BERNARD CORNWELL is the author of the acclaimed New York Times bestselling Saxon Tales series, which includes The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, Lords of the North, Sword Song, The Burning Land, Death of Kings, The Pagan Lord, and, most recently, The Empty Throne and Warriors of the Storm, and which serves as the basis for the hit television series The Last Kingdom. Bernard Cornwell The Pagan Lord Epub Download Software. Bernard Cornwell The Pagan Lord Epub Download Software. Bernard Cornwell is the author of the acclaimed New York Times bestsellers 1356 and Agincourt; the bestselling Saxon Tales, which include The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, Lords of the North, Sword Song, The Burning Land, Death of Kings, and, most recently, The Pagan Lord; and the Richard Sharpe novels, among many others.
'She's still in the nunnery?'
'She was when I left Eoferwic. She's safe from marriage there, isn't she? Perhaps she
doesn't like men. Lots of nuns don't. But I doubt her brother will leave her there for very much
longer. She's too useful as a peace cow.'
'To marry Kjartan's son?' I asked scornfully.
'That won't happen.' Offa said. He poured himself more ale. 'Father Hrothweard, you know
who he is?'
A nasty man.' I said, remembering how Hrothweard had raised the mob in Eoferwic to
murder the Danes.
Bernard Cornwell is a prolific English author, who primarily specialises in historical fiction. Bernard Cornwell mentioned in the historical notes at the end of The Lords of the North third novel that he intended to continue writing The Saxon Stories. Bernard Cornwell, born on 23 February is an author of chronological novels. Author: Bernard.
Hrothweard is an exceedingly unpleasant creature.' Offa agreed with rare
enthusiasm. 'He was the one who suggested the church tax on the Danes. He's also
suggested that Guthred's sister becomes Your uncle's new wife, and that notion probably
does have some appeal to Guthred. Ælfric needs a wife, and if he were willing to
send his spearmen south then it would hugely increase Guthred's strength.'
'It would leave Bebbanburg unprotected.' I said.
'Sixty men can hold Bebbanburg till Judgment Day,' Offa said dismissively.
'Guthred needs a larger army, and two hundred men from Bebbanburg would be a Godsend, and
certainly worth a sister. Mind you, Ivarr would do anything to stop that marriage. He
doesn't want the Saxons of northern Northumbria uniting with the Christians of Eoferwic.
So, lord,' he pushed his bench back as if to suggest that his survey was finished, 'Britain is
at peace, except for Northumbria, where Guthred is in trouble.'
'No trouble in Mercia?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'Nothing unusual.'
'East Anglia?'
He paused. 'No trouble there.' he said after the hesitation, but I knew the pause had been
deliberate, a bait on a hook, and so I waited. Offa just looked innocently at me and so I
sighed, took another coin from my purse and placed it on the table. He rang it to make sure
the silver was good. 'King Æthelstan,' he said, 'Guthrum as was, negotiates with Alfred.
Alfred doesn't think I know, but I do. Together they will divide England.'
'They?' I asked. 'Divide England? It's not theirs to divide!'
'The Danes will be given Northumbria, East Anglia and the north-eastern parts of Mercia.
Wessex will gain the south-western part of Mercia.'
I stared at him. 'Alfred won't agree to that.' I said.
'He will.'
'He wants all England.' I protested.
'He wants Wessex to be safe.' Offa said, spinning the coin on the table.
'So he'll agree to give up half England?' I asked in disbelief. Offa smiled. 'Think of it
this way, lord,' he said. 'In Wessex there are no Danes, but where the Danes rule there are many
Saxons. If the Danes agree not to attack Alfred then he can feel safe. But how can the Danes
ever feel safe? Even if Alfred agrees not to attack them, they still have thousands of
Saxons on their land and those Saxons could rise against them at any time, especially if
they receive encouragement from Wessex. King Æthelstan will make his treaty with Alfred,
but it won't be worth the parchment it's scribbled on.'
'You mean Alfred will break the treaty?'
'He wants all England.' I protested.
'He wants Wessex to be safe.' Offa said, spinning the coin on the table.
