WAR LORD
Bernard Cornwell

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2020

Map © John Gilkes 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photography © CollaborationJS/Arcangel Images

Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008183950

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2020 ISBN: 9780008183974

Version: 2020-09-15

Dedication

War Lord

is for Alexander Dreymon

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Place Names

Map

Part One: The Broken Oath

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part Two: The Devil’s Work

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part Three: The Slaughter

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Historical Note

Author Note

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Bernard Cornwell

The SHARPE series

About the Publisher

PLACE NAMES

The spelling of place names in Anglo-Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whichever spelling is cited in either the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names or the Cambridge Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained within Alfred’s reign, AD 871–899, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hæglingaiggæ. Nor have I been consistent myself; I have preferred the modern form Northumbria to Norðhymbralond to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list of places mentioned in the book is, like the spellings themselves, capricious.

Bebbanburg | Bamburgh, Northumberland
Brynstæþ | Brimstage, Cheshire
Burgham | Eamont Bridge, Cumbria
Cair Ligualid | Carlisle, Cumbria
Ceaster | Chester, Cheshire
Dacore | Dacre, Cumbria
Dingesmere | Wallasey Pool, Cheshire
Dun Eidyn | Edinburgh, Scotland
Dunholm | Durham, County Durham
Eamotum | River Eamont
Eoferwic | York, Yorkshire
Farnea Islands | Farne Islands, Northumberland
Foirthe | River Forth
Heahburh | Whitley Castle, Cumbria
Hedene | River Eden
Hlymrekr | Limerick, Ireland
Jorvik | Norse name for York
Lauther | River Lowther
Legeceasterscir | Cheshire
Lindcolne | Lincoln, Lincolnshire
Lindisfarena | Lindisfarne Island, Northumbria
Lundene | London
Mærse | The Mersey
Mameceaster | Manchester
Mön | Isle of Man
Orkneyjar | Orkney Islands
Rammesburi | Ramsbury, Wiltshire
Ribbel | River Ribble
Scipton | Skipton, Yorkshire
Snæland | Iceland
Snotengaham | Nottingham, Nottinghamshire
Sumorsæte | Somerset
Strath Clota | Strathclyde
Suðreyjar | Hebrides
Temes | River Thames
Tesa | River Tees
Tinan | River Tyne
Tuede | River Tweed
Wiltunscir | Wiltshire
Wir | River Wyre
Wirhealum | The Wirral, Cheshire

Map

PART ONE
The Broken Oath

One

Chain mail is hot in summer, even when covered with a pale linen shift. The metal is heavy and heats relentlessly. Beneath the mail is a leather liner, and that is hot too, and the sun that morning was furnace hot. My horse was irritable, tormented by flies. There was hardly any wind across the hills that crouched under the midday sun. Aldwyn, my servant, carried my spear and my iron-bound shield that was painted with the wolf’s head of Bebbanburg. Serpent-Breath, my sword, hung on my left side, her hilt almost too hot to touch. My helmet, with its silver wolf’s head crest, was on the saddle’s pommel. The helmet would encase my whole head, was lined with leather, and had cheek-pieces that laced over my mouth so all an enemy would see were my eyes framed in battle-steel. They would not see the sweat or the scars of a lifetime of war.

They would see the wolf’s head, the gold about my neck, and the thick arm rings won in battle. They would know me, and the bravest of them, or the stupidest, would want to kill me for the renown my death would bring. Which is why I had brought eighty-three men to the hill, because to kill me they would have to deal with my warriors too. We were the warriors of Bebbanburg, the savage wolf pack of the north. And one priest.

The priest, mounted on one of my stallions, wore no mail nor carried a weapon. He was half my age, yet already showed grey at his temples. He had a long face, clean-shaven, with shrewd eyes. He wore a long black robe and had a golden cross hanging from his neck. ‘Aren’t you hot in that dress?’ I growled at him.

‘Uncomfortably,’ he said. We spoke in Danish, his native language and the tongue of my childhood.

‘Why,’ I asked, ‘am I always fighting for the wrong side?’

He smiled at that. ‘Even you can’t escape fate, Lord Uhtred. You must do God’s work whether you wish it or not.’

I bit back an angry retort and just stared into the wide treeless valley where the sun glared off pale rocks and shivered silver from a small stream. Sheep grazed high on the eastern hillside. The shepherd had seen us and was trying to move his flock south away from us, but his two dogs were hot, tired and thirsty and they panicked the sheep rather than herded them. The shepherd had nothing to fear from us, but he saw riders on the hill and saw sunlight glinting from weapons and so he feared. Deep in the valley the Roman road, now little more than a track of beaten earth edged with half-buried and overgrown stones, ran straight as a spear-haft beside the stream before bending west just beneath the hill where we waited. A hawk circled above the road’s bend, the still wings tilting to the warm air. The far southern horizon shimmered.

And from the shimmer one of my scouts appeared, galloping hard, and that meant only one thing. The enemy was coming.

I took my men and the one priest back so we were behind the skyline. I pulled Serpent-Breath a hand’s breadth from her scabbard, then let her rest again. Aldwyn offered me the shield, but I shook my head. ‘Wait till we see them,’ I told him. I gave him my helmet to hold, dismounted, and walked with Finan and my son to the crest where we lay staring southwards. ‘It all feels wrong,’ I said.

‘It’s fate,’ Finan answered, ‘and fate is a bitch.’ We lay in the long grass watching the dust kicked up from the road by the scout’s stallion. ‘He should have ridden along the road’s edge,’ Finan said, ‘no dust there.’

The scout, who I recognised now as Oswi, swerved off the road and began the long climb to the hilltop where we lay.

‘You’re sure about the dragon?’ I asked.

‘Can’t miss a big beast like that,’ Finan said, ‘the creature came from the north, so it did.’

‘And the star fell from north to south,’ my son said, reaching under his chest to touch his cross. My son is a Christian.

The dust in the valley died away. The enemy was coming, except I was not sure who my enemy was, only that this day I must fight the king coming from the south. And that felt all wrong, because the star and the dragon had said that evil would come from the north.

We look for omens. Even Christians search the world for such signs. We watch the flight of birds, fear the fall of a branch, look for the wind’s pattern on water, draw breath at a vixen’s cry, and touch our amulets when a harp string snaps, but omens are hard to read unless the gods decide to make their message plain. And three nights before, in Bebbanburg, the gods had sent a message that could not have been clearer.

That evil would come from the north.

The dragon had flown in the night sky above Bebbanburg. I did not see it, but Finan did and I trust Finan. It was vast, he said, with a skin like hammered silver, eyes like burning coals, and with wings wide enough to hide the stars. Each beat of those monstrous wings made the sea shiver like a burst of wind on a calm day. It had turned its head towards Bebbanburg, and Finan thought fire was about to be spewed across the whole fortress, but then the great slow wings beat once more, the sea shuddered far beneath, and the dragon flew on southwards.

‘And a star fell last night,’ Father Cuthbert said, ‘Mehrasa saw it.’ Father Cuthbert, Bebbanburg’s priest, was blind and married to Mehrasa, an exotic dark-skinned girl we had rescued from a slave-trader in Lundene many years before. I call her a girl out of habit, but of course she was middle-aged now. We grow old, I thought.

‘The star fell from the north towards the south,’ Father Cuthbert said.

‘And the dragon came from the north,’ Finan added.

I said nothing. Benedetta leaned on my shoulder. She too said nothing, but her hand tightened on mine.

‘Signs and wonders,’ Father Cuthbert said, ‘something dire will happen.’ He crossed himself.

It was an early summer evening. We were sitting outside Bebbanburg’s hall where swallows flew around the eaves and where the long waves rolled incessantly against the beach beneath the eastern ramparts. The waves give us rhythm, I thought, an endless sound that rises and falls. I had been born to that sound and soon I must die. I touched my hammer amulet and prayed that I would die to the sound of Bebbanburg’s waves and to the cry of her gulls.

‘Something dire,’ Father Cuthbert repeated, ‘and it will come from the north.’

Or maybe the dragon and the falling star were omens of my death? I touched the hammer again. I can still ride a horse, heft a shield, and wield a sword, but at day’s end the aches in my joints tell me I am old. ‘The worst thing about death,’ I broke my silence, ‘is not knowing what happens next.’

No one spoke for a while, then Benedetta squeezed my hand again. ‘You are a fool,’ she said fondly.

‘Always has been,’ Finan put in.

‘You can watch what happens from Valhalla perhaps?’ Father Cuthbert suggested. As a Christian priest he was not supposed to believe in Valhalla, but he had long learned to indulge me. He smiled. ‘Or join the church of Rome, lord?’ he said mischievously. ‘I assure you that from heaven you can watch earth!’

‘In all your efforts to convert me,’ I said, ‘I never heard you say there was ale in heaven.’

‘I forgot to mention that?’ he asked, still smiling.

‘There will be wine in heaven,’ Benedetta said, ‘good wine from Italy.’

That provoked silence. None of us much liked wine. ‘I hear King Hywel has gone to Italy,’ my son said after the pause, ‘or perhaps he’s just thinking of going?’

‘To Rome?’ Finan asked.

‘So they say.’

‘I would like to go to Rome,’ Father Cuthbert said wistfully.

‘There is nothing in Rome,’ Benedetta said scornfully. ‘It is ruins and rats.’

‘And the Holy Father,’ Cuthbert said gently.

Again no one spoke. Hywel, whom I liked, was King of Dyfed and if he thought it was safe to travel to Rome then there had to be peace between his Welshmen and the Saxons of Mercia, so no trouble there. But the dragon had not come from the south, nor from the west, it had come from the north. ‘The Scots,’ I said.

‘Too busy fighting the Norsemen,’ Finan said brusquely.

‘And raiding Cumbria,’ my son said bitterly.

‘And Constantine is old,’ Father Cuthbert added.

‘We’re all old,’ I said.

‘And Constantine would rather build monasteries than make war,’ Cuthbert went on.

I doubted that was true. Constantine was King of Scotland. I enjoyed meeting him, he was a wise and elegant man, but I did not trust him. No Northumbrian trusts the Scots, just as no Scot trusts the Northumbrians. ‘It will never end,’ I said wanly.

‘What?’ Benedetta asked.

‘War. Trouble.’

‘When we are all Christians …’ Father Cuthbert began.

‘Ha!’ I said curtly.

‘But the dragon and the star do not lie,’ he went on. ‘The trouble will come from the north. The prophet has told us so in the scriptures! “Quia malum ego adduco ab aquilone et contritionem magnam.”’ He paused, hoping one of us would ask him to translate.

‘I will bring evil from the north,’ Benedetta disappointed him, ‘and much destroying.’

‘Much destruction!’ Father Cuthbert said ominously. ‘Evil will come from the north! It is written!’

And next morning the evil came.

From the south.

The ship came from the south. There was hardly a breath of wind, the sea was lazy, its small waves collapsing exhausted on Bebbanburg’s long beach. The approaching ship, its prow crested with a cross, left a widening ripple that was touched with glittering gold by the early morning sun. She was being rowed, her oars rising and falling in a slow, weary rhythm. ‘Poor bastards must have been rowing all night,’ Berg said. He commanded the morning’s guards posted on Bebbanburg’s ramparts.

‘Forty oars,’ I said, more to make conversation than to tell Berg what he could plainly see for himself.

‘And coming here.’

‘From where, though?’

Berg shrugged. ‘What’s happening today?’ he asked.

It was my turn to shrug. What would happen was what always happened. Cauldrons would be lit to boil clothes clean, salt would evaporate in the pans north of the fortress, men would practise with shields, swords and spears, horses exercised, fish would be smoked, water drawn from the deep wells, and ale brewed in the fortress kitchens. ‘I plan to do nothing,’ I said, ‘but you can take two men and remind Olaf Einerson that he owes me rent. A lot of rent.’

‘His wife’s ill, lord.’

‘He said that last winter.’

‘And he lost half his flock to Scotsmen.’

‘More likely he sold them,’ I said sourly. ‘No one else has complained of Scottish raiders this spring.’ Olaf Einerson had inherited his tenancy from his father, who had never failed to deliver fleeces or silver as rent. Olaf, the son, was a big and capable man whose ambitions, it seemed to me, went beyond raising hardy sheep on the high hills. ‘On second thoughts,’ I said, ‘take fifteen men and scare the shit out of the bastard. I don’t trust him.’

The ship was close enough now that I could see three men sitting just forward of the stern platform. One was a priest, or at least he was wearing a long black robe and it was he who stood and waved up at our ramparts. I did not wave back. ‘Whoever they are,’ I told Berg, ‘bring them to the hall. They can watch me drink ale. And wait before you smack some sense into Olaf.’

‘Wait, lord?’

‘Let’s see what news they’re bringing first,’ I said, nodding at the ship that was now turning towards the narrow entrance of Bebbanburg’s harbour. The ship carried no cargo that I could see, and her oarsmen looked bone weary, suggesting that she brought urgent news. ‘She’s from Æthelstan,’ I guessed.

‘Æthelstan?’ Berg asked.

‘She’s not a Northumbrian ship, is she?’ I asked. Northumbrian ships had narrower prows, while southern shipwrights preferred a broad bow. Besides, this ship displayed the cross which few Northumbrian ships carried. ‘And who uses priests to carry messages?’

‘King Æthelstan.’

I watched the ship turn into the entrance channel, then led Berg off the ramparts. ‘Look after his oarsmen. Send them food and ale, and bring the damn priest to the hall.’

I climbed to the hall where two servants were attacking cobwebs with long willow switches tied with bundles of feathers. Benedetta was watching to make sure every last spider was driven from the fortress. ‘We have visitors,’ I told her, ‘so your war against spiders must wait.’

‘I am not at war,’ she insisted, ‘I like spiders. But not in my home. Who are the visitors?’

