“War!” He sounded shocked.

“There is a man we have to kill.”

Eadgyth was a peace cow, and she was discovering that the rivalry of nations is difficult. Religion, because of the hatreds it engenders, is difficult. Families, because of the spite they encourage, are difficult. Eadgyth, Edward, Eadgifu, Æthelstan, Ælfweard, and Æthelhelm made a tangle of love, loyalties, and hate, mostly hate, and that was difficult. The only thing that was simple was war.

And Sigtryggr and I were going to war.

War is not easy. Simple, usually, but never easy. Dealing with Edward’s ambitions was like groping for eels in the dark, and I wondered if even he knew who he really wanted to succeed him. Or perhaps he did not care, because to think of the succession was to contemplate his own death, and none of us enjoy that prospect. As a young man Edward had shown promise, but wine, ale, and women had proved more appealing than the dull business of government, and he had grown fat, lazy, and sickly. In some ways, though, he had been a success, achieving what his more celebrated father had failed to. Edward had waged a campaign that had brought all of East Anglia under West Saxon rule, while his sister’s death had given him the chance to include Mercia in his kingdom, though Mercia was still unsure whether that was a blessing or a curse. During Edward’s reign much of his father’s dream had come true; the dream of a united Englaland, and that dream told me that the treaty we had just agreed was not worth a sparrow’s fart. The West Saxons, for it was the West Saxons who were creating Englaland, would never abandon their ambition to swallow Northumbria. That was simple, and being simple, it would mean war.

“Not necessarily,” Æthelstan had told me on the night after his sister’s wedding.

I scoffed at that. “You think we’ll just surrender Northumbria?”

“You have a Saxon queen now.”

“And my grandson,” I had pointed out, “is Sigtryggr’s heir.”

He had frowned at that truth. We had met in the palace, in a small room adjoining the royal chapel. He had asked me to come, even sending men to escort me through Tamweorthin’s streets in case Æthelhelm made another attempt on my life. I had gone reluctantly. Eadgifu had already tried to recruit my support for her infant sons, and I suspected Æthelstan also wanted my loyalty, so I had greeted him with surly words. “If you wanted me at the Witan so you could receive my oath,” I had told him, “you won’t get it.”

“Sit, lord,” he had said patiently. “There’s wine.”

I had sat, and he had then stood and paced the small room. We were alone. He fingered the cross about his neck, gazed at a leather wall-hanging that showed sinners tumbling to hell’s fires, and finally turned to me. “Should I be King of Wessex?”

“Of course,” I had answered without hesitation.

“So you’ll support me?”