Warriors of the Storm

Five

I should have guessed. It was Haesten. He had a tongue that could turn turds into gold and he was using it on Merewalh.

I found the two men, each attended by a dozen companions, a hundred paces outside the fort on the western side where the slope was gentler. The two sides stood a few paces apart beneath their respective banners. Merewalh, of course, had Æthelflaed’s flag showing the goose of Saint Werburgh, while Haesten, instead of his usual skull on a pole, was flaunting a new standard, this one a grey flag on which was sewn a white cross. ‘He’s shameless!’ I called to Finan as I spurred Tintreg up the slope.

Finan laughed. ‘He’s a slippery bastard, lord.’

The slippery bastard had been talking animatedly as we came from the trees, but as soon as he saw me he fell silent and stepped back into the protective company of his men. He greeted me by name as I arrived, but I ignored him, turning Tintreg in the space between the two sides and then sliding from the saddle. ‘Why haven’t you occupied the fort?’ I demanded of Merewalh as I threw the stallion’s reins to Godric.

‘I …’ he began, then looked past me. Æthelflaed and her entourage were approaching fast and he plainly preferred to await their arrival before answering.

‘Has the bastard surrendered?’ I asked.

‘The Jarl Haesten …’ Merewalh began again, then shrugged as if he neither knew what to say nor understood what was happening.

‘It’s an easy question!’ I said threateningly. Merewalh was a good man and a stalwart fighter, but he looked desperately uncomfortable, his eyes flicking towards the half-dozen priests who stood around him. Father Ceolnoth and his toothless twin Ceolberht were there, as was Leofstan, all of them looking extremely discomfited by my sudden arrival. ‘Has he surrendered?’ I asked again, slowly and loudly.

Merewalh was saved from the question by Æthelflaed’s arrival. She pushed her mare through the priests. ‘If you have things to say, Lord Uhtred,’ she spoke icily from her saddle, ‘then say them to me.’

‘I just want to know whether this piece of shit has surrendered,’ I said, pointing at Haesten.

It was Father Ceolnoth who answered. ‘My lady,’ the priest said, pointedly ignoring me, ‘the Jarl Haesten has agreed to swear loyalty to you.’

‘He has done what?’ I asked.

‘Quiet!’ Æthelflaed snapped. She was still in her saddle, dominating us. Her men, at least a hundred and fifty, had followed her from the river bank and now stood their horses lower down the slope. ‘Tell me what you have agreed,’ she demanded of Father Ceolnoth.

Ceolnoth gave me a nervous glance, then looked back to Æthelflaed. ‘The Jarl Haesten is a Christian, my lady, and he seeks your protection.’

At least three of us all began to speak at once, but Æthelflaed clapped her hands for silence. ‘Is this true?’ she demanded of Haesten.

Haesten bowed to her, then fingered the silver cross he wore over his mail. ‘Thank God, lady, it is true.’ He spoke quietly, humbly, with convincing sincerity.

‘Lying bastard,’ I growled.

He ignored me. ‘I have found redemption, lady, and I come to you as a supplicant.’

‘He is redeemed, my lady,’ a tall man standing next to Haesten spoke firmly. ‘We are prepared, my lady, nay, we are eager to swear our loyalty,’ the tall man said, ‘and as fellow Christians we beseech you for protection.’ He used the English tongue and spoke respectfully, bowing slightly to Æthelflaed as he finished. She looked surprised, and no wonder because the tall man appeared to be a Christian priest, or at least he was wearing a long black robe belted with rope and had a wooden cross hanging at his breast.

‘Who are you?’ Æthelflaed asked.

‘Father Haruld, my lady.’

‘Danish?’

‘I was born here in Britain,’ he said, ‘but my parents came across the sea.’

‘And you’re a Christian?’

‘By the grace of God, yes.’ Haruld was stern, dark-faced, with flecks of grey at his temples. He was not the first Dane I had met who had converted, nor was he the first to become a Christian priest. ‘I have been a Christian since I was a child,’ he told Æthelflaed. He sounded grave and confident, but I noticed his fingers were compulsively clasping and unclasping. He was nervous.

‘And you’re telling me that piece of rancid lizard shit is a Christian too?’ I jerked my head at Haesten.

‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed said warningly.

‘I baptised him myself,’ Haruld answered me with dignity, ‘thank God.’

‘Amen,’ Ceolnoth put in loudly.

I stared into Haesten’s eyes. I had known him all his adult life, indeed he owed me that life because I had saved it. He had sworn loyalty to me back then and I had believed him because he had a trustworthy face and an earnest manner, but he had broken every oath he ever swore. He was a weasel of a man, cunning and deadly. His ambitions far outreached his achievements, and for that he blamed me because fate had decreed that I would thwart him time after time. The last time had been at Beamfleot where I had destroyed his army and burned his fleet, but Haesten’s fate was to escape from every disaster. And here he was again, apparently trapped at Eads Byrig, but smiling at me as though we were the oldest of friends. ‘He’s no more a Christian than I am,’ I snarled.

‘My lady,’ Haesten looked at Æthelflaed and then, astonishingly, dropped to his knees, ‘I swear by our Saviour’s sacrifice that I am a true Christian.’ He spoke humbly, shaking with intense feeling. There were even tears in his eyes. He suddenly spread his arms wide and turned his face to the sky. ‘May God strike me dead this very moment if I lie!’

I drew Serpent-Breath, her blade scraping loud and fast on her scabbard’s throat.

‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed called in alarm. ‘No!’

‘I was about to do your god’s work,’ I said, ‘and strike him dead. You’d stop me?’

‘God can do his own work,’ Æthelflaed said tartly, then looked back to the Danish priest. ‘Father Haruld, are you convinced of Jarl Haesten’s conversion?’

