Warriors of the Storm

Four

Our horses were waiting in the street where Godric, my servant, carried my fine wolf-crested helmet, a newly painted shield, and my bearskin cloak. My standard-bearer shook out the great banner of the wolf’s head as I heaved myself into the saddle. I was riding Tintreg, a new night-black stallion, huge and savage. His name meant Torment, and he had been a gift from my old friend Steapa who had been commander of King Edward’s household troops until he had retired to his lands in Wiltunscir. Tintreg, like Steapa, was battle-trained and bad-tempered. I liked him.

Æthelflaed was already waiting at the north gate. She was mounted on Gast, her white mare, and wearing her polished mail beneath a snow-white cloak. Merewalh, Osferth and Cynlæf were with her, as was Father Fraomar, her confessor and chaplain. ‘How many men are coming from the pagans?’ Æthelflaed asked me.

‘Eleven.’

‘Bring one more man,’ she ordered Merewalh. That added man, with her standard-bearer and mine, and with my son and Finan as my companions, would make the same number as Ragnall brought towards us.

‘Bring Prince Æthelstan!’ I told Merewalh.

Merewalh looked at Æthelflaed, who nodded assent. ‘But tell him to hurry!’ she added curtly.

‘Make the bastards wait,’ I growled, a comment Æthelflaed ignored.

Æthelstan was already dressed for battle in mail and helmet, so the only delay was as his horse was saddled. He grinned at me as he mounted, then gave his aunt a respectful bow. ‘Thank you, my lady!’

‘Just keep silent,’ Æthelflaed ordered him, then raised her voice. ‘Open the gates!’

The huge gates creaked and squealed and scraped as they were pushed outwards. Men were still pounding up the stone steps to the ramparts as our two standard-bearers led the way through the arch’s long tunnel. Æthelflaed’s cross-holding goose and my wolf’s head were the two banners that were lifted to a weak spring sunlight as we clattered over the bridge that crossed the flooded ditch. Then we spurred towards Ragnall and his men, who had reined in some three hundred yards away.

‘You don’t need to be here,’ I told Æthelflaed.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it will be nothing but insults.’

‘You think I’m afraid of words?’

‘I think he’ll insult you and try to offend you, and his victory will be your anger.’

‘Our scripture teaches us that a fool is full of words!’ Father Fraomar said. He was a pleasant enough young man and intensely loyal to Æthelflaed. ‘So let the wretch speak and betray his foolishness.’

I turned in my saddle to look at Ceaster’s walls. They were thick with men, the sun glinting from spear-points along the whole length of the ramparts. The ditch had been cleared and newly planted with sharpened stakes, and the walls were hung with banners, most of them showing Christian saints. The defences, I thought, looked formidable. ‘If he tries to attack the city,’ I said, ‘then he is a fool.’

‘Then why is he here?’ Æthelflaed asked.

‘This morning? To scare us, insult us, and provoke us.’

‘I want to see him,’ she said. ‘I want to see what kind of man he is.’

‘He’s a dangerous one,’ I said, and I wondered how many times I had ridden in my war-glory to meet an enemy before battle. It was a ritual. To my mind the ritual meant nothing and it changed nothing and it decided nothing, but Æthelflaed was evidently curious about her enemy, and so we indulged Ragnall by riding to endure his insults.

We halted a few paces from the Northmen. They carried three standards. Ragnall’s red axe was the largest, and it was flanked by a banner showing a ship sailing through a sea of blood and by Haesten’s bare skull on its tall pole. Haesten sat on his horse beneath the skull, and he grinned at me as if we were old friends. He looked old, but I suppose I did too. His helmet was decorated with silver and had a pair of raven’s wings mounted on its crown. He was plainly enjoying himself, unlike the man whose banner showed a ship in a sea of blood. He was also an older man, thin-faced and grey-bearded, with a scar slashing across one cheek. He wore a fine helmet that framed his face and was crested with a long black horse’s tail, which cascaded down his back. The helmet was circled by a ring of gold, a king’s helmet. He wore a cross above his mail, a gold cross studded with amber, showing that he was the only Christian among the enemies who faced us, but what distinguished him that morning was the murderous gaze directed at Finan. I glanced at Finan and saw the Irishman’s face was also taut with anger. So the man in the gold-ringed horsetail helmet, I thought, had to be Conall, Finan’s brother. You could feel the mutual hatred. One word from either, I reckoned, and swords would be drawn.

‘Dwarves!’ the silence was broken by the hulking man beneath the flag of the red axe, who kicked his big stallion one pace forward.

So this was Ragnall Ivarson, the Sea King, Lord of the Islands and would-be King of Britain. He wore leather trews tucked into tall boots that were plated with gold badges, the same golden plaques that studded his sword belt, from which hung a monstrous blade. He wore neither mail nor helmet, instead his bare chest was crossed by two leather straps beneath which his muscles bulged. His chest was hairy, and under the hair were ink marks; eagles, serpents, dragons, and axes that writhed from his belly to his neck, around which was twisted a chain of gold. His arms were thick with the silver and gold rings of conquest, while his long hair, dark brown, was threaded with gold rings. His face was broad, hard and grim, and across his forehead was an inked eagle, its wings spread and its talons needle-written onto his cheekbones. ‘Dwarves,’ he sneered again, ‘have you come to surrender your city?’

