbishop said indignantly. ‘A man has a right to hear his accusers.’

‘What other man?’ I demanded.

It was Leofric, who was brought into the hall in chains, and there was no outcry against him because men perceived him as my follower. The crime was mine, Leofric had been snared by it, and now he would suffer for it, but he plainly had the sympathy of the men in the hall as he was brought to stand beside me. They knew him, he was of Wessex, while I was a Northumbrian interloper. He gave me a rueful glance as the guards led him to my side. ‘Up to our arses in it,’ he muttered.

‘Quiet!’ Beocca hissed.

‘Trust me,’ I said.

‘Trust you?’ Leofric asked bitterly.

But I had glanced at Iseult and she had given me the smallest shake of her head, an indication, I reckoned, that she had seen the outcome of this day and it was good. ‘Trust me,’ I said again.

‘The prisoners will be silent,’ the archbishop said.

‘Up to our royal arses,’ Leofric said quietly.

The archbishop gestured at Father Erkenwald. ‘You have oath-makers?’ he asked.

‘I do, lord.’

‘Then let us hear the first.’

Erkenwald gestured to another priest who was standing by the door leading to the passage at the back of the hall. The door was opened and a slight figure in a dark cloak entered. I could not see his face for he wore a hood. He hurried to the front of the dais and there bowed low to the king and went on his knees to the archbishop who held out a hand so that his heavy, jewelled ring could be kissed. Only then did the man stand, push back his hood and turn to face me.

It was the Ass. Asser, the Welsh monk. He stared at me as yet another priest brought him a gospel-book on which he laid a thin hand. ‘I make oath,’ he said in accented English, still staring at me, ‘that what I say is truth, and God so help me in that endeavour and condemn me to the eternal fires of hell if I dissemble.’ He bent and kissed the gospel-book with the tenderness of a man caressing a lover.

‘Bastard,’ I muttered.

Asser was a good oath-maker. He spoke clearly, describing how I had come to Cornwalum in a ship that bore a beast-head on its prow and another on its stern. He told how I had agreed to help King Peredur, who was being attacked by a neighbour assisted by the pagan Svein, and how I had betrayed Peredur by allying myself with the Dane. ‘Together,’ Asser said, ‘they made great slaughter, and I myself saw a holy priest put to death.’

‘You ran like a chicken,’ I said to him, ‘you couldn’t see a thing.’

Asser turned to the king and bowed. ‘I did run, lord king. I am a brother monk, not a warrior, and when Uhtred turned that hillside red with Christian blood I did take flight. I am not proud of that, lord king, and I have earnestly sought God’s forgiveness for my cowardice.’

Alfred smiled and the archbishop waved away Asser’s remarks as if they were nothing. ‘And when you left the slaughter,’ Erkenwald asked, ‘what then?’

‘I watched from a hilltop,’ Asser said, ‘and I saw Uhtred of Oxton leave that place in the company of the pagan ship. Two ships sailing westwards.’

‘They sailed westwards?’ Erkenwald asked.

‘To the west,’ Asser confirmed.

Erkenwald glanced at me. There was silence in the hall as men leaned forward to catch each damning word. ‘And what lay to the west?’ Erkenwald asked.

‘I cannot say,’ Asser said. ‘But if they did not go to the end of the world then I assume they turned about Cornwalum to go into the Sæfern Sea.’

‘And you know no more?’ Erkenwald asked.

‘I know I helped bury the dead,’ Asser said, ‘and I said prayers for their souls, and I saw the smouldering embers of the burned church, but what Uhtred did when he left the place of slaughter I do not know. I only know he went westwards.’

Alfred was pointedly taking no part in the proceedings, but he plainly liked Asser for, when the Welshman’s testimony was done, he beckoned him to the dais and rewarded him with a coin and a moment of private conversation. The Witan talked among themselves, sometimes glancing at me with the curiosity we give to doomed men. The Lady Ælswith, suddenly so gracious, smiled on Asser.

‘You have anything to say?’ Erkenwald demanded of me when Asser had been dismissed.

‘I shall wait,’ I said, ‘till all your lies are told.’

The truth, of course, was that Asser had told the truth, and told it plainly, clearly and persuasively. The king’s councillors had been impressed, just as they were impressed by Erkenwald’s second oath-maker.

It was Steapa Snotor, the warrior who was never far from Odda the Younger’s side. His back was straight, his shoulders square and his feral face with its stretched skin was grim. He glanced at me, bowed to the king, then laid a huge hand on the gospel-book and let Erkenwald lead him through the oath, and he swore to tell the truth on pain of hell’s eternal agony, and then he lied. He lied calmly in a flat, toneless voice. He said he had been in charge of the soldiers who guarded the place at Cynuit where the new church was being built, and how two ships had come in the dawn and how warriors streamed from the ships, and how he had fought against them and killed six of them, but there were too many, far too many, and he had been forced to retreat, but he had seen the attackers slaughter the priests and he had heard the pagan leader shout his name as a boast. ‘Svein, he was called.’

‘And Svein brought two ships?’

Steapa paused and frowned, as though he had trouble counting to two, then nodded. ‘He had two ships.’

‘He led both?’

‘Svein led one of the ships,’ Steapa said, then he pointed a finger at me. ‘And he led the other.’

The audience seemed to growl and the noise was so threatening that Alfred slapped the arm of his chair and finally stood to restore quiet. Steapa seemed unmoved. He stood, solid as an oak, and though he had not told his tale as convincingly as Brother Asser, there was something very damning in his testimony. It was so matter-of-fact, so unemotionally told, so straightforward, and none of it was true.

‘Uhtred led the second ship,’ Erkenwald said, ‘but did Uhtred join in the killing?’

