The Flame Bearer (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 10) by Bernard Cornwell Page A

Brunulfson’s son?’ I asked.
    He looked surprised at the question, then pleased. He nodded. ‘I am, lord.’
    ‘Your father fought beside me at Ethandun,’ I said, ‘and fought well! He slew Danes that day. Does he still live?’
    ‘He does.’
    ‘Give him my warm greeting.’
    He hesitated and I sensed he wanted to thank me, but there was a pretence that had to be spoken first. ‘And whose greeting is that?’ he asked.
    I half smiled, looking along the line of his men. ‘You know who I am, Brunulf,’ I said. ‘You called me “lord”, so don’t pretend you don’t know me.’ I pointed at the oldest of his warriors, a grizzled man with a scar across his forehead. ‘You fought beside me at Fearnhamme. Am I right?’
    The man grinned, ‘I did, lord.’
    ‘You served Steapa, yes?’
    ‘Yes, lord.’
    ‘So tell Brunulf who I am.’
    ‘He’s …’
    ‘I do know who he is,’ Brunulf interrupted, then gave me a slight nod of his head. ‘It is an honour to meet you, lord.’ Those words, spoken courteously, caused the eldest of the two priests to spit on the grass. Brunulf ignored the insult. ‘And may I ask what brings Uhtred of Bebbanburg to this poor place?’
    ‘I was about to ask what brought you here,’ I retorted.
    ‘You have no business here,’ it was the spitting priest who spoke. He was a strongly built man, broad-chested, older than Brunulf by perhaps ten or fifteen years, with a fierce face, short-cropped black hair, and an undeniable air of authority. His black robe was made of finely woven wool, and the cross on his chest was of gold. The second priest was a much smaller man, younger, and plainly very nervous of our presence.
    I looked at the older priest. ‘And who are you?’ I demanded.

    ‘A man doing God’s business.’
    ‘You know my name,’ I said mildly, ‘but do you know what they call me?’
    ‘Satan’s earsling,’ he snarled.
    ‘Perhaps they do,’ I said, ‘but they also call me the priest-killer, but it’s been many years since I last slit the belly of an arrogant priest. I need the practice.’ I smiled at him.
    Brunulf held up a hand to check whatever retort was about to be made. ‘Father Herefrith fears you are trespassing, Lord Uhtred.’ Brunulf, plainly, was not looking for a fight. His tone was courteous.
    ‘How can a man trespass on his own king’s land?’ I asked.
    ‘This land,’ Brunulf said, ‘belongs to Edward of Wessex.’
    I laughed at that. It was a brazen statement, as outrageous as Constantin’s claim that all the land north of the wall belonged to the Scots. ‘This land,’ I said, ‘is a half-day’s ride north of the frontier.’
    ‘There is proof of our claim,’ Father Herefrith said. His voice was a deep, hostile growl, and his gaze even more unfriendly. I guessed he had been a warrior once, he had scars on one cheek, and his dark eyes betrayed no fear, only challenge. He was big, but it was all muscle, the kind of muscle a man develops from years of practising sword-skill. I noticed that he stood his horse apart from the rest of Brunulf’s followers, even from his fellow priest, as if he despised their company.
    ‘Proof,’ I said scornfully.
    ‘Proof!’ he spat back. ‘Though we need prove nothing to you. You’re shit from the devil’s arse and you trespass on King Edward’s land.’
    ‘Father Herefrith,’ Brunulf seemed disturbed by the older priest’s belligerence, ‘is a chaplain to King Edward.’
    ‘Father Herefrith,’ I said, keeping my voice mild, ‘was born from a sow’s arsehole.’
    Herefrith just stared at me. I had been told once that there is a tribe of men far beyond the seas who can kill with a look, and it seemed as if the big priest was trying to emulate them. I looked away from him before it became a contest, and saw that the second banner, the one that had not stretched in the small wind, had now been taken down from the fort’s ramparts. I wondered if a war party was assembling to follow that