‘You have something to tell us?’ Æthelflaed asked in Danish.

‘Is that a woman in mail?’ Ragnall addressed the question to me, perhaps because I was the biggest man in our party, or else because my battle finery was the most elaborate. ‘I have seen many things,’ he told me in a conversational tone. ‘I have seen the strange lights glitter in the northern sky, I have seen ships swallowed by whirlpools, I have seen ice the size of mountains floating in the sea, I have watched whales break a ship in two, and seen fire spill from a hillside like vomit, but I have never seen a woman in mail. Is that the creature who is said to rule Mercia?’

‘The Lady Æthelflaed asked you a question,’ I said.

Ragnall stared at her, lifted himself a hand’s breadth from the saddle, and let out a loud and long fart. ‘She’s answered,’ he said, evidently amused as he settled back. Æthelflaed must have shown some distaste because he laughed at her. ‘They told us,’ he looked back to me, ‘that the ruler of Mercia was a pretty woman. Is that her grandmother?’

‘She’s the woman who will grant you a grave’s length of her land,’ I said. It was a feeble answer, but I did not want to match insult with insult. I was too aware of the hatred between Finan and Conall, and feared that it could break into a fight.

‘So it is the woman ruler!’ Ragnall sneered. He shuddered, pretending horror. ‘And so ugly!’

‘I hear that no pig, goat, or dog is safe from you,’ I said, provoked to anger, ‘so what would you know of beauty?’

He ignored that. ‘Ugly!’ he said again. ‘But I command men who don’t care what a woman looks like, and they tell me that an old worn boot is more comfortable than a new one.’ He nodded at Æthelflaed. ‘And she looks old and worn, so think how they’ll enjoy using her! Maybe she’ll enjoy it too?’ He looked at me as if expecting an answer.

‘You made more sense when you farted,’ I said.

‘And you must be the Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘the fabled Lord Uhtred!’ He shuddered suddenly. ‘You killed one of my men, Lord Uhtred.’

‘The first of many.’

‘Othere Hardgerson,’ he said the name slowly. ‘I shall revenge him.’

‘You’ll follow him to a grave,’ I said.

He shook his head, making the gold rings in his hair clink softly together. ‘I liked Othere Hardgerson. He played dice well and could hold his drink.’

‘He had no sword-craft,’ I said, ‘maybe he learned from you?’

‘A month from now, Lord Uhtred, I shall be drinking Mercian ale from a cup fashioned from your skull. My wives will use your long bones to stir their stew, and my babes will play knucklebones with your toes.’

‘Your brother made the same kind of boasts,’ I responded, ‘and the blood of his men still stains our streets. I fed his right eye to my dogs, and the taste of it made them vomit.’

‘But he still took your daughter,’ Ragnall said slyly.

‘Even the pigs won’t eat your rancid flesh,’ I said.

‘And a pretty daughter she is too,’ he said musingly, ‘too good for Sigtryggr!’

‘We shall burn your body,’ I said, ‘what’s left of it, and the stench of the smoke will make the gods turn away in disgust.’

He laughed at that. ‘The gods love my stench,’ he said, ‘they revel in it! The gods love me! And the gods have given me this land. So,’ he nodded towards the walls of Ceaster, ‘who commands in that place?’

‘The Lady Æthelflaed commands,’ I said.

Ragnall looked left and right at his followers. ‘Lord Uhtred amuses us! He claims that a woman commands warriors!’ His men dutifully laughed, all except for Conall who still stared malevolently at his brother. Ragnall looked back to me. ‘Do you all squat when you piss?’

‘If he has nothing useful to say,’ Æthelflaed’s voice was filled with anger, ‘then we shall return to the city.’ She wrenched Gast’s reins unnecessarily hard.

‘Running away?’ Ragnall jeered. ‘And I brought you a gift, lady. A gift and a promise.’

‘A promise?’ I asked. Æthelflaed had turned her mare back and was listening.

‘Leave the city by dusk tomorrow,’ Ragnall said, ‘and I shall be merciful. I shall spare your miserable lives.’

‘And if we don’t?’ Æthelstan asked the question. His voice was defiant and earned him an angry glance from Æthelflaed.

‘The puppy barks,’ Ragnall said. ‘If you don’t leave the city, little boy, then my men will cross your walls like a storm-driven wave. Your young women will be my pleasure, your children shall be my slaves, and your weapons my playthings. Your corpses will rot, your churches will burn, and your widows weep.’ He paused and gestured at his standard. ‘You can take that flag,’ he was talking to me, ‘and display it above the city. Then I shall know you’re leaving.’

‘I shall take your banner anyway,’ I said, ‘and use it to wipe my arse.’

‘It will be easier,’ he spoke to me now as if he addressed a small child, ‘if you just leave. Go to another town! I shall find you there anyway, worry not, but you’ll live a little longer.’

‘Come to us tomorrow,’ I said in the same tone of voice, ‘try to cross our walls, be our guests, and your lives will be a little shorter.’

