Sword of Kings. Bernard Cornwell

I had guessed. Eadgifu’s declaration that she was travelling to Contwaraburg to pray at the shrine of Saint Bertha had not deceived Æthelhelm for a moment. Even as the queen and her small entourage travelled south Æthelhelm’s men were galloping toward Wiltunscir where they roused a troop of his household warriors. Those men, in turn, went to Lundene where Æthelhelm kept ships which had brought them to this creek on the muddy shore of Cent where, just as Æthelhelm had surmised, Eadgifu had taken shelter. ‘What are your orders?’ I asked Wighelm.

      He shrugged. ‘Stay here, keep her here, wait for more orders.’

      ‘Orders that will come when the king dies?’

      ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘You weren’t told to go to Contwaraburg? To order the queen’s brother to stay quiet?’

      ‘Other men went there.’

      ‘What other men? Who? And to do what?’

      ‘Dreogan. He took fifty men and I don’t know why he went there.’

      ‘And Dreogan is?’

      ‘He commands fifty of Lord Æthelhelm’s household troops.’

      ‘What about Waormund?’ I asked.

      The mention of that name made Wighelm shudder. He made the sign of the cross. ‘Waormund went to East Anglia,’ he said, ‘but why? I don’t know.’

      ‘You don’t like Waormund?’ I asked.

      ‘No one likes Waormund,’ he replied bitterly, ‘except perhaps Lord Æthelhelm. Waormund is Lord Æthelhelm’s beast.’

      ‘I’ve met the beast,’ I said bleakly, remembering the huge, vacant-faced warrior who was taller and stronger than any man I had ever met except for Steapa, who was another fearsome West Saxon warrior. Steapa had been a slave, but had become one of King Alfred’s most trusted warriors. He had been my enemy too, but had become a friend. ‘Does Lord Steapa still live?’ I asked.