Æthelstan laughed. “Cynlæf hired him!” he said. “I already know that! You waste my time, father.”

“It is not Cynlæf,” it was Gruffudd himself who spoke in halting English.

“Of course it was not Cynlæf,” Æthelstan said scornfully, “he would have sent someone else to bribe you. The devil has evil men to do his work.”

“It is not Cynlæf,” Gruffudd said again, then added something in his own language.

“It was not Cynlæf,” Father Bledod translated. “Cynlæf knew nothing of our coming till we arrived here.”

Æthelstan said nothing for a few heartbeats, then reached out and gently took his cloak from Father Bledod’s shoulders. “Tell Gruffudd of Gwent that I will spare his son’s life and he may leave at midday tomorrow. In exchange for his son he will give me the name of my enemy and he will also give me the gold chain about his neck.”

Father Bledod translated the demand, and Gruffudd gave a reluctant nod. “It is agreed, lord Prince,” Bledod said.

“And the chain,” Æthelstan said, “will be given to the church.”

“Earsling,” I said again, still too low for Æthelstan’s ears.

“And Gruffudd of Gwent,” Æthelstan went on, “will agree to keep his men from raiding Mercia for one whole year.” That too was agreed, though I suspected it was a meaningless demand. Æthelstan might as well have demanded that it did not rain for a whole year as expect that the Welsh would end their thieving. “We will meet again tomorrow,” Æthelstan finished.

“Tomorrow, edling,” Gruffudd said, “tomorrow.” He walked away, followed by his men and by Father Bledod. The snow was falling harder, the flakes whirling in the light of the campfires.

“I sometimes find it difficult,” Æthelstan said as he watched them walk away, “to remember that the Welsh are Christians.”

I smiled at that. “There’s a king in Dyfed called Hywel. You’d like him.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“He’s a good man,” I said warmly, and rather surprised myself by saying it.

“And a Christian!” Æthelstan was mocking me.

“I said he was good, not perfect.”

Æthelstan crossed himself. “Tomorrow we must all be good,” he said, “and spare the life of a Welshman.”

And discover the name of an enemy. I was fairly sure I already knew that name, though I could not be certain of it, though I was certain that one day I would have to kill the man. So a Welshman must live so that a Saxon could die.

Edling, a Welsh title, the same as our ætheling, meaning the son of the king who would be the next king. Gruffudd of Gwent, who I assumed was a chieftain of some kind, even maybe a minor king himself, had used the title to flatter Æthelstan, because no one knew who would succeed King Edward. Æthelstan was the oldest son, but malicious rumor, spread by the church, insisted he was a bastard, and almost all the ealdormen of Wessex supported Ælfweard, Edward’s second son, who was indubitably legitimate. “They should make me King of Wessex,” I told Æthelstan next morning.