‘I am, my lady. He shed tears of contrition and tears of joy at his baptism.’

‘Praise God,’ Father Ceolnoth whispered.

‘Enough!’ I said. I still held Serpent-Breath. ‘Why aren’t our men inside the fort?’

‘They will be!’ Ceolnoth said waspishly. ‘It is agreed!’

‘Agreed?’ Æthelflaed’s voice was very guarded, and it was clear she suspected the priests had overstepped their authority in making any agreement without her approval. ‘What has been agreed?’ she asked.

‘The Jarl Haesten,’ Ceolnoth spoke very carefully, ‘begged that he might swear his loyalty to you, my lady, at the Easter mass. He desires this so that the joy of our Lord’s resurrection will consecrate this act of reconciliation.’

‘I don’t give a rat’s turd if he waits till Eostre’s feast,’ I said, ‘so long as we occupy the fort now!’

‘It will be handed over on Easter Sunday,’ Ceolnoth said. ‘That was agreed!’

‘Easter day?’ Æthelflaed asked, and any man who knew her well could have detected the unhappiness in her voice. She was no fool, but nor was she ready to discard the hope that Haesten truly was a Christian.

‘It will be a cause for rejoicing,’ Ceolnoth urged her.

‘And who are you to make that agreement?’ I demanded.

‘It is a matter for Christians to decide,’ Ceolnoth insisted, looking at Æthelflaed in hope of her support.

Æthelflaed, in turn, looked at me, then to Haesten. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘should we not occupy the fort now?’

‘I agreed—’ Ceolnoth began weakly.

‘My lady,’ Haesten intervened, shuffling forward on his knees, ‘it is my sincerest wish that all my men be baptised at Easter. But some, a few, are reluctant. I need time, Father Haruld needs time! We need time to convince those reluctant few of the saving grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.’

‘Twisted bastard,’ I said.

No one spoke for a moment. ‘I swear this is true,’ Haesten said humbly.

‘Whenever he says that,’ I looked at Æthelflaed, ‘you can tell that he’s lying.’

‘And if Father Ceolnoth were to visit us,’ Haesten went on, ‘or better still, Father Leofstan, and if they were to preach to us, that would be a help and a blessing, my lady.’

‘I would be happy to …’ Ceolnoth began, but stopped when Æthelflaed raised a hand. She said nothing for a while, but just gazed down at Haesten. ‘You propose a mass baptism?’ she asked.

‘All my men, my lady!’ Haesten said eagerly, ‘all of them coming to Christ’s mercy and to your service.’

‘How many men, you turd?’ I asked Haesten.

‘There’s just a few, Lord Uhtred, who persist in their paganism. Twenty men, perhaps, or thirty? But with God’s help we shall convert them!’

‘How many men in the fort, you miserable bastard?’

He hesitated, then realised that hesitation was a mistake, and smiled. ‘Five hundred and eighty, Lord Uhtred.’

‘That many!’ Father Ceolnoth exulted. ‘It will be a light to lighten the gentiles!’ he pleaded with Æthelflaed. ‘Imagine it, my lady, a mass conversion of pagans! We can baptise them in the river!’

‘You can drown the bastards,’ I muttered.

‘And my lady,’ Haesten, still on his knees, clasped his hands as he gazed up at Æthelflaed. His face was so trustworthy and his voice so earnest. He was the best liar I had ever met in all my life. ‘I would invite you into the fort now! I would pray with you there, my lady, I would sing God’s praises alongside you! But those few of my men are still bitter. They might resist. A little time is all I beg, a little time for God’s grace to work on those bitter souls.’

‘You treacherous piece of arse slime,’ I snarled at him.

‘And if it will convince you,’ Haesten said humbly, ignoring me, ‘I will swear loyalty to you now, my lady, this very minute!’

‘God be praised,’ Father Ceolberht lisped.

‘There’s one small problem,’ I said, and everyone looked at me. ‘He can’t swear an oath to you, my lady.’

Æthelflaed gave me a sharp look. ‘Why not?’

‘Because he swore loyalty to another lord, my lady, and that lord has not yet released him from his oath.’

‘I was released from my oath to Jarl Ragnall when I gave my allegiance to Almighty God,’ Haesten said.

‘But not from the oath you swore to me,’ I said.

‘But you are also a pagan, Lord Uhtred,’ Haesten said slyly, ‘and Jesus Christ absolves me of all allegiance to pagans.’

‘This is true!’ Father Ceolnoth said excitedly. ‘He has cast off the devil, my lady! He has spurned the devil and all his works! A newly converted Christian is absolved of all oaths made to pagans, the church insists on it.’

Æthelflaed still pondered. Finally she looked at Leofstan. ‘You haven’t spoken, father.’

Leofstan half smiled. ‘I promised the Lord Uhtred I would not interfere with his work if he did not interfere with mine.’ He offered Father Ceolnoth an apologetic smile. ‘I rejoice in the conversion of pagans, my lady, but the fate of a fortress? Alas, that is beyond my competence. Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, my lady, and the fate of Eads Byrig is Caesar’s affair or, more strictly, yours.’

Æthelflaed nodded abruptly and gestured at Haesten. ‘But do you believe this man?’

‘Believe him?’ Leofstan frowned. ‘May I question him?’

‘Do,’ Æthelflaed commanded.

Leofstan limped to Haesten and knelt in front of him. ‘Give me your hands,’ Leofstan said quietly and waited as Haesten dutifully obeyed. ‘Now tell me,’ the bishop-elect still spoke softly, ‘what you believe.’

Haesten blinked back his tears. ‘I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth,’ he spoke scarcely above a whisper, ‘and in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father; God of God, Light of Light!’ His voice had risen as he said the last few words, and then he seemed to choke. ‘I believe, father!’ he pleaded, and the tears ran down his face again. He shook his head. ‘The Lord Uhtred is right, he is right! I have been a sinner. I have broken oaths. I have offended heaven! Yet Father Haruld prayed with me, he prayed for me, and my wife prayed, and, praise God, I believe!’

