My good skew-bald steed I could not take across the sea with me, and I was loath to sell him.  At last I persuaded Jefan, our friend, to take him as a gift, for I cared for none save the prince himself to ride him.

“He is nowise a safe steed to go cattle-raiding on,” said Kynan, “for one can mark him for miles.  Nevertheless he is a princely mount, and a good rallying point for the men after they have been scattered in a charge.”

So they laughed, and were well pleased, as was I. Erling’s horse I gave to that man who had been our guide when we fled, and there was no difficulty in finding owners for the rest.

Now one will ask concerning Ecgbert the atheling, whose friend I had been for so long.

All men know that today he is the king of all England, and the greatest who ever sat on her throne.  But for long years we waited till the time for his return came.  While Bertric lived, to whom he had sworn fealty, he would do naught, in utmost loyalty, and with the Mercian throne he had no mind to meddle.

Two years after the death of Ethelbert, Offa died.  His bright young son took the throne, and was gone also in a few months, and then the house of Offa was at an end.  An atheling of some younger branch of the Mercian royal line took his place peaceably, and under this king, Kenulf, Mercia was at her greatest.  The doom of Offa fell not on him.

Ecgbert bided with Carl the emperor, learning all he might of statecraft and of war until his time came, and well he learned his lesson.  Then at last, through Quendritha’s teaching, came the end of the Wessex line, and thereafter the fall of Mercia from her first place among the English kingdoms.  For, after Quendritha’s way, Eadburga would poison some thane of the court who had offended her; and Bertric drank the cup she had made ready for his servant, and so perished.  Eadburga fled to Carl the emperor, as men had then hailed him; and he received her kindly for Offa’s sake, and at least England knew her ways no more.  Then we had all ready, and sent for Ecgbert; and from the time of his coming began that day of greatness for Wessex which has led him to the overlordship of all England and the end of the old divided and warring kingdoms.

One may see many tokens of the repentance of Offa for that deed which was wrought unhindered by him.  Greatest of all, perhaps, is the cathedral which he built at Hereford over the remains of the murdered king.  There the saint rests in peace, and will be honoured while time is.  But where Offa himself lies no man knows.  His folk buried him in a little church which he had loved, hard by Bedford, in the heart of his realm, on the banks of the Ouse.  But in one night of storm and rain the ancient river rose and swept away both church and tomb and what lay therein, not leaving so much as the foundations to tell where the place had been.  And yet, not a stone’s throw from the edge of the rapid Lugg, the little church of Marden, built where we found the body of the murdered king, stands, and will stand, unharmed by the waters which once made soft his resting.