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Bernard Cornwell

The Flame Bearer

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The tenth installment of Bernard Cornwell’s New York Times bestselling series chronicling the epic saga of the making of England, “like Game of Thrones, but real” (The Observer, London)—the basis for The Last Kingdom, the hit television series.
Britain is in a state of uneasy peace. Northumbria’s Viking ruler, Sigtryggr, and Mercia’s Saxon Queen Aethelflaed have agreed a truce. And so England’s greatest warrior, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, at last has the chance to take back the home his traitorous uncle stole from him so many years ago—and which his scheming cousin still occupies.
But fate is inexorable, and the enemies Uhtred has made and the oaths he has sworn conspire to distract him from his dream of recapturing his home. New enemies enter into the fight for England’s kingdoms: the redoubtable Constantin of Scotland seizes an opportunity for conquest and leads his armies south. Britain’s precarious peace threatens to turn into a war of annihilation. Yet Uhtred is determined that nothing—neither the new adversaries nor the old foes who combine against him—will keep him from his birthright.
“Historical novels stand or fall on detail, and Mr. Cornwell writes as if he has been to ninth-century Wessex and back.”
Wall Street Journal
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340 afgedrukte pagina’s
Jaar van uitgave
2016
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  • majbrociteerde uit6 jaar geleden
    “Lord,” he asked nervously, “whose side are we on?”
    I laughed. I was born a Saxon, but raised by Danes, my daughter had married a Norseman, my dearest friend was Irish, my woman was a Saxon, the mother of my children had been Danish, my gods were pagan, and my oath was sworn to Æthelflaed, a Christian. Whose side was I on?
    “All you need to know, boy,” Finan growled, “is that Lord Uhtred’s side is the one that wins.”
    The rain was slashing down now, turning the drove path we followed into thick mud. The rain fell so hard I had to raise my voice to Eadig. “You say the Mercians haven’t invaded?”
    “Not as far as we know, lord.”
    “Just West Saxons?”
    “Seems so, lord.”
    And that was strange. Before Sigtryggr captured the throne in Eoferwic I had tried to persuade Æthelflaed to attack Northumbria. She had refused, saying she would not start a war unless her brother’s troops were fighting alongside her men. And Edward of Wessex, her brother, had been adamant that she refuse. He insisted Northumbria could only be conquered by the combined armies of Wessex and Mercia, yet now he had marched alone? I knew there was a faction in the West Saxon court that insisted Wessex could conquer Northumbria without Mercian help, but Edward had always been more cautious. He wanted his sister’s army alongside his own. I pressed Eadig, but he was sure there had been no Mercian attack. “At least not when I left Eoferwic, lord.”
    “It’s just rumors,” Finan said scornfully. “Who knows what’s happening? We’ll get there and find it’s nothing but a goddamned cattle raid.”
    “Scouts,” Rorik said. I thought he meant that a handful of West Saxon scouts had been mistaken for an invasion, but instead he was pointing behind us, and I turned to see two of the horsemen watching us from a ridge. They were hard to see through the drenching rain, but they were unmistakable. The same small, fast horses, the same long spears. We had seen no scouts for a couple of days, but they were back now and following us.
    I spat. “Now my cousin knows we’re leaving.”

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