‘I’m guessing they’re messengers from Æthelstan.’

‘Then we must greet them properly!’ She clapped her hands and ordered benches to be brought. ‘And bring the throne from the platform,’ she commanded.

‘It’s not a throne,’ I said, ‘just a fancy bench.’

‘Ouff!’ she said. It was a noise Benedetta made whenever I exasperated her. It made me smile, which only irritated her more. ‘It is a throne,’ she insisted, ‘and you are King of Bebbanburg.’

‘Lord,’ I corrected her.

‘You are as much a king as that fool Guthfrith,’ she made the sign to ward off evil, ‘or Owain, or anyone else.’ It was an old argument and I let it drop.

‘And have the girls bring ale,’ I said, ‘and some food. Preferably not stale.’

‘And you should wear the dark robe. I fetch it.’

Benedetta was from Italy, snatched as a child from her home by slavers, then traded across Christendom until she reached Wessex. I had freed her and now she was the Lady of Bebbanburg, though not my wife. ‘My grandmother,’ she had told me more than once, and always making the sign of the cross as she spoke, ‘told me I should never marry. I would be cursed! I have been cursed enough in life. Now I am happy! Why should I risk a grandmother’s curse? My grandmother was never wrong!’

I grumpily allowed her to drape the costly black robe over my shoulders, refused to wear the bronze-gilt circlet that had belonged to my father, and then, with Benedetta beside me, I waited for the priest.

And it was an old friend who came from the sunlight into the dusty shadows of Bebbanburg’s great hall. It was Father Oda, now Bishop of Rammesburi, who walked tall and elegant, his long black robe hemmed with dark red cloth. He was escorted by a pair of West Saxon warriors who politely gave my steward their swords before following Oda towards me. ‘Anyone would think,’ the bishop said as he came closer, ‘that you were a king!’

‘He is,’ Benedetta insisted.

‘And anyone would think,’ I said, ‘that you were a bishop.’

He smiled. ‘By the grace of God, Lord Uhtred, I am.’

‘By the grace of Æthelstan,’ I said, then stood and greeted him with an embrace. ‘Do I congratulate you?’

‘If you like. I think I am the first Dane to be a bishop in Englaland.’

‘Is that what you call it now?’

‘It’s easier than saying I am the first Danish bishop in Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia.’ He bowed to Benedetta. ‘It is good to see you again, my lady.’

‘And to see you, my lord bishop,’ she said, offering him a curtsey.

‘Ah! So rumour is wrong! Courtesy does live in Bebbanburg!’ He grinned at me, pleased with his jest and I smiled back. Oda, Bishop of Rammesburi! The only surprising thing about that appointment was that Oda was a Dane, son of pagan immigrants who had invaded East Anglia in the service of Ubba, whom I had killed. And now the Danish son of pagan parents was a bishop in Saxon Englaland! Not that he did not deserve it. Oda was a subtle, clever man who, as far as I knew, was as honest as the day is long.

There was a pause because Finan had seen Oda arrive and now came to greet him. Oda had been with us when we defended Lundene’s Crepelgate, a fight that had put Æthelstan on the throne. I might be no Christian and no lover of Christianity, but it is hard to dislike a man who has shared a desperate battle at your side. ‘Ah, wine,’ Oda greeted a servant, then turned to Benedetta, ‘no doubt blessed by the Italian sun?’

‘More likely pissed on by Frankish peasants,’ I said.

‘His charms don’t grow less, do they, my lady?’ Oda said, sitting. Then he looked at me and touched the heavy gold cross hanging at his breast. ‘I bring news, Lord Uhtred.’ His tone was suddenly wary.

‘I supposed as much.’

‘Which you won’t like.’ Oda kept his eyes on me.

‘Which I won’t like,’ I echoed, and waited.

‘King Æthelstan,’ he said calmly, still looking at me, ‘is in Northumbria. He entered Eoferwic three days ago.’ He paused, as if expecting me to protest, but I said nothing. ‘And King Guthfrith,’ Oda went on, ‘misunderstood our coming and has fled.’

‘Misunderstood,’ I said.

‘Indeed.’

‘And he fled from you and Æthelstan? Just the two of you?’

‘Of course not,’ Oda said, still calm, ‘we were escorted by over two thousand men.’

I had fought enough, I wanted to stay at Bebbanburg, I wanted to hear the long sea break on the beach and the wind sigh around the hall’s gable. I knew I had few years left, but the gods had been kind. My son was a man and would inherit wide lands, I could still ride and hunt, and I had Benedetta. True she had a temper like a weasel on heat, but she was loving and loyal, had a brightness that lit Bebbanburg’s grey skies, and I loved her. ‘Two thousand men,’ I said flatly, ‘yet still he needs me?’

‘He requests your help, lord, yes.’

‘He can’t manage the invasion on his own?’ I was getting angrier.

‘It’s not an invasion, lord,’ Oda said calmly, ‘just a royal visitation. A courtesy between kings.’

He could call it what he liked, but it was still an invasion.

And I was angry.

I was furious because Æthelstan had once sworn an oath that he would never invade Northumbria while I lived. Yet now he was in Eoferwic with an army, and I had eighty-three men waiting behind the crest of a hill not far south of Bebbanburg to do his bidding. I had wanted to refuse Oda, I had wanted to tell him to take his damned ship back to Eoferwic and spit in Æthelstan’s face. I felt betrayed. I gave Æthelstan his throne, yet since that far-off day when I had fought at the Crepelgate he had ignored me, and that did not upset me. I am a Northumbrian and live far from Æthelstan’s land, and all I wanted was to be left in peace. Yet deep inside I knew there could not be peace. When I was born, Saxon Britain was divided into four countries; Wessex, Mercia, East Anglia and my own Northumbria. King Alfred, Æthelstan’s grandfather, had dreamed of uniting them into one country he called Englaland, and that dream was coming true. King Æthelstan ruled over Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia, and only Northumbria remained, and Æthelstan had sworn to me that he would not snatch that land while I lived, yet now he was in my country with an army, and he was pleading for my help. Again. And deep down I knew that Northumbria was doomed, that either Æthelstan would take my country or Constantine would add it to his lands, and my loyalty was to those who spoke my language, the Saxon tongue we call Ænglisc, and that was why I had led eighty-three warriors from Bebbanburg to ambush King Guthfrith of Northumbria who had fled from Æthelstan’s invasion. The sun burned high and bright, the day was still.

Oswi, on a sweat-whitened horse, brought news of Guthfrith’s approach. ‘Soon, lord,’ he said.

‘How many?’

‘A hundred and fourteen. Some prisoners too.’

‘Prisoners?’ Bishop Oda, who had insisted on accompanying us, asked sharply. ‘We were only expecting one captive.’

‘They’ve got some women, lord,’ Oswi still spoke to me. ‘They’re driving them like sheep.’

‘The women are on foot?’ I asked.

‘Some of the men too, lord. And a lot of the horses are limping. They’ve ridden fast!’ He took a leather flask from Roric, swilled out his mouth with ale, spat into the grass, and took another swig. ‘They look as if they’ve been travelling all night.’

‘And so they might have,’ I said, ‘to have got this far so quickly.’

‘They’re worn out now,’ Oswi said happily.

Bishop Oda had brought me his news from Eoferwic and his ship had made the journey in two days despite the fitful winds, but the men approaching on the long straight road had fled the city on horseback. I reckoned to take a week to ride from Bebbanburg to Eoferwic, though admittedly that was slow and allowed me long nights in friendly halls. I had once ridden it in four days, but never in heat like this early summer. The fugitives from Eoferwic had fled fast and they had ridden fast, but Bishop Oda’s oarsmen had easily overtaken them and now the weary horses were bringing them into our ambush.

‘It is not an ambush,’ Bishop Oda insisted when I used the word. ‘We are merely here to persuade King Guthfrith to return to Eoferwic. And King Æthelstan requests your presence in Eoferwic too.’

‘Mine?’ I said curtly.

‘Indeed. And he also requires you to gain the release of Guthfrith’s captive.’

‘Captives,’ I corrected him.

‘Indeed,’ Oda said dismissively. ‘But Guthfrith must be returned to Eoferwic. He simply needs reassurance that King Æthelstan comes in friendship.’

‘With over two thousand men? All in mail, all armed?’

‘King Æthelstan likes to travel in style,’ Oda responded loftily.

Æthelstan might describe his visit to Eoferwic as a friendly visitation, but there had still been fighting in the city because in truth it had been a conquest, a lightning fast invasion and, reluctant as I was to give Æthelstan any credit, I had to admire what he had achieved. Oda had told me how Æthelstan had brought an army of over two thousand men across the Mercian border, then led them at a relentless pace northwards, abandoning any man or horse that faltered or weakened. They pounded the road, reaching Eoferwic while their presence in Northumbria was still an unconfirmed rumour. The city’s southern gate was opened by West Saxon warriors who had infiltrated Eoferwic pretending to be merchants, and Æthelstan’s army had flooded into the streets. ‘There was some fighting on the bridge,’ Oda had told me, ‘but by the grace of God the pagans were defeated and the survivors fled.’

Those survivors were led by Guthfrith, and Æthelstan had sent Bishop Oda with a demand that I bar the northern roads and so keep Guthfrith from escaping into Scotland. Which is why I waited on the hillside under the burning sun. Finan, my son and I were prone on the crest, staring southwards, while Bishop Oda was crouched behind us. ‘And why,’ I asked him sourly, ‘shouldn’t Guthfrith escape to Scotland?’

Oda sighed at my stupidity. ‘Because it gives Constantine a reason to invade Northumbria. He’ll simply claim he’s restoring the rightful king to his throne.’

‘Constantine is Christian,’ I said, ‘why would he fight for a pagan king?’

Oda sighed again, his eyes on the far distance where the road vanished in the heat. ‘King Constantine,’ he said, ‘would sacrifice his own daughters to Baal if it increased the size of his realm.’

‘Who’s Baal?’ Finan asked.

‘A heathen god,’ Oda said dismissively, ‘and how long do you think Constantine would tolerate Guthfrith? He’ll put him back on his throne, marry him to one of his daughters, then have him quietly strangled, and the Scots will own Northumbria. So no, Guthfrith must not reach Scotland.’

‘There,’ Finan said, and in the far distance a group of horsemen appeared on the road. I could just see them, a blur of horses and men in the summer haze. ‘They’re tired right enough,’ Finan said.

‘We want Guthfrith alive,’ Oda warned me, ‘and back in Eoferwic.’

‘You told me,’ I grumbled, ‘and I still don’t know why.’

‘Because King Æthelstan demands it, that’s why.’

‘Guthfrith is a piece of raddled shit,’ I said. ‘It would be better to kill him.’

‘King Æthelstan demands that you keep him alive. Pray do so.’

‘And I’m supposed to obey his orders? He’s not my king.’

Oda gave me a stern look. ‘He is Monarchus Totius Brittaniae.’ I just stared at him until he offered a translation. ‘He is the monarch of all Britain.’

‘Is that what he calls himself now?’ I asked.

‘It is,’ Oda said.

I snorted at that. Æthelstan had been calling himself the King of the Saxons and Angles ever since he had been crowned, and he did have some claim to that title, but ruler of all Britain? ‘I imagine King Constantine and King Hywel might disagree?’ I suggested sourly.

‘I’m sure they will,’ Oda said calmly, ‘but nevertheless King Æthelstan wishes you to prevent Guthfrith from reaching Scotland, and to release his captive unharmed.’

‘Captives.’

‘Captive.’

‘You don’t care about the women?’ I asked.

‘I pray for them, of course. But I pray for peace even more.’

‘Peace?’ I asked angrily. ‘Invading Northumbria brings peace?’

Oda looked pained. ‘Britain is unsettled, lord. The Norsemen threaten, the Scots are restless, and King Æthelstan fears a war is coming. And he fears it will be a war more terrible than any we have known. He yearns to avert that slaughter and to that end, lord, he begs you to rescue the captive and send Guthfrith safely home.’

I did not understand why sending Guthfrith home would make peace, but I remembered the dragon flying above Bebbanburg’s ramparts and its grim message of war. I looked at Finan, who shrugged as if to say he no more understood than I did, but we had best try to do Æthelstan’s bidding. Down in the valley I could see the approaching men more clearly, and see the women captives walking at the rear of the long column of horses. ‘So what do we do?’ Finan asked.

‘We ride down there,’ I said, easing my way back from the crest, ‘we smile politely, and tell the stupid bastard that he’s our prisoner.’

‘Guest,’ Bishop Oda said.

Roric helped me into the saddle and Aldwyn gave me the silver-crested helmet. The leather liner was uncomfortably hot. I buckled it under my chin, but left the cheek-pieces unlaced, then took my wolf’s-head shield from Aldwyn. ‘No spear yet,’ I told him, ‘and if there’s any fighting, you stay out of trouble.’

‘He used to say that to me,’ Roric said, grinning.

‘Which is why you’re alive,’ I growled. Roric had been my servant before Aldwyn, but was now old enough to stand in the shield wall.

‘There’ll be no fighting,’ Bishop Oda said sternly.

‘It’s Guthfrith,’ I said, ‘he’s a fool, and he fights before he thinks, but I’ll do my best to keep the beef-witted idiot alive. Let’s go!’

I led my men westwards, always staying out of Guthfrith’s sight. When I had last seen him he had been perhaps a half mile from the bend in the road and travelling painfully slowly. We went fast, our horses fresher than his, then turned down the hill and threaded through the pine trees, splashed through the hurrying stream and so reached the road. There we formed a line of two ranks so that when the approaching fugitives appeared they would see two rows of mailed horsemen with bright shields and sun-glinting spearheads. We waited.

I did not like Guthfrith and he did not like me. He had spent three years trying to make me swear an oath of loyalty, and for three years I had refused. Twice he had sent warriors to Bebbanburg, and twice I had kept the Skull Gate barred, daring Guthfrith’s spearmen to assault the fortress, and twice they had ridden away.

