He ignored the question. He had more important things to say. “The king is not well,” he said, “he has fevers. His flesh is bloated and his urine black.”

“Because he fell from his horse?”

“The accident has made his health worse. Much worse.”

“How long does he have?” I asked brutally.

“Who knows? A year, lord? Two years? A week?” Swithred did not seem offended by my question, nor particularly saddened at these forecasts of his king’s death. “We pray he recovers, of course.”

“Of course,” I said with the same amount of sincerity that Swithred had used. The candle’s smoke thickened.

“The king,” Swithred went on, speaking even lower now, “is being carried to Wintanceaster.” The candle flickered, but stayed alight. “He commanded Prince Æthelstan to remain in Tamweorthin.”

“As ruler of Mercia?” I asked.

“As the king’s loyal deputy,” Swithred said, and he was now speaking so low that I could hardly hear him. “The prince prays for his father daily.”

Prays what, I wondered. That Edward would die? Æthelstan, I had come to realize, had an ambition as keen as any sword edge. “A son should pray for his father,” I said.

Swithred ignored those dutiful words. “And the prince,” he continued in a voice that was scarce more than a whisper, “further prays that you will go south if you hear the news of King Edward’s death.”

Those last words made me turn to him. So he knew of my oath to Æthelstan? We had agreed to keep that pact secret, but Swithred, who was one of Æthelstan’s confessors and who now gazed innocently into the abbey church, must have known what his words meant. “So Prince Æthelstan,” I said snidely, “needs pagan help?”

“If the pagan advances God’s kingdom on earth, yes.” He paused, still gazing into the church. “If a tree must be cut down, lord,” he added, “the husbandman will use whatever ax is the sharpest.”

I almost smiled at that. The husbandman was Æthelstan, the tree was Æthelhelm, and I was the ax. “And what of you?” I asked.

“Me, lord?” Swithred turned to me with a puzzled look.

“You admitted to me that you send reports to King Edward. Have you reported that Prince Æthelstan wants me to go south at Edward’s death?” I did not explain that going south meant killing Ealdorman Æthelhelm. I did not need to.

“I have not told the king any such news,” Swithred said, “nor will I.”

I frowned at him. “You’ve made your dislike of pagans very plain,” I said, “so how can you possibly approve of the prince’s request?”

“Approve?” Swithred asked in a very bland voice. “I do not know why the prince should seek such an assurance, lord,” he said, lying through his teeth, “I am merely the messenger.”

“Then tell Prince Æthelstan,” I said, “that I will keep my word.”

“Thank you, lord,” he said, and, for the first time since he had met me, he sounded civil.

I looked back into the church. The candle had guttered out.