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them, Alfred had begun publicly to show her preference. Men whispered that she had great powers, that
she would use them for the cause. The Celts spoke of her with great deference as a Druidess who had
some special connection to the unseen world. And the fact that she was breeding with Alfred's child
without benefit of wedlock seemed to bother no one, not even Asser, that stalwart of the Church who
had been tormenting Osrick with learning letters for almost a month now. Bah! Osrick thought as he
jerked his horse up just behind Alfred's. Apparently goddesses were excused from rites like marriage.
There was no room on the narrow road for him to ride abreast of his king, as Asser and Epona did. He
seethed as he settled in beside Raedwald. They had been riding hard for two days. It had rained as they
crossed the Salisbury Plain, and while it was May warm, the constant damp made every piece of leather
Osrick wore chafe at his skin. He was tired. They were all tired except maybe Alfred, who did not
ever seem fatigued.
Pony's influence on the king was growing greater than Osrick's own. She was probably spreading poison
about him into Alfred's ears at every turn and Alfred was easy enough to influence when he was not
paying attention. That had been his plan if Alfred no when Alfred brought off this miracle and won
back the island: Osrick would manipulate the youth behind the scenes. He himself could never have
raised the army winding out behind them like some giant dragon's tail until it disappeared into the
distance; it took Alfred's intensity, his dream, his sureness and beauty. Those were what created the
faithful. But Alfred's incandescence was his weakness, too. When he was dreaming of tomorrow, he
forgot about today. Which left room for Osrick's machinations. But not if the bitch priestess was around.
Not if she drew Alfred's attention to his plan.
Also, if someone didn't do something about her, Epona's bastard might well be declared Alfred's heir.
Even if the child was a girl, of which the whore seemed so sure, she could be contracted to wed the son
of Cent, riding behind them at the head of his troops, or any other man with an army at his back, and
Osrick would have competition. Or maybe Alfred would hold back contracting his bastard to watch his
allies fight for the chance to bind their destiny to his. No, that was too devious for Alfred. But it didn't
matter; men would come to the child's mother for influence, not to Osrick. His power would be nil. The
palm of his sword hand itched and couldn't be scratched.
"Eddington is the perfect place to meet them," Alfred was saying to Epona, who looked gray with fatigue.
"If we occupy the rolling land before it falls away to the Salisbury Plain, they must approach by way of
the gorge. It will control their attack, and we them, in consequence."
Osrick inserted himself into the conversation. "How is it you know of this place?" He couldn't believe that
Alfred was sharing strategy with a girl and a priest rather than him.
The king turned in his saddle. "Oh, it's you, Osrick." Even that sounded dismissive. "You forget I was
born at Wantage. I roamed all over this part of the country when I was a growing lad with a fast horse
and a restless mind. When I saw the lay of the land at Eddington, I was but twelve summers, I think. But
I knew it for what it was even then, and played out battles in my mind for hours there, rolling on the grass
in the summer sun."
"So you come back to your childhood dreams to realize your destiny," Asser said. "I must remember that
for my record."
Alfred laughed apologetically. "Asser wants to tell the history of my life."
"Is it not usual to wait until one is dead to sing one's songs?" Osrick asked sullenly.
"No songs. I will write it in a book," the priest said proudly. "It will not be forgotten, or changed in future
times."
Osrick bit back the word useless, remembering the value Alfred put on writing and reading. "Books
burn," he warned, his words clipped. "Memories are surer."
"For a while," Asser agreed. "But if the books are cared for, they will last when all who sang the song are
dead, or when all those who sing have forgotten a song's meaning."
"I will build you a library, Asser," Alfred pledged with a laugh, "for all the books you write. Perhaps I,
too, will write a story about Epona, and how she lent us courage in the Battle of Eddington."
How could Alfred have the energy to laugh so? How could he give Epona the credit for the coming battle
before it even occurred? Osrick gritted his teeth and resolved to do something about the bitch priestess.
He was not a man to sit idly by and watch his best chance at power be snatched away especially not
by a girl who needed only purple eyes to ensnare a king.
Slepnir sidled nervously as Val brought him to stand beside Karn's bay, Thorn. The jarls circled around
Guthrum to hear his assessment of the situation. Their army seethed at their back, undulating across the
plain in the early morning mist. The weather was warm, a day for gathering new budded flowers with a
maid. But not today. Above them, up the almost sheer face of the hills, the Saxon army waited. The
Danir were not close enough to be in arrow or javelin range. Still they could see one man, his bare head
gleaming blond, sitting a big black horse beneath a fluttering dragon pennant. It was Alfred, and he stood
at the edge of the precipice and dared them to come up the gorge. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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them, Alfred had begun publicly to show her preference. Men whispered that she had great powers, that
she would use them for the cause. The Celts spoke of her with great deference as a Druidess who had
some special connection to the unseen world. And the fact that she was breeding with Alfred's child
without benefit of wedlock seemed to bother no one, not even Asser, that stalwart of the Church who
had been tormenting Osrick with learning letters for almost a month now. Bah! Osrick thought as he
jerked his horse up just behind Alfred's. Apparently goddesses were excused from rites like marriage.