Now, in the hot sun, his spearmen were on my land again, only this time they were led by Guthfrith himself, and Guthfrith had to be bitter. He believed his kingdom was being stolen, and in a moment he would see my men, see my wolf’s head badge on their shields, and he not only disliked me, but would realise he outnumbered me. Bishop Oda might piously hope there would be no fighting, but a cornered Guthfrith would be like a polecat in a sack; maddened and vicious.

And he had hostages.

Not just the women, though they had to be rescued, but Guthfrith, cunning as he was, had snatched Archbishop Hrothweard from his cathedral in Eoferwic. ‘During the Mass!’ Oda had told me in horrified tones. ‘During the Mass! Armed men in the cathedral!’

I wondered whether Guthfrith would dare harm the archbishop. Doing so would make him the enemy of every Christian ruler in Britain, though perhaps Constantine would swallow his anger long enough to put Guthfrith back on Northumbria’s throne. A dead archbishop would be a small price to pay for a larger Scotland.

Then they appeared. The first horsemen turning towards us at the bend in the road. They saw us and stopped, and gradually the following warriors joined them. ‘We’ll go to them,’ Oda said.

‘We won’t,’ I said.

‘But—’

‘You want a slaughter?’ I snarled.

‘But—’ the bishop tried again.

‘I go,’ I said impulsively.

‘You—’

‘I go alone.’ I gave my shield back to Aldwyn and swung down from the saddle.

‘I should come with you,’ Oda said.

‘And give him two priests as hostages? A bishop as well as an archbishop? He’d like that.’

Oda looked towards Guthfrith’s men who were slowly arranging themselves into a line that overlapped ours. At least a score of them were on foot, their horses too lamed to be mounted. All were pulling on helmets and hefting shields that showed Guthfrith’s symbol of a long-tusked boar. ‘Invite him to come and talk to me,’ Oda said, ‘promise him he’ll be safe.’

I ignored that, looking at Finan instead. ‘I’ll try to meet Guthfrith halfway,’ I told him. ‘If he brings men, send me the same number.’

‘I’ll come,’ Finan said, grinning.

‘No, you stay here. If trouble starts you’ll know when to come, and when you do, come fast.’

He nodded, understanding me. Finan and I had fought together for so long that I rarely needed to explain what I planned. He grinned. ‘I’ll come like the wind.’

‘Lord Uhtred—’ Oda began.

‘I’ll do my best to keep Guthfrith alive,’ I interrupted him, ‘and the hostages too.’

I was not sure I could succeed in that, but I was certain that if we all rode forward until we were within shouting distance of Guthfrith’s men then there would almost certainly be a fight, or else blades would be held at the hostages’ throats. Guthfrith was a fool, but a proud fool, and I knew he would refuse a demand that he give up his prisoners and meekly agree to return to Eoferwic. He must refuse because to agree would be to lose face in front of his warriors.

And those warriors were Norsemen, proud Norsemen who believed they were the most feared warriors in all the known world. They outnumbered us and they saw a chance for slaughter and plunder. Many were young, they wanted reputation, they wanted their arms ringed with gold and silver, they wanted their names to be spoken with terror. They wanted to kill me, to take my arm rings, my weapons, my land.

So I walked towards them alone, stopping a little more than halfway between my men and Guthfrith’s tired warriors, who were then about a long bowshot away. I waited, and when Guthfrith made no move, I sat on a fallen Roman milestone, pulled off my helmet, and watched the sheep on the far hill crest, then looked up to admire the hawk balancing on the small wind. The bird was circling, so no message from the gods in that.

I had come alone because I wanted Guthfrith alone, or at most with only two or three companions. I was sure he was ready for a fight, but he knew his men were tired and his horses blown, and I reckoned that even a fool like Guthfrith would probably explore the chances of avoiding a fight if he could win this confrontation without sacrificing a dozen or more of his warriors. Besides, he had hostages and doubtless thought he could use them to force me into a humiliating retreat.

And still Guthfrith made no move. He had to be puzzled. He saw that I was alone and apparently unafraid, but a man does not become a king without some measure of cunning, and he was wondering where the trap lay. I decided to let him believe there was no trap and so I stood, kicked at some of the half buried stones in the old road, shrugged, and started walking away.

That prompted him to spur forward. I heard the hooves, turned back, pulled on my helmet, and waited again.

He brought three men. Two were warriors, one of whom was leading a small horse that carried Archbishop Hrothweard who was still dressed in the brightly embroidered robes that Christian priests wear in their churches. He looked unhurt, though tired, his face burned by the sun and his white hair tangled.

I also heard the hooves behind me and glanced back to see that Finan had sent Berg and my son. ‘Stay behind me,’ I called to them. They had seen that Guthfrith and his two men had drawn swords and they too now pulled their long blades from their scabbards. Berg was behind and to my right, facing the man who held Hrothweard’s horse. My son was to my left, confronting the other warrior.

‘What—’ my son began to ask.

‘Say nothing!’ I said.

Guthfrith curbed his stallion just two or three paces from me. His plump face, framed by the steel of his helmet, glistened with sweat. His brother, the one-eyed Sigtryggr, had been a handsome man, but Guthfrith had drunk too much ale and eaten too much rich food so that he now sat heavy in the saddle. He had small, suspicious eyes, a flattened nose, and a long, plaited beard that hung down his elaborate mail. His horse had silver trappings, his helmet had a raven’s black wing on its crown, and his sword was now held at Hrothweard’s throat. ‘Lord Archbishop,’ I said in greeting.

‘Lord Uht—’ Hrothweard began, then stopped abruptly as Guthfrith pressed the blade’s edge against his gullet.

‘Address me first,’ Guthfrith growled at me. ‘I am your king.’

I looked at him and frowned. ‘Remind me of your name?’ I said, and heard my son chuckle.

‘You want this priest dead?’ Guthfrith asked angrily. The pressure of his sword was forcing Hrothweard to lean back in his saddle. His frightened eyes watching me over the grey blade.

‘Not particularly,’ I said carelessly, ‘I like him well enough.’

‘Well enough to beg for his life?’

I pretended to think about that question, then nodded. ‘I’ll beg for his life if you swear to release him, yes.’

Guthfrith sneered at that. ‘There will be a price,’ he said. I noticed how awkward Guthfrith looked. Hrothweard was on his left, and Guthfrith was holding the sword with his right hand.

‘There’s always a price,’ I said, taking a small step to my left, thus forcing Guthfrith to half turn his head away from Hrothweard. The sword wavered. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘merely wishes to speak with you. He promises you both your life and your kingdom.’

‘Æthelstan,’ Guthfrith said, ‘is shit from a swine’s arsehole. He wants Northumbria.’

He was right, of course, at least about what Æthelstan wanted. ‘Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘keeps his promises.’ Yet in truth Æthelstan had betrayed me, he had broken his promise, yet here I was; doing just what he wanted.

‘He promised,’ Guthfrith said, ‘not to invade Northumbria while you lived, yet he’s here!’

‘He came to talk with you, nothing else.’

‘Maybe I should kill you. Maybe the little turd would like that.’

‘You can try,’ I said. My son’s horse stirred behind me, a hoof clicking against one of the road’s broken stones.

Guthfrith edged his horse towards me and swept the sword over and down so the blade was in front of me. ‘You have never sworn me an oath of loyalty, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘yet I am your king.’

‘True,’ I said.

‘Then on your knees, Jarl Uhtred,’ he said, sneering at the word ‘jarl’, ‘and give me your sworn oath.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Then you will feed Boar Tusk.’ I assumed Boar Tusk was the name of his sword that was now close to my face. I could see the nicks in the sharpened edges, could feel the heat of the steel on my cheek, and was dazzled by the sun reflecting brilliant from the vague whorls in the hammered steel. ‘Down!’ Guthfrith commanded, jerking the blade.

I looked up into his small dark and suspicious eyes. ‘I shall demand the archbishop’s life in exchange for the oath,’ I said, ‘and the lives of the other hostages.’

‘You can demand nothing,’ he snarled, ‘nothing!’ He prodded the sword hard, grating its tip on my mail until it lodged in one of the links, forcing me back a half pace. ‘You will be my sworn man,’ he said, ‘and you will get only what I choose to give. Now down on your knees!’ He prodded again, harder.

There was a gasp of astonishment from my son as I knelt meekly and lowered my head. Guthfrith chuckled and held his sword’s tip close to my face. ‘Kiss the blade,’ he said, ‘and say the words.’

‘Lord King,’ I said humbly, and paused. My left hand found a stone about the size of a fist.

‘Louder!’ Guthfrith snarled.

‘Lord King,’ I said again, ‘I swear by Odin …’ and with that I brought the stone up and smashed it into the stallion’s mouth. I hit the snaffle, crushing the silver decoration, but the blow must have hurt because the horse reared and whinnied. Guthfrith’s sword vanished from my sight. ‘Now!’ I bellowed, though neither my son nor Berg needed the encouragement. Guthfrith was struggling to stay in the saddle of his rearing horse. I stood, cursing the pain in my knees, and seized his sword arm. My son was to my left, keeping that man distracted by thrusting a sword at his belly. I hauled on Guthfrith, pulled again, was jerked to my right by the stallion, but Guthfrith fell at last, crashing down onto the road and I wrenched his sword free, dropped on his belly with my knees, and held Boar Tusk’s blade at his straggling beard. ‘You’ll only get one oath from me, you miserable slime-toad,’ I snarled, ‘and that’s a promise to kill you.’

He lurched up and I forced the sword down hard, which stilled him.

And behind me Finan was charging. My men’s spears were lowered, the blades glittering in the harsh sun. Guthfrith’s men had been much slower to react, but now they were coming too.

And once again I was not certain I was fighting for the right side.

Two

Was it the wrong side?

I had no liking for Guthfrith. He was a drunken bully, a fool, and in the short time he had been King of Northumbria he had only succeeded in shrinking its borders. Now, on the hard road, he grunted something and I pressed the sword to silence him.

My son had pierced his enemy through the belly. He had ripped the sword free, turned his horse, then swung the blade back onto the man’s neck. It was brutal, it was quick, and it was well done. The man swayed, his horse swerved, and he fell with a thump into the weeds beside the road. His body jerked as the blood stained the dust.

Guthfrith lurched again and I rammed the sword-blade harder, crushing his beard against his throat. ‘You’re a guest on my land,’ I told him, ‘so behave yourself.’

Berg had freed Hrothweard. The man holding the archbishop’s horse had released his grip on the reins, then tried to turn and flee. That was fatal, especially against a man as skilled and fierce as Berg, a Norseman himself. Now the man was writhing on the ground and his horse was trotting away alongside Guthfrith’s bloody-mouthed stallion. ‘To me, Berg!’ I bellowed. Guthfrith tried to speak and flapped a hand at me. ‘Move again,’ I told him, ‘and I’ll cut your fat throat.’ He stayed still.

Finan, as he had promised, was coming like the wind, the horses leaving a plume of dust from the dry ground. Our horses were far less tired than Guthfrith’s stallions and so Finan had reached me sooner. ‘Stop!’ I bellowed at Finan over the thunder of hooves. ‘Stop! All of you! Stop!’ I had to stand and hold my hands wide to make them understand, and Guthfrith tried to haul me down so I smacked his helmet with the flat of Boar’s Tusk. He tried to seize the blade and I jerked it back and saw blood start from his hand. ‘Idiot,’ I snarled and thumped him with the blade again. ‘Gerbruht!’ I shouted. ‘Gerbruht! Come here!’

My men had stopped in a cloud of dust. Gerbruht, a hugely strong Frisian, kicked his stallion towards me and slid from the saddle. ‘Lord?’

‘Hold him upright,’ I said. ‘He’s a king, but you can hammer the bastard senseless if he struggles.’

Guthfrith’s men had been much slower to understand what was happening, but they had finally responded by spurring forward and now saw Gerbruht holding their king upright with a sword-blade at his neck. They slowed and stopped.

Guthfrith did not struggle, just spat at me, which made Gerbruht increase the sword’s pressure. ‘Keep him alive,’ I said reluctantly.

I had captured a king, a king who had wasted his kingdom, robbed his people, and let their enemies ride hard and savage across his western lands. Now King Æthelstan was in Eoferwic, and King Æthelstan was a just king, a stern king, but he was only king because I had fought for him at Lundene’s Crepelgate. I had once thought of Æthelstan as a son. I had protected him from powerful enemies, taught him the skills of a warrior, and watched him grow. Yet he had betrayed me. He had sworn never to invade Northumbria while I lived, yet he was here, in Northumbria, with an army.

I am a Northumbrian. My country is the wind-flogged coast and the rain-darkened hills and the gaunt high rocks of the north. From the lush farmlands around Eoferwic to the high pastures where folk scratch a living from thin soil, from the harsh waters where men fish to the bleak moors and deep forests where we hunt the deer, it is a land my ancestors conquered. They settled it, built strong homesteads and fortresses, and then they defended it. We are Saxons and Danes, Norsemen and Angles, and we are Northumbrians.

Yet a little country in a big land has a small future. I knew that. To our north was Constantine’s Alba, which we called Scotland, and Constantine feared the Saxons to our south. The Saxons and the Scots were both Christians, and Christians tell us that their god is love, and we must love one another and turn the other cheek, but when land is at stake those beliefs fly away and swords are drawn. Constantine ruled Alba, and Æthelstan ruled Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia, and both wanted Northumbria. ‘Northumbria speaks our tongue,’ Æthelstan had told me once, ‘the tongue of our folk, and they must be part of one country, the country that speaks Ænglisc!’