‘Praise God indeed,’ Leofstan said.

‘Does Ragnall know you’re a Christian?’ I asked harshly.

‘It was necessary to deceive him,’ Haesten said humbly.

‘Why?’

Haesten still had his hands in Leofstan’s grip. ‘I was driven to take refuge on Mann,’ he was answering my question, but looking up at Æthelflaed as he spoke, ‘and it was on that island that Father Haruld converted me. Yet we were surrounded by pagans who would kill us if they knew. I prayed!’ He looked back to Leofstan. ‘I prayed for guidance! Should I stay and convert the heathen? Yet God’s answer was to bring my followers here and offer our swords to the service of Christ.’

‘To the service of Ragnall,’ I said harshly.

‘The Jarl Ragnall did demand my service,’ Haesten was speaking to Æthelflaed again, ‘but I saw God’s will in that demand! God had offered us a way off the island! I had no ships, I only had faith in Christ Jesus and in Saint Werburgh.’

‘Saint Werburgh!’ Æthelflaed exclaimed.

‘My dear wife prays to her, my lady,’ Haesten said, sounding so innocent. Somehow the slimy bastard had learned of Æthelflaed’s veneration of the goose-frightener.

‘You lying bastard,’ I said.

‘His repentance is sincere,’ Ceolnoth insisted.

‘Father Leofstan?’ Æthelflaed asked.

‘I want to believe him, my lady!’ Leofstan said earnestly. ‘I want to believe that this is a miracle to accompany my enthronement! That on Easter day we will have the joy of bringing a pagan horde into the service of Jesus Christ!’

‘This is Christ’s doing!’ Father Ceolberht said through his toothless gums.

Æthelflaed still pondered, staring down at the two kneeling men. One part of her surely knew I was right, but she was also swayed by the piety she had inherited from her father. And by Leofstan’s eagerness to believe. Leofstan was her choice. She had persuaded the Archbishop of Contwaraburg to appoint him, she had written letters to bishops and abbots praising Leofstan’s sincerity and glowing faith, and she had sent money to shrines and churches, all to sway opinion in Leofstan’s favour. The church might have preferred a more worldly man who could expand the see’s land-holdings and extort more cash from northern Mercia’s nobles, but Æthelflaed had wanted a saint. And that saint was now depicting Haesten’s conversion as a sign of heavenly approval of her choice. ‘Think, my lady,’ Leofstan at last let go of Haesten’s hands, and, still on his knees, turned to Æthelflaed, ‘think what rejoicing there will be when a pagan leads his men to Christ’s throne!’ And that idea seduced her too. Her father had always forgiven Danes who converted, even allowing some to settle in Wessex, and Alfred had often claimed that the fight was not to establish Englaland but to convert the heathen to Christ, and Æthelflaed saw this mass conversion of heathen Danes as a sign of God’s power.

She urged Gast forward a pace. ‘You will swear loyalty to me now?’

‘With joy, my lady,’ Haesten said, ‘with joy!’

I spat towards the treacherous bastard, walked away, slammed Serpent-Breath back into her scabbard and hauled myself into Tintreg’s saddle. ‘Lord Uhtred!’ Lady Æthelflaed called sharply. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to the river,’ I said curtly. ‘Finan! Sihtric! All of you! With me!’

We rode away from whatever farce was about to happen outside Eads Byrig.

One hundred and twenty-three of us rode. We rode our horses through the ranks of Æthelflaed’s followers, then turned north and rode towards the river.

But once among the trees and well hidden from the fools who surrounded Æthelflaed I turned my men eastwards.

Because I was determined to do the Christian god’s work.

And strike Haesten dead.

We rode fast, our horses twisting through trees. Finan spurred alongside me. ‘What are we doing?’

‘Taking Eads Byrig,’ I said, ‘of course.’

‘Sweet Jesus.’

I said nothing as Tintreg dropped into a gully of thick ferns, then pounded up the short slope beyond. How many men did Haesten lead? He had claimed five hundred and eighty, but I did not believe him. He had lost his army along with his reputation at Beamfleot. He had not been present at that battle, but if he had as many as one hundred followers I would be surprised, though doubtless Ragnall would have left some men inside the fortress too. ‘How big is the fortress?’ I asked Finan.

‘Eads Byrig? It’s big.’

‘If you walked around the walls, how many paces?’

He thought about his answer. I had turned slightly northwards, setting Tintreg to a long slope that climbed through the oaks and sycamores. ‘Nine hundred?’ Finan guessed. ‘Maybe a thousand?’

‘That’s what I reckon.’

‘It’s a big place, sure enough.’

King Alfred had tried to reduce life to rules. Most of those rules, of course, came from his Christian scriptures, but there had been others. The towns he built were measured, and each plot of land carefully surveyed. The walls of the town were also measured to discover their height, depth, and extent, and it had been that last figure, the length of the wall, which determined how many men were needed to defend the town. That number had been worked out by clever priests rattling wooden balls along wire strings, and their conclusion was that each burh needed four defenders for every five paces of wall. Wessex had become a garrison under Alfred, its borders studded with the newly built burhs and the walls manned by the fyrd. Every large town had been walled so that the Danes, piercing deep into Wessex, would be frustrated by ramparts, and those ramparts would be defended by an exact number of men corresponding to the wall’s total length. It had worked, and Mercia was now the same. As Æthelflaed reconquered Mercia’s ancestral lands she secured them with burhs like Ceaster and Brunanburh, and ensured that the garrison could supply four men for every five paces of rampart. At the first sign of trouble, folk could retreat into the nearest burh, taking their livestock with them. A whole army was needed to capture a burh, and the Danes had never succeeded. Their way of war was to raid deep, to capture slaves and cattle, and an army that stayed still, that remained camped outside the walls of a burh, was soon struck by disease. Besides, no enemy army had ever proved big enough to surround a burh and starve it into submission. The strategy of the burhs had worked.

