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Back Conqueror Save as PDF
Chapters (88)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. I
  4. I
  5. II
  6. III
  7. IV
  8. V
  9. VI
  10. VII
  11. VIII
  12. IX
  13. X
  14. XI
  15. II
  16. I
  17. II
  18. III
  19. IV
  20. V
  21. VI
  22. VII
  23. VIII
  24. IX
  25. X
  26. XI
  27. XII
  28. XIII
  29. XIV
  30. XV
  31. XVI
  32. XVII
  33. XVIII
  34. XIX
  35. XX
  36. XXI
  37. III
  38. I
  39. II
  40. III
  41. IV
  42. V
  43. VI
  44. VII
  45. VIII
  46. IX
  47. X
  48. XI
  49. XII
  50. XIII
  51. XIV
  52. XV
  53. XVI
  54. XVII
  55. XVIII
  56. XIX
  57. XX
  58. XXI
  59. IV
  60. I
  61. II
  62. III
  63. IV
  64. V
  65. VI
  66. VII
  67. VIII
  68. IX
  69. X
  70. XI
  71. XII
  72. XIII
  73. XIV
  74. XV
  75. XVI
  76. XVII
  77. XVIII
  78. XIX
  79. XX
  80. XXI
  81. XXII
  82. XXIII
  83. XXIV
  84. XXV
  85. XXVI
  86. XXVII
  87. EPILOGUE
  88. Afterword

Ammanius gathered up his crook. ‘If you are interested, meet me at Reptacaestir in seven days.’

Sulpicia helped her grumbling father to his feet. ‘What an adventure,’ she said wistfully. ‘I wish I could come with you!’

Ulf grabbed the opportunity. ‘Then come.’

She looked flustered. ‘I can’t. My father—’

‘Do something for yourself, not for him,’ Ulf said. ‘You’ll be able to find us.’ And, without allowing her to argue, he turned to Wuffa.

Wuffa said, ‘It will be quite a trip. Bandits on the road, the bishop snatching at our souls—’

‘And the lovely Sulpicia grabbing your arse! I saw the way she looked at you, wolf-boy...’

The old man, Orosius, called after them, ‘Do you even know the name of the city your kind is despoiling, you barbarians? Do you even know where you are?’

Wuffa looked back. ‘This is Lunden. What of it? Who cares?’

The old Briton they had saved continued to shout insults, but the young men walked away.

IV

IV

On Wuffa’s last day before he set off for Reptacaestir, a scop, a wandering poet, called at his home village. Coenred welcomed the ragged wanderer, fed him meat and ale, and assigned him the village’s one precious slave for his comfort.

The village itself was homely, a huddle of timber-framed houses with smoke streaming from their thatched roofs. To the wheeze of the smiths’ bellows the people went about their chores, talking in grave rumbles about business, chasing children and chickens. The more substantial houses had doorposts carved with entwined decorations, brought over the sea from the old country, a reminder of home. Around the halls were rougher huts with sunken floors, workshops for weaving, iron-working and carpentry, and beyond that were pens for the chickens, sheep and pigs. There was no street planning, as Wuffa had seen in the ruins of Lunden; the houses grew where they would, like mushrooms.

The village of Coenred and his kin was one of hundreds of such settlements spread in a great belt around the walls of Lunden. There was still enough wealth flowing, through the old docks and the new trading area called Lundenwic, to make Lunden valuable to Aethelberht and his underkings - that and the prestige of owning the huge carcass of what had been the most valuable city in Britannia. So people were drawn here, to live and work.