The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) by Bernard Cornwell

the boy here,’ Brice called to my son.
    ‘Bring him to me,’ I ordered, and Uhtred obediently brought Æthelstan to my stirrup. I grinned down at the boy who I loved as though he were another son. He was a good boy, mischievous as a boy should be, but intelligent and tough. He had started his weapon training, learning sword-craft and shield-lore, and the exercises had filled him out. In time, I thought, he would be a good-looking man. He was dark-haired, thin-faced, with green eyes that I supposed had come from his mother. ‘You get the boy,’ I called to Brice, ‘when I get my daughter.’
    That made him think. He was such a stupid man. His brains, I thought, must be made of barley mush. A good warrior, yes, but men like Brice need to be controlled like dogs. I assumed Æthelhelm had sent him to Cirrenceastre because Brice could be relied on to obey his orders come what may, he was unstoppable like a boar-hound, but when the boar has sunk his tusk into the dog’s belly and is ripping the intestines out then the dog should know he’s beaten. Brice was still thinking, something he found hard to do, but at last he saw the apparent trap in my words. ‘We shall make the exchange outside the town,’ he proposed.
    ‘Outside the town?’ I asked, pretending not to understand.
    ‘You think I’m a fool, lord?’ he asked.
    ‘I would never think that,’ I said gently.
    ‘Your men will stay inside the walls,’ he ordered, ‘and you will bring the boy outside.’
    I frowned as if I was considering that proposal, which, of course, made sense for Brice. He had worked out that my men could ambush him in Cirrenceastre’s narrow streets, but if the exchange was made in the fields outside the town then there was no danger of such a trap.
    ‘Well?’ he demanded.
    I stared at the man on the wall and, very slowly, raised my head. I paused, then nodded fast. The man on the wall vanished, but Brice, of course, believed the nod was for him. ‘We shall do it your way,’ I said to Brice, ‘but I want your word of honour.’
    ‘My word, lord?’
    ‘That the man who struck my daughter will be punished.’
    ‘I said so, didn’t I?’
    I spurred my horse a little closer. The hooves were loud on the Roman paving. ‘I want you to give the man to me,’ I said.
    ‘He will be punished,’ Brice said stubbornly.
    Then the shouts started and the unmistakable sound of swords clashing and I knew Finan and his men were inside the house. They had not bothered to clear the thatch and break the wattles beneath, but simply jumped onto the roof, which instantly gave way. Gerbruht, a Frisian who never seemed to stop eating and who weighed as much as a horse, had evidently jumped first, and the rest of Finan’s men followed through the gaping hole he had made. I did not react to the sounds, but just kept looking at Brice. ‘You will give the man to me,’ I said, and might have saved my breath because Brice suddenly heard the commotion and realised he had been tricked. I was ready to spur my horse at him, using the stallion’s weight to throw him down, but instead he drew his sword and ran at me.
    ‘You bastard!’ he shouted. He was quick. No warrior stays alive by being slow, but for a big man he was surprisingly fast. He covered the few paces towards me, sword swinging to take my horse in the face and I wrenched the reins and almost blacked out with the stab of pain that seared from my lower ribs, and I knew I had lost, that he was too fast, that he would drag me from the saddle and either kill me or, if he had a grain of sense, hold me as another hostage.
    Yet if he was fast, my son was like lightning.
    Brice’s sword never struck me or my horse. I was hardly aware what happened, but I learned that Uhtred drew his seax, Attor, and threw it. The short blade struck Brice’s legs, tripping him. I heard the clatter as he fell, but I was still trying to calm my breathing. Brice stood immediately, but Uhtred had his long-sword, his