'An invasion of Mercia?' Coenwulf's eyes flamed for a heartbeat. 'You have proof of this?' he asked. A woman took the dead torch from the wall and held it in the hearth flames till it burst back to life.
'Proof, my lord? Only the blood on my sword, not yet dry,' Mauger answered grimly. Then he shrugged and stepped forward. 'Oh, and a letter, my king. The scratchings of some monk, though I'd wager the man hitched up his skirts and ran at the first sniff of trouble.'
'Hold your tongue, man!' King Coenwulf clamoured, his voice filling the dark hall. 'The word of a man of God will not be disparaged! Our faith is our greatest weapon against the heathens and devils who writhe in the darkness beyond our borders. You would do well to remember it. Bring me this letter!'
'My lord,' Mauger muttered, giving a shallow bow, and one of the king's guards stepped forward to take the offered parchment. I could not read, but Egfrith had assured us there was that about the dark flowing markings that was deliberately imperfect, which an astute man might take for terror, as though a trembling heart had steered the hand. To me it seemed incredible that those small twisting shapes invoked a voice from far away; a voice that implored Mercia's warrior of God to rescue his flock from the Northumbrians. As Coenwulf clutched Father Egfrith's parchment I saw that his hands were trembling. He called for someone to fetch his abbot, then roared at the slave girl as the torch went out again. White spittle had gathered at the corners of his lips and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as though trying to contain his rage. The abbot soon appeared. Red-faced and breathless, he hurried to where Coenwulf sat holding the parchment in the air, then took the thing and began to read, squinting in the darkness. After a few moments, the abbot leant and whispered in the king's ear. Coenwulf's eyes widened as though he no longer saw us standing before him, but saw instead King Eardwulf himself riding through Mercia, a flaming torch in one hand and a sword in the other. I clenched my jaw to keep from smiling, for King Coenwulf of Mercia had the fire of battle in his eyes.
The king's face was dark and grim-set when he rode out later that day at the head of his war band. His household men, those with warrior rings and the finest arms, rode behind him, whilst after them went the men of the levy wearing whatever leather or iron armour they owned, clutching spears or scythes or hunting bows. Coenwulf had expected us to ride north with him, but Mauger had grumbled that we were exhausted and begged that we be allowed to follow on once we had a meal in our bellies. The king had spat in disgust and waved us away coldly, and I'm sure Mauger's request confirmed his suspicion that we were cowards. I liked Coenwulf then, for he seemed like a man who would rather command a farmer with a pitchfork and a stout heart than a man in mail with no stomach for the fight. So we stood awhile by the great gate, watching the war band disappear as a veil of white cloud filled the sky and blurred the sun. Again I marvelled at the magic of the written word, which could stir a heart to action as surely as a battle cry. And a part of me feared this gospel book we had been sent to find, for it must surely be a powerful thing indeed.
Then we set off south to fetch Sigurd and his Norsemen, hoping the book that King Egbert of Wessex was so desperate to get his hands on was not on a horse walking north.
CHAPTER TEN
'HOW MANY WARRIORS WENT WITH HIM, RAVEN?' SIGURD ASKED. His eyes shone as though he believed the Norns of fate were weaving the most wonderful pattern.
'No less than seventy,' I replied, 'and thirty of those were his own men. Real fighters, my lord. The rest were levy men. He left maybe twenty household men behind that I saw. There are others too, but they shouldn't give you much trouble.'
'We should send the monk in to steal the book,' Olaf said, staring at Father Egfrith in wonder, for we all knew it was the monk's letter rather than my and Mauger's presence which had convinced King Coenwulf to ride north. 'He knows what the thing looks like.' He shrugged. 'Damned if I've ever seen a book before. Heard about them, though.'
'No,' Mauger said, shaking his head, 'too risky.' He wore his warrior rings again and they obscured the fierce tattoos on his arms, clinking whenever he moved. 'If they catch wind that it's the book we're after, they'll bury the damned thing so deep we might as well stand around picking our arses till judgement day.' He thumbed at Father Egfrith. 'He might be a sly old stoat, but if he went alone he'd have to fool churchmen like the one who whispers in Coenwulf's ear, and some of them are sharp as a Frank's blade. They're cunning bastards, take it from me. You've never had to raise war silver from priests. Blood from a stone,' he said, spitting.