‘Join it?’ Steapa asked. ‘He led it.’ He snarled those words and the men in the hall growled their anger.

Erkenwald turned to the king. ‘Lord king,’ he said, ‘he must die.’

‘And his land and property must be forfeited!’ Bishop Alewold shouted in such excitement that a whirl of his spittle landed and hissed in the nearest brazier. ‘Forfeited to the church!’

The men in the hall thumped their feet on the ground to show their approbation. Ælswith nodded vigorously, but the archbishop clapped his hands for silence. ‘He has not spoken,’ he reminded Erkenwald, then nodded at me. ‘Say your piece,’ he ordered curtly.

‘Beg for mercy,’ Beocca advised me quietly.

When you are up to your arse in shit there is only one thing to do. Attack, and so I admitted I had been at Cynuit, and that admission provoked some gasps in the hall. ‘But I was not there last summer,’ I went on. ‘I was there in the spring, at which time I killed Ubba Lothbrokson, and there are men in this hall who saw me do it! Yet Odda the Younger claimed the credit. He took Ubba’s banner, which I laid low, and he took it to his king and he claimed to have killed Ubba. Now, lest I spread the truth, which is that he is a coward and a liar, he would have me murdered by lies.’ I pointed to Steapa. ‘His lies.’

Steapa spat to show his scorn. Odda the Younger was looking furious, but he said nothing and some men noted it. To be called a coward and a liar is to be invited to do battle, but Odda stayed still as a stump.

‘You cannot prove what you say,’ Erkenwald said.

‘I can prove I killed Ubba,’ I said.

‘We are not here to discuss such things,’ Erkenwald said loftily, ‘but to determine whether you broke the king’s peace by an impious attack on Cynuit.’

‘Then summon my crewmen,’ I demanded. ‘Bring them here, put them on oath, and ask what they did in the summer.’ I waited, and Erkenwald said nothing. He glanced at the king as if seeking help, but Alfred’s eyes were momentarily closed. ‘Or are you in so much of a hurry to kill me,’ I went on, ‘that you dare not wait to hear the truth?’

‘I have Steapa’s sworn testimony,’ Erkenwald said, as if that made any other evidence unnecessary. He was flustered.

‘And you can have my oath,’ I said, ‘and Leofric’s oath, and the oath of a crewman who is here.’ I turned and beckoned Haesten who looked frightened at being summoned, but at Iseult’s urging came to stand beside me. ‘Put him on oath,’ I demanded of Erkenwald.

Erkenwald did not know what to do, but some men in the Witan called out that I had the right to summon oath-makers and the newcomer must be heard, and so a priest brought the gospel-book to Haesten. I waved the priest away. ‘He will swear on this,’ I said, and took out Thor’s amulet.

‘He’s not a Christian?’ Erkenwald demanded in astonishment.

‘He is a Dane,’ I said.

‘How can we trust the word of a Dane?’ Erkenwald demanded.

‘But our lord king does,’ I retorted. ‘He trusts the word of Guthrum to keep the peace, so why should this Dane not be trusted?’

That provoked some smiles. Many in the Witan thought Alfred far too trusting of Guthrum and I felt the sympathy in the hall move to my side, but then the archbishop intervened to declare that the oath of a pagan was of no value. ‘None whatsoever,’ he snapped. ‘He must stand down.’

‘Then put Leofric under oath,’ I demanded, ‘and then bring our crew here and listen to their testimony.’

‘And you will all lie with one tongue,’ Erkenwald said, ‘and what happened at Cynuit is not the only matter on which you are accused. Do you deny that you sailed in the king’s ship? That you went to Cornwalum and there betrayed Peredur and killed his Christian people? Do you deny that Brother Asser told the truth?’

‘But what if Peredur’s queen were to tell you that Asser lies?’ I asked. ‘What if she were to tell you that he lies like a hound at the hearth?’ Erkenwald stared at me. They all stared at me and I turned and gestured at Iseult who stepped forward, tall and delicate, the silver glinting at her neck and wrists. ‘Peredur’s queen,’ I announced, ‘whom I demand that you hear under oath, and thus hear how her husband was planning to join the Danes in an assault on Wessex.’

That was rank nonsense, of course, but it was the best I could invent at that moment, and Iseult, I knew, would swear to its truth. Quite why Svein would fight Peredur if the Briton planned to support him was a dangerously loose plank in the argument, but it did not really matter for I had confused the proceedings so much that no one was sure what to do. Erkenwald was speechless. Men stood to look at Iseult, who looked calmly back at them, and the king and the archbishop bent their heads together. Ælswith, one hand clapped to her pregnant belly, hissed advice at them. None of them wanted to summon Iseult for fear of what she would say, and Alfred, I suspect, knew that the trial, which had already become mired in lies, could only get worse.

‘You’re good, earsling,’ Leofric muttered, ‘you’re very good.’

Odda the Younger looked at the king, then at his fellow members of the Witan, and he must have known I was slithering out of his snare for he pulled Steapa to his side. He spoke to him urgently. The king was frowning, the archbishop looked perplexed, Ælswith’s blotched face showed fury while Erkenwald seemed helpless. Then Steapa rescued them. ‘I do not lie!’ he shouted.

He seemed uncertain what to say next, but he had the hall’s attention. The king gestured to him, as if inviting him to continue, and Odda the Younger whispered in the big man’s ear.

‘He says I lie,’ Steapa said, pointing at me, ‘and I say I do not, and my sword says I do not.’ He stopped abruptly, having made what was probably the longest speech of his life, but it was enough. Feet drummed on the floor and men shouted that Steapa was right, which he was not, but he had reduced the whole tangled morass of lies and accusations to a trial by combat and they all liked that. The archbishop still looked troubled, but Alfred gestured for silence.