The Empty Throne (The Saxon Stories #8)

by Bernard Cornwell

“He didn’t sleep with a girl,” I could hear my father’s scorn as I rode, “he gave her a good humping, and you don’t sleep through that.”

They smile and sing their psalms and preach that their creed is all about love, but tell them you believe in a different god and suddenly it’s all spittle and spite.

Many men do not beat their wives, even though the law allows it and the church encourages it, but a man gains no reputation by beating a weaker person. Æthelred had beaten Æthelflaed, but he was a weak man, and it takes a weak man to prove his strength by striking a woman.

Wyrd bið ful āræd. Fate is inexorable. We are given power and we lose it.

We live in a world where the strongest win, and the strongest must expect to be disliked. Then I am a pagan, and though Christians teach that they must love their enemies, few do.

“Wearp ðā wunden-mæl,” we bellowed as the oar blades bit, “wrættum gebunden,” as we hauled on the looms, “yrre oretta, þæt hit on eorðan læg,” as we dragged the hull through the glittering sea, “stið ond styl-ecg,” as we recovered the oars and swung them back. The words told how Beowulf,

Pride, I suppose, is the most treacherous of virtues. The Christians call it a sin, but no poet sings of men who have no pride. Christians say the meek will inherit the earth, but the meek inspire no songs.