I remember the moment I first saw him, in the Great Hall of Morden Castle - a tall, striking figure dressed in the black habit of the Benedictines, head slightly bowed, standing calmly before my father's throne. It was the way he held himself - straight backed, square shouldered - not a hint of nervousness, as the gossip of the court swirled around him.
"Too young to be a monk," they whispered.
"Must be a novice."
"How old is he?"
"His hair is untonsured."
"From the Abbey at Chertsey, apparently."
"And he scared off a longship?"
"I heard it was five."
I sat to my father's left side, aloof and impassive as the spectacle was prepared. How I despised the court and its participants - the pompous loudmouths who jostled for position - the spineless snitches who'd do anything to get ahead. They were the reason the kingdom was so imperilled - long on talk, little on action - a council paralysed by indecision.
The prisoners were being brought in now - the long-haired Vikings, stripped of their armour, hands tied tightly behind their backs. There must have been forty or more, each one shoved roughly to his knees on the cold stone floor. The murmuring of the crowd was getting louder, eyes wide, fingers pointing, as the captives slumped wretched in defeat. This was a rare victory for the Kingdom of Surrey - unprecedented - few had seen the raiders humbled in this way. The castle jail would be full tonight.
My gaze rested again on the tall figure in the black habit. He looked a little older than me, but still in his early twenties. There was no denying he was attractive - his jet-black hair cascaded over his forehead in thick curls, half-concealing his deep blue eyes.
There was something mysterious about him - compelling even. My heart beat a fraction faster.
The young man glanced up, his eyes meeting mine for a split second. Hurriedly I looked away, my cheeks reddening - he'd caught me watching him. I cursed my self-consciousness - why on earth should I feel embarrassed? A royal princess could look at whomsoever she chose - especially one so humble as him. Why should he be any different?
The heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall clanged shut, rescuing me from my awkwardness. A hush descended as Sigweard, Thane of Chertsey, strode forwards, swaggering towards my father's throne. His son Sigbehrt followed behind, smirking at the courtiers on either side. I stared forwards disinterestedly, trying to avoid his eyes.
"Lord Sigweard, you bring us report?" King Frithwald asked in a clear, authoritative tone.
"Your majesty," came the reply, his voice booming around the hall. "I beg leave to present news of a great victory..." The showman bowed low, pausing for dramatic effect. "The capture of five Viking longships."
A gasp went up from the obsequious courtiers as the thane swept his arm to indicate the captives.
"We bring the prisoners to receive your justice," he proclaimed. He gave another low, theatrical bow. Sigweard always revelled in the spotlight.
"Then tell how you accomplished this heroic feat," commanded the king.
"Your majesty," the thane continued, "my men were patrolling the banks of the Great River, when we espied in midstream the longships in great distress. Two small boats had been set on fire and were drifting in the wind towards them.
"The crews were panicking. They tried to row away from the flames, but the longships foundered on the shoals and my men waded out to them easily. We arrested them all."
Another sweep of his arm to indicate the wretched Vikings.
"And the fireboats?" my father asked, letting a note of excitement colour his voice. "Who set them against the raiders?"
"Your Majesty, that was me," said the tall young man, his voice bold and clear.
Astonished gasps sounded around the court as all heads turned to the tall figure in the habit. Who would dare to speak uninvited before the king? A stern rebuke would surely follow - the novice might even be expelled from the court. The thane's brow knotted in frustration.
"Step forward. Tell us your name!" King Frithwald commanded, ignoring the breach of protocol.
"I am Cedric," the young man began, "novice of the Abbey of Chertsey, your majesty. My lord abbot sends his most loyal greeting."
He spoke calmly and clearly, completely oblivious to the stunned reaction of the court. Sigweard looked on, more than a little peeved, his thunder stolen by the newcomer.
"Then pray tell us, Cedric of Chertsey - how did you set these boats of fire on our foe?"
"Your majesty, I was making my way across the town bridge, the night before last," Cedric began. "I looked out across the Great River and saw a longship coming upstream. But the wind and the current were against it and the oarsmen were struggling."
"Your majesty..." Sigweard interrupted, trying to regain my father's attention.
My father held up his hand to silence him. The thane shrank back, his face a picture of injured pride.
"Indeed," said the king thoughtfully, turning back to Cedric, "there was a full moon that night and from Chertsey Bridge one can see a long way down the river."
There was a pause. The courtiers waited with bated breath.
"Pray, continue," nodded my father.
"I saw two rowing boats filled with rags - the type the local fishermen use. They were tied beneath the arches. I climbed down and set the rags aflame with the oil from my lamp," said Cedric. "Then I cut the moorings and let the current take the boats towards the longship."
My eyes darted across to Sigbehrt. I'd expected him to be purple with envy as Cedric's tale of heroism unfolded. But no, he was looking up at the hammer-beam roof of the hall, that same smirk still written broad across his face. A man, only a few years his junior, was stealing the limelight - surely he was hating every moment?
"The oarsmen panicked," continued Cedric. "And a gust of wind took hold of the longship and pushed it to the bank."
"And your men were waiting there?" asked my father, turning away from the Benedictine and directing his question to Sigweard.