He chuckled. ‘I shall take a delight in killing you, Lord Uhtred. My poets will sing of it! How Ragnall, Lord of the Sea and King of all Britain, made the great Lord Uhtred whimper like a child! How Uhtred died begging for mercy. How he cried as I gutted him.’ The last few words were spoken with sudden vehemence, but then he smiled again. ‘I almost forgot the gift!’ He beckoned to one of his men and pointed to the grass between our horses. ‘Put it there.’

The man dismounted and brought a wooden chest that he laid on the grass. The chest was square, about the size of a cooking cauldron, and decorated with painted carvings. The lid was a picture of the crucifixion, while the sides showed men with haloes about their heads, and I recognised the chest as one that had probably held a Christian gospel book or else one of the relics that Christians so revered. ‘That is my gift to you,’ Ragnall said, ‘and it comes with my promise that if you are not gone by tomorrow’s dusk then you will stay here for ever as ashes, as bones, and as raven food.’ He turned his horse abruptly and savaged it with his spurs. I felt relief as Conall, grey-bearded, dark-eyed King Conall, turned and followed.

Haesten paused a moment. He had said nothing. He looked so old to me, but then he was old. His hair was grey, his beard was grey, but his face still held a sly humour. I had known him since he was a young man, and I had trusted him at first, only to discover that he broke oaths as easily as a child breaks eggs. He had tried to make himself a king in Britain and I had thwarted every attempt until, at Beamfleot, I had destroyed his last army. He looked prosperous now, gold-hung, his mail bright, his bridle studded with gold, and his brown cloak edged with thick fur, but he had become a client to Ragnall, and where he had once led thousands he now commanded only scores of men. He had to hate me, yet he smiled at me as though he believed I would be glad to see him. I glared at him, despising him, and he seemed surprised by that. I thought, for a heartbeat, that he would speak, but then he pulled on his reins and spurred after Ragnall’s horsemen.

‘Open it,’ Æthelflaed commanded Cynlæf, who slid from his horse and walked to the gospel box. He stooped, lifted the lid and recoiled.

The box held Beadwulf’s head. I gazed down at it. His eyes had been gouged out, his tongue torn from his mouth, and his ears cut off. ‘The bastard,’ my son hissed.

Ragnall reached his shield wall. He must have shouted an order because the tight ranks dissolved and the spearmen went back towards the trees.

‘Tomorrow,’ I announced loudly, ‘we ride to Eads Byrig.’

‘And die in the forest?’ Merewalh asked anxiously.

‘But you said …’ Æthelflaed began.

‘Tomorrow,’ I cut her off harshly, ‘we ride to Eads Byrig.’

Tomorrow.

The night was calm and moonlit. Silver touched the land. The rainy weather had gone eastwards and the sky was bright with stars. A small wind came from the far sea, but it had no malice.

I was on Ceaster’s ramparts, gazing north and east and praying that my gods would tell me what Ragnall was doing. I thought I knew, but doubts always creep in, and so I looked for an omen. The sentinels had edged aside to give me space. All was quiet in the town behind me, though earlier I had heard a fight break out in one of the streets. It had not lasted long. It had doubtless been two drunks fighting and then being pulled apart before either could kill the other, and now Ceaster was quiet and I heard nothing except the small wind across the roofs, a cry of a child in its sleep, a dog whining, the scrape of feet on the ramparts, and a spear butt knocking on stone. None of those was a sign from the gods. I wanted to see a star die, blazing in its bright death across the darkness high overhead, but the stars stayed stubbornly alive.

And Ragnall, I thought, would be listening and watching for a sign too. I prayed that the owl would call to his ears and let him know the fear of that sound that foretells death. I listened and heard nothing except the night’s small noises.

Then I heard the clapping sound. Quick and soft. It started and stopped. It had come from the fields to the north, from the rough pasture that lay between Ceaster’s ditch and the Roman cemetery. Some of my men wanted to dig up the cemetery and throw the dead onto a fire, but I had forbidden it. They feared the dead, reckoning that ancient ghosts in bronze armour would come to haunt their sleep, but the ghosts had built this city, they had made the strong walls that protected us, and we owed them our protection now.

The clapping sounded again.

I should have told Ragnall of the ghosts. His insults had been better than mine, he had won that ritual of abuse, but if I had thought of the Roman graves with their mysterious stones I could have told him of an invisible army of the dead that rose in the night with sharpened swords and vicious spears. He would have mocked the idea, of course, but it would have lodged in his fears. In the morning, I thought, we should pour wine on the graves as thanks to the protecting dead.

The clapping started again, followed by a whirring noise. It was not harsh, but neither was it tuneful. ‘Early in the year for a nightjar,’ Finan said behind me.

‘I didn’t hear you!’ I said, surprised.

‘I move like a ghost,’ he sounded amused. He came and stood beside me and listened to the sudden clapping sound. It was the noise made by the long wings of the bird beating together in the dark. ‘He wants a mate,’ Finan said.

‘It’s that time of year. Eostre’s feast.’