That was the dream of King Alfred. Back when the Danes seemed to have conquered all of Britain, and when Alfred was a fugitive in the marshes of Sumorsæte, that dream had been as feeble as a dying rushlight. Yet we had fought, we had won, and now King Alfred’s grandson ruled all the land of Englaland except my land, Northumbria.

‘Fight for me,’ a voice said.

I turned and saw it was Guthfrith who had spoken. ‘You could have fought at Eoferwic,’ I said, ‘but you ran away.’

He hated me, yet I saw the shudder cross his face as he forced himself to speak calmly. ‘You’re a pagan, a Northumbrian. You want the Christians to win?’

‘No.’

‘Then fight for me! My men, your men, and Egil Skallagrimmrson will bring his men!’

‘And we’ll still be outnumbered six to one,’ I said curtly.

‘And if we’re behind the walls of Bebbanburg?’ Guthfrith pleaded. ‘What will that matter? Constantine will help us!’

‘Then he’ll take your kingdom,’ I said.

‘He promised not to!’ he blurted desperately.

I paused. ‘Promised?’ I asked, but he said nothing. Guthfrith had doubtless spoken in despair and spoken more than he had meant to say, and now regretted it. So Constantine had sent envoys to Eoferwic? And Guthfrith had received them? I wanted to draw Wasp-Sting, my short-sword, and ram it into his belly, but Archbishop Hrothweard was at my side and Bishop Oda had dismounted and now stood beside him.

‘Lord King,’ Bishop Oda bowed to Guthfrith, ‘I am sent with brotherly greetings from King Æthelstan.’ Oda looked at Gerbruht. ‘Release him, man, release him!’

Guthfrith just stared at Oda as if he could not believe what was happening, while Gerbruht looked at me for confirmation. I nodded reluctantly.

‘Lord Uhtred will return your sword, lord King.’ Oda spoke reassuringly, as if to a frightened child. ‘Please, Lord Uhtred?’

This was madness! Holding Guthfrith as hostage was my only chance of avoiding a slaughter. His men still had drawn swords or levelled spears and they outnumbered us. Guthfrith held out his hand, still bleeding. ‘Give it to me!’ he demanded. I did not move.

‘His sword, lord,’ Oda said.

‘You want him to fight?’ I asked angrily.

‘There will be no violence,’ Oda spoke to Guthfrith, who paused, then gave an abrupt nod. ‘Please return the king’s sword, Lord Uhtred,’ Oda said very formally. I hesitated. ‘Please, lord,’ Oda said.

‘Stand still,’ I snarled at Guthfrith. I ignored his bloody outstretched hand and stood close to him. I was taller by a head, which he did not like, and he flinched when I took hold of his gold-decorated scabbard. He probably thought I was about to steal it, but instead I slid Boar’s Tusk through the scabbard’s fleece-lined throat, then stepped back and drew Serpent-Breath. Guthfrith put a hand to his sword’s hilt, but I twitched Serpent-Breath and he went still.

‘King Æthelstan,’ Oda said, still calm, ‘beseeches a meeting with you, lord King, and he vouches for both your life and your kingdom.’

‘Much as Constantine did, no doubt,’ I put in.

Oda ignored that. ‘There is much to discuss, lord King.’

‘This!’ Guthfrith snapped, gesturing at me, then at my men. ‘Discuss this!’

‘A misunderstanding,’ Oda said, ‘nothing more. A regrettable misunderstanding.’

Archbishop Hrothweard had said nothing, just looked frightened, but now he nodded eagerly. ‘King Æthelstan’s word can be trusted, lord King.’

‘Please,’ Bishop Oda looked at me, ‘there’s no need for a drawn sword, Lord Uhtred. We meet as friends!’

And a woman screamed.

I could not see the hostages, they were hidden by Guthfrith’s men, but Finan must have seen something because he spurred his stallion forward, shouting at Guthfrith’s men to let him through, but some young fool lifted a spear and urged his horse at Finan. Finan’s sword, Soul-Stealer, swept the spear aside, lunged into the man’s chest, pierced mail, but seemed to glance off a rib. The young rider leaned back in his saddle, his nerveless hand letting go of the spear, and Finan burst past him, swung Soul-Stealer back onto the man’s neck and there was a bellowing of rage, men were turning horses to pursue Finan, which only provoked my men to follow the Irishman. It happened in an eye-blink. One moment the two sides were calm, though wary, then the scream brought a tumult of hooves, bright blades and angry shouts.

Guthfrith was faster than I expected. He shoved Oda hard, making the bishop stagger against Hrothweard, then stumbled away, shouting at his men to bring him a horse. He was heavily built, hot and tired, and I caught him easily, kicked the back of one knee and he sprawled onto the road. He swung an arm at me just as one of his men spurred hard towards us. The man lowered his spear, leaned from the saddle, and Guthfrith swung again, this time trying to hit me with a stone, but his wild swing only knocked the spear shaft aside. The butt of the spear hit me on the arm so hard that I almost dropped Serpent-Breath. Guthfrith was trying to draw his own sword, then Gerbruht barged past me and kicked the scabbard so fiercely that it wrenched the sword’s hilt from Guthfrith’s hand. The horseman had turned. His piebald stallion was sweat-whitened, its hooves skewing gravel and earth, the man wrenched the reins, his mouth open and his eyes wide beneath the grey helmet’s rim. He was young, shouting, though I heard nothing. He spurred savagely, but the horse reared instead, towering above me. The young man had been trying to move his spear from his right to his left hand, but now let the weapon fall and gripped the saddle’s high pommel as the horse flailed. Then he half fell backwards as I rammed Serpent-Breath up his thigh, ripping mail, cloth and flesh from his knee to his groin, the blade only wrenched free as his horse bolted, pounding up the road to where my men had pierced Guthfrith’s troops like a swine-horn splitting a shield wall.

‘Stop it!’ Oda shouted, ‘stop it!’

Gerbruht had seized Guthfrith and dragged him to his feet. The king had managed to retrieve his fallen sword, but I smacked his arm aside and held Serpent-Breath’s bloodied blade across his throat. ‘Enough,’ I bellowed at the horsemen, loud enough to hurt my throat. ‘Enough!’

Guthfrith tried to stab my foot with his blade, but I tightened my own on his gullet. He whimpered and I drew the edge of Serpent-Breath a finger’s width across his neck. ‘Drop the sword, you bastard,’ I whispered.

He dropped it. ‘You’re choking me,’ he croaked.

‘Good,’ I said, but released the blade’s pressure slightly.

A horseman with Guthfrith’s boar on his shield spurred towards us. He held a spear low, the blade pointing at me, but then he saw Guthfrith, saw my sword, and he curbed his horse just paces away. He kept the spear pointed at me and I saw his eyes flicking between mine and Guthfrith’s scared gaze. He was judging whether a lunge could pierce my shoulder before my sword cut the king’s throat. ‘Don’t be a fool, boy,’ I said, but that just seemed to enrage him. He stared at me, raised the spear-blade slightly and I heard the stallion panting, saw the wide whites of its eyes, then suddenly the rider’s back arched, his head went back and a second spear-blade appeared.

That second blade came from behind and shattered the boy’s spine. It slid through his guts and made a bulge in his mail coat before bursting through the iron links and thumping into the high pommel. Berg had thrust the spear and let go of it as the boy whimpered and gripped the spear-haft that now pinned him to his saddle. Berg drew his sword and wheeled his horse to face the other horsemen, but the fight was already dying. Berg looked at me. ‘There’s no fight in the bastards, lord!’ He edged his horse close to the dying boy and slashed his sword hard down to shear the spear-haft, and the rider, freed now from the saddle, fell.

There had been fight in them, but not much. They had been tired, and Finan’s assault had been so fast and so savage that most had tried to avoid battle, and the few that had welcomed it or had been forced to it had suffered. Finan was coming back now, his mail coat drenched with blood. ‘Off your horses! Weapons down!’ he was shouting at Guthfrith’s men, then turned in the saddle to threaten one fool who hesitated to obey. ‘On the ground, you miserable turd! Throw your sword on the ground!’ The sword fell. Enemies often lost their courage when Finan was in a killing mood.

I kicked Guthfrith’s sword well away from him, then let him go. ‘You can talk to the royal bastard now,’ I told Oda.

Oda hesitated because Finan had spurred close to us. The Irishman nodded at me. ‘Young Immar took a nasty cut to the shoulder, but otherwise? We’re unhurt, lord. Can’t say as much for this bastard.’ He tossed something at Guthfrith. ‘That’s one of your beasts, lord King,’ Finan snarled and I saw he had thrown down a severed head that now rolled clumsily towards Guthfrith’s feet where it came to a bloody standstill. ‘He thought he’d take a child away,’ Finan explained to me, ‘for his amusement. But the women and bairns are safe now. Your son’s guarding them.’

‘And you, lord King, are also safe,’ Oda said, offering Guthfrith a bow, ‘and eager to meet King Æthelstan, I’m sure.’ He spoke as if nothing untoward had happened, as if there wasn’t a bloody head on the stones or a young man writhing with a shattered spear through his belly. ‘The king is eager to meet you!’ Oda spoke cheerfully. ‘He looks forward to it!’

Guthfrith said nothing. He was trembling, though whether with rage or fear I could not tell. I picked up his sword and tossed it to Gerbruht. ‘He won’t need that for a while,’ I said, which made Guthfrith scowl.

‘We must go to Eoferwic, lord King,’ Oda went on.

‘Praise God,’ Hrothweard muttered.

‘We have a ship,’ Oda said brightly. ‘We can be in Eoferwic in two days, three perhaps?’

‘Jorvik,’ Guthfrith growled, giving Eoferwic its Danish name.

‘To Jorvik indeed.’

I had spotted Boldar Gunnarson among the defeated horsemen. He was an older man, grey-bearded, with a missing eye and a leg mangled by a Saxon spear thrust. He had been one of Sigtryggr’s most trusted men, a warrior of experience and sense, and I was surprised that he had sworn allegiance to Guthfrith. ‘What choice did I have, lord?’ he asked when I summoned him. ‘I’m old, my family is in Jorvik, where would I go?’

‘But to serve Guthfrith?’

Boldar shrugged. ‘He’s not his brother,’ he allowed. Guthfrith’s brother had been Sigtryggr, my son-in-law, and a man I had liked and trusted.

‘You could have come to me when Sigtryggr died.’

‘I thought of that, lord, but Jorvik is home.’

‘Then go back there,’ I said, ‘and take Guthfrith’s men with you.’

He nodded, ‘I will.’

‘And there’ll be no trouble, Boldar!’ I warned him. ‘Leave my villagers alone! If I hear a whisper of theft or rape I’ll do the same to your family.’

He flinched at that, but nodded again. ‘There’ll be no trouble, lord,’ he paused, ‘but the wounded? Dead?’

‘Bury your dead or leave them for the crows. I don’t care. And take your wounded with you.’

‘Take them where?’ Guthfrith demanded. He was remembering he was a king and recovering his arrogance. He pushed me aside to confront Boldar. ‘Where?’

‘Home!’ I turned on him angrily, pushing him in turn. ‘Boldar takes your men home, and there’ll be no trouble!’

‘My men stay with me!’ Guthfrith insisted.

‘You’re going by ship, you miserable turd,’ I stepped closer, forcing him to retreat further, ‘and there’s no room on board. You can take four men. No more than four!’

‘Surely—’ Oda began, but I interrupted him.

‘He takes four!’

He took four.

We went back to Bebbanburg with Guthfrith, his four warriors, and with Archbishop Hrothweard who rode next to Oda. My son escorted the women south, waiting until Boldar and his men were safely gone. The ship that had brought Oda to Bebbanburg would carry him, the archbishop and the captive king south to Eoferwic. ‘King Æthelstan also wishes to see you, lord,’ Oda reminded me before they sailed.

‘He knows where I live.’

‘He would like you to come to Eoferwic.’

‘I stay here,’ I growled.

‘He commands you, lord,’ Oda said quietly. I said nothing and, when the silence had lasted long enough, Oda shrugged. ‘As you wish, lord.’

Next day we watched Oda’s ship row from the harbour. The wind was a chilly north-easterly, which filled the sail. I saw the oars brought inboard and the water seethe along her flanks and widen white behind as she passed the Farnea Islands. I watched her till she vanished in a squall of rain far to the south.

‘So we’re not going to Eoferwic?’ Finan asked.

‘We’re staying here,’ I insisted.

Æthelstan, whom I had nurtured as a boy and helped to the throne, now called himself the Monarchus Totius Brittaniae, so he could damn well sort out Britain by himself.

I was staying at Bebbanburg.

Two days later I sat with Finan and Benedetta in the morning sunlight. The hot weather of a few days before had given way to an unseasonal cold. Benedetta tucked some windblown strands of hair beneath her cap and shivered. ‘Is this summer?’

‘Better than the last two days,’ Finan said. The chill north-east wind that had driven Oda’s ship southwards had brought a sullen stubborn rain that had made me fear for the harvest, but that rain had gone and the sun shone weakly, and if the wind backed, I reckoned, the warmth would return.

‘Oda should be in Eoferwic by now,’ I said.

‘And how long before Æthelstan sends a summons to you?’ Finan asked, amused.

‘It’s probably on its way already.’

‘And you go?’ Benedetta asked.

‘If he asks nicely? Perhaps.’

‘Or perhaps not,’ Finan added.

We were watching my younger men practise their sword-craft. Berg was teaching them. ‘Roric’s useless,’ I growled.

‘He’s learning.’

‘And look at Immar! Couldn’t fight a slug!’

‘His arm is still healing.’

‘And Aldwyn! He looks like he’s cutting hay.’

‘He’s still a boy, he’ll learn.’

I leaned down and scratched the coarse hair of one of my wolfhounds. ‘And Roric’s getting fat.’

‘He’s humping one of the dairy girls,’ Finan said. ‘The fat one. I suspect she brings him butter.’