But it worked because there were men to defend them. Every man over the age of twelve was expected to fight. They might not be trained warriors like the men I now led through the rising woodland, but they could hold a spear or throw a rock or swing an axe. That was the fyrd, the army of farmers and butchers and craftsmen. The fyrd might not be armoured with mail or carry linden-wood shields, but its men could line the walls of a burh and hack enemies to death if they tried to climb the ramparts. A woodsman’s axe in the hands of a strong farmer is a fearsome weapon, as is a sharpened hoe if swung fiercely enough. Four men to every five paces, and Eads Byrig was a thousand paces, and that meant Haesten would need at least seven hundred men to defend the whole length of its ramparts. ‘I’d be surprised,’ I told Finan, ‘if he had two hundred men.’

‘Then why is he staying there?’

And that was a good question. Why had Ragnall left a garrison in Eads Byrig? I did not believe for a moment that Haesten had decided to stay south of the Mærse in order to seek Æthelflaed’s protection, he was only there because Ragnall wanted him there. We had slowed now, the horses walking uphill, their hooves loud in the leaf mould. So why had Ragnall left Haesten behind? Haesten was not the best fighter in Ragnall’s army, he might well have been the worst, but he was certainly the best liar, and suddenly I understood. I had thought Eads Byrig was a deception aimed at the weak king in Eoferwic, but it was not. It was aimed at us. At me. ‘He’s staying,’ I told Finan, ‘because Ragnall’s coming back.’

‘He has to take Eoferwic first,’ Finan said drily.

I curbed Tintreg and held up my hand to stop my men. ‘Stay mounted,’ I told them, then slid out of the saddle and threw the reins to Godric. ‘Keep Tintreg here,’ I told him.

Finan and I walked slowly uphill. ‘Ingver’s support will crumble,’ I told Finan. ‘He’s a weakling. Ragnall will find himself King of Eoferwic without a struggle. Jarls will already be flocking to him, bringing men, swearing allegiance. He doesn’t even need to go to Eoferwic! He can send three hundred men to take the city from Ingver, turn around and come back here. He just wants us to think that he’s going there.’

The trees were thinning and I caught a glimpse of the raw new timbers of Eads Byrig’s eastern wall. We stooped and crept forward, wary of any sentry on the high timber ramparts.

‘And Ragnall has to reward his followers,’ I went on, ‘what better than land in northern Mercia?’

‘But Eads Byrig?’ Finan sounded dubious.

‘It’s a foothold in Mercia,’ I said, ‘and a base to attack Ceaster. He needs a big victory, something to send the signal that he’s a winner. He wants even more men to come across the sea, and to bring them he has to strike a heavy blow. Capturing Eoferwic doesn’t count. It’s had half a dozen kings in as many years, but if he takes Ceaster?’

‘If,’ Finan said, still dubious.

‘If he captures Ceaster,’ I went on, ‘he destroys Æthelflaed’s reputation. He gains territory. He controls the Mærse and the Dee, he has burhs to frustrate us. He’ll lose men in the assault, but he has men to lose. But to do that he needs Eads Byrig. That’s his base. Once inside Eads Byrig we’ll never get him out. But if we hold Eads Byrig then he’ll find it damned hard to besiege Ceaster.’

By now we were at the edge of the trees where we crouched in the undergrowth and stared at the newly-made walls above us. They were taller than a man and protected by the outer ditch. ‘How many men do you see there?’ I asked.

‘Not one.’

It was true. There was not a single man or spear-point visible above Eads Byrig’s eastern wall. ‘There’s no fighting platform,’ I said.

Finan frowned. He was thinking. There, just a hundred paces from us, was a wall, but no visible defenders. There had to be sentries there, but if there was no fighting platform then those men were looking through the chinks between the newly-felled logs, and those logs were uneven, their tops not yet aligned. The wall had been built in a hurry. ‘It’s a bluff,’ he said.

‘It’s all a bluff! Haesten’s conversion is a bluff. He’s just buying time until Ragnall can get back here. Four days? Five?’

‘That quickly?’

‘He’s probably already on his way back,’ I said. It seemed obvious now. He had burned his bridge of boats to make us think he had abandoned Mercia, but to return, all he needed to do was march a few miles eastwards and follow the Roman road south to where it bridged the Mærse. He was coming, I was sure of it.

‘But how many bastards are inside those walls?’ Finan asked.

‘Only one way to find out.’

He chuckled. ‘And you are always telling young Æthelstan to be cautious before starting a fight?’

‘There’s a time for caution,’ I said, ‘and a time to just kill the bastards.’

He nodded. ‘But how do we cross that wall? We don’t have ladders.’

So I told him.

Twelve of my youngest men led the assault. My son was among them.

The trick was to reach the wall fast and to cross it fast. We had no ladders, and the wall was some nine or ten feet high, but we did have horses.

That was how we had captured Ceaster. My son had stood on his horse’s saddle and climbed over the gate, and that is what I told the twelve young men to do. Ride fast to the wall and use the height of the horse to reach the wall’s top. The rest of us would follow hard behind. I would have liked to have led the twelve, but I was not as agile as I had been. This was a job for young men.

‘And if there are two hundred bastards waiting for them on the other side?’ Finan asked.

‘Then they don’t cross the wall,’ I said.

‘And if Lady Æthelflaed has just agreed a truce?’