We stood in companionable silence for a while. ‘So are we really going to Eads Byrig tomorrow?’ Finan finally asked.

‘We are.’

‘Through the forest?’

‘Through the forest to Eads Byrig,’ I said, ‘then north to the river.’

He nodded. For a while he said nothing, just gazed at the distant shine of moonlight on the Mærse. ‘No one else is to kill him,’ he broke the silence fiercely.

‘Conall?’

‘He’s mine.’

‘He’s yours,’ I agreed. I paused, listening to the nightjar. ‘I thought you were going to kill him this morning.’

‘I would have done. I wish I had. I will.’ He touched his breast where the crucifix had hung. ‘I prayed for this, prayed God would send Conall back to me.’ He paused and smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘Tomorrow then.’

‘Tomorrow,’ I said.

He slapped the wall in front of him, then laughed. ‘The boys need a fight, by Christ they do. They were trying to kill each other earlier.’

‘I heard it. What happened?’

‘Young Godric got in a fight with Heargol.’

‘Godric!’ He was my servant. ‘He’s an idiot!’

‘Heargol was too drunk. He was punching air.’

‘Even so,’ I said, ‘one of his punches could kill young Godric.’ Heargol was one of Æthelflaed’s household warriors, a great brute of a man who revelled in the close work of a shield wall.

‘I pulled the bastard off before he could do any harm, and then I smacked Godric. Told him to grow up.’ He shrugged. ‘No harm done.’

‘What were they fighting over?’

‘There’s a new girl at the Pisspot.’ The Pisspot was a tavern. Its proper name was the Plover and that bird was painted on its sign, but for some reason it was always called the Pisspot, and it was a place that sold good ale and bad women. The holy twins, Ceolnoth and Ceolberht, had tried to close the tavern, calling it a den of iniquity, and so it was, which is why I wanted it left open. I commanded a garrison of young warriors and they needed everything the Pisspot provided. ‘Mus,’ Finan said.

‘Mus?’

‘That’s her name.’

‘Mouse?’

‘You should go see her,’ Finan said, grinning. ‘Sweet God in His heaven, lord, but she’s worth seeing.’

‘Mus,’ I said.

‘You won’t regret it!’

‘He won’t regret what?’ a woman’s voice asked, and I turned to see Æthelflaed had come to the ramparts.

‘He won’t regret cutting the big willows downstream of Brunanburh, my lady,’ Finan said. ‘We need new shield wood.’ He gave her a respectful bow.

‘And you need your sleep,’ Æthelflaed said, ‘if you’re to ride to Eads Byrig tomorrow.’ She laid a stress on the word ‘if’.

Finan knew when he was being dismissed. He bowed again. ‘I bid you both goodnight,’ he said.

‘Look out for mice,’ I said.

He grinned. ‘We assemble at dawn?’

‘All of us,’ I said. ‘Mail, shields, weapons.’

‘It’s time we killed a few of the bastards,’ Finan said. He hesitated, wanting an invitation to stay, but none came and he walked away.

Æthelflaed took his place and gazed at the moon-silvered land for a moment. ‘Are you really going to Eads Byrig?’

‘Yes. And you should send Merewalh and six hundred men with me.’

‘So they can die in the forest?’

‘They won’t,’ I said and hoped I did not lie. Had the nightjar been the omen I had wanted? I did not know how to interpret the clapping sound. The direction that a bird flies has meaning, as does the stoop of a falcon or the hollow call of an owl, but a drumming noise in the darkness? Then I heard it again and something about the sound made me think of the clatter of shields as men made a shield wall. It was the omen I sought.

‘You told us!’ Æthelflaed was insistent. ‘You said that once you were among the trees you can’t see where the enemy is. That they could get behind you. That you’ll be ambushed! So what’s changed?’ She paused and, when I did not answer, grew angry. ‘Or is this stupidity? You let Ragnall insult us so now you have to attack him?’

‘He won’t be there,’ I said.

She frowned at me. ‘He won’t be there?’ she repeated.

‘Why did he give us a full day to leave the city?’ I asked. ‘Why not tell us to leave at dawn? Why not tell us to leave immediately?’

She thought about the questions, but found no answer. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded.

‘He knows we’re not going to leave,’ I said, ‘but he wants us to think we have a whole day before he attacks us. He needs that day because he’s leaving. He’s going north across his bridge of boats and he doesn’t want us interfering with that. He’s no intention of attacking Ceaster. He’s got a brand new army and he doesn’t want to lose two or three hundred men trying to cross these walls. He wants to take the army to Eoferwic because he needs to be King of Northumbria before he attacks Mercia.’

‘How do you know?’

‘A nightjar told me.’

‘You can’t be sure!’

‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted, ‘and perhaps it’s a ruse to persuade us to go into the forest tomorrow and be killed. But I don’t think so. He wants us to leave him in peace so he can withdraw, and if that’s what he wants then we shouldn’t give it to him.’

She put her arm through mine, a gesture that told me she had accepted both my argument and my plan. She was silent a long time. ‘I suppose,’ she said at last, her voice low and small, ‘that we should attack him in Northumbria?’

