Winter Serpent by Davis Maggie;

Author:Davis, Maggie;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 1957-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

The King of the Picts waved a hand at his bishop. His tattooed face was drawn up in a grimace of displeasure; he restlessly fingered the gem-studded necklace of iron disks at his throat.

“The Pict fears no man,” Nechtan announced. “He has seen these Northmen on his coasts and has felt the taste of their swords. But the vengeance of the Pict is inescapable. Naturally, all Picts grieve at the loss of so many priests on the holy island, especially as there are few enough to minister to us as it is. And the Picts also deplore the fact that the men of Bebbanburg in Northumbria were close enough to the attack but were not able to help their monks. However, these things do happen. It is a warning to the Cruithne to be vigilant.”

“The men of Northumbria do not lack courage,” Edbert said stiffly, “nor is it their intention to ask help.”

“Offa’s men do not fear to cross swords with the Sea Danes,” a Mercian cried. There were cheers from the Saxons.

“Crafty Picts, do not hold back!” To Wilfrid’s horror this voice came from among the hooded monks.

Nechtan looked about him and snorted.

“And when the Northumbrians have defended us from the wild Northmen, who then will protect us from the Northumbrians?” he asked.

The hus-carls of Edbert’s party shook their fists at him.

“The Picts welcome true alliance with any Christian people in Britain,” the king continued, “but there are none so weak-spirited in this land that they will throw themselves into the arms of others to escape the Northmen. The Vikings are a strong band of raiders, but they can be overcome.”

“Someone has ill-advised you, Nechtan of the Picts,” Edbert shouted. “These are not brave words, but the words of a woman!”

Nechtan’s eyes closed until they were slits of black. He turned slowly then, to the spot at the end of the table where his niece shrank down on her seat on the bench, her face white and anxious, an appeal in her eyes.

“Speak softly in the king’s house!” Prince Brude exclaimed. The rebuke was wasted on Edbert. The latter smote the table in a frenzy, heedless of diplomacy. “Let no man hint that the Angles are not able to meet the Northmen and best them in battle,” he roared.

“That was not implied,” Wilfrid soothed.

“We have great respect for the men of Aethelred Moll,” Brude offered. His father leaned back in his chair and observed the Council of Seven silently. The Pictish chieftains had continued their meal, undisturbed by the shouting, their faces impassive.

“Let no one misunderstand my words,” Edbert said somewhat more calmly. “We who are here, famed warriors and thanes of Northumbria, do not ask aid against the Northmen. I spoke of the sack of Lindesfarne only to tell of a great tragedy which strikes at all of us who call ourselves Christian, and to warn of the common danger. Yet there is also this to be considered. While we do not ask for help, neither will the

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