'So he'll agree to give up half England?' I asked in disbelief. Offa smiled. 'Think of it
this way, lord,' he said. 'In Wessex there are no Danes, but where the Danes rule there are many
Saxons. If the Danes agree not to attack Alfred then he can feel safe. But how can the Danes
ever feel safe? Even if Alfred agrees not to attack them, they still have thousands of
Saxons on their land and those Saxons could rise against them at any time, especially if
they receive encouragement from Wessex. King Æthelstan will make his treaty with Alfred,
but it won't be worth the parchment it's scribbled on.'
'You mean Alfred will break the treaty?'
'Not openly, no. But he will encourage Saxon revolt, he will support Christians, he
will foment trouble, and all the time he will say his prayers and swear eternal friendship
with the enemy. You all think of Alfred as a pious scholar, but his ambition embraces all
the land between here and Scotland. You see him praying, I see him dreaming. He will send
missionaries to the Danes and you will think that's all he does, but whenever a Saxon kills
a Dane then Alfred will have supplied the blade.'
'No,' I said, 'not Alfred. His god won't let him be treacherous.'
'What do you know of Alfred's god?' Offa asked scornfully, then closed his eyes. ''Then
the Lord our God delivered the enemy to us,' he intoned, ''and we struck him, and his sons,
and all his tribe. We took all his cities and utterly destroyed the men, and the women, and
the little children.'' He opened his eyes. 'Those are the actions of Alfred's god, Lord
Uhtred. You want more from the holy scriptures? 'The Lord thy God shall deliver all thy
enemies to thee and thou shall smite them and utterly destroy them.' Offa grimaced.
'Alfred believes in God's promises, and he dreams of a land free of pagans, a land where
the enemy is utterly destroyed and where only godly Christians live. If there is one man
in the island of Britain to fear, Lord Uhtred, that man is King Alfred.' He stood. 'I must make
sure those stupid women have fed my dogs.'
I watched him go and I thought he was a clever man who had misunderstood Alfred.
Which was, of course, what Alfred wanted me to think.
The Witan was the royal council, formed by the leading men of the kingdom, and it
assembled for the dedication of Alfred's new church and to celebrate Æthelflaed's
betrothal to my cousin. Ragnar and I had no business in their discussions so we drank in the
Aankhon me teri ajab si mp3 download. town's taverns while they talked. Brida had been allowed to join us and Ragnar was the
happier for it. She was an East Anglian Saxon and had once been my lover, but that had been
years before when we were both children. Now she was a woman and more Danish than the Danes.
She and Ragnar had never formally married, but she was his friend, lover, adviser and
sorceress. He was fair and she was dark, he ate like a boar while she picked at her food, he
was raucous and she was quietly wise, but together they were happiness. I spent hours
telling her about Gisela, and Brida listened patiently. 'You really think she's waited for
you?' she asked me.
'I hope so,' I said and touched Thor's hammer.
'Poor girl,' Brida said, smiling. 'So you're in love?'
'Yes.'
'Again,' she said.
The three of us were in the Two Cranes on the day before Æthelflaed's formal betrothal and
Father Beocca found us there. His hands were filthy with ink.
'You've been writing again,' I accused him.
'We are making lists of the shire fyrds,' he explained. 'Every man between twelve and
sixty has to take an oath to serve the king now. I'm compiling the lists, but we've run out of
ink.'
'No wonder,' I said, 'it's all on you.'
'They're mixing a new pot,' he said, ignoring me, 'and that will take time, so I thought
you'd like to see the new church.'
'I've been dreaming of little else,' I said.
He insisted on taking us and the church was, indeed, a thing of utter splendour. It was
bigger than any hall I had ever seen. It soared to a great height, its roof held up by massive
oak beams that had been carved with saints and kings. The carvings had been painted, while the
crowns of the kings and the haloes and wings of the saints glinted with gold leaf that Beocca
said had been applied by craftsmen brought from Frankia. The floor was stone-flagged, all of
it, so that no rushes were needed and dogs were confused where to piss. Alfred had made a
rule that no dogs were allowed in the church, but they got in anyway, so he had appointed a
warden who was given a whip and charged with driving the animals out of the big nave, but the
warden had lost a leg to a Danish war axe at Ethandun and he could only move slowly, so the
dogs had no trouble avoiding him. The lower part of the church's walls were built of dressed
stone, but the upper parts and the roof were of timber, and just below the roof were high
windows that were filled with scraped horn so the rain could not come in. Every scrap of the
walls was covered with stretched leather panels painted with pictures of heaven and hell.