I ignored that question. I suspected that the happy Christians were agreeing to let Haesten stay on the hilltop till Easter, but I was not part of that agreement because Haesten was my man. He had sworn loyalty to me. That oath might have been made a long time ago, and Haesten had broken it repeatedly, but an oath was still an oath and he owed me obedience. Christians might declare that an oath sworn to a pagan had no force, but I was under no compulsion to believe that. Haesten was my man, like it or not, and he had no right to make a truce with Æthelflaed unless I agreed, and I wanted the bastard dead. ‘Go,’ I told my son, ‘go!’

The twelve men spurred their horses, crashing through undergrowth and out onto the cleared land. I let them get twenty or thirty paces ahead, then kicked Tintreg. ‘All of you,’ I called, ‘with me!’

My son was ahead of the rest, his horse pounding up the slope. I saw his stallion drop into the ditch and struggle up the far side where Uhtred reached with both hands for the wall’s top. He scrabbled with his feet, swung a leg over and now the rest of the dozen were pulling themselves up onto the logs. One man fell back, rolling into the ditch. The abandoned horses just stood there, in our way.

And then the wall fell.

I had just reached the ditch. It was shallow because Haesten’s men had not had time to deepen it again. There were no stakes, no obstacles, just a steep short bank climbing to the earth wall’s crest where the logs had been sunk, but they had not been buried deep enough, and the weight of the men on their tops was throwing them down. Tintreg shied away from the noise, and I wrenched him back. Horsemen went past me, not bothering to dismount, just spurring the stallions up the bank and onto the fallen logs. ‘Dismount!’ Finan shouted. A horse slipped and fell on the logs. The beast was thrashing and screaming, driving other men to the edges of the gap that was not wide enough for the mass of frightened horses and hurrying men. ‘Dismount!’ Finan bellowed again. ‘Come on foot! Shields! Shields! I want shields!’

That was the order to make a shield wall. Men were flinging themselves out of their saddles and flooding over the fallen wall. I led Tintreg by his reins. ‘Keep your horse with you!’ I called to Berg. In front of me were the fallen logs that had tilted down into the inner ditch, beyond which was the second earth wall. Neither was a formidable obstacle. My men were clambering over the fallen wall, drawing their swords, while ahead of us were three large huts, newly built with rough timber walls and bright thatch, and beyond the huts were men, but those men were a long way off at the fort’s further end. As far as I could see there had been no sentries at this end of the fort.

‘Shield wall!’ I shouted.

‘On me!’ Finan was standing just beyond the three huts, arms spread to show where he wanted the shield wall to form.

‘Berg! Help me!’ I called, and Berg cupped his hands and heaved me back into Tintreg’s saddle. I drew Serpent-Breath. ‘Mount up and follow me,’ I snarled at Berg.

I spurred around the end of our hastily forming wall. Now I could see the rest of the fort. Two hundred men? I doubted there were more than two hundred. Those men had been gathered at the fort’s far end, doubtless waiting to hear what agreement had been reached with Æthelflaed, and now we were behind them. But closer to us, and even more numerous, was a crowd of women and children. They were running. A handful of men were with them, all of them fleeing our sudden invasion of the fort’s eastern end. ‘We have to stop those fugitives,’ I told Berg. ‘Come on!’ I spurred Tintreg forward.

I was Uhtred, Lord of Bebbanburg, in my war-glory. The arm rings of fallen enemies glinted on my forearms, my shield was newly painted with the snarling wolf’s head of my house, while another wolf, this one of silver, crouched on the crest of my polished helmet. My mail was tight, polished with sand, my sword belt and scabbard and bridle and saddle were studded with silver, there was a gold chain at my neck, my boots were panelled with silver, my drawn sword was grey with the whorls of its making running from the hilt to its hungry tip. I was the lord of war mounted on a great black horse, and together we would make panic.

I charged through the fleeing people, cutting Tintreg in front of a woman running with a child in her arms. A man heard the hooves and turned to swing an axe. Too late. Serpent-Breath drank her first blood of the day and the woman screamed. Berg was threading the crowd, sword low, and my son had remounted his horse and was leading three other riders into the chaos. ‘Cut them off!’ I yelled at him, and steered Tintreg towards the leading fugitives. I wanted to keep them between my shield wall and the larger number of enemy who were hurrying into their own shield wall at the fortress’s further end. ‘Drive them back!’ I called to my son. ‘Back towards Finan!’ Then I galloped Tintreg in front of the crowd, my sword low and threatening. I was causing panic, but panic with a purpose. We were herding the women and children back towards our own shield wall. Dogs howled and children screamed, but back they went, desperate to escape the thumping hooves and the light-glinting swords as our horses crossed and re-crossed in front of them. ‘Now come forward!’ I shouted at Finan. ‘But come slowly!’

I stayed close to the crowd which, terrified of our big horses, shrank towards Finan’s advancing shield wall. I told Berg to watch my back while I looked at the rest of the fort. More huts stretched down the southern flank, but most of the interior was worn grass on which massive log piles were stacked. Haesten had started constructing a hall at the further end, where his men now formed their shield wall. It was a wall of three ranks and it was wider than our wall. Wider and deeper, and above it was Haesten’s old banner, the bleached skull on its long pole. The shield wall looked formidable, but Haesten’s men were almost as panicked as their wives and children. Some were shouting and pointing at us, plainly wanting to advance and fight, but others were looking back to the far ramparts which, as far as I could see, was the only stretch of wall that had been given fighting platforms. The men on those platforms were watching Æthelflaed’s troops. One man was shouting at the shield wall, but was too far away for me to hear what he said.

‘Finan!’ I bellowed.

‘Lord?’

‘Burn those huts!’ I wanted Æthelflaed’s troops to menace that far rampart and so keep the enemy looking both ways, and the sight of smoke should at least tell them that Haesten’s fortress was in trouble. ‘And come faster!’ I pointed Serpent-Breath towards the enemy line. ‘Let’s kill them!’

