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

prisoners. He was scowling, an angry man in a black robe, with a heavy silver cross hanging at his neck. He was older, perhaps in his forties, with thick grey eyebrows and thin lips. ‘Was he the one who made you scream?’
    ‘I heard the hooves,’ she said, ‘and hoped it was you. So I screamed.’
    ‘And that’s when he hit you?’
    ‘He hit me before that,’ she said bitterly, ‘and tore this,’ she showed me the ripped breast of her linen dress.
    Finan strolled across the small square. ‘There’s no fight in the bastards,’ he said, sounding disappointed.
    Brice and his remaining men were standing by the house door, guarded by my swords. ‘Take them back inside the house,’ I ordered, then took a deep, painful breath. ‘It’s over!’ I called to the crowd. ‘Nothing more to see! So go back to work!’
    Father Creoda, the priest who looked after Æthelflaed’s church and who taught in the town’s small school, hurried to Æthelstan’s side. He took the boy’s face in his hands, closed his eyes, and seemed to be saying a prayer of thanks for his safety.
    ‘Father Creoda!’ I called. ‘So the little bastard wasn’t at school?’
    ‘He was not, lord.’
    ‘And he should have been?’
    ‘Yes, lord.’
    ‘So thrash him,’ I said.
    ‘It does no good, lord,’ the priest said plaintively. Father Creoda was a decent man, earnest and honest. He had come to Mercia from Wessex and believed in King Alfred’s dream of an educated community, pious and diligent, and I did not doubt that Æthelstan, who was as clever as a weasel, had long ago decided that Father Creoda’s authority was easily defied.
    ‘It doesn’t do any good,’ I agreed, ‘but it might make you feel better.’ I leaned down to take the seax from Æthelstan. ‘And if you don’t thrash him, I will. And take the grin off your ugly face,’ I added to the boy.
    But I was grinning too. And wondering what new enemies I had just made.
    And knowing I was about to make a lot more.
     
    Æthelflaed’s house was built around a courtyard. It was not unlike the house in Lundene where I had lived with Gisela, only this building was larger. The courtyard had a square pool in the centre where frogs left thick skeins of spawn. I often tried to imagine the Romans in these houses. They had left pictures of themselves, either painted on the wall plaster or made of small floor tiles, but the paintings were all faded and water-streaked, while the tiles were usually broken. Yet enough could be seen to tell us that Roman men had worn a kind of white sheet wrapped about themselves, or else a skirt sewn with metal panels that was worn beneath a breastplate. They were often naked too, especially the women. In the largest room of Æthelflaed’s house there was a picture on the floor that showed naked women running through leafy trees and being pursued by a man with goat horns and hairy goat legs. Father Creoda, when he first arrived in Cirrenceastre, had insisted that the picture be destroyed because, he said, it showed a pagan god, but Æthelflaed had refused. ‘He never stopped looking at it,’ she had told me, amused, ‘so I told him it was a warning about the dangers of paganism.’
    Father Creoda was staring at the picture now, or rather gazing at one lissom girl who was looking over her shoulder at the pursuing goat-god. ‘She’s pretty, father,’ I said, and he immediately looked away, cleared his throat, and found nothing to say. I had not asked him to join us in the house, but he had come anyway, staying protectively close to Æthelstan. ‘So,’ I said to the boy, ‘you weren’t at school?’
    ‘I forgot to go, lord,’ he said.
    ‘You were at the smithy?’ I demanded, ignoring his grin.
    ‘I was, lord.’
    ‘Because your girlfriend is there?’
    ‘Girlfriend, lord?’ he asked innocently, then shook his head. ‘No, lord, I was there because Godwulf is making me a sword. He’s teaching me how to work the metal.’
    I took the