And it is the tale of a woman and of her father, a king. It is a tale of how I will take from my enemy what the law says is mine. But I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, and this is the tale of a bloodfeud. The law thinks money will compensate for loss. But the law does not help me take back my land. The law says I own that land, and the law, we are told, is what makes us men under God instead of beasts in the ditch. I am an Ealdorman, though I call myself Earl Uhtred, which is the same thing, and the fading parchments are proof of what I own. I dream, and know that one day I will take back the land from those who stole it from me. I do not know if that was how my father would have written it, for he could neither read nor write, but I can do both and sometimes I take the old parchments from their wooden chest and I see the name spelled Uhtred or Utred or Ughtred or Ootred, and I look at the deeds which say that Uhtred, son of Uhtred is the lawful and sole owner of the lands that are carefully marked by stones and by dykes, by oaks and by ash, by marsh and by sea, and I dream of those lands, wave-beaten and wild beneath the wind driven sky. My father’s clerk, a priest called Beocca, spelt it Utred. I am the son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred and his father was also called Uhtred.
