Æthelstan controlled his anger. “You tell me that Gruffudd comes from Gwent,” he said, looking at the man who showed the glint of gold at his neck. “But tell me, father, is not Arthfael King of Gwent?”

“He is, lord Prince.”

“And King Arthfael thought it good to send men to fight against my father, King Edward?”

Father Bledod still looked embarrassed. “The gold, lord, was paid to Gruffudd.”

That answer was evasive and Æthelstan knew it. He paused, looking at the warriors standing in the snow. “And who,” he asked, “is Gruffudd of Gwent?”

“He is kin to Arthfael,” the priest admitted.

“Kin?”

“His mother’s brother, lord Prince.”

Æthelstan thought for a moment. It could hardly have been a surprise that Welsh troops were at the siege. The Welsh and the Mercians were enemies and had always been enemies. King Offa, who had ruled Mercia in the days of its greatness, had built a wall and ditch to mark the frontier and had sworn to kill any Welshman who dared cross the wall, but of course they dared, indeed they seemed to regard the barrier as a challenge. The Mercian rebellion was an opportunity for the Welsh to weaken their traditional enemy. They would have been fools not to take advantage of the Saxon troubles, and the kingdom of Gwent, which lay on the other side of Offa’s ditch, must have hoped to gain land if Cynlæf’s rebellion had succeeded. A few dead warriors was a small price to pay if the Welsh gained some prime Saxon farmland, and it was plain that King Arthfael had made that bargain with Cynlæf. Father Bledod had done his best to absolve the Gwentish king of blame, and Æthelstan did not press him. “Tell me,” he said instead, “how many men did Gruffudd of Gwent bring to Ceaster?”

“Seventy-four, lord.”

“Then tell Gruffudd of Gwent,” Æthelstan said, and each time he repeated the name he invested it with more scorn, “that he and his seventy-four men are free to cross the river and go home. I will not stop them.” And that, I thought, was the right decision. There was no point in picking a quarrel with a defeated force. If Æthelstan had chosen to kill Gruffudd and his Welshmen, which he was surely entitled to do, the news of the massacre would spread through the Welsh kingdoms and provoke retaliation. It was better to provoke gratitude by allowing Gruffudd and his men to crawl back to their hovels. “But they may travel with nothing more than they brought with them,” Æthelstan added. “If they steal so much as one goat I will slaughter all of them!”

Father Bledod showed no concern at the threat. He must have expected it, and he knew as well as Æthelstan that the threat was a formality. Æthelstan just wanted the foreigners gone from Mercia. “Your goats are safe, lord,” the priest said with sly humor, “but Gruffudd’s son is not.”

“What of his son?”

The priest gestured toward the arena. “He is in there, lord.”