‘I’ve been saying we should invade Northumbria for months.’

‘So you can retake Bebbanburg?’

‘So we can drive the Danes out.’

‘My brother says we shouldn’t.’

‘Your brother,’ I said, ‘doesn’t want you to be the champion of the Saxons. He wants to be that himself.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘He’s cautious,’ I said, and so he was. Edward of Wessex had wanted to be King of Mercia too, but he had bowed to Mercian wishes when they had chosen his sister Æthelflaed to rule instead of him. Perhaps he had expected her to fail, but in that he had been disappointed. Now his armies were busy in East Anglia, driving the Danes north out of that land, and he had insisted that his sister do no more than reconquer the old Mercian lands. To conquer the north, he said, we would need both the armies of Wessex and of Mercia, and perhaps he was right. I thought we should invade anyway and take back a slew of towns in southern Northumbria, but Æthelflaed had accepted her brother’s wishes. She needed his support, she told me. She needed the gold that Wessex gave Mercia, and she needed the West Saxon warriors who manned the burhs in eastern Mercia. ‘In a year or two,’ I said, ‘Edward will have secured East Anglia and then he’ll come here with his army.’

‘That’s good,’ she said. She sounded cautious, not because she did not want her brother to join his forces to hers, but because she knew I believed she should strike north long before her brother was ready.

‘And he’ll lead your army and his into Northumbria.’

‘Good,’ she insisted.

And that invasion would make the dream real. It was the dream of Æthelflaed’s father, King Alfred, that all the folk who spoke the English language would live in one kingdom under one king. There would be a new kingdom, Englaland, and Edward wanted to be the first man to carry the title of King of Englaland. ‘There’s only one problem,’ I said bleakly, ‘right now Northumbria is weak. It has no strong king and it can be taken piece by piece. But a year from now? Ragnall will be king, and he’s strong. Conquering Northumbria will be far more difficult once Ragnall rules there.’

‘We’re not strong enough to invade Northumbria on our own,’ Æthelflaed insisted. ‘We need my brother’s army.’

‘Give me Merewalh and six hundred men,’ I said, ‘and I’ll be in Eoferwic in three weeks. A month from now I’ll see you crowned queen of Northumbria, and I’ll bring you Ragnall’s head in a gospel box.’

She laughed at that, thinking that I joked. I did not. She squeezed my arm. ‘I’d like his head as a gift,’ she said, ‘but for now you need your sleep. And so do I.’

And I hoped the message of the nightjar was true.

I would find out tomorrow.

The sun had risen into a sky of ragged clouds and scudding wind by the time we left Ceaster. Seven hundred men rode to Eads Byrig.

The horsemen streamed through Ceaster’s northern gate, a torrent of mail and weapons, hooves clattering on the gate-tunnel’s stone, the bright spear-points raised to the fitful sun as we followed the Roman road north and east.

Æthelflaed insisted on coming herself. She was mounted on Gast, her white mare, and followed by her standard-bearer, by a bodyguard of ten picked warriors, and by five priests, one of whom was Bishop Leofstan. He was not formally the bishop yet, but would be soon. He was mounted on a roan gelding, a placid horse. ‘I don’t like riding when I can walk,’ he told me.

‘You can walk if you prefer, father,’ I said.

‘I limp.’

‘I noticed.’

‘I was kicked by a yearling when I was ten,’ he explained, ‘it was a gift from God!’

‘Your god gives strange gifts.’

He laughed at that. ‘The gift, Lord Uhtred, was the pain. It lets me understand the crippled, it permits me to share a little in their agony. It is a lesson from God! But today I must ride or else I won’t see your victory.’

He was riding beside me, just in front of my great wolf’s head banner. ‘What makes you think it will be a victory?’ I asked.

‘God will grant you the victory! We prayed for that this morning.’ He smiled at me.

‘Did you pray to my god or your god?’

He laughed, then suddenly winced. I saw a look of pain cross his face, a grimace as he bent forward in the saddle. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘God afflicts me with pain sometimes. It comes and it goes.’ He straightened and smiled at me. ‘There! Gone already!’

‘A strange god,’ I said viciously, ‘who gives his worshippers pain.’

‘He gave his own son a cruel death, why should we not suffer a little pain?’ He laughed again. ‘Bishop Wulfheard warned me against you! He calls you the spawn of Satan! He said you would oppose everything I try to achieve. Is that true, Lord Uhtred?’

‘You leave me alone, father,’ I said sourly, ‘and I’ll leave you alone.’

‘I shall pray for you! You can’t object to that!’ He looked at me as if expecting a response, but I said nothing. ‘I’m not your enemy, Lord Uhtred,’ he said gently.

‘Count yourself fortunate in that,’ I said, knowing that I was being boorish.

‘I do!’ He had taken no offence. ‘My mission here is to be like Christ! To feed the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick, and to be a father to the fatherless. Your task, if I understand it right, is to protect us! God gave us different missions. You do yours and I will do mine. I am not Bishop Wulfheard!’ he said that with a surprising slyness, ‘I shall not interfere with you! I know nothing of war!’

I made a grunting sound that he could take as grateful acceptance of his words.