Finan gave the command and his shield wall doubled its pace. They began beating their swords against their shields as they advanced, driving the fugitives in front of them. ‘Let them go,’ I called to my son, ‘but keep them in the centre of the fort!’ He understood immediately and wheeled his horse away, taking his men to the northern side of the fortress. ‘Berg?’ I summoned him. ‘We’ll manage this southern flank.’

‘What are we doing, lord?’

‘Letting the women and children go to their men,’ I said, ‘but make them go straight ahead.’

It is a hard and bloody task to break a shield wall. Two lines of men must clash together and try to break the other with axes, spears, and swords, but for every enemy who is struck down there is another ready to take his place. Whoever commanded Haesten’s men in the fort had three ranks of warriors waiting for us, while Finan only had two ranks. Our shield wall was too thin, it was outnumbered, but if we could break their line then we would turn the hilltop’s turf dark with their blood. And that was why I shepherded the women and children straight towards the enemy’s shield wall. Those fugitives would be frantic to escape the grim noise of our swords beating a rhythm on the painted shields, and they would claw their way through Haesten’s wall, their panic would infect his men, their desperate attempts to escape our blades would open gaps in Haesten’s wall, and we would use the gaps to split the wall into small groups that could be slaughtered.

And so our few horsemen galloped out of the space between the two shield walls and the women and children, seeing escape, ran for the refuge of their own menfolk’s shields. Berg and I made sure they could not run around the end of the enemy’s wall, but were forced to go straight towards Haesten’s shields, and Finan, seeing what was happening, quickened his pace still further. My men were chanting, beating blades on willow, cheering.

And I knew we had an easy victory.

I could smell the enemy’s fear and see their panic. They had been left here by Ragnall and told to keep Eads Byrig safe till his return, and Haesten was relying on trickery and lies to keep the fort secure. The new wall had looked formidable, but it was a sham, the logs had not been sunk deep enough and so it had toppled. Now we were inside the fort, and Æthelflaed had scores more men outside, and Haesten’s troops saw annihilation coming. Their families were clawing at them, desperate to open the locked shields and get behind the wall, and Finan saw the gaps appear and ordered the charge.

‘Kill the men!’ I shouted.

We are cruel. Now that I am old and the brightest sunlight is dim and the roar of the waves crashing on rocks is muted, I think of all the men I have sent to Valhalla. Bench after bench is filled by them, brave men, spear-Danes, staunch fighters, fathers and husbands, whose blood I loosed and bones I shattered. When I remember that fight on Eads Byrig’s hilltop I know I could have demanded their surrender and the skull banner would have fallen and the swords would have been tossed to the turf, but we were fighting Ragnall the Cruel. That was the name he craved for himself, and a message had to be given to Ragnall the Cruel, or rather to his men, that we were to be feared even more than Ragnall. I knew we would have to fight him, that eventually our shield wall would have to meet his shield wall, and I wanted his men to have fear in their hearts when they faced us.

And so we killed. The enemy’s panic broke his own shield wall. Men, women, and children fled for the gate behind them, and they were too many to get through the narrow entrance and so they crowded behind it, and my men killed them there. We are cruel, we are savage, we are warriors.

I let Tentrig pick his own path. Some few men tried to escape by climbing over the wall and I slashed them off the logs with Serpent-Breath. I wounded rather than killed. I wanted dead men, but I also wanted crippled men to stagger north and take a message to Ragnall. The screams clawed at my ears. Some of the enemy tried to shelter in the half-built hall, but Finan’s shield-warriors were in a slaughtering mood. Spears took men in the back. Children watched their fathers die, women shrieked for their husbands, and still my wolf-soldiers went on killing, hacking down with swords and axes, lunging with spears. Our shield wall was no more, there was no need for it because the enemy was not fighting back, but trying to escape. Some few men tried to fight. I saw two turn on Finan, and the Irishman shouted at his companions to stand back, and I watched him throw down his shield and taunt the two. He parried their clumsy attacks and used his speed to first pierce one in the waist and plunge the blade deep, and then duck the other man’s savage blow, rip the sword free, and thrust it two-handed into the second assailant’s throat. He made it look easy.

A spearman charged me, face contorted, shouting that I was a turd, and he aimed his spear at Tintreg’s belly, knowing that if he could bring the stallion down then I would be easy meat for his blade. He could see from my helmet, from the gold and silver that adorned my belt, bridle, boots, and scabbard, that I was a warrior of renown, but to kill me at his own dying would give his name glory. A poet might even sing of him, might sing the lay of Uhtred’s death, and I let him come, then touched my heels to Tintreg and he leaped ahead and the spearman was forced to swing the blade, which, instead of opening the stallion’s belly, scored a bloody cut along his flank, and I cut back with Serpent-Breath, breaking the spear’s ash shaft and the man leaped after me, seizing my right leg and tried to haul me down from the saddle. I stabbed Serpent-Breath down, the blade scraping his helmet’s rim to rake his face, slashing off nose and chin, and his blood soaked my right boot as he twisted back in sudden pain, releasing me, and I gave him another blow, this time splitting his helmet. He made a gurgling sound, half crying, clutching his hands to his ruined face as I kicked Tintreg on.

Men were surrendering. They were throwing down their shields, dropping their weapons, and kneeling on the grass. Their women shielded them, shrieking at my killers to stop their madness, and I decided the women were right. We had killed enough.

‘Finan,’ I called, ‘take prisoners!’

And the horn sounded from beyond the gate.

The fight, which had begun so suddenly, ended abruptly, almost as if the horn were a signal to both sides. It sounded again, urgently, and I saw the crowd at the gate push back into the fort to make way.

