"Lawrence," the ætheling croaked again. then he made a terrible noise in his throat and his grip relaxed. His arm dropped. He was dead.

Lawrence stared in horror. He put his head down on his brother's armored chest and wept. "This is not how it was supposed to be!" he wailed. "I can't do it. I can't be king. Arneth, I need you."

Lawrence was too stunned to hear the battle raging behind him. He only looked up from where he knelt gazing at his brother's dead face when he saw a hand reach around to gently close Arneth's staring eyes. It was Ansovald, who used the same hand to grip under Lawrence's armpit to help him stand.

"My father?" Lawrence asked dully.

"He is dead. Here, give me your sword."

Lawrence balked. "I'll take care of it." He stooped to his father's dead brother and used the man's cloak to clean the blade of blood. He realized, as he saw that plenty of blood had had time to dry and was not coming off on the cloth, that he must have knelt by his brother for much longer than he imagined. He looked up questioningly. "The battle?"

Ansovald nodded. "It is won. What few of the usurping commanders survived made it south and into East Anglia. Horsa sent a party to the abbey. The monks said Nifhmund was never even there."

Lawrence let his friend propel him by the arm back over the river channel. At the point where his horse slipped he asked, "My horse?"