the king. The young man had never seen the monarch looking so frail; his skin was almost the colour of the slush at his feet, his head bowed, his limbs thin. Sweeping his right arm towards the sky, Edward was saying in a faint voice, ‘All things are in truth two things. This church, this great stone building, is a testament of our devotion to God. But it is also a man.’
Puzzled silence hung in the air for a moment. The second figure shifted uncomfortably. It was the man Redwald had come to spy upon, Edwin of Mercia, brimming with vitality next to his fragile companion. The earl’s red woollen cloak shone in stark contrast to the king’s bloodless appearance.
‘Unformed rocks are hewn from the earth, rough and purposeless,’ Edward croaked. ‘And then the stones are shaped by the weight of wisdom and the quiet reflection of others, and they take form, and rise up, and gather meaning, and purpose, and become something filled with God’s will. Become a testament to God and his plan.’
‘You say … every church … is a man.’ Redwald heard Edwin struggling to mask his baffled contempt.
‘And every man is a church.’ The king nodded, smiling. The earl continued to shuffle, looking around the soaring walls.
Redwald started at the sound of running feet at his back. A young messenger barged past him to whisper to the king, who gave a curt nod, bid farewell to the Mercian earl and followed the messenger out of the church. Pressing back into the deep shadows so he would not be seen, Redwald watched the monarch pass by and thought he saw a faint smile play on Edward’s face. He struggled to understand. The king had a young, attractive wife, and wealth and power, but his servants said he had become obsessed with prophecies and omens, and was building this monument as if it was in some way protection against what he feared was to come. Perhaps it was just vanity, Redwald thought, for the monarch knew his name would last as long as the great stone church stood, and that would be until Judgement Day.
Rough hands grabbed his cloak, tearing him from his reflection. Before he could cry out, his unseen assailant bundled him along the cold wall and hurled him through the doorway into the church. Sprawling in the snow, he looked up into the horselike face of Morcar, the Earl of Mercia’s brother. ‘It is Harold’s pup.’
Edwin drew his sword and planted the tip firmly on Redwald’s chest. ‘I know you. The brother of the murderer.’ Redwald’s cheeks flushed.
‘He was eavesdropping.’ Morcar’s lips pulled back from his teeth like a cornered animal’s. ‘No doubt to report back to his master.’ He spat a hand’s width from the young man’s face.
‘You are a Mercian. You march under the banner of blue and gold.’ Edwin pressed the tip of the sword deeper into Redwald’s flesh. The point burned, but the young man forced himself not to cry out. ‘How can you be in the employ of that Wessex bastard?’
‘You know the Godwins would have crushed Mercia if they could,’ Morcar continued. ‘They plotted against our kin, and worked to see our own father killed. His final days were a struggle to survive. But Harold Godwinson will not win.’ He snarled the final words.
Edwin grinned, but coldly. ‘What does Harold fear? That I gain favour with the king? That I will finally prevent his own ascent to power?’
‘He does not fear you,’ Redwald retorted, red-faced with anger. ‘You are too young and untested to be Earl of Mercia. And you would not be there now if not for the death of your father.’
Fury flared in Edwin’s features at the insolence. He whipped up his blade to slash it across the young man’s face.
‘Hold.’ The voice echoed across the cold, empty nave. Redwald recognized the confident humour lacing the word. Harold Godwinson strode in, his cloak thrown back so all could see his hand upon the golden hilt of his sword. ‘Has my lad slipped under your sword, Edwin?’ the Earl of
Puzzled silence hung in the air for a moment. The second figure shifted uncomfortably. It was the man Redwald had come to spy upon, Edwin of Mercia, brimming with vitality next to his fragile companion. The earl’s red woollen cloak shone in stark contrast to the king’s bloodless appearance.
‘Unformed rocks are hewn from the earth, rough and purposeless,’ Edward croaked. ‘And then the stones are shaped by the weight of wisdom and the quiet reflection of others, and they take form, and rise up, and gather meaning, and purpose, and become something filled with God’s will. Become a testament to God and his plan.’
‘You say … every church … is a man.’ Redwald heard Edwin struggling to mask his baffled contempt.
‘And every man is a church.’ The king nodded, smiling. The earl continued to shuffle, looking around the soaring walls.
Redwald started at the sound of running feet at his back. A young messenger barged past him to whisper to the king, who gave a curt nod, bid farewell to the Mercian earl and followed the messenger out of the church. Pressing back into the deep shadows so he would not be seen, Redwald watched the monarch pass by and thought he saw a faint smile play on Edward’s face. He struggled to understand. The king had a young, attractive wife, and wealth and power, but his servants said he had become obsessed with prophecies and omens, and was building this monument as if it was in some way protection against what he feared was to come. Perhaps it was just vanity, Redwald thought, for the monarch knew his name would last as long as the great stone church stood, and that would be until Judgement Day.
Rough hands grabbed his cloak, tearing him from his reflection. Before he could cry out, his unseen assailant bundled him along the cold wall and hurled him through the doorway into the church. Sprawling in the snow, he looked up into the horselike face of Morcar, the Earl of Mercia’s brother. ‘It is Harold’s pup.’
Edwin drew his sword and planted the tip firmly on Redwald’s chest. ‘I know you. The brother of the murderer.’ Redwald’s cheeks flushed.
‘He was eavesdropping.’ Morcar’s lips pulled back from his teeth like a cornered animal’s. ‘No doubt to report back to his master.’ He spat a hand’s width from the young man’s face.
‘You are a Mercian. You march under the banner of blue and gold.’ Edwin pressed the tip of the sword deeper into Redwald’s flesh. The point burned, but the young man forced himself not to cry out. ‘How can you be in the employ of that Wessex bastard?’
‘You know the Godwins would have crushed Mercia if they could,’ Morcar continued. ‘They plotted against our kin, and worked to see our own father killed. His final days were a struggle to survive. But Harold Godwinson will not win.’ He snarled the final words.
Edwin grinned, but coldly. ‘What does Harold fear? That I gain favour with the king? That I will finally prevent his own ascent to power?’
‘He does not fear you,’ Redwald retorted, red-faced with anger. ‘You are too young and untested to be Earl of Mercia. And you would not be there now if not for the death of your father.’
Fury flared in Edwin’s features at the insolence. He whipped up his blade to slash it across the young man’s face.
‘Hold.’ The voice echoed across the cold, empty nave. Redwald recognized the confident humour lacing the word. Harold Godwinson strode in, his cloak thrown back so all could see his hand upon the golden hilt of his sword. ‘Has my lad slipped under your sword, Edwin?’ the Earl of
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