The Pale Horseman (The Saxon Stories, #2)

by Bernard Cornwell

“What his wife wants me to do,” he went on, “is pull the guts out of your smelly arse and feed them to the pigs.” He glared at me. “You know what the penalty is for drawing a sword in the king’s presence?” “A fine?” I guessed. “Death, you fool, death. They made a new law a month ago.” “How was I supposed to know?” “But Alfred’s feeling merciful.” Wulfhere ignored my question. “So you’re not to dangle off a gallows. Not today, anyhow. But he wants your assurance you’ll keep the peace.” “What peace?” “His damned peace, you fool. He wants us to fight the Danes, not slice each other up. So for the moment you have to swear to keep the peace.” “For the moment?” “For the moment,” he said tonelessly, and I just shrugged. He took that for acceptance. “So you killed Ubba?” he asked. “I did.” “That’s what I hear.” He sneezed again. “You know Edor?” “I know him,” I said. Edor was one of Ealdorman Odda’s battle chiefs, a warrior of the men of Defnascir, and he had fought beside us at Cynuit. “Edor told me what happened,” Wulfhere said, “but only because he trusts me. For God’s sake stop fidgeting!” This last shout was directed at Æthelwold who was poking beneath the altar’s linen cover, presumably in search of something valuable. Alfred, rather than murder his nephew, seemed intent on boring him to death. Æthelwold had never been allowed to fight, lest he make a reputation for himself; instead he had been forced to learn his letters, which he hated, and so he idled his time away, hunti...