Mill Farm, 757 AD
The priest from the small wooden church of St Mary"s in Thormarton, the hill village to the north-east of Mill Farm, took his seat opposite Goda.
“You don"t know the news, I"ll wager.”
“What?” asked Trygil.
“I"m back from Glevcaestre and the town"s full of it.”
“Are you going to share it with us, Father Esegar, or is it a riddle?” Cwen smiled.
“Cwen! You keep a civil tongue in yon head!” Trygil admonished.
“The king is dead.”
“King Æthelbald? But that"s—” Edwy wanted to say “impossible” but bit off the word not wishing to offend the priest, “…so unexpected,” he said in haste.
“Ay, the king was here in person not long ago,” Trygil frowned. “I wonder how he died? And who"s to be king now?”
“They say he was a guest in a hall near Tame Weorth. He died in his sleep.