‘Do you think I wanted this burden?’ he asked me. ‘To become a bishop?’

‘You don’t?’

‘Dear Lord, no! I was happy, Lord Uhtred! I laboured in King Edward’s household as a humble priest. My duty was to draw up charters and write the king’s letters, but my joy was translating Saint Augustine’s City of God. It is all I ever wanted from life. A pot of ink, a sheaf of quills, and a church father to guide my thoughts. I’m a scholar, not a bishop!’

‘Then why …’ I began.

‘God called me,’ he answered my question before I finished it. ‘I walked the streets of Wintanceaster and saw men kicking beggars, saw children forced into slavery, saw women degraded, saw cruelty, saw cripples dying in the ditches. That was not the city of God! For those people it was hell, and the church was doing nothing! Well, a little! There were convents and monasteries that tended the sick, but not enough of them! So I began to preach, and tried to feed the hungry and help the helpless. I preached that the church should spend less on silver and gold and more on food for the hungry and on clothes for the naked.’

I half smiled. ‘I can’t think that made you popular.’

‘Of course it didn’t! Why do you think they sent me here?’

‘To be the bishop,’ I said, ‘it’s a promotion!’

‘No, it’s a punishment,’ he said, laughing. ‘Let that fool Leofstan deal with the Lord Uhtred!’

‘Is that the punishment?’ I asked, curious.

‘Good Lord, yes. They’re all terrified of you!’

‘And you’re not?’ I asked, amused.

‘My tutor in Christ was Father Beocca.’

‘Ah,’ I said. Beocca had been my tutor too. Poor Father Beocca, crippled and ugly, but a better man never walked this earth.

‘He was fond of you,’ Leofstan said, ‘and proud of you too.’

‘He was?’

‘And he told me often that you are a kind man who tries to hide his kindness.’

I grunted again. ‘Beocca,’ I said, ‘was full of …’

‘Wisdom,’ Leofstan interrupted me firmly. ‘So no, I’m not frightened of you and I will pray for you.’

‘And I’ll keep the Northmen from slaughtering you,’ I said.

‘Why do you think I pray for you?’ he asked, laughing. ‘Now go, I’m certain you have more pressing duties than talking to me. And God be with you!’

I kicked back my heels, riding hard to the front of the column. Damn it, I thought, but now I liked Leofstan. He would join that small group of priests like Beocca, Willibald, Cuthbert, and Pyrlig, whom I admired and liked, a group hugely outnumbered by the corrupt, venal and ambitious clerics who governed the church so jealously. ‘Whatever you do,’ I told Berg, who was the leading horseman, ‘never believe the Christians when they tell you to love your enemies.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Why would I want to love them?’

‘I don’t know! Just Christian shit. Have you seen any enemy?’

‘Nothing,’ he said.

I had sent no scouts ahead. Ragnall would learn soon enough that we were coming, and he would either gather his men to oppose us or, if I was right, he would refuse battle. I would learn which soon enough. Æthelflaed, even though she had decided to trust my instinct, feared I was being impetuous, and I was not so sure that she was wrong and so had attempted to persuade her to stay in Ceaster. ‘And what will men think of me,’ she had asked, ‘if I cower behind stone walls while they ride to fight Mercia’s enemies?’

‘They’ll think you’re a sensible woman.’

‘I am the ruler of Mercia,’ she said. ‘Men won’t follow unless I lead.’

We followed the Roman road, which would eventually lead to a crossroads where ruined stone buildings stood above deep shafts dug into the layers of salt that had once made this region rich. Old men remembered clambering down the long ladders to reach the white rock, but the shafts now lay in the uncertain land between the Saxons and the Danes, and so the buildings, which the Romans had made, decayed. ‘If we garrison Eads Byrig,’ I told Æthelflaed as we rode, ‘we can reopen the mines.’ A burh on the hill would protect the country for miles around. ‘Salt from a mine is much cheaper than salt from fire pans.’

‘Let’s capture Eads Byrig first,’ she said grimly.

We did not go as far as the old shafts, turning north a few miles short of the crossroads and plunging into the forest. Ragnall would know we were coming by now and we made no attempt to hide our progress. We rode on the ridge’s crest, following an ancient track from where I could see the green slopes of Eads Byrig rising above the sea of trees, and I could see the bright raw wood of the newly-made palisade, then the track plunged leftwards into trees and I lost sight of the hill until we burst out into the great space that Ragnall had cleared around the ancient fort. The trees had been cut down, leaving stumps, wood chips, and sheared branches. Our appearance in that waste land prompted the defenders of the fort to jeer at us, one even hurled a spear that fell a hundred paces short of our nearest horseman. Bright banners flew above the ramparts, the largest showing Ragnall’s red axe. ‘Merewalh!’ I shouted.

‘Lord?’

‘Keep a hundred men here! Just watch the fort! Don’t start a fight. If they leave the fort to follow us then ride ahead of them and join us!’

‘Lord?’ he called questioningly.

‘Just watch them! Don’t fight them!’ I shouted and rode on, skirting the hill’s western flank. ‘Cynlæf!’