I grunted. ‘Suspect?’

‘Cream too,’ Finan went on. ‘I’ll have her watched.’

‘And have her whipped if she’s stealing.’

‘Him too?’

‘Of course.’ I yawned. ‘Who won the eating contest last night?’

Finan grinned. ‘Who do you think?’

‘Gerbruht?’

‘Eats like an ox.’

‘Good man, though.’

‘He is,’ Finan said, ‘and he won the farting contest too.’

‘Ouff!’ Benedetta grimaced.

‘It amuses them,’ I insisted. I had heard the laughter in the hall from the seaward ramparts where I had been watching the moon’s long reflection on the sea and thinking about Æthelstan. Wondering why he was in Eoferwic. Wondering how many years or months I had before none of it mattered to me any longer.

‘They’re easily amused,’ Finan said.

‘There’s a ship,’ I pointed northwards.

‘Saw it ten minutes ago,’ Finan said. He had the eyesight of a hawk. ‘And not a cargo ship either.’

He was right. The approaching vessel was long, low and lean, a ship made for war, not trade. Her hull was dark and her sail was almost black. ‘She’s the Trianaid,’ I said. The name meant Trinity.

‘You know her?’ Finan sounded surprised.

‘Scottish ship. We saw her at Dumnoc a few years ago.’

‘Evil comes from the north,’ Benedetta said balefully, ‘the star and the dragon! They do not lie!’

‘It’s only one ship,’ I said, to calm her.

‘And coming here,’ Finan added. The ship, under sail, was close to Lindisfarena and turning her cross-decorated prow towards Bebbanburg’s harbour channel. ‘Silly bugger will go aground if he’s not careful.’

But the Trianaid’s helmsman knew his business and the ship skirted the sandbanks, dropped her sail, and rowed into the channel where we lost sight of her. I waited for the sentries on the northern ramparts to bring me news. One ship could not pose a danger. At most the Trianaid could carry sixty or seventy men, but still my son rousted resting warriors and sent them to the walls. Berg broke off his practice and led men to retrieve most of Bebbanburg’s horses that had been put to pasture just outside the village. Some of the villagers, fearing that the dark ship’s arrival presaged a short, savage raid, were driving livestock towards the Skull Gate.

Vidarr Leifson brought me news. ‘Scots, lord,’ he said. ‘They hailed us. They’re moored in the harbour now and waiting.’

‘Waiting for what?’

‘They say they want to talk to you, lord.’

‘Are they flying a standard?’

‘A red hand holding a cross, lord.’

‘Domnall!’ I said, surprised.

‘Haven’t seen that bastard in a good while,’ Finan commented. Domnall was one of Constantine’s war leaders and a formidable warrior. ‘Do we let him in?’

‘Him and six men,’ I said, ‘but no more than six. We’ll meet him in the hall.’

It was a half hour or more before Domnall climbed to Bebbanburg’s great hall. His men, all but the six who kept him company, stayed on their ship. Plainly they were under orders not to provoke me because none even tried to come ashore, and Domnall even went so far as to voluntarily surrender his sword at the door of the hall, and instructed his men to do the same. ‘I know you’re terrified of me, Lord Uhtred,’ Domnall bellowed as my steward took the blades, ‘but we come in peace!’

‘When the Scots talk of peace, Lord Domnall,’ I said, ‘I lock up my daughters.’

He paused, nodded curtly, and when he spoke again his voice was sympathetic. ‘You had a daughter, I know, and I’m sorry for her, lord. She was a brave woman.’

‘She was,’ I said. My daughter had died defending Eoferwic against Norsemen. ‘And your daughters?’ I asked. ‘They’re all well?’

‘They’re well,’ he said, striding down the hall towards the blazing fire we had revived in the big central hearth. ‘All four married now and squeezing out babies like good sows. Dear Lord above,’ he held his hands to the flames, ‘but it’s a raw day.’

‘It is.’

‘King Constantine sends his greetings,’ he said casually and then, more enthusiastically, ‘is that ale?’

‘The last time you drank my ale you said it reminded you of horse piss.’

‘It probably will again, but what’s a thirsty man to do?’ He saw Benedetta sitting beside me and bowed to her. ‘My sympathy, lady.’

‘Sympathy?’ she asked.

‘Because you live with me,’ I explained, then waved Domnall to the other side of the table where benches could sit all his men.

Domnall was looking about the hall. The high roof was held by great beams and rafters, the lower walls were now dressed stone, and the rush-covered floor was made from wide pine planks. I had spent a fortune on the fortress and it showed. ‘It’s a grand place, Lord Uhtred,’ Domnall said, ‘it would be a pity to lose it.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

He chuckled at that, then swung his great legs across a bench. He was a huge man, and one I was devoutly glad never to have faced in battle. I liked him. His companions, all but for a whey-faced priest, were similarly impressive, no doubt chosen to intimidate us by their appearance, but chief of them, and sitting on Domnall’s right, was another huge man. He looked to be around forty years old, had a lined and scarred face burned dark by the sun against which his hair, worn long, was a startling white. He stared at me with undisguised hostility, yet what was strangest about him were the two amulets hanging above his polished mail coat. He wore a silver cross and, next to it, a silver hammer. Christian and pagan.

Domnall pulled an ale jug towards himself, then gestured that the priest should sit on his left. ‘Don’t worry yourself, father,’ he told the priest, ‘Lord Uhtred might be a pagan, but he’s not such a bad fellow. Father Coluim,’ Domnall was talking to me now, ‘is trusted by King Constantine.’

‘Then you’re welcome, father,’ I said.

‘Peace be on this hall,’ Coluim said in a strong voice that conveyed a deal more confidence than his nervous appearance suggested.

‘High walls, a strong garrison and good men keep it peaceful, father,’ I suggested.

‘And good allies,’ Domnall said, reaching for the ale jug again.

‘And good allies,’ I echoed him. Behind the Scots a log fell, spewing sparks.

Domnall poured himself ale. ‘And at this time Lord Uhtred,’ he went on, ‘you have no allies.’ He spoke quietly and again sounded sympathetic.

‘No allies?’ I asked. I could think of nothing else to say.

‘Who is your friend? King Constantine holds you in high regard, but he’s no ally to Northumbria.’

‘True.’

He was leaning forward, looking into my eyes with an intense gaze, and speaking so quietly that men at the ends of the benches had to strain to hear. ‘Mercia used to be your best friend,’ he went on, ‘but she died.’

I nodded. When Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, had ruled Mercia she had indeed been an ally. A lover too. I said nothing.

‘Hywel of Dyfed admires you,’ Domnall continued remorselessly, ‘but Wales is a long way off. And why would Hywel march to your help?’

‘I know no reason why he should,’ I allowed.

‘Or why would any Welsh king help you?’ He paused, expecting an answer, but again I said nothing. ‘And the Norse of Cumbria hate you,’ Domnall went on. He was talking of Northumbria’s wild western lands beyond the hills. ‘You defeated them too often.’

‘But not often enough,’ I growled.

‘They breed like mice. Kill one and a dozen more come at you. And your own King Guthfrith dislikes you. He wouldn’t lift a drunken hand to help you.’

‘He hates me,’ I answered, ‘ever since I held a sword to his throat two days ago.’ That plainly surprised Domnall who had yet to hear of Guthfrith’s flight from Eoferwic. ‘He was on his way to you, I suspect,’ I went on blandly.

‘And you stopped him?’ Domnall asked cautiously.

I decided not to reveal I had heard of the Scottish envoys meeting with Guthfrith, so I shrugged. ‘His men had raped some of the women in my villages. I didn’t like that.’

‘You killed him?’

‘I gave him a choice. Fight me or go home. He went home.’

‘So Guthfrith is no ally of yours.’ Domnall was intrigued by the tale, but sensed he would get nothing more by questioning me about it. ‘So who is your ally? Æthelstan?’

I gave him an answer he did not expect. ‘Owain of Strath Clota is your king’s enemy,’ I said, ‘and I daresay he would welcome an ally. Not that he needs one. How long have you been trying to defeat him?’

And then it was Domnall’s turn to surprise me. He turned to the man on his right, the grim-looking warrior with the long bone-white hair who had the cross and the hammer hanging at his chest. ‘This is Dyfnwal,’ Domnall said, still speaking softly, ‘brother to Owain.’

I must have shown my astonishment because the hard-faced Dyfnwal responded with a mocking look. ‘Dyfnwal,’ I repeated the name clumsily. It was a Welsh name because Strath Clota was a Welsh kingdom, formed by the Britons who had been pushed northwards by the Saxon invasion. Most Britons, of course, had gone to Wales, but some had found a refuge on the western coast of Alba where their small kingdom had been strengthened by Norsemen seeking land.

‘Owain of Strath Clota has made peace with us, formed an alliance with us,’ Domnall said, ‘so King Constantine has no enemies north of Bebbanburg. Owain is with us, so is Gibhleachán of the Islands. So who will be your ally, Lord Uhtred?’

‘Egil Skallagrimmrson,’ I said. It was a fatuous response, and I knew it. Egil was a friend, a Norseman, and a great warrior, but he had few men, just enough to man two ships. I had given him land north of Bebbanburg along the southern bank of the Tuede, which was the border between Northumbria and Constantine’s Alba.

‘Egil might have a hundred warriors?’ Domnall suggested, almost sounding sorry for me. ‘A hundred and fifty, perhaps? And they’re all rare fighters, but Egil’s not an ally to strike fear into a whole nation.’

‘Yet I dare say you sailed well clear of his coast on your way here?’

‘We did,’ Domnall admitted. ‘We sailed a good way offshore. No need to prod a wasps’ nest unnecessarily.’

‘What am I? A dung beetle?’

Domnall smiled at that. ‘You’re a great warrior with no strong allies,’ he said, ‘or do you think of Æthelstan as a friend?’ He paused, as if judging his next words before they were spoken. ‘A friend who breaks his oaths.’

And this meeting, I thought, was no different to Guthfrith talking with Constantine’s envoys. I had been angered when I learned of that, yet here I was, entertaining Domnall in my fortress. Æthelstan, I knew, would hear of this conversation. I was sure there were men in Bebbanburg who were paid to report to him, or else his spies in Constantine’s employment would make sure he heard. Which meant he must hear what I wanted him to hear. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said harshly, ‘has broken no oaths.’

‘No?’ Domnall enquired gently.

‘None,’ I said sharply.

Domnall leaned away from me and took a long pull of his ale. He cuffed his mouth and beard with his sleeve, then nodded at the small priest next to him. ‘Father Coluim?’

‘A little more than a month ago,’ the priest said in his surprisingly deep voice, ‘on the feast day of Saint Christina, virgin and martyr,’ he paused to make the sign of the cross, ‘in the great church at Wintanceaster, the Archbishop of Contwaraburg preached a sermon before King Æthelstan. And in that sermon the archbishop urged, most strongly, that oaths taken with pagans are not binding to Christians. He said, indeed, that it is a Christian’s pious duty to break any such oaths.’

I hesitated a heartbeat, then, ‘King Æthelstan is not responsible for the rubbish a priest vomits.’

Father Coluim was unmoved by my rudeness. ‘And that same day,’ he went on calmly, ‘the king rewarded the archbishop by giving into his keeping the lance of Charlemagne that Hugh, ruler of the Franks, had given to him.’

I felt a chill. I had men and women in Wintanceaster who sent me news, but none had mentioned that sermon, but then the oaths that Æthelstan and I had exchanged were supposed to be secret.

‘The very same lance,’ the priest continued, ‘with which a Roman soldier pierced the side of our Lord.’ Father Coluim again paused to cross himself. ‘And the very next day, on the holy day of Saint James the Apostle,’ another pause, another sign of the cross, ‘the archbishop preached from the book of Deuteronomy, castigating the pagan places, and laying upon the king the most Christian duty of eradicating them from his land and from among his people.’

‘Castigating,’ I said, repeating the unfamiliar word.

‘And as a reward,’ Coluim was looking into my eyes as he spoke, ‘the king gave into the archbishop’s keeping the sword of Charlemagne which has a sliver of the true cross enshrined in its hilt.’

There was silence, all but for the crackle of the fire and the sigh of the wind and the long waves beating on the shore.

‘It is strange, is it not?’ Domnall broke the silence. He was gazing up into the rafters. ‘That King Æthelstan has never married?’

‘I’m sure he will,’ I said, though I was far from sure.

‘And he wears his hair in ringlets,’ Domnall said, smiling at me now, ‘tangled with gold thread.’

‘It’s a fashion,’ I said dismissively.

‘A strange fashion for a king, surely?’

‘A warrior king,’ I retorted. ‘I have seen him fight.’

Domnall nodded, as if to suggest that Æthelstan’s choice of hair decoration was of small importance. He cut himself some cheese, but did not eat it. ‘You were his teacher, yes?’

‘Protector.’

‘A warrior king,’ he said carefully, ‘has no need of a protector, nor of a teacher. He just wants,’ he paused, searching for a word, ‘advisers?’

‘No king lacks for advice,’ I said.

‘But they usually only want the advice that agrees with them. An adviser who opposes his monarch will not long stay an adviser.’ He smiled. ‘This is good cheese!’

‘Goat cheese.’

‘If you can spare some, lord, my king would appreciate the gift. He is fond of cheese.’

‘I shall order it readied,’ I said.

‘You’re generous,’ Domnall smiled again, ‘and it seems that your warrior king has found an adviser who agrees with him.’

‘He has Wulfhelm,’ I said scornfully. Wulfhelm was the new Archbishop of Contwaraburg and had the reputation of being a fiery preacher. I did not know the man.

‘I am certain King Æthelstan listens to his priests. He is famed for his piety, is he not?’

‘As was his grandfather.’

‘Yet King Alfred did not have a Norseman as his chief adviser,’ Domnall hesitated, ‘or should I say companion?’

