London.
She looked at him for longer now, seeing that she was unobserved, fond and grateful but wishing suddenly that her connection to him was deeper and broader and feeling guilty as soon as she
recognized the thought. When they married she had believed that fullness would come in time. Here perhaps it would, but even as the thought came she was no longer sure. He was deep in his reading,
his own sort of mental balm, and she knew he would be just slightly irritated if she forced him out of it. She studied him in silence. He was folded round the book like a collapsed music stand, all
legs and elbows, frowning in concentration. A funny man for her – long, angular, direct, sharp as a knife, not at all the sort with whom she had ever thought she would be trying to build a
life. She had thought he might be a key to the great locked room she could feel inside her. He could sometimes help her put the experience of now into the context of then, feeding fuel to the fire
of her wish to know how the world had ticked its way to the present. Sometimes, but not always.
In the middle of her thoughts he looked up at her, sensing her gaze, and gave a little faraway smile. His hands, holding the book, moved slightly and she saw the word ‘Saxon’ in the
title. In the brief moment before he looked down again, she wrested his attention to her in the way most likely to succeed.
‘Cenwalch,’ she said. ‘I want to know more about him. Do you know anything else?’
Mike smiled, yawned and stretched. ‘That’s what I’ve been reading,’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t quite sure of my facts.’ He put the book down.
‘Actually I’ve just found something else as well. It was probably here that Alfred rallied his supporters before he defeated the Danes.’
That delighted her. ‘Aha. You mean folk memories might just have something?’
‘Folk memories? Balls,’ he retorted. ‘Contemporary documented sources. Alfred’s chum Bishop Asser wrote it down at the time. In the seventh week after Easter, Alfred
gathered the surviving fighting men from the area at the Egbert Stone. Asser says it was somewhere he calls Brixton in the eastern part of Selwood Forest. There’s a stone right here that they
claim is the one.’
She was delighted. ‘I see, Pen Selwood. What does Pen mean?’
‘A clearing.’
‘So Mrs Wotsit was right about her seven hundred dead?’
‘Not that time. Alfred’s battle happened in the early summer of 878 and it wasn’t here. They marched off once he’d got his army together. The battle itself was nearly
twenty miles away, somewhere round Warminster.’
‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed, ‘no seven hundred then,’ but he was in a generous mood.
‘Well yes,’ he said smiling. ‘There were two battles a bit later on. The Danes came back in 1001 and apparently burnt the place to the ground, then fifteen years later Edmund
Ironside thrashed them and that was definitely here. That one’s the seven hundred dead.’
‘Old Ferney was right, then?’
‘It’s no great secret. Everyone agrees about it. It was a crucial battle – one of the steps on the way to uniting England.’ He was animated now, warming to it.
‘It’s no accident, you see. This place was in one hell of a spot – a real bottleneck of key routes, one of the gateways to Wessex. Selwood Forest was one huge barricade right
across the neck of the west and the tracks through it met here. You just imagine, miles and miles of it, all fallen trees and roots and brambles. Completely impenetrable unless you had loads of
time and a sharp axe. If you wanted to take the quick route to get through it, you had to come this way and all these ridges and dips round here made it a great place to plan an ambush.’
‘What about Kenny Wilkins?’
‘Umm,’ he said. ‘Well, I don’t know. His name is usually given as Cenwalh, but sometimes there’s a “ch” on the end. You’ve got to see it all in
context.’
That was code for
She looked at him for longer now, seeing that she was unobserved, fond and grateful but wishing suddenly that her connection to him was deeper and broader and feeling guilty as soon as she
recognized the thought. When they married she had believed that fullness would come in time. Here perhaps it would, but even as the thought came she was no longer sure. He was deep in his reading,
his own sort of mental balm, and she knew he would be just slightly irritated if she forced him out of it. She studied him in silence. He was folded round the book like a collapsed music stand, all
legs and elbows, frowning in concentration. A funny man for her – long, angular, direct, sharp as a knife, not at all the sort with whom she had ever thought she would be trying to build a
life. She had thought he might be a key to the great locked room she could feel inside her. He could sometimes help her put the experience of now into the context of then, feeding fuel to the fire
of her wish to know how the world had ticked its way to the present. Sometimes, but not always.
In the middle of her thoughts he looked up at her, sensing her gaze, and gave a little faraway smile. His hands, holding the book, moved slightly and she saw the word ‘Saxon’ in the
title. In the brief moment before he looked down again, she wrested his attention to her in the way most likely to succeed.
‘Cenwalch,’ she said. ‘I want to know more about him. Do you know anything else?’
Mike smiled, yawned and stretched. ‘That’s what I’ve been reading,’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t quite sure of my facts.’ He put the book down.
‘Actually I’ve just found something else as well. It was probably here that Alfred rallied his supporters before he defeated the Danes.’
That delighted her. ‘Aha. You mean folk memories might just have something?’
‘Folk memories? Balls,’ he retorted. ‘Contemporary documented sources. Alfred’s chum Bishop Asser wrote it down at the time. In the seventh week after Easter, Alfred
gathered the surviving fighting men from the area at the Egbert Stone. Asser says it was somewhere he calls Brixton in the eastern part of Selwood Forest. There’s a stone right here that they
claim is the one.’
She was delighted. ‘I see, Pen Selwood. What does Pen mean?’
‘A clearing.’
‘So Mrs Wotsit was right about her seven hundred dead?’
‘Not that time. Alfred’s battle happened in the early summer of 878 and it wasn’t here. They marched off once he’d got his army together. The battle itself was nearly
twenty miles away, somewhere round Warminster.’
‘Oh,’ she said, disappointed, ‘no seven hundred then,’ but he was in a generous mood.
‘Well yes,’ he said smiling. ‘There were two battles a bit later on. The Danes came back in 1001 and apparently burnt the place to the ground, then fifteen years later Edmund
Ironside thrashed them and that was definitely here. That one’s the seven hundred dead.’
‘Old Ferney was right, then?’
‘It’s no great secret. Everyone agrees about it. It was a crucial battle – one of the steps on the way to uniting England.’ He was animated now, warming to it.
‘It’s no accident, you see. This place was in one hell of a spot – a real bottleneck of key routes, one of the gateways to Wessex. Selwood Forest was one huge barricade right
across the neck of the west and the tracks through it met here. You just imagine, miles and miles of it, all fallen trees and roots and brambles. Completely impenetrable unless you had loads of
time and a sharp axe. If you wanted to take the quick route to get through it, you had to come this way and all these ridges and dips round here made it a great place to plan an ambush.’
‘What about Kenny Wilkins?’
‘Umm,’ he said. ‘Well, I don’t know. His name is usually given as Cenwalh, but sometimes there’s a “ch” on the end. You’ve got to see it all in
context.’
That was code for
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