The West Saxon caught up with me. ‘Lord?’ The expensive red scabbard with the gold plaques bounced at his side.

‘Keep Lady Æthelflaed at the back!’

‘She won’t …’

‘Just do it!’ I snarled. ‘Hold her bridle if you must, but don’t let her get caught up in the fighting.’ I quickened the pace and drew Serpent-Breath and the sight of that long blade prompted my men to unsheathe their own swords.

Ragnall had not faced us at Eads Byrig. True there were men on the fort’s ramparts, but not his full army. The spear-points had been spaced apart, not crowded together, and that told me most of Ragnall’s men were to the north. He had landed his ships on the banks of the Mærse and then fortified Eads Byrig to deceive his real enemy, to persuade the feeble king in Eoferwic that his ambitions lay in Mercia, but Northumbria was much easier prey. Dozens of Northumbrian jarls had already joined Ragnall, some no doubt believing he would lead them south, but by now he would have fired them with enthusiasm for the attack northwards. They would be lured by promises of gold, of land taken from King Ingver and his supporters, and, doubtless, of the prospect of a renewed assault on Mercia once Northumbria was secure.

Or so I believed. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Ragnall was marching on Ceaster or waiting at the river with a shield wall. His banner had flown over Eads Byrig, but that, I thought, was a deception intended to make us think he was inside the new palisade. The prickle of instinct told me he was crossing the river. Why, then, had he left men at Eads Byrig? That was a question that must wait, and then I forgot it altogether because I suddenly saw a group of men running ahead of me. They were not in mail. We had been following a newly-made track through the trees, a track that must lead from Eads Byrig to the bridge of boats, and the men ahead were carrying sacks and barrels. I suspected they were servants, but whoever they were they scattered into the undergrowth when they saw us. We pounded on, ducking under branches, and more men were running away from us, and suddenly the green shadows under the trees lightened and I saw open land ahead, land scattered with makeshift shelters and the remnants of campfires, and I knew we had come to the place beside the river where Ragnall had made his temporary encampment.

I spurred Tintreg out into the sunlight. The river was now a hundred paces away and a crowd was waiting to cross the bridge of boats. The far bank was already thick with men and horses, a horde, most of whom were already marching north, but on this side of the river were more men with their horses, livestock, families, and servants. My instinct had been right. Ragnall was going north.

And then we struck.

Ragnall would have known we were coming, but he must have assumed we would ride straight to Eads Byrig and stay there, lured by his great banner into the belief that he was inside the walls, and our sudden and fast ride northwards took his rearguard by surprise.

It was kind to call it a rearguard. What was left on the Mærse’s southern bank was a couple of hundred warriors, their servants, some women and children, and a scattering of pigs, goats, and sheep. ‘This way!’ I shouted, swerving left. I did not want to charge straight into the panicking crowd who were now struggling to reach the bridge, instead I wanted to cut them off, and so I skirted them and then spurred Tintreg along the river bank towards the bridge. At least a dozen men stayed close behind me. A child screamed. One man tried to stop us, hurling a heavy spear that flew past my helmet. I ignored him, but one of my men must have struck because I heard the butcher’s sound of sword on bone. Tintreg snapped his teeth as he ploughed into the folk closest to the bridge. They were trying to escape, some scrambling onto the closest boat, some jumping into the river or else pushing desperately back towards the forest, and then I hauled on the reins and swung out of the saddle. ‘No!’ a woman was trying to shelter two small children, but I ignored her, instead going to where the planks of the bridge stretched down to the muddy bank, and I stood there, and one by one my men joined me and we unslung our shields and clashed the iron rims together.

‘Put your weapons down!’ I shouted at the panicked crowd. They had no escape now. Hundreds of my horsemen had come from the trees and I had a shield wall barring their path across the Mærse. I had hoped to trap more than this ragged handful, but Ragnall must have marched early, and we had left Ceaster too late.

‘They’re burning the boats!’ Finan called to me. He had joined me, but was still on horseback. Women were shrieking, children screaming, and my men bellowing at the trapped enemy to put down their weapons. I turned and saw that Ragnall’s huge fleet was either beached or moored on the Mærse’s far bank and that men were hurling firebrands into the hulls. Other men were setting fire to the ships that supported the crude plank roadway. The boats had been readied for burning, their hulls filled with tinder and soaked in pitch. A handful of vessels were upstream of the others, tied with long lines to poles driven into the shelving mud, and I guessed those were the few ships that were being saved from the flames. ‘God in His heaven,’ Finan said as he dismounted, ‘but that’s a fortune going up in flames!’

‘Worth losing a fleet to gain a kingdom,’ I said.

‘Northumbria,’ Finan said.

‘Northumbria, Eoferwic, Cumbraland, he’ll take it all,’ I said, ‘he’ll take the whole north country between here and Scotland! All of it, under a strong king.’

