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Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

“Yes, the fighting season is over. Causantín mac Fergusa has retreated to his stronghold at Duncalden and the Northumbrians have come back home.”

Runolf clapped his hands and turned to me.

“Good. Tell us your plan, then.”

So I told them, and the next morning, just after the dawn, we had Copel carry us and our mounts across the Cocueda, and we rode towards Bebbanburg.

Five

The great hall of Bebbanburg was dark and sombre. When I had last visited, I had been in awe of the rich decorations, the sumptuous, draped hangings, carved and painted columns, and the weapons, armour and standards of defeated foe-men that adorned every surface. It had been a place of warmth and lively noise. I was yet a monk then, living my days in silence. The destruction of Lindisfarnae was still fresh in my mind, and, despite the exhilaration I had felt to at last step foot in this famed hall, the feasting had seemed somehow obscene so soon after the murder of dozens of innocents on the holy island that could be seen from the ramparts of the fortress.

There was no laughter in the hall now. It was as quiet and still as a barrow.

The hazy gloom was punctuated by candles, and a large metal bowl on a tripod near the central hearth fire belched out sweet-smelling smoke. I sniffed the air, as the steward ushered us in. The incense that smouldered in the bowl almost covered the stench of decay and death that hung thick and pungent in the hall.

Almost.

I glanced at Drosten. He shook his head. The message was clear. Onuis had mentioned nothing of this.

“He is very weak,” whispered Hereward. He had entered the hall with us and now led us past the censer and the fire crackling on the hearth stone, despite the warmth of the day outside. “We should not tarry long.”

Hereward had met the four of us in the courtyard. He had seemed pleased to see us, but his eyes were dark and his expression pinched. He had offered us a warning about the lord of Bebbanburg’s injury. It seemed he had taken a small wound in their final confrontation with the Picts. They had thought nothing of it. The wound had been bound and, at first, Uhtric continued with his usual verve and energy. But soon, the cut became inflamed, painfully red and swollen.

“Elf-shot,” Hereward had said, his tone hushed and bleak.

I had made the sign of the cross. Drosten, Gwawrddur and Runolf said nothing, but their expressions were grave. We all knew that an infected wound often led to death.