Death of Kings Read Online Free PDF

death of a king brings uncertainty, and in uncertainty lies opportunity.
    Beortsig was thinking the same. ‘Is Alfred really dying?’ he asked me as we rode north.
    ‘So everyone says.’
    ‘They’ve said it before.’
    ‘Many times,’ I agreed.
    ‘You believe it?’
    ‘I haven’t seen him for myself,’ I said, and I knew I would not be welcome in his palace even if I wanted to see him. I had been told Æthelflaed had gone to Wintanceaster for the Christmas feast, but more likely she had been summoned for the death-watch rather than for the dubious delights of her father’s table.
    ‘And Edward will inherit?’ Beortsig asked.
    ‘That’s what Alfred wants.’
    ‘And who becomes king in Mercia?’ he asked.
    ‘There is no king in Mercia,’ I said.
    ‘There should be,’ he said bitterly, ‘and not a West Saxon either! We’re Mercians, not West Saxons.’ I said nothing in response. There had once been kings in Mercia, but now it was subservient to Wessex. Alfred had managed that. His daughter was married to the most powerful of the Mercian ealdormen, and most Saxons in Mercia seemed content that they were effectively under Alfred’s protection, but not all Mercians liked that West Saxon dominance. When Alfred died the powerful Mercians would start eyeing their empty throne, and Beortsig, I supposed, was one such man. ‘Our forefathers were kings here,’ he told me.
    ‘My forefathers were kings in Northumbria,’ I retorted, ‘but I don’t want the throne.’
    ‘Mercia should be ruled by a Mercian,’ he said. He seemed uncomfortable in my company, or perhaps he was uneasy because we rode deep into the lands that Sigurd claimed.
    We rode directly north, the low winter sun throwing our shadows far ahead of us. The first steadings we passed were nothing but burned out ruins, then after midday we came to a village. The people had seen us coming, and so I took my horsemen into the nearby woods until we had rousted a couple out of their hiding place. They were Saxons, a slave and his wife, and they said their lord was a Dane. ‘Is he in his hall?’ I asked.
    ‘No, lord.’ The man was kneeling, shaking, unable to lift his eyes to meet my gaze.
    ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘Jarl Jorven, lord.’
    I looked at Beortsig, who shrugged. ‘Jorven is one of Sigurd’s men,’ he said, ‘and not really a jarl. Maybe he leads thirty or forty warriors?’
    ‘Is his wife in the hall?’ I asked the kneeling man.
    ‘She’s there, lord, and some warriors, but not many. The rest have gone, lord.’
    ‘Gone where?’
    ‘I don’t know, lord.’
    I tossed him a silver coin. I could scarcely afford it, but a lord is a lord.
    ‘Yule is coming,’ Beortsig said dismissively, ‘and Jorven has probably gone to Cytringan.’
    ‘Cytringan?’
    ‘We hear Sigurd and Cnut are celebrating Yule there,’ he said.
    We rode away from the wood, back into a damp pasture. Clouds were hiding the sun now, and I thought it would begin to rain before long. ‘Tell me about Jorven,’ I said to Beortsig.
    He shrugged. ‘A Dane, of course. He arrived two summers ago and Sigurd gave him this land.’
    ‘Is he kin to Sigurd?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘His age?’
    Another shrug. ‘Young.’
    And why would a man go to a feast without his wife? I almost asked the question aloud, then thought that Beortsig’s opinion would be worthless and so I kept silent. Instead I kicked my horse on until I reached a place where I could see Jorven’s hall. It was a fine enough building with a steep roof and a bull’s skull attached to the high gable. The thatch was new enough to have no moss. A palisade surrounded the hall and I could see two men watching us. ‘This would be a good time to attack Jorven,’ I said lightly.
    ‘They’ve left us in peace,’ Beortsig said.
    ‘And you think that will last?’
    ‘I think we should turn back,’ he said, and then, when I said nothing, he added, ‘if we want to make home by