The smoke was churning now as the strong flames leaped from ship to ship. I had thought to try to rescue one of the vessels, but the roadway was firmly lashed to the ships, which, in turn, were lashed to each other. There was no time to cut the lashings and prise the nailed planks apart. The bridge would soon be ash, but as I stared at it I saw a single horseman come through the smoke. He was a bare-chested, long-haired, tall rider on a great black stallion. It was Ragnall who rode the burning road. He came within thirty paces of us, the smoke whipping around horse and man. He drew his sword, and the long blade reflected the flames that surrounded him. ‘I will be back, Lord Uhtred!’ he shouted. He paused, as if waiting for an answer. A ship’s mast collapsed behind him, spewing sparks and a burst of darker smoke. Still he waited, but when I said nothing he turned the horse and vanished into the fire.

‘I hope you burn,’ I growled.

‘But why did he leave men at Eads Byrig?’ Finan asked.

The sorry rearguard at the river put up no fight. They were hugely outnumbered and the women screamed at their men to drop their weapons. Behind me the bridge broke and burning ships drifted downstream. I slid Serpent-Breath back into her scabbard, remounted, and forced Tintreg into the mass of frightened enemy. Most of my men were now on foot, collecting swords, spears, and shields, though young Æthelstan was still on horseback and like me was pushing his way through the defeated crowd. ‘What do we do with them, lord?’ he called to me.

‘You’re a prince,’ I said, ‘so you tell me.’

He shrugged and looked about him at the frightened women, crying children, and sullen men, and I thought as I watched him how he had grown from a mischievous child into a strong and handsome youth. He should be king, I thought. He was his father’s eldest child, son of Wessex’s king, a man who should be king himself. ‘Kill the men,’ he suggested, ‘enslave the children, put the women to work?’

‘That’s the usual,’ I said, ‘but this is your aunt’s land. She decides.’ I could see Æthelstan was staring at a girl and I moved my horse to get a better view. She was a pretty little thing with a mass of unruly fair hair, very blue eyes, and a clear unblemished skin. She was clutching an older woman’s skirts, presumably her mother. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked the girl in Danish.

Her mother began screaming and begging, then went to her knees and turned a tear-stained face to me. ‘She’s all I have, lord, all I have!’

‘Quiet, woman,’ I snarled, ‘you don’t know how lucky your daughter is. What’s her name?’

‘Frigga, lord.’

‘How old is she?’

The mother hesitated, perhaps tempted to lie, but I snarled and she blurted out her answer. ‘She’ll be fourteen at Baldur’s Day, lord.’

Baldur’s Feast was the midsummer so the girl was more than old enough to wed. ‘Bring her here,’ I commanded.

Æthelstan frowned, thinking I was taking Frigga for myself, and I confess I was tempted, but I called to Æthelstan’s servant instead. ‘Tie the girl to your horse’s tail,’ I ordered him, ‘she’s not to be touched! She’s not to be hurt! You protect her, understand?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘And you,’ I looked back to the mother, ‘can you cook?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Sew?’

‘Of course, lord.’

‘Then stay with your daughter.’ I turned to Æthelstan. ‘Your household just increased by two,’ I told him, and, as I glanced back at Frigga, thought what a lucky bastard he was, except he was not a bastard, but the true-born son of a king.

A cheer sounded from the horsemen watching from the south. I thrust Tintreg through the prisoners and saw that Father Fraomar, Æthelflaed’s confessor, had made some announcement. He was mounted on a grey mare, the horse’s colour matching Father Fraomar’s white hair. He was close to Æthelflaed, who smiled as I drew near. ‘Good news,’ she called.

‘What news?’

‘God be praised,’ Father Fraomar said happily, ‘but the men at Eads Byrig have surrendered!’

I felt disappointment. I had been looking forward to a fight. Ragnall seemed to have left a substantial part of his army behind the walls of Eads Byrig, presumably because he wanted to hold onto the newly constructed fort, and I had wanted that garrison’s death to be a warning to the rest of his followers. ‘They surrendered?’

‘God be praised, they did.’

‘So Merewalh is inside the fort?’

‘Not yet!’

‘What do you mean, not yet? They’ve surrendered!’

Fraomar smiled. ‘They’re Christians, Lord Uhtred! The garrison is Christian!’

I frowned. ‘I don’t care if they worship weevils,’ I said, ‘but if they’ve surrendered then our forces should be inside the fort. Are they?’

‘They will be,’ Father Fraomar said. ‘It’s all agreed.’

‘What’s agreed?’ I demanded.

Æthelflaed looked troubled. ‘They’ve agreed to surrender,’ she said, looking to her confessor for confirmation. Fraomar nodded. ‘And we don’t fight Christians,’ Æthelflaed finished.

‘I do,’ I said savagely, then called for my servant. ‘Godric! Sound the horn!’ Godric glanced at Æthelflaed as if seeking her approval, and I lashed out and struck his left arm. ‘The horn! Sound it!’

He blew it hurriedly, and my men, who had been disarming the enemy, ran to mount their horses.

‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed protested.

‘If they’ve surrendered,’ I said, ‘then the fort is ours. If the fort is not ours then they haven’t surrendered.’ I looked from her to Fraomar. ‘So which is it?’

Neither answered.

‘Finan! Bring the men!’ I shouted, and, ignoring Æthelflaed and Fraomar, spurred back southwards.

Back to Eads Byrig.