Bishop Leofstan appeared, mounted on his gelding with his legs almost dangling to the ground. A rather more impressive band of warriors followed the priest, led by Merewalh, and all of them surrounding Æthelflaed. Haesten and his men came next, while behind them were still more of Æthelflaed’s Mercians. ‘You have broken the truce!’ Father Ceolnoth accused me, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Lord Uhtred, you broke the solemn promise we made!’ He looked at the bodies sprawled on the turf, bodiesthat were gutted, their intestines mangled with shattered mail, bodies with brains leaking from split helmets, bodies red with blood that was already attracting flies. ‘We made a promise before God,’ he said sadly.

Father Haruld, his face taut with anger, knelt and took the hand of a dying man. ‘You have no honour,’ he spat at me.

I kicked Tintreg forward and dropped Serpent-Breath’s bloody point so it touched the Danish priest’s neck. ‘You know what they call me?’ I asked him. ‘They call me the priest-killer. Speak to me of honour again and I’ll make you eat your own turds.’

‘You …’ he began, but I slapped his head hard with the flat of Serpent-Breath’s blade, knocking him to the turf.

‘You lied, priest,’ I said, ‘you lied, so don’t talk to me of honour.’

He went silent.

‘Finan,’ I snarled, ‘disarm them all!’

Æthelflaed pushed her horse to the front of the defeated Northmen. ‘Why?’ she asked me bitterly. ‘Why?’

‘They are enemies.’

‘The fort would have surrendered on Easter day.’

‘My lady,’ I said tiredly, ‘Haesten has never told a truth in his life.’

‘He swore an oath to me!’

‘And I never released him from his oath to me,’ I snapped back at her, suddenly angry. ‘Haesten is my man, sworn to me! No amount of priests or praying can change that!’

‘And you,’ she said, ‘are sworn to me. So your men are my men, and I made a pact with Haesten.’

I turned my horse. Bishop Leofstan had come close, but recoiled from me. Both Tintreg and I were smeared with blood, we stank of it, my sword blade glittered with it. I stood in the stirrups and shouted at Haesten’s men, those who survived. ‘All of you who are Christians, step forward!’ I waited. ‘Hurry!’ I shouted. ‘I want all the Christians over here!’ I pointed my sword towards an empty patch of turf between two of the log stacks.

Haesten opened his mouth to speak and I swept Serpent-Breath around to point at him. ‘One word from you,’ I said, ‘and I’ll cut your tongue out!’ He closed his mouth. ‘Christians,’ I bellowed, ‘over here, now!’

Four men moved. Four men and perhaps thirty women. That was all. ‘Now look at the rest,’ I said to Æthelflaed, pointing at the men who had not moved. ‘See what’s hanging at their necks, my lady? Do you see crosses or hammers?’

‘Hammers,’ she said the word quietly.

‘He lied,’ I said. ‘He told you that all but a few of his men were Christians, that they were waiting for Eostre’s feast to convert the others, but look at them! They’re pagans like me, and Haesten lies. He always lies.’ I pushed Tintreg through her men, speaking as I went. ‘He was told to hold onto Eads Byrig until Ragnall returns, and that will be soon. And so he lied because he can’t speak the truth. His tongue is bent. He breaks oaths, my lady, and he swears black is white and white is black, and men believe him because he has honey on his bent tongue. But I know him, my lady, because he’s my man, he’s sworn to me.’ And with that I leaned down from the saddle and took hold of Haesten’s mail coat, shirt, and cloak, and hauled him up. He was much heavier than I expected, but I heaved him over the saddle and then turned Tintreg back. ‘I’ve known him all my life, my lady,’ I said, ‘and in all that time he has never spoken one true word. He twists like a serpent, he lies like a weasel, and he has the courage of a mouse.’

Bruna, Haesten’s wife, began screaming at me from the back of the crowd, then pushed her way through with her big meaty fists. She was calling me a murderer, a heathen, a creature of the devil, and she was a Christian, I knew. Haesten had even encouraged her conversion because it had persuaded King Alfred to treat him leniently. He twisted on my saddle and I thumped his arse with Serpent-Breath’s heavy hilt. ‘Uhtred,’ I shouted at my son, ‘if that fat bitch lays a finger on me or my horse, break her damned neck!’

‘Lord Uhtred,’ Leofstan half moved to stop me, then looked at the blood on Serpent-Breath and on Tintreg’s flank and stepped back.

‘What, father?’ I asked.

‘He knew the creed,’ he spoke hesitantly.

‘I know the creed, father, does that make me a Christian?’

Leofstan looked heartbroken. ‘He’s not?’

‘He’s not,’ I said, ‘and I’ll prove it to you. Watch.’ I threw Haesten off the horse, then dismounted. I threw the reins to Godric, then nodded at Haesten. ‘You have your sword, draw it.’

‘No, lord,’ he said.

‘You won’t fight?’

The bastard turned to Æthelflaed. ‘Doesn’t our Lord command us to love our enemies? To turn the other cheek? If I am to die, my lady, I die a Christian. I die as Christ died, willingly. I die as a witness to …’

Whatever he was a witness to he never managed to say because I hit him over the back of his helmet with the flat of Serpent-Breath. The blow knocked him flat on the ground. ‘Get up,’ I said.

‘My lady,’ he said, looking up at Æthelflaed.

‘Get up!’ I shouted.

‘Stand,’ Æthelflaed commanded him. She was watching very closely.

Haesten stood. ‘Now fight, you slime turd,’ I told him.

‘I will not fight,’ he said. ‘I forgive you.’ He made the sign of the cross, then had the gall to drop to his knees and clasp the silver cross in both his hands, which he held up in front of his face as though he was praying. ‘Saint Werburgh,’ he called, ‘pray for me now and at the hour of my death!’

