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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

Arngrim grinned, evidently enjoying Cynewulf’s discomfiture. ‘So, priest, whose prophecy is it, a pagan’s or a Christian’s?’

Ibn Zuhr watched these exchanges, silent, fascinated.

X

X

It was late February by the time they got back to Wessex. Though the days were longer the icy grasp of winter still clung firmly to the land, and the open ground seemed to suck the heat out of Cynewulf’s body.

They crept past Cippanhamm in the night. The Danish Force was still wintering there.

They camped in a stand of wood, their horses tethered. They laid out blankets over leaves heaped up on the damp ground, and huddled together under their cloaks, pooling their warmth. They dare not strike a fire, so close to the Danes. Arngrim had shot a rabbit with his arrow earlier that day, but there had been no chance to cook it, and they tore at the bare flesh with their teeth, blood trickling over their chins.

So here they were, Cynewulf thought: Arngrim, Ibn Zuhr, Aebbe, Cynewulf, a thegn, a Moor slave, a freedwoman and a priest. But nobody looking at them from the outside could have detected the differing shapes of their souls. They were just four animals, huddling on heaps of leaves in the forest’s sinister dark, eating raw meat like dogs.

This night, though, the Danes were unhappy. There was a stink of burning, and the cries of running men. Cynewulf detected exhaustion, irritation - and fear.

Cynewulf could sense a grin in Arngrim’s voice as he whispered in the dark, ‘Do you hear those Danes scuttle? Alfred’s men are at work.’

Cynewulf, cold, dirty, hungry, depressed, hissed back, ‘I don’t see what there is to be cheerful about. Firing a few ships in the night, or burning down a food store or two, isn’t going to make much difference.’

‘You heard the fatigue; the Danes are losing sleep, night after night. These are pinpricks, but they are effective in a way.’

‘In my country,’ Ibn Zuhr said, his voice sinister, ‘we have ways to kill a man with pinpricks.’

Arngrim whispered sternly. ‘In the spring - after Easter perhaps - when the weather turns, and the fyrd can be raised, the West Saxons will rally to their King.’

‘If he still lives,’ Cynewulf muttered, determinedly gloomy.

‘He must live,’ Ibn Zuhr said. ‘If not, there would be no raids. The nobles would be submitting to Guthrum, seeking to find the best positions they can in a new Dane-land.’

‘Alfred must live,’ Amgrim whispered. ‘And he must prevail.’ He reached out and clasped Cynewulf’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt. ‘And you, priest, have dragged us across the country in pursuit of a dream you believe will inspire Alfred to victory. Don’t lose your courage now!’ Cynewulf heard him moving in the dark, burying what was left of the rabbit carcass. ‘No more talk. We must try to sleep.’