Heaven was populated with Saxons while hell seemed to be the abode of Danes, though I
noticed, with surprise, that a couple of priests seemed to have tumbled down to the devil's
flames. 'There are bad priests.' Beocca assured me earnestly. 'Not many, of course.'
'And there are good priests.' I said, pleasing Beocca, 'talking of which, do you hear
anything of Father Pyrlig?' Pyrlig was a Briton who had fought beside me at Ethandun and I was
fond of him. He spoke Danish and had been sent to be one of Guthrum's priests in East
Anglia.
'He does the Lord's work.' Beocca said enthusiastically. 'He says the Danes are being
baptised in great numbers! Free windows ce 6.0. I truly believe we are seeing the conversion of the
pagans.'
'Not this pagan.' Ragnar said.
Beocca shook his head. 'Christ will come to you one day, Lord Ragnar, and you will be
astonished by his grace.'
Ragnar said nothing. I could see, though, that he was as impressed as I was by Alfred's
new church. The tomb of Saint Swithun was railed in silver and lay in front of the high altar
that was covered with a red cloth as big as a dragon-boat's sail. On the altar were a dozen
fine wax candles in silver holders that flanked a big silver cross inlaid with gold that
Ragnar muttered would be worth a month's voyaging to capture. Either side of the cross were
reliquaries; boxes and flasks of silver and gold, all studded with jewels, and some had
small crystal windows through which the relics could be glimpsed. Mary Magdalene's toe ring
was there, and what remained of the feather from the dove that Noah had released from the ark.
There was Saint Kenelm's horn spoon, a flask of dust from Saint Hedda's tomb, and a hoof from
the donkey that Jesus rode into Jerusalem. The cloth with which Mary Magdalene had washed
Jesus's feet was encased in a great golden chest and next to it, and quite dwarfed by the
gold's splendour, were Saint Oswald's teeth, the gift from Guthred. The two teeth were still
encased in their silver oyster pot which looked very shabby compared to the other vessels.
Beocca showed us all the holy treasures, but was most proud of a scrap of bone displayed
behind a shard of milky crystal. 'I found this one,' he said, 'and it's most exciting!' He
lifted the lid of the box and took out the bone, which looked like something left over from a
bad stew. 'It's Saint Cedd's aestel!' Beocca said with awe in his voice. He made the sign of
the cross and peered at the yellowed bone sliver with his one good eye as if the arrow-head
shaped relic had just dropped from heaven.
'Saint Cedd's what?' I asked.
'His aestel.'
'What's an aestel?' Ragnar asked. His English, after years of being a hostage, was good,
but some words still confused him.
'An aestel is a device to help reading,' Beocca said. 'You use it to follow the lines.
It's a pointer.'
'What's wrong with a finger?' Ragnar wanted to know.
'It can smear the ink. An aestel is clean.'
'And that one really belonged to Saint Cedd?' I asked, pretending to be amazed.
'It did, it did,' Beocca said, almost delirious with wonder, 'the holy Cedd's very own
aestel. I discovered it! It was in a little church in Dornwaraceaster and the priest there
was an ignorant fellow and had no idea what it was. It was in a horn box and Saint Cedd's name
was scratched on the box and the priest couldn't even read the writing! A priest! Illiterate!
So I confiscated it.' 'So You mean you stole it?'
Bernard Cornwell List Of Books
'I took it into safekeeping!' he said, offended.
'And when you're a saint,' I said, 'someone will put one of those smelly shoes of yours into
a golden box and worship it.'
Beocca blushed. 'You tease me, Uhtred, you tease me.' He laughed, but I saw from his blush
that I had touched on his secret ambition. He wanted to be declared a saint, and why not? He
was a good man, far better than many I have known who are now revered as saints.
Brida and I visited Hild that afternoon and I gave her nunnery thirty shillings,
almost all the money I had, but Ragnar was blithely confident that Sverri's fortune would
come from Jutland and that Ragnar would share with me, and in that belief I pressed the money
on Hild who was delighted by the silver cross in Serpent-Breath's hilt. 'You must use the
sword wisely from now on,'
she told me sternly.