I swung Serpent-Breath so hard that Æthelflaed gasped. The blade whistled in the air, aiming for Haesten’s neck. It was a wild swing, lavish and fast, and I checked it at the very last instant so that the bloodied blade stopped just short of Haesten’s skin. And he did what I knew he would do. His right hand, that had been clutching the cross, dropped to the hilt of his sword. He gripped it, though he made no attempt to draw it.

I touched Serpent-Breath’s blade to his neck. ‘Are you frightened,’ I asked him, ‘that you won’t go to Valhalla? Is that why you gripped the sword?’

‘Let me live,’ he begged, ‘and I’ll tell you what Ragnall plans.’

‘I know what Ragnall plans.’ I pressed Serpent-Breath against the side of his neck and he shuddered. ‘You’re not worth fighting,’ I said, and I looked past Æthelflaed to her nephew. ‘Prince Æthelstan! Come here!’

Æthelstan looked at his aunt, but she just nodded, and he slid from his saddle. ‘You’ll fight Haesten,’ I told Æthelstan, ‘because it’s time you killed a jarl, even a pathetic jarl like this one.’ I took my sword from Haesten’s neck. ‘Get up,’ I ordered him.

Haesten stood. He glanced at Æthelstan. ‘You’d make me fight a boy?’

‘Beat the boy and you live,’ I promised him.

And Æthelstan was little more than a boy, slender and young, while Haesten was experienced in war, yet Haesten must have known I would not risk Æthelstan’s life unless I was confident that the youngster would win and, knowing that, Haesten tried to cheat. He drew his sword and ran at Æthelstan, who had been waiting for my command to start the fight. Haesten roared as he charged, then swung his blade, but Æthelstan was fast, sidestepping the charge and ripping his own long blade free of its scabbard. He parried the backswing and I heard the clangour of swords and watched as Haesten turned to deliver an overhead blow designed to split Æthelstan’s skull in two, but the young man just swayed back, let the blade pass him, then mocked his older enemy with laughter. He lowered his own sword, inviting another attack, but Haesten was cautious now. He was content to circle Æthelstan, who kept turning to keep his sword facing his foe.

I had reason to let Æthelstan fight and win. He might have been King Edward’s oldest son and therefore the ætheling of Wessex, but he had a younger half-brother, and there were powerful men in Wessex who favoured the younger boy as their next king. That was not because the younger boy was better, stronger, or wiser, but simply because he was the grandson of Wessex’s most powerful ealdorman, and to fight the influence of those wealthy men I would pay a poet bright gold to make a song of this fight, and it would not matter that the song bore no resemblance to the fight, only that it made Æthelstan into a hero who had fought a Danish chieftain to the death in the woods of northern Mercia. Then I would send the poet south into Wessex to sing the song in firelit mead halls so that men and women would know that Æthelstan was worthy.

My men were jeering Haesten now, shouting that he was frightened of a lad, goading him to attack, but Haesten stayed cautious. Then Æthelstan advanced a step and cut at the Dane, his stroke almost casual, but he was judging the swiftness of the older man’s responses and what he discovered he liked because he began attacking with short, sharp strokes, forcing Haesten back, not trying to wound him yet, but simply to force Haesten onto his back foot and give him no time to make his own assault. Then suddenly he stepped back, flinching as though he had pulled a muscle and Haesten lunged at him and Æthelstan stepped aside and chopped down hard, viciously hard, the stroke fast as a swift’s wingbeat, and the blade struck Haesten’s right knee with savage force and the older man stumbled and Æthelstan hacked down hard to cut through the mail of Haesten’s shoulder and so drove the Dane to the turf. I saw the battle-joy on Æthelstan’s face and heard Haesten cry out in despair as the young man stepped over him with his sword raised for the killing blow.

‘Hold!’ I shouted. ‘Hold! Step back!’

My watching men fell silent. Æthelstan looked puzzled, but nevertheless obeyed me and stepped back from his defeated enemy. Haesten was flinching with pain, but managed to struggle to his feet. He staggered unsteadily on his wounded right leg. ‘You will spare my life, lord?’ he asked me. ‘I will be your man!’

‘You are my man,’ I said and I took hold of his right arm.

He understood then what I was about to do and his face was distorted with despair. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘I beg you, no!’

I gripped his wrist, then twisted the sword out of his hand. ‘No!’ he wailed. ‘No! No!’

I tossed the sword away and stepped back. ‘Finish your work,’ I told Æthelstan curtly.

‘Give me my sword!’ Haesten cried and limped a painful step towards the fallen blade, but I stood in his path.

‘So you can go to Valhalla?’ I sneered. ‘You think you can share ale with those good men who wait for me in the bone hall? Those brave men? And why does a Christian believe in Valhalla?’

He said nothing. I looked at Æthelflaed, then at Ceolnoth. ‘Did you hear?’ I demanded. ‘This good Christian wants to go to Valhalla. You still think he’s a Christian?’ Æthelflaed nodded to me, accepting the proof, but Ceolnoth would not meet my gaze.

‘My sword!’ Haesten said, tears on his cheeks, but I just beckoned Æthelstan forward and stepped aside. ‘No!’ Haesten wailed. ‘My sword! I beg you!’ He gazed at Æthelflaed. ‘My lady, give me my sword!’

‘Why?’ she asked coldly, and Haesten had no answer.

Æthelflaed nodded to her nephew, and Æthelstan skewered Haesten with his blade, lunging the steel straight into Haesten’s belly, straight through mail and skin and sinew and flesh and he ripped the sword up, grunting with the effort as he looked his enemy in the eye, and the blood was gushing with the man’s guts as they spilled on Eads Byrig’s thin turf.

So died Haesten the Dane.

And Ragnall was coming.

He would be harder to kill.