Bernard Cornwell - Death of Kings

Death of Kings

Bernard Cornwell

Death of Kings is for
Anne LeClaire,
Novelist and Friend,
who supplied the first line.

The spelling of place names in Anglo-Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whichever spelling is cited in either the Oxford or the Cambridge Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest to AD 900, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hglingaigg. Nor have I been consistent myself; I should spell England as Englaland, and have preferred the modern form Northumbria to Nrhymbralond to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list, like the spellings themselves, is capricious.

Contents

The Sorceress

Death of a King

Angels

Death in Winter

The Sorceress

Every day is ordinary, Father Willibald said, until it isnt. He smiled happily, as though he had just said something he thought I would find significant, then looked disappointed when I said nothing. Every day, he started again.

I heard your drivelling, I snarled.

Until it isnt, he finished weakly. I liked Willibald, even if he was a priest. He had been one of my childhood tutors and now I counted him as a friend. He was gentle, earnest, and if the meek ever do inherit the earth then Willibald will be rich beyond measure.

And every day is ordinary until something changes, and that cold Sunday morning had seemed as ordinary as any until the fools tried to kill me. It was so cold. There had been rain during the week, but on that morning the puddles froze and a hard frost whitened the grass. Father Willibald had arrived soon after sunrise and discovered me in the meadow. We couldnt find your estate last night, he explained his early appearance, shivering, so we stayed at Saint Rumwolds monastery, he gestured vaguely southwards. It was cold there, he added.

Theyre mean bastards, those monks, I said. I was supposed to deliver a weekly cartload of firewood to Saint Rumwolds, but that was a duty I ignored. The monks could cut their own timber. Who was Rumwold? I asked Willibald. I knew the answer, but wanted to drag Willibald through the thorns.

He was a very pious child, lord, he said.

A child?

A baby, he said, sighing as he saw where the conversation was leading, a mere three days old when he died.

A three-day-old baby is a saint?

Willibald flapped his hands. Miracles happen, lord, he said, they really do. They say little Rumwold sang Gods praises whenever he suckled.

I feel much the same when I get hold of a tit, I said, so does that make me a saint?

Willibald shuddered, then sensibly changed the subject. Ive brought you a message from the theling, he said, meaning King Alfreds eldest son, Edward.