'I always use it wisely.'
'You have harnessed the power of God to the blade,' she said, 'and it must do nothing
evil.'
Bernard Cornwell The Lords Of The North Pdf Download Torrent
I doubted I would obey that command, but it was good to see Hild. Alfred had given her a
gift of some of the dust from Saint Hedda's tomb and she told me that mixed with curds it made a
miraculous medicine that had prompted at least a dozen cures among the nunnery's sick. 'If you
are ever ill,' she said, 'you must come here and we shall mix the dust with fresh curds and
anoint you.'
I saw Hild again the next day when we were all summoned to the church for its consecration
and to witness Æthelflaed's betrothal. Hild, with all the other nuns of Wintanceaster, was
in the side aisle, while Ragnar, Brida and I, because we arrived late, had to stand at the
very back of the church. I was taller than most men, but I could still see very little of the
ceremony which seemed to last for ever. Two bishops said prayers, priests scattered holy
water and a choir of monks chanted. Then the Archbishop of Contwaraburg preached a long
sermon which, bizarrely, said nothing about the new church, nor about the betrothal, but
instead berated the clergy of Wessex for wearing short tunics instead of long robes. This
bestial practice, the archbishop thundered, had offended the holy father in Rome and must
stop forthwith on pain of excommunication. A priest standing near us was wearing a short
tunic and tried to crouch so that he looked like a dwarf in a long robe. The monks sang again
and then my cousin, red-haired and cocksure, strutted to the altar and little Æthelflaed was
led to his side by her father. The archbishop mumbled over them, they were sprinkled with
holy water, then the newly betrothed couple were presented to the congregation and we
all dutifully cheered.
Æthelflaed was hurried away as the men in the church congratulated ÆEthelred. He was
twenty years old, eleven years older than Æthelflaed, and he was a short, red-haired,
bumptious young man who was convinced of his own importance. That importance was that he
was his father's son, and his father was the chief ealdorman in southern Mercia which was
the region of that country least infested by Danes, and so one day Æthelred would become the
leader of the free Mercian Saxons. Æthelred, in short, could deliver a large part of Mercia
to Wessex's rule, which was why he had been promised Alfred's daughter in marriage. He made
his way down the nave, greeting the lords of Wessex, then saw me and looked surprised. 'I
heard you were captured in the north,' he said.
From Bernard Cornwell, the undisputed master of historical fiction, hailed as the direct heir to Patrick OBrien,* comes the third volume in the exhilarating Saxon Chronicles the story of the birth of England as the Saxons struggle to repel the Danish invaders. The year is 878, and as Lords of the North begins, the Saxons of Wessex, under King Alfred, have defeated the Danes to keep their kingdom free. Uhtred, the dispossessed son of a Northumbrian lord, helped Alfred win that victory, but now he is disgusted by Alfreds lack of generosity.
Uhtred flees Wessex, going north to search for his stepsister, who was taken prisoner by Kjartan the Cruel, a Danish lord who lurks in the formidable stronghold of Dunholm. Uhtred arrives in the north to discover rebellion, chaos, and fear. His only ally is Hild, a West Saxon nun fleeing her calling, and his best hope is his sword, Serpent-Breath, with which he has made a notable reputation as a warrior.
He needs other partners if he is to attack Dunholm, and chooses Guthred, a seemingly deluded slave who believes he is a king. Together they cross the Pennines, where fanatical Christians and beleaguered Danes have formed a desperate alliance to confront the terrible Viking lords who rule Northumbria. Instead of victory Uhtred finds betrayal.
But he also discovers love and redemption as he is forced to turn once again to his reluctant ally, Alfred the Great. It is Alfred who sees opportunity in Northumbrias chaos, and Alfred who looses Uhtred and his stepbrother, Ragnar, onto Dunholm, the invincible fortress on its great spur of rock. A breathtaking adventure, Lords of the North is also the story of the creation of England, as the English and Danes fight against each other, but also find common cause and create a common language.
In the end they will become one people, but as Uhtred will discover, their union is forged through the white heat of battle.
