Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One Read Online Free PDF Page A

nobleman would be meeting such people.’
    ‘And poachers wouldn’t carry torches. They couldn’t risk being seen.’
    ‘Who’d be there to see them in the middle of the night?’
    ‘People going for a piss, like me.’
    ‘Well, people staggering around in the pitch black aren’t generally looking at the woods, Aethelnoth. They’re usually watching where they’re going so they don’t tread in pig shit, or bump their big toes on hard rocks.’
    ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’
    ‘True; and anyway, I’ve a better solution.’
    Aethelnoth scowled at Eadwulf’s smug expression. ‘Go on then, enlighten me.’
    ‘It appears to me,’ Eadwulf began, with an air of pomposity just to irk his friend, ‘that these people with torches must have been strangers, come to meet someone.’
    ‘But we still don’t know the identity of either.’
    ‘You’ve forgotten one little detail, Aethelnoth,’ Eadwulf said, staring at the brooch in his friend’s hand. ‘We have a useful piece of evidence here. I just need to remember where I’ve seen it before.’
    * * *
    Warm rays of the setting sun slanted across the valley, casting long shadows of the horsemen and scattered patches of woodland. Beorhtwulf sighed. Not far now.
    They’d left Winchester the previous morning, escorted by a dozen of Aethelwulf’s men as far as Chertsey, where they were housed overnight in the hall of a Wessex thegn. Riding again since mid-morning, they’d forded the Thames into Mercia at Kingston and followed the river downstream towards the London manor. The talks with Aethelwulf had confirmed the value of having Wessex as an ally. With the onset of May, West Saxon armies would swarm across the Thames Valley. A united front: Mercia and Wessex.
    Beorhtwulf smiled at the thickset thegn riding at his side with a faraway look in his eyes. ‘We’ve been away too long, Creoda. Thinking of home?’
    ‘I was, my lord. Werburh’s due to give birth in a few weeks and she expected me home long before now.’
    ‘None of us anticipated being in London this long, Creoda – first the snows and now this Danish threat.’
    ‘Werburh will understand about the snows, my lord, but I’ve not sent word of the raids. How can I, so close to the birthing? A first child’s a great worry to a woman.’
    Beorhtwulf nodded, appropriate words evading him, and delved into silent contemplation. Beside them the Thames flowed full after the snowmelt, rays of the setting sun bouncing on its turbulent surface. Closer to London the land along the banks became marshy, its only use being in the thick growth of reeds for roofing thatch, but immediately ahead of them a stretch of dense woodland reached down to the banks. Veering to skirt the trees, the hairs on Beorhtwulf’s neck suddenly prickled. It was too quiet; too still . . .
    Too late he yelled, ‘To me!’
    Extended in a drawn-out cavalcade, the Mercians didn’t stand a chance. The attackers came in waves from the concealment of the woods, their screeches obliterating the silence as they hurled themselves at his men. Vastly outnumbered, the Mercians were dragged from their mounts and brutally hacked down. As the inevitable end neared, only Creoda and young Beornred stood with Beorhtwulf for the final strike.
    Creoda suddenly dropped like a winged bird, blood gurgling through his lips. The axe had come so fast that Beorhtwulf hadn’t seen it coming. Then Beornred was dragged away and Beohtwulf stood alone. Fur-clad shapes swooped on the dead to gather the spoils; like vultures stripping the very meat from their bodies. Fleeting images assailed his mind – of Morwenna and Eadwulf, and his brother, Burgred. He would never see them again.
    ‘Kill me now, you filthy savages,’ he screamed. ‘What in God’s name are you waiting for?’
    The blow to his head sent him reeling. He retched with the pain and rolled onto his side, dizzy and disorientated. But he heard the voice.
    ‘God? Which god would that be? Do