‘Should you?’

‘They hunt together, they kneel together in church, they eat at the same table.’

‘You mean Ingilmundr.’

‘You’ve met him?’

‘Briefly.’

‘A young and handsome man, I hear?’

‘He’s young,’ I said.

‘And King Æthelstan has other,’ he paused, ‘advisers. Ealdred of Mærlebeorg offers advice when Ingilmundr is away.’ I said nothing. I had heard of Ealdred, a young warrior who had made a reputation fighting against the southern Welsh kingdoms. ‘But Ingilmundr seems to be the chief,’ another pause, ‘adviser. You know that the king has generously given him much land in Wirhealum?’

‘I do know that,’ I said. Ingilmundr was a Norse chieftain who had fled Ireland with his followers and had taken land on Wirhealum, a wide strip of land between the seaward reaches of the Dee and the Mærse. That was where I had met Ingilmundr, at the fortress Æthelflaed had ordered built at Brunanburh to guard against Norse forays up the river Mærse. I remembered a striking-looking man, young, charming and about as trustworthy as an untrained hawk. Æthelstan, though, had trusted him. Had liked him.

‘And Ingilmundr, I hear,’ Domnall continued, ‘has become a good Christian!’

‘That will please Æthelstan,’ I said drily.

‘I hear that much about Ingilmundr pleases him,’ Domnall said with a smile, ‘especially his advice about Northumbria.’

‘Which is?’ I asked. Even to ask suggested my ignorance, but why else had Constantine sent Domnall, if not to surprise me?

‘We’re told Ingilmundr claims Northumbria is a wild, untamed land, that by right it belongs to Æthelstan, and that it needs a firm ruler, a Norseman perhaps? A Christian Norseman who will swear allegiance to Æthelstan and work tirelessly to convert the many heathens who infest the northern land.’

I stayed silent for a moment, testing the truth of what Domnall had said. I did not like it. ‘And how, I wonder,’ I said, ‘does King Constantine know so much about the advice of a hunting companion?’

Domnall shrugged. ‘You receive news from other countries, Lord Uhtred, and so do we. And King Owain, our new friend,’ he nodded courteously at the grim Dyfnwal who was Owain’s brother and chief warrior, ‘is fortunate in having other friends, some of whom who serve Anlaf Guthfrithson.’ He paused. ‘In Ireland.’

I said nothing, but felt the shiver of cold again. Anlaf Guthfrithson was a cousin to Sigtryggr and Guthfrith, and he was renowned as a pitiless and brilliant warrior who had carved a savage reputation by defeating his Norse rivals in Ireland. I knew little else of him except that he was young, that he had made his warlike reputation quickly, and that he claimed the throne of Northumbria by kinship, a claim that did not keep me awake at nights because Ireland is a long way from Eoferwic and Bebbanburg.

‘In Ireland,’ Domnall repeated pointedly.

‘Ireland is a long way off,’ I observed shortly.

Dyfnwal spoke for the first time. ‘A good ship can make the voyage between Strath Clota and Ireland in half a day.’ His voice was toneless and harsh. ‘Less,’ he added.

And what,’ I asked Domnall, ‘does Anlaf Guthfrithson have to do with Ingilmundr?’

‘A year ago,’ Dyfnwal answered instead, his voice still flat, ‘Ingilmundr and Anlaf met on the island called Mön. They met as friends.’

‘They’re both Norsemen,’ I said dismissively.

‘Friends,’ Domnall pointedly repeated Dyfnwal’s last word.

I just looked at him, meeting his gaze. For a moment I did not know what to say. My first instinct was to challenge him, to deny that Æthelstan could possibly be so foolish as to trust Ingilmundr. I wanted to defend the king whom I had raised as a son, loved like a son, and helped to his throne, but I believed Domnall. ‘Go on,’ I said as tonelessly as Dyfnwal.

Domnall leaned back, relaxing, as if he understood that I had received the message he had brought me. ‘There are two possibilities, Lord Uhtred,’ he said. ‘The first is that King Æthelstan is adding Northumbria to his realm. He is creating, what is it called? Englaland?’ he said the word with scorn. ‘And he will give its governance to a friend, to a man he can trust.’

‘Ingilmundr,’ I grunted.

Domnall held up a hand as if to tell me to wait before I spoke. ‘And whoever rules in Northumbria,’ he went on, ‘whether it’s Ingilmundr or another, Æthelstan will want to secure his northern frontier. He will build burhs, he will strengthen the existing burhs, and he will want those burhs held by men who are wholly loyal to him.’

He meant Bebbanburg, of course. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘has no reason to doubt my loyalty.’

‘And he will want those men,’ Domnall continued as if I had not spoken, ‘to be Christians.’

I kept silent.

‘The second possibility,’ Domnall poured himself more ale, ‘is that Ingilmundr works to be appointed as the governor of Northumbria and, once secure in Eoferwic and with Æthelstan far away in Wintanceaster, he invites Anlaf Guthfrithson to join him. The Norsemen need a kingdom, why not one called Northumbria?’

I shrugged. ‘Ingilmundr and Anlaf will fight each other like polecats. Only one of them can be king, and neither will give way to the other.’

Domnall nodded as if he accepted my point. ‘Except they’ll share enemies, and shared enemies can make even polecats into unlikely friends.’ He smiled and nodded at Dyfnwal in proof.

Dyfnwal did not smile. ‘Anlaf Guthfrithson has a daughter,’ he said, ‘and she is not married. Nor is Ingilmundr.’ He shrugged as if to suggest he had proven Domnall’s argument.

Yet what was that argument? That Æthelstan wanted Northumbria? He always had. That Æthelstan had sworn not to invade Northumbria while I lived, but had broken the oath? That was true, but Æthelstan had yet to explain himself. That Ingilmundr was an untrustworthy Norseman who had his own designs on Northumbria? So did Constantine. And one great thing stood in their way; Bebbanburg.

I do not claim that Bebbanburg is impregnable. My ancestor had captured the fort centuries before and I had captured it again, but any man, Saxon, Norse or Scot, would find Bebbanburg a challenge. I had strengthened an already formidable fortress, and the only sure way to seize it now was to place a fleet off Bebbanburg’s shore and an army at its gates to stop supplies reaching us and so starve us into surrender. Either that or treachery. ‘What do you want?’ I asked Domnall, wanting this uncomfortable meeting to end.

‘My king,’ Domnall said carefully, ‘is offering you an alliance.’ He held up a hand to stop me speaking. ‘He will swear never to attack you and, more, he will come to your aid if you are attacked.’ He paused, expecting me to respond, but I stayed silent. ‘And he will give you his eldest son as a hostage, Lord Uhtred.’

‘I had his son as a hostage before,’ I said.

‘Prince Cellach sends you greetings. He speaks well of you.’

‘And I of him,’ I said. Cellach had been my hostage years before when Constantine had wanted a truce between Alba and Northumbria. The truce had been kept, and I had kept the young prince for a year and had grown to like him, but now, I thought, he must be middle-aged. ‘And what,’ I asked, ‘does King Constantine want of me?’

‘Cumbria,’ Domnall answered.

I looked at Dyfnwal. ‘Which will belong to Strath Clota?’ I asked. Cumbria bordered the smaller kingdom and I could not imagine that King Owain would want Scottish warriors on his southern border. Neither man answered, so I looked back to Domnall. ‘Just Cumbria?’

‘King Constantine,’ Domnall was speaking very carefully now, ‘wants all the land north of the Tinan and the Hedene.’

I smiled. ‘He wants me to be a Scot?’

‘There are worse things to be,’ Domnall smiled back.

Constantine had made the claim before, asserting that the great wall the Romans had built across Britain, a wall that stretched from the River Tinan in the east to the Hedene in the west, was the natural frontier between the Scots and the Saxons. It was an audacious claim and one I knew that Æthelstan would resist with all his power. It would make Bebbanburg into a Scottish fortress and, unspoken, but clear to me, it would demand that I swear allegiance to Constantine.

Northumbria, I thought, poor Northumbria! She was a small and ill-governed country with a greater nation on either frontier. To the north the Scots, to the south the Saxons, and both wanted her. The Norsemen of Cumbria, which was Northumbria’s western region, would probably prefer the Scots, but the Saxons of eastern Northumbria had learned to fear the Scots, and their best defence was the power of Bebbanburg. ‘And what of Bebbanburg?’ I asked.

‘The king swears it will belong to you and to your heirs for ever.’

‘For ever is a long time.’

‘And Bebbanburg is a fortress for all time,’ Domnall said.

‘And the Scottish Christians?’ I asked. ‘How long will they endure paganism?’

‘King Owain,’ Dyfnwal spoke again, ‘respects the beliefs of the Norse in our country.’

That explained the hammer hanging next to the cross. ‘He respects their beliefs,’ I retorted sharply, ‘for as long as he needs their swords.’

‘I don’t dispute that,’ Domnall said. He glanced at my son who was sitting to my right. ‘Yet I see your son is a Christian?’ he asked gently. I nodded. ‘Then in time, Lord Uhtred,’ he continued, ‘and may it be a very long time, Bebbanburg will belong to a Christian.’

I grunted at that, but said nothing. Was I tempted? Yes. But what Constantine had proposed was so bold, so drastic, that I had no response. Domnall seemed to understand that dilemma. ‘We don’t ask an answer now, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘just that you think on these things. And give us an answer in three weeks.’

‘Three weeks?’

‘At Burgham,’ he said.

‘Burgham?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘You have not been summoned?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Where’s Burgham?’ I asked.

‘A place in Cumbria,’ Domnall said. ‘King Æthelstan has summoned us all,’ he spoke sourly, but almost spat his next words, ‘for a Witan of all Britain.’

‘I know nothing about it,’ I said, wondering why Oda had not told me. ‘And you’ll be there?’

‘We are summoned,’ Domnall still spoke sourly, ‘and when our master summons us, we must obey.’ Meaning, I thought, that Æthelstan wanted to overawe the Scots with his army, and so persuade them to abandon any claims on Northumbria. And why, I wondered, would the Scots attend the meeting? Because Æthelstan was the strongest king in Britain and because behind the summons to talk was the threat of war, and it was a war Constantine did not yet want.

And Domnall had hinted that Æthelstan wanted more than just Northumbria, he wanted Bebbanburg too.

So once again my fortress was threatened, and this time I had no allies.

So I would go to Burgham.

Three

Did Constantine really expect me to agree to his proposal? To swear loyalty to him and so deliver Bebbanburg and its wide lands to Scotland? He knew me too well to expect my agreement, but that was not what Domnall had been sent to secure. He had been sent to warn me that Æthelstan wanted Bebbanburg too. And that I did believe, because folk in Wessex had sent me word of what happened in Æthelstan’s court and I did not like it. The great hall in Wintanceaster now had gilded beams, the throne had been lined with scarlet cloth, the king’s bodyguard wore scarlet cloaks and had silver embellished helmets. Æthelstan would dazzle us with his magnificence, and about him were young, ambitious men who wanted land and silver and magnificence of their own.

And the King of all Britain summoned me to Burgham.

The summons was brought by a priest who was accompanied by forty horsemen whose shields displayed the dragon of Wessex with a lightning bolt grasped in one talon. ‘The king sends you greetings, lord,’ the priest said, then dismounted awkwardly and went on one knee to hand me a scroll that was tied with a red ribbon and sealed with the same dragon and lightning bolt pressed into the wax. It was Æthelstan’s seal.

I was surly because Domnall had persuaded me to mistrust Æthelstan. I had permitted only a half dozen of the West Saxon horsemen to come through the Skull Gate and then denied them permission to go further than the stable yard where I reluctantly gave them weak ale and demanded that they leave my land before sunset. ‘And you with them,’ I told the priest, a young man with wispy hair, weak eyes, and a running nose.

‘We’re weary from travelling, lord,’ the priest appealed to me.

‘Then the sooner you’re home the better,’ I snarled, then tore the ribbon from the scrolled message.

‘If you need help reading it, lord …’ the priest began, then caught my eye and mumbled incoherently.

‘Before sunset,’ I insisted and walked away.

It was discourteous of me, but I was angry. ‘They think I’m too old!’ I complained to Benedetta after he left.

‘Too old for what?’

‘There was a time,’ I said, ignoring her question, ‘when I was useful to Æthelstan. He needed me! Now he thinks I don’t matter, I’m too old to help him. I’m like the king in tæfl!’

‘Tæfl?’ she asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

‘You know. The game where you move pieces on a board. And he thinks I’m trapped because I’m old, that I can’t move.’

‘He is your friend!’

‘He was my friend. Now he wants me gone. He wants Bebbanburg.’

Benedetta shivered. It had been a warm day, but by sunset the sea wind was moaning cold about the hall’s high gables. ‘Then what the Scottish man said? Yes? He will defend you?’

I gave a mirthless laugh. ‘They don’t want me, they want Bebbanburg too.’

‘Then I will defend you,’ she said fiercely. ‘Tonight! We go to the chapel.’

I said nothing. If Benedetta wanted to pray for me then I would go with her, but I doubted her prayers were the equal to the ambition of kings. If my suspicions were correct then Æthelstan wanted Bebbanburg and so did Constantine because a kingdom needs strength. King Alfred had proved that great fortresses, whether burhs like Mameceaster or strongholds like Bebbanburg, were the most effective deterrents to invaders, and so Bebbanburg would either defend Æthelstan’s northern frontier or Constantine’s southern border, and its commander would not be named Uhtred, but would be a man of unquestioned loyalty to whichever king won.

Yet had I not been loyal? I had raised Æthelstan, taught him to fight, and given him his throne. But I was not a Christian, not handsome like Ingilmundr, and not a flatterer like those that rumour now said advised the King of Wessex.

