“I will tell him, lord Prince,” Bledod said, though none of us who were listening believed for one heartbeat that the threat would be translated.

“Then go,” Æthelstan commanded.

The Welshmen left. The sun was higher now, melting the snow, though it was still cold. A blustery wind came from the east to lift the banners hanging from Ceaster’s walls. I had crossed Britain to rescue a man who did not need rescuing. I had been tricked. But by whom? And why?

I had another enemy, a secret enemy, and I had danced to his drumbeat. Wyrd bið ful āræd.

CHAPTER THREE

The next day dawned bright and cold, the pale sky only discolored by smoke from the fires as Æthelstan’s men burned the remnants of Cynlæf’s encampment. Finan and I, mounted on horses captured from the rebels, rode slowly through the destruction. “When do we leave?” Finan asked.

“As soon as we can.”

“The horses could do with a rest.”

“Maybe tomorrow, then.”

“That soon?”

“I’m worried about Bebbanburg,” I confessed. “Why else would someone drag me across Britain?”

“Bebbanburg’s safe,” Finan insisted. “I still think it was Æthelhelm who tricked you.”

“Hoping I’d be killed here?”

“What else? He can’t kill you while you’re inside Bebbanburg, so he has to get you outside the walls somehow.”

“I spend enough time with Stiorra and her children,” I pointed out. My daughter, Queen of Northumbria, lived in Eoferwic’s rambling palace, which was a mix of Roman grandeur and solid timber halls.

“He can’t reach you in Eoferwic either. He wanted you out of Northumbria.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, unconvinced.

“I’m always right. I’m from Ireland. I was right about the snow, wasn’t I? And I’m still waiting for the two shillings.”

“You’re a Christian. Patience is one of your virtues.”

“I must be a living saint then.” He looked past me. “And talking of saints.”

I twisted in the saddle to see Father Swithred approaching. The priest was mounted on a fine gray stallion that he rode well, calming the beast when it shied sideways as a man threw an armful of dirty thatch onto a fire. Smoke billowed and sparks flew. Father Swithred rode through the smoke and curbed the stallion near us. “The prince,” he said brusquely, “requests your company today.”

“Requests or requires?” I asked.

“It’s the same thing,” Swithred said, and turned his horse, beckoning us to follow him.

I stayed where I was and held out a hand to check Finan. “Tell me,” I called after Swithred, “you’re a West Saxon?”

“You know I am,” he said, turning back suspiciously.

“Do you give orders to West Saxon ealdormen?”

He looked angry, but had the sense to suppress the fury. “The prince requests your company,” he paused, “lord.”

“Back in the city?”

“He’s waiting at the north gate,” Swithred said curtly. “We’re riding to Brunanburh.”

I spurred my horse alongside the priest’s gray. “I remember the day I first met you, priest,” I said, “and Prince Æthelstan told me he didn’t trust you.”