land."
He saw her sob once, saw her hand cover her mouth. Then Edburga, no longer queen of Wessex, turned and fled. And in the crush of confusion, no one marked her passage. No one save Osmod.
Go, Edburga. Your usefulness is ended. And I—I am safe.
Egbert, once prospective prince of Kent, and possibly of all Wessex, now nothing more than a young man in exile, slept with a knife close to hand. It was his custom—particularly now that his captor-patron Charlemagne was far off in Rome and some of the Frankish court left behind here in Aachen just might fancy some deadly sport. Now he came surging up from sleep, knife drawn, seeing a shadowy figure there in the darkness, thinking, This time it's real, someone's sent an assassin to—
"No," a calm voice said. "I'm not a foe. Wait. Let me light a lamp so you can see me."
It had been said in the Saxon tongue of Wessex, the sound infinitely sweet to Egbert's ears. He waited tensely, ready to attack if he must. There was a small flare of light, a flickering as the lamp's wick caught. . . .
So now, who was this? A man stood alone in the yellowish glow, hands raised slightly to show he bore no weapon. The light was too uncertain to let Egbert guess the man's age, but he was definitely blond of hair, blue of eyes, and his pleasant face was vaguely familiar. . . . Egbert hunted for a name and after a moment said tentatively, "Osmod?"
"Ah, I'm flattered that you remember, Your Highness. It's been . . . what, sixteen years now?"
"Indeed," flatly. "You're the last person I would have expected to see here. Especially," his sweep of a hand took in the bedchamber, "here."
"I needed to speak with you rather urgently—and secretly."
"But how did you get into—"
"Please. We both know that nothing's impossible."
"With sufficient coin. Of course." Egbert didn't relax his grip on the knife's hilt. "Speak."
"I'll be blunt. King Beortric of Wessex is dead."
Egbert just barely hid the wild shock of hope that blazed through him; only his years of pretending to be a harmless nobody allowed him to say as calmly as though they were discussing the weather, "Is he, now? How? He wasn't that old a man. And from what I remember of him, I can't believe there was a battle."
"No battle. The talk at court is that his wife was his murderer."
"His wife!"
"You do remember her, don't you? The high-headed daughter of late King Offa? As to the truth of what she did or didn't do . . ." Osmod shrugged. "The fact is: she's fled. And the king is most undeniably dead. Ah . . . I see that my news interests you!"
Egbert could feel his heart racing so fiercely he nearly staggered. Oh God, to be out of this place after all this time! The throne of Wessex vacant, and I — In a voice suddenly choking with hope, he asked, "What of the Witan? Have they chosen a successor?"
"Oh, they're still debating back and forth and getting nowhere. Beortric left no heir of his body; I'm sure that information drifted to you here in Aachen. As for other candidates . . ." Osmod shrugged again. "I don't know how much you recall of how the Witan operates."
"I wasn't too young to recall them agreeing with Beortric to exile me."
"A boy, yes, then. A man, now. Oh, and before you ask," Osmod added cheerfully, "yes, I did reach Aachen with astonishing speed: lucky winds and the like."
"Even so late in the year."
Osmod shrugged. "I didn't say the trip had been easy, just swift. Very swift. Believe me, Your Highness, the Witan is still meeting." Osmod took a small step forward, blue eyes earnest. "The Witan will choose you. They must."
"But you know nothing about me!"
"More than you think, I suspect. You aren't totally isolated here at Charlemagne's court, Your Highness. Not for the . . . ah . . . curious."
"The ambitious, you mean."
"Why, Your Highness, is there anything wrong with ambition?"
Egbert hesitated, wondering. "No," he said at last.
"So. You have the strongest claim to the throne, you are strong
He saw her sob once, saw her hand cover her mouth. Then Edburga, no longer queen of Wessex, turned and fled. And in the crush of confusion, no one marked her passage. No one save Osmod.
Go, Edburga. Your usefulness is ended. And I—I am safe.
Egbert, once prospective prince of Kent, and possibly of all Wessex, now nothing more than a young man in exile, slept with a knife close to hand. It was his custom—particularly now that his captor-patron Charlemagne was far off in Rome and some of the Frankish court left behind here in Aachen just might fancy some deadly sport. Now he came surging up from sleep, knife drawn, seeing a shadowy figure there in the darkness, thinking, This time it's real, someone's sent an assassin to—
"No," a calm voice said. "I'm not a foe. Wait. Let me light a lamp so you can see me."
It had been said in the Saxon tongue of Wessex, the sound infinitely sweet to Egbert's ears. He waited tensely, ready to attack if he must. There was a small flare of light, a flickering as the lamp's wick caught. . . .
So now, who was this? A man stood alone in the yellowish glow, hands raised slightly to show he bore no weapon. The light was too uncertain to let Egbert guess the man's age, but he was definitely blond of hair, blue of eyes, and his pleasant face was vaguely familiar. . . . Egbert hunted for a name and after a moment said tentatively, "Osmod?"
"Ah, I'm flattered that you remember, Your Highness. It's been . . . what, sixteen years now?"
"Indeed," flatly. "You're the last person I would have expected to see here. Especially," his sweep of a hand took in the bedchamber, "here."
"I needed to speak with you rather urgently—and secretly."
"But how did you get into—"
"Please. We both know that nothing's impossible."
"With sufficient coin. Of course." Egbert didn't relax his grip on the knife's hilt. "Speak."
"I'll be blunt. King Beortric of Wessex is dead."
Egbert just barely hid the wild shock of hope that blazed through him; only his years of pretending to be a harmless nobody allowed him to say as calmly as though they were discussing the weather, "Is he, now? How? He wasn't that old a man. And from what I remember of him, I can't believe there was a battle."
"No battle. The talk at court is that his wife was his murderer."
"His wife!"
"You do remember her, don't you? The high-headed daughter of late King Offa? As to the truth of what she did or didn't do . . ." Osmod shrugged. "The fact is: she's fled. And the king is most undeniably dead. Ah . . . I see that my news interests you!"
Egbert could feel his heart racing so fiercely he nearly staggered. Oh God, to be out of this place after all this time! The throne of Wessex vacant, and I — In a voice suddenly choking with hope, he asked, "What of the Witan? Have they chosen a successor?"
"Oh, they're still debating back and forth and getting nowhere. Beortric left no heir of his body; I'm sure that information drifted to you here in Aachen. As for other candidates . . ." Osmod shrugged again. "I don't know how much you recall of how the Witan operates."
"I wasn't too young to recall them agreeing with Beortric to exile me."
"A boy, yes, then. A man, now. Oh, and before you ask," Osmod added cheerfully, "yes, I did reach Aachen with astonishing speed: lucky winds and the like."
"Even so late in the year."
Osmod shrugged. "I didn't say the trip had been easy, just swift. Very swift. Believe me, Your Highness, the Witan is still meeting." Osmod took a small step forward, blue eyes earnest. "The Witan will choose you. They must."
"But you know nothing about me!"
"More than you think, I suspect. You aren't totally isolated here at Charlemagne's court, Your Highness. Not for the . . . ah . . . curious."
"The ambitious, you mean."
"Why, Your Highness, is there anything wrong with ambition?"
Egbert hesitated, wondering. "No," he said at last.
"So. You have the strongest claim to the throne, you are strong
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