The priest’s message commanded me to meet Æthelstan at Burgham on the Feast of Zephyrinus, whoever he was, and I was to bring no more than thirty of my men and carry food enough to feed them for ten days. Thirty men! He might as well have asked me just to fall on my sword and please to leave the Skull Gate unbarred!

But I obeyed.

I took just thirty of my men.

But I also asked Egil Skallagrimmrson to keep me company with seventy-one of his Norsemen.

And so we rode to Burgham.

I had gone to Bebbanburg’s chapel on the night before we left for Burgham. I did not go there often, nor did I usually go willingly, but Benedetta had pleaded and so I had led her into the cold night wind and thus to the small chapel which had been made next to the great hall.

I thought I must merely endure her prayers, but saw that she had planned this visit more carefully, because waiting in the chapel were a wide, shallow dish, a jug of water, and a small flask. The altar was bright with candles, which flickered as the wind gusted through the open door. Benedetta closed it, pulled the hood of her cloak over her dark hair, and knelt by the shallow dish. ‘You have enemies,’ she said bleakly.

‘All men have enemies, otherwise they’re not men.’

‘I will protect you. Kneel.’

I was reluctant, but I obeyed. I am used to women and sorcery. Gisela would cast the sticks to tell the future, my daughter had used spells, while long ago, in a cave, I had been given dreams. Men are sorcerers too, of course, and we fear them, but a woman’s sorcery is more subtle. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘Hush,’ she said, pouring water into the shallow dish. ‘Il malocchio ti ha colpito,’ she went on quietly. I did not ask what the words meant because I sensed they were spoken to herself rather than to me. She pulled the cork from the small flask and then, very carefully, let three drops of oil fall into the water. ‘Wait now,’ she said.

The three drops of oil spread, glistened, and made shapes. The wind sighed at the chapel’s roof and the door creaked. The waves beat at the shore. ‘There is danger,’ Benedetta said after staring at the pattern of the oil-stained water.

‘There is always danger.’

‘The dragon and the star,’ she said. ‘They came from the north?’

‘They did.’

‘Yet there is danger from the south,’ she sounded puzzled. Her head was bent over the dish and the hood hid her face.

She was silent again and then she beckoned me. ‘Come closer.’

I shuffled closer on my knees.

‘I cannot come with you?’ she asked plaintively.

‘If there is danger? No.’

She accepted the answer, however unwillingly. She had pleaded to accompany me, but I had insisted none of my men could take their women so I could not make an exception for myself.

‘And I do not know if this will work,’ she said unhappily.

‘This?’

‘Hai bisogno di farti fare l’affascinò,’ she said, looking up at me and frowning. ‘I must protect you by,’ she paused, looking for the word, ‘a charm?’

‘A spell?’

‘But a woman,’ she went on, still unhappy, ‘may do this three times in her life. Only three!’

‘And you,’ I said carefully, ‘have done it three times?’

‘I made curses,’ she said, ‘on the slavers. Three curses.’ She had been enslaved as a child, carried across Christendom and found herself in raw, cold Britain where she became a slave to King Edward’s third wife. Now she was my companion. She made the sign of the cross. ‘But God may give me one more spell because it is not a curse.’

‘I hope not.’

‘God is good,’ she said. ‘He gave me life again when I met you. He will not leave me alone now.’ She put a forefinger into a ripple of oil. ‘Come close.’

I leaned closer and she reached out and smeared her finger on my forehead. ‘That is all,’ she said, ‘and when you feel danger is close? All you need do is spit.’

‘Just spit?’ I was amused.

‘You spit!’ she said, angry at my smile. ‘You think God, the angels, and the demons need more than this? They know what I have done. It is enough. Your gods too, they know!’

‘Thank you,’ I said humbly.

‘You come back to me, Uhtred of Bebbanburg!’

‘I will come back,’ I promised.

If I remembered to spit.

None of us knew where Burgham was, though the frightened priest who had brought the summons to Bebbanburg assured me it was in Cumbria. ‘I believe to the north of Mameceaster, lord.’

‘There’s a lot of land to the north of Mameceaster,’ I had snarled.

‘There’s a monastery at Burgham,’ he had said hopefully, and when I didn’t respond, just looked miserable. Then he brightened. ‘There was a battle nearby, lord, I think.’

‘You think.’

‘I think, lord, because I heard men talking of it. They said it was your battle, lord!’ he smiled as if expecting me to smile too. ‘They said you won a great victory there! In the north, lord, near the great wall. They say you …’ his voice had tailed away.

The only battle that fitted his description was the fight at Heahburh and so we followed the priest’s vague directions and rode westwards alongside the old Roman wall that crossed Northumbria. The weather turned bad, bringing a cold driving rain from the Scottish hills, and we made slow progress across the high ground. We were forced to camp one night in the stony remnants of a Roman fort, one of the bastions of their wall, and I sat hunched in the lee of a broken wall remembering the ghastly fight under the ramparts of Heahburh’s fort. Our fires fought the rain that night and I doubt any of us slept much, but the dawn brought clearing skies and a weak sunlight and, instead of pressing on, we spent the morning drying our clothes and cleaning our weapons. ‘We’re going to be late,’ I told Finan, ‘not that I care. But isn’t today the feast of saint whatever?’

‘I think so. Not sure. Might be tomorrow?’

‘Who was he?’

‘Father Cuthbert said he was a pig-ignorant idiot who became pope. Zephyrinus the Idiot.’

I laughed at that, then watched a buzzard gliding through the midday sky. ‘I suppose we should move.’

‘Do we go to Heahburh?’ Finan asked.

‘Close,’ I said. I had no desire to return to that place, but if the priest was right then Burgham lay somewhere to the south and so we followed rough tracks across the bare hills and spent that night in the valley of the Tinan, sheltered by deep trees. Next morning, in a small rain, we climbed out of the valley and I saw Heahburh on a distant hilltop. A shaft of sunlight moved across the old fort, shadowing the Roman ditches where so many of my men had died.

Egil rode beside me. He said nothing of the fight at Heahburh. ‘So what do we expect at Burgham?’ he asked me.

‘Unhappiness.’

‘Nothing new there, then,’ he said grimly. He was a tall, good-looking Norseman with long fair hair and a prow of a nose. He was a wanderer who had found a home on my land and rewarded me with both friendship and loyalty. He said he owed me a life because I had rescued his younger brother Berg from a cruel death on a Welsh beach, but I considered that debt long paid. He stayed, I think, because he liked me and I liked him. ‘You say Æthelstan has two thousand men?’ he asked.

‘That’s what we were told.’

‘If he takes a dislike to us,’ he remarked mildly, ‘we’ll be a little outnumbered.’

‘Just a little.’

‘Will it come to that?’

I shook my head. ‘He hasn’t come to make war.’

‘Then what is he doing here?’

‘He’s behaving like a dog,’ I said. ‘He’s pissing on all his boundaries.’ That was why he was in Cumbria, that wild and untamed western part of Northumbria. The Scots wanted it, the Irish Norse claimed it, we had fought for it, and now Æthelstan had come to place his banner on it.

‘So he’ll piss on us?’ Egil asked.

‘That’s what I expect.’

Egil touched the hammer at his breast. ‘But he doesn’t like pagans.’

‘So he’ll piss harder on us.’

‘He wants us gone. They call us strangers. Pagans and strangers.’

‘You live here,’ I said forcefully, ‘you’re a Northumbrian now. You fought for this land, so you have as much right to it as anyone.’

‘But he wants us to be Ænglisc,’ he said the unfamiliar word carefully, ‘and he wants the Ænglisc to be Christians.’

‘If he wants to swallow Northumbria,’ I said savagely, ‘then he’ll have to swallow the gristle along with the flesh. Half of Cumbria is pagan! He needs them as enemies?’

Egil shrugged again. ‘So he just pisses on us and we go home?’

‘If that makes him happy,’ I said, ‘yes.’ And I hoped I was right, though I really suspected I would have to fend off a demand for Bebbanburg.

Late that afternoon, as the road dropped into a wide well-watered valley, we saw a veil of smoke to the south. Not a great dark pillar that might betray a hall or steading being burned, but a drifting mist of smoke hanging over the rich farmland in the river valley. It had to be where men were assembled and so we turned our horses southwards and, next day, came to Burgham.

Folk had been there before, the old people who used vast boulders to make strange circles. I touched my hammer when I saw the circles. The gods must know of those places, but what gods? Older gods than mine and much older than the nailed Christian god, and the Christians I had spoken with said such places were malevolent. The devil’s playgrounds, they claimed, yet Æthelstan had chosen one such circle as the place of meeting.

The circles lay south of a river. I could see two of them, though later I discovered a third nearby. The largest circle lay to the west and that was where Æthelstan’s banners flew amidst hundreds of men, hundreds of tents and hundreds of crude turf shelters, amongst which were campfires and tethered horses. There were banners by the score, a few of them triangular that belonged to Norse jarls, and most of those were to the south beside another river that ran fast and shallow across a stony bed. Closer to the largest circle was a mass of flags that were mostly familiar to me. They were the standards of Wessex; crosses and saints, dragons and rearing horses, the black stag of Defnascir, the crossed swords and the bull’s head flags of Cent, all of which I had seen fly in battle, sometimes on my side of the shield wall and sometimes on the other. The leaping stag of Æthelhelm was there, too, though that house was no longer my enemy. I doubted it was my friend, but the long bloodfeud had died with the death of Æthelhelm the Younger. Mixed among the flags of Wessex were the banners of Mercia and of East Anglia, all now acknowledging the King of Wessex as their overlord. That, then, was the Saxon army come north, and judging by the number of banners, Æthelstan had brought at least a thousand men to Burgham.

To the west, in a smaller and separate encampment, there was a spread of unfamiliar banners, but I saw Domnall’s red hand holding the cross, which suggested that was where the Scottish had pitched their tents or made turf shelters, while to the south, to my surprise, the red dragon banner of Hywel of Dyfed rippled in the breeze. Closest to us, just beyond the river’s ford, lay a dozen tents over which flew Guthfrith’s three-sided flag of the viciously tusked boar. So he was here, and I saw that his small encampment was guarded by mailed warriors carrying Æthelstan’s badge of the dragon and lightning bolt on their iron-rimmed shields. That same badge flew on Æthelstan’s flag, which was carried by a monstrously tall pine trunk placed at the entrance to the largest stone circle, and next to it, on a pole just as high, there was a pale banner on which was blazoned a cross the colour of dried blood. ‘What’s that flag?’ Finan asked, nodding at it.

‘Who knows? Æthelstan’s, I suppose.’

‘And Hywel’s here!’ Finan said. ‘I thought he was in Rome.’

‘He’s been and come back,’ I said, ‘or he’s about to go. Who knows? The Welsh are here anyway.’

‘And where’s our banner?’

‘At Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘I forgot it.’

‘I brought two of mine,’ Egil said happily.

‘Then fly one of them now,’ I said. I wanted Æthelstan to see a three-sided flag showing the dark eagle of a pagan Norse chieftain coming to his encampment.

We splashed through the ford to be met by the West Saxons guarding Guthfrith’s tents. ‘Who are you?’ A sour-looking warrior held up a hand to check us.

‘Egil Skallagrimmrson.’

I had mischievously asked Egil to lead us across the river. On either side of him were his Norse warriors, while Finan and I hung back. We waited in the ford, the water rippling around our stallions’ fetlocks.

‘And where are you going?’ the sour man demanded curtly.

‘Wherever I want,’ Egil said, ‘this is my country.’ He spoke Ænglisc well, most of it learned from the Saxon girls who were willingly seduced, but now he was deliberately making his words awkward as though they were unfamiliar.

‘You only come here if you’re invited. And I don’t think you are.’ The surly man had been reinforced by a dozen West Saxon spearmen holding Æthelstan’s shields. Some of Guthfrith’s men had assembled behind them, eager for whatever entertainment seemed imminent, while more West Saxon men were hurrying towards the confrontation.

‘I’m going there,’ Egil pointed southwards.

‘You’re turning around and you’re going back where you came from,’ the sour-faced man said, ‘all of you and all the way back. Back to your damned country across the sea.’ His small force was growing by the minute and, in the way that rumours spread like smoke, still more men were coming from the Saxon encampment to swell his ranks. ‘Turn around,’ the man said slowly and insultingly, as if speaking to a stubborn child, ‘and bugger off.’

‘No,’ I said, and pushed my horse between Egil and his standard-bearer.

‘And who are you, grandpa?’ the man asked belligerently, hefting his spear.

‘Kill the old fool!’ One of Guthfrith’s men shouted, ‘cut the old fool down!’ His companions began jeering me, emboldened perhaps by the presence of Æthelstan’s guards. The man who had shouted was young with long fair hair that he wore in a thick plait. He pushed his way through the West Saxons and stared insolently at me. ‘I challenge you,’ he snarled.

There are always fools who want reputation, and killing me was a swift route to warrior-fame. The young man was doubtless a good warrior, he looked strong, he evidently had courage, his forearms were bright with rings that he had taken in battle, and he yearned for the renown that would follow my death. More, he was emboldened by the press of men behind him who were shouting at me to dismount and fight. ‘Who are you?’ I asked him.

‘I am Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir,’ he replied, ‘and I serve Guthfrith of Northumbria.’

I suspected he had been with Guthfrith when I had barred the escape to Scotland and Kolfinn Hæfnirson now wanted to avenge that humiliation. He had challenged me and custom decreed I must answer the challenge. ‘Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir,’ I said, ‘I have not heard of you, yet I know of all the warriors of Britain who have reputation. But what I do not know is why I should bother to kill you. What is your cause, Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir? What is our quarrel?’

He looked bemused for a heartbeat. He had a blunt face with a well-broken nose, and the gold and silver arm rings suggested he was a young warrior who had survived and won many fights, but what he did not have was a sword, or indeed any weapon. Only the West Saxons under the command of the sour-faced man carried spears or swords. ‘Well,’ I demanded, ‘what is our quarrel?’

