I also turned to see a dozen men approaching. Eleven were warriors, all in mail, all cloaked, all bearded, all wearing helmets, and three carrying shields painted with creatures I supposed to be dragons. Their swords were sheathed. The firelight reflected from gold at one man’s neck and shone silver from a cross that was worn by the one priest who accompanied them. The warriors stopped some twenty yards away, but the priest kept walking until he was a couple of paces from Æthelstan, where he dropped to his knees. “Lord Prince,” he said.

“Stand, stand! I don’t expect priests to kneel to me! You represent God. I should kneel to you.”

“Earsling,” I said, but too softly for Æthelstan to hear.

The priest stood. Two crusts of snow clung to his black robe where he had knelt. He was shivering, and, to my surprise, and even more to the priest’s astonishment, Æthelstan strode forward and draped his own thick cloak about the man’s shoulders. “What brings you here, father?” he asked. “And who are you?”

“Father Bledod,” the priest answered. He was a skinny man with lank black hair, no hat, a straggly beard, and frightened eyes. He fidgeted with the silver cross. “Thank you for the cloak, lord.”

“You’re Welsh?”

“Yes, lord.” Father Bledod gave an awkward gesture toward his companions. “That is Gruffudd of Gwent. He would speak with you, lord.”

“With me?”

“You are the Prince Æthelstan, lord?”

Æthelstan smiled. “I am.”

“Gruffudd of Gwent, lord, would return to his home,” the priest said.

“I am surprised,” Æthelstan said mildly, “that Gruffudd of Gwent thought to leave his home in the first place. Or did he come to Mercia to enjoy the weather?”

The priest, who seemed to be the only Welshman capable of speaking the Saxon tongue, had no reply. He just frowned, while the eleven warriors stared at us in mute belligerence.

“Why did he come?” Æthelstan asked.

The priest made a helpless gesture with his left hand, then looked embarrassed. “We were paid to come, lord Prince,” he admitted.

I could see that answer made Æthelstan angry. To the Welshmen he doubtless looked calm, but I could sense his fury that Cynlæf’s rebellion had hired Welsh troops. There had ever been enmity between Mercia and the Welsh. Each raided the other, but Mercia, with its rich fields and plump orchards, had more to lose. Indeed the first warrior I ever killed in a shield wall was a Welshman who had come to Mercia to steal cattle or women. I killed four men that day. I had no mail, no helmet, just a borrowed shield and my two swords, and that was the day I first experienced the battle-joy. Our small force of Mercians had been led by Tatwine, a monstrous beast of a warrior, and when the battle was done, when the bridge where we had fought was slippery with blood, he had complimented me. “God love me,” I remembered him saying in awe, “but you’re a savage one.” I was a youngster, raw and half-trained, and thought that was praise.