There was no room on the narrow road for him to ride abreast of his king, as Asser and Epona did. He
seethed as he settled in beside Raedwald. They had been riding hard for two days. It had rained as they
crossed the Salisbury Plain, and while it was May warm, the constant damp made every piece of leather
Osrick wore chafe at his skin. He was tired. They were all tired except maybe Alfred, who did not
ever seem fatigued.
Pony's influence on the king was growing greater than Osrick's own. She was probably spreading poison
about him into Alfred's ears at every turn and Alfred was easy enough to influence when he was not
paying attention. That had been his plan if Alfred no when Alfred brought off this miracle and won
back the island: Osrick would manipulate the youth behind the scenes. He himself could never have
raised the army winding out behind them like some giant dragon's tail until it disappeared into the
distance; it took Alfred's intensity, his dream, his sureness and beauty. Those were what created the
faithful. But Alfred's incandescence was his weakness, too. When he was dreaming of tomorrow, he
forgot about today. Which left room for Osrick's machinations. But not if the bitch priestess was around.
Not if she drew Alfred's attention to his plan.
Also, if someone didn't do something about her, Epona's bastard might well be declared Alfred's heir.
Even if the child was a girl, of which the whore seemed so sure, she could be contracted to wed the son
of Cent, riding behind them at the head of his troops, or any other man with an army at his back, and
Osrick would have competition. Or maybe Alfred would hold back contracting his bastard to watch his
allies fight for the chance to bind their destiny to his. No, that was too devious for Alfred. But it didn't
matter; men would come to the child's mother for influence, not to Osrick. His power would be nil. The
palm of his sword hand itched and couldn't be scratched.
"Eddington is the perfect place to meet them," Alfred was saying to Epona, who looked gray with fatigue.
"If we occupy the rolling land before it falls away to the Salisbury Plain, they must approach by way of
the gorge. It will control their attack, and we them, in consequence."
Osrick inserted himself into the conversation. "How is it you know of this place?" He couldn't believe that
Alfred was sharing strategy with a girl and a priest rather than him.
The king turned in his saddle. "Oh, it's you, Osrick." Even that sounded dismissive. "You forget I was
born at Wantage. I roamed all over this part of the country when I was a growing lad with a fast horse
and a restless mind. When I saw the lay of the land at Eddington, I was but twelve summers, I think. But
I knew it for what it was even then, and played out battles in my mind for hours there, rolling on the grass
in the summer sun."
"So you come back to your childhood dreams to realize your destiny," Asser said. "I must remember that
for my record."
Alfred laughed apologetically. "Asser wants to tell the history of my life."
"Is it not usual to wait until one is dead to sing one's songs?" Osrick asked sullenly.
"No songs. I will write it in a book," the priest said proudly. "It will not be forgotten, or changed in future
times."
Osrick bit back the word useless, remembering the value Alfred put on writing and reading. "Books
burn," he warned, his words clipped. "Memories are surer."
"For a while," Asser agreed. "But if the books are cared for, they will last when all who sang the song are
dead, or when all those who sing have forgotten a song's meaning."
"I will build you a library, Asser," Alfred pledged with a laugh, "for all the books you write. Perhaps I,
too, will write a story about Epona, and how she lent us courage in the Battle of Eddington."
How could Alfred have the energy to laugh so? How could he give Epona the credit for the coming battle
before it even occurred? Osrick gritted his teeth and resolved to do something about the bitch priestess.
He was not a man to sit idly by and watch his best chance at power be snatched away especially not
by a girl who needed only purple eyes to ensnare a king.
Slepnir sidled nervously as Val brought him to stand beside Karn's bay, Thorn. The jarls circled around
Guthrum to hear his assessment of the situation. Their army seethed at their back, undulating across the
plain in the early morning mist. The weather was warm, a day for gathering new budded flowers with a
maid. But not today. Above them, up the almost sheer face of the hills, the Saxon army waited. The
Danir were not close enough to be in arrow or javelin range. Still they could see one man, his bare head
gleaming blond, sitting a big black horse beneath a fluttering dragon pennant. It was Alfred, and he stood
at the edge of the precipice and dared them to come up the gorge. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]