‘You must not—’ the sour-faced West Saxon began, but I cut him off with a gesture.

‘What is our quarrel, Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir?’ I demanded again.

‘You are an enemy of my king,’ he shouted.

‘An enemy of your king? Then you would fight half of Britain!’

‘You are a coward,’ he spat at me, and stepped forward only to stop when Egil edged his stallion forward and drew his sword that he called Adder. Egil was smiling. The noisy crowd behind Kolfinn went silent and that did not surprise me. There is something about a smiling Norseman holding his beloved sword that will chill most warriors.

I pulled Egil back. ‘You have no quarrel with me, Kolfinn son of Hæfnir,’ I said, ‘but I now have a quarrel with you. And we shall settle the quarrel at a time and place of my choosing. That I promise you. Now make way for us.’

The West Saxon stepped forward, evidently feeling he should insist on his small authority. ‘If you’re not invited,’ he said, ‘you must leave.’

‘But he is invited,’ another man spoke. He had just joined the growing group of men barring our way and, like the man who had challenged us, had Æthelstan’s cross and lightning bolt on his shield. ‘And you, Cenwalh,’ he went on, looking at the sour-faced man, ‘are a slug-brained, idiot unless, of course, you want to fight Lord Uhtred? I’m certain he will oblige you.’

Cenwalh, disgruntled, muttered something under his breath, but lowered his spear and backed away as the newcomer bowed to me. ‘You’re welcome, lord. I assume you are summoned?’

‘I am. And you are?’

‘Fraomar Ceddson, lord, but most folk call me Freckles.’ I smiled at that because Fraomar Ceddson’s face was a mass of freckles slashed by a white scar and ringed by flaming red hair. He looked up at Egil. ‘I’d be grateful if you sheathed that sword,’ he said mildly, ‘the king has ordered that only guards may carry swords in the encampment.’

‘He’s guarding me,’ I said.

‘Please?’ Fraomar said to Egil, ignoring me, and Egil obligingly sheathed Adder’s long blade.

‘Thank you,’ Fraomar said. I reckoned he was in his mid thirties, a confident and competent-looking man, whose presence had dispelled the onlookers, though I saw how Guthfrith’s men looked back at me with something close to hatred. ‘We should find you somewhere to camp,’ Fraomar went on.

I pointed south and west, to a space between the Saxon and Welsh encampments. ‘That will do,’ I said. I dismounted, threw the stallion’s reins to Aldwyn, and walked with Fraomar ahead of my men. ‘Are we the last to arrive?’ I asked.

‘Most folk came three days ago,’ he said, then paused awkwardly. ‘They took the oaths on Saint Bartholomew’s day.’

‘Not Saint …’ I paused, unable to remember the name of the idiot pope. ‘When was Bartholomew’s day?’

‘Two days ago, lord.’

‘And what oaths?’ I asked. ‘What oaths?’

Another awkward pause. ‘I wouldn’t know, lord. I wasn’t there. And I’m sorry about that idiot Cenwalh.’

‘Why?’ I really wanted to ask about the oaths, but it was plain Fraomar did not want to talk about them and I reckoned I would learn soon enough. I also wanted to know why the nervous priest had instructed us to come late, but reckoned Fraomar would have no answer to that. ‘Is Cenwalh one of your men?’

‘He’s West Saxon,’ Fraomar said. His own accent betrayed him as a Mercian.

‘And the West Saxons are still resentful of Mercia?’ I asked. Æthelstan was also a West Saxon, but the army he had led to take the throne of Wessex was largely Mercian.

Fraomar shook his head. ‘There’s not much trouble. The West Saxons know he was the best choice. Maybe a few still want to fight old battles, but not many.’

I grimaced. ‘Only a fool wants a battle like Lundene again.’

‘You mean the fight at the city gate, lord?’

‘It was a horror,’ I said, and so it had been. My men against the best of the West Saxon troops, a slaughter that still sometimes woke me at night with a feeling of doom.

‘I saw it, lord,’ Fraomar said, ‘or the end of it.’

‘You were with Æthelstan?’

‘I rode with him, lord. Saw your men fighting.’ He walked in silence for a few paces, then turned and glanced at Egil. ‘He’s really with you, lord?’

‘He is,’ I said. ‘He’s a Norseman, a poet, a warrior, and my friend. So yes, he’s with me.’

‘It just seems strange …’ Fraomar’s voice faltered.

‘Being among so many pagans?’

‘Pagans, yes, and the damned Scots. Welsh too.’

I thought how sensible it was of Æthelstan to order that no swords should be worn in the camp except, of course, for those men standing guard. ‘You don’t trust pagans, Scots or Welshmen?’ I asked.

‘Do you, lord?’

‘I’m one of them, Fraomar. I’m a pagan.’

He looked embarrassed. He must have known I was not a Christian, the hammer at my chest told him that, if my reputation was not enough. ‘Yet my father said you were the best friend King Alfred ever had, lord.’

I laughed at that. ‘Alfred was never a friend,’ I said. ‘I admired him and he endured me.’

‘And King Æthelstan must know what you did for him, lord,’ he said, though to my ears he sounded dubious.

‘I’m sure he appreciates what we all did for him.’

‘It was a rare fight in Lundene!’ Fraomar said, plainly relieved I seemed not to have noticed the tone of his previous remark.

‘It was,’ I said and then, as casually as I could, ‘I haven’t seen him since that day.’

The lure worked. ‘He’s changed, lord!’ Fraomar hesitated, then realised he had to qualify that comment. ‘He’s become,’ he paused again, ‘very grand.’

‘He’s a king.’

‘True.’ He sounded rueful. ‘I suppose I’d be grand if I was a king.’

‘King Freckles?’ I suggested, he laughed and the moment passed. ‘Is he here?’ I asked, gesturing at the huge tent erected in the large circle.

‘He’s lodging in the monastery at Dacore,’ Fraomar said. ‘It’s not far away. You can camp here,’ he had stopped in a wide swathe of meadow. ‘Water from the river, firewood from the copse, you’ll be comfortable enough. There’s a church service at sundown, but I suppose …’ his voice tailed off.

‘You suppose right,’ I said.

‘Shall I tell the king you’re here, lord?’ Fraomar asked, and again there was a slight awkwardness in his voice.

I smiled. ‘He’ll know I’m here. But if it’s your job to tell him? Do it.’

Fraomar left us and we set about making our shelters, though I took the precaution of sending Egil with a dozen men to scout our surroundings. I did not expect trouble, there were too many of Æthelstan’s warriors for any Scotsman or Welshman to start a war, but I did not know this part of Cumbria and if trouble came I wanted to know how best to escape it. And so, while we made ourselves comfortable, Egil scouted.

I had brought no tents. Benedetta had wanted to fashion one from sailcloth, but I had assured her we were well used to making shelters and that our packhorses already had enough to carry with their heavy tubs of ale, barrels of bread, and sacks of smoked meat, cheese and fish. Instead of tents my men chopped down branches with war axes to make simple gable-shaped shelters lashed together by withies, cut turf with their knives to roof them, then lined the floors with bracken. They competed, of course, not to be the first finished, but for who could make the most elaborate shelter, and the winner, an impressive turf hut almost the size of a small hall, was given to me to share with Finan, Egil, and his brother Thorolf. Naturally we were expected to pay the builders with hacksilver, ale and praise, which we did, then watched as two men cut and stripped a towering larch trunk on which they hoisted Egil’s eagle banner. By then the sun was setting and we lit our campfires. A dozen of my Christians wandered over to where hundreds of men were sitting listening to a sermon from a priest, while I sat with Finan, Egil, and Thorolf and gazed moodily into the crackling fire.

I was thinking about oaths, about the tense atmosphere in the sprawling encampment where squads of heavily armed spearmen were needed to keep the peace, about the things Fraomar had not wanted to say, and about being instructed to arrive at Burgham days after other men had been summoned. I was thinking about Æthelstan. The last time I had seen him he had thanked me for giving him Lundene, he had praised me in the hall and roused the cheers of men, and with Lundene had come his emerald crown, but since that far-off day he had sent me no messages nor offered me any favours. I had given men hacksilver for building me a shelter, yet my reward for giving a man a kingdom was to be ignored.

Wyrd bið ful ãræd.

Fate is inexorable.

The sermon had ended, the men were dispersing to their huts, while a band of monks, dark-robed and hooded, walked through the encampments chanting. The leading monk carried a lantern and a dozen men followed him, their voices low and haunting. ‘Christian magic?’ Thorolf asked sourly.

‘They’re just praying for a peaceful night,’ Finan said, making the sign of the cross.

The monks did not come close to our shelters, but turned back towards the fires that had lit the evening sermon. Their voices grew fainter, then a peal of women’s laughter sounded from the Welsh encampment. Egil sighed. ‘Why didn’t we bring our own women?’

‘Because we didn’t need to,’ Finan said, ‘every whore between Cair Ligualid and Mameceaster is here.’

‘Ah!’ Egil grinned. ‘Then why am I sharing a shelter with you three?’

‘You can use that spinney instead,’ I said, nodding south towards a dark group of trees that lay between us and the Welsh encampment.

And saw the arrow.

It was a flicker in the night’s flame-lit dark, a sudden spark as fire glittered quick from a steel head and from pale feathers, and it was coming towards us. I thrust left at Finan, right at Egil and threw myself flat, and the arrow seared across my left shoulder, catching my cloak. ‘Move!’ I shouted, and the four of us scrambled away from the fire, going towards shadows as a second arrow slashed through the darkness to bury itself in the turf. ‘To me!’ I yelled. I was safely behind a shelter now, hidden from the archer who had loosed his arrows from among the spinney’s dark trees.

Egil, Thorolf and Finan ran to me. My men were leaving their shelters, coming to discover what had caused me to shout. ‘Who has weapons?’ I asked. A chorus of voices answered and, without waiting, I shouted at them to follow me.

I ran towards the spinney. I swerved to my left first, hoping not to be outlined against the bright fires, but knew I would be seen despite that small precaution. But there was, I thought, just one bowman, because if there had been two or more then we would have been attacked by a volley, not by a single arrow. I was also sure that whoever had loosed the arrow would already have fled. He must have seen a score of men coming, seen our swords reflecting the flame-light, and unless he was intent on dying he would be gone, but I still kept running. ‘Bebbanburg!’ I shouted, and my men took up the war cry.

We were still shouting as we crashed into the spinney’s undergrowth, trampling brambles and saplings. No more arrows came and the noise slowly died. I stopped in the shadow of a thick trunk. ‘What were we shouting about?’ Berg asked.

‘This,’ Finan said, and tugged the arrow that was still caught in my cloak. He ripped it free and held it into the light. ‘Christ, that’s a long arrow!’

‘Get into shadow,’ I told him. ‘All of you.’

‘Bastard’s long gone,’ he growled, ‘he can’t see us.’

There was no moon, but our campfires and the flames from the Welsh encampment cast plenty of sullen red light among the trees. I started laughing. ‘What?’ Egil asked.

‘We’re not supposed to carry weapons,’ I said, and gestured at the men in the trees, all of whom were carrying swords or axes, while still more of our men were streaming towards us from the shelters and all carrying their bright weapons.

Egil led some of his men to the southern edge of the trees, but went no further. The Norsemen just stood there, gazing into the night, searching for an archer who had been swallowed in the darkness. Finan hefted the missile. ‘This isn’t from a short bow,’ he said dourly.

‘No.’

‘It’s a hunting arrow.’ He ran his fingers over the feather fletching. ‘From one of those big bows that the Welsh use.’

‘Some Saxons use them.’

‘But rarely.’ He flinched as he tested the arrowhead. ‘Newly sharpened too. The earsling wanted you dead.’

I shivered as I remembered that flicker of light in the darkness, and that darkness was lessening because men, attracted by the noise, were running towards the spinney carrying flaming torches. The Welsh were closest and they came first, led by a huge man swathed in a fur cloak and carrying a mighty war axe. He barked an angry question in his own language and seemed unperturbed when my men raised swords to confront him, but before anyone could strike a blow a tall, bald-headed priest pushed the man aside. The priest stared at me. ‘Lord Uhtred,’ he said, sounding amused. ‘Does trouble follow you?’

‘It finds me, Father Anwyn,’ I said, ‘and it’s good to see you.’

‘Bishop Anwyn now,’ he responded, then spoke sharply to the huge man, who reluctantly lowered his formidable axe. Anwyn looked around the spinney, now crowded with my men and lit brightly by the torches the Welshmen carried. He smiled as he counted the hammer amulets. ‘I see you still keep bad company, Lord Uhtred? And what were they shouting about? Didn’t you know there was a service? Bishop Oswald was preaching!’ He paused, looking at me, ‘Bishop Oswald!’

‘I’m supposed to know who that is?’ I asked sourly. Anwyn’s tone suggested that Bishop Oswald was famous, but why would I care? A long life had condemned me to hear too many Christian sermons. ‘Why weren’t you listening?’ I asked Anwyn.

‘Why would I need a bloody Saxon bishop to tell me how to behave?’ Anwyn retorted, and his long bony face, usually so stern, broke into a smile. I had met him years before on a Welsh beach where my men and King Hywel’s men had slaughtered Rognvald’s Vikings. It was on that beach that Hywel had granted Berg his life. ‘And what were you shouting about?’ Anwyn asked. ‘Were you frightened by a mouse?’

‘By this,’ I said, taking the arrow from Finan.

Anwyn took it from me, hefted it and frowned. He must have guessed what I was thinking because he shook his head. ‘It wasn’t one of our men. Come, talk to King Hywel.’

‘He’s not in Rome?’

‘You think I’d ask you if he was in Rome?’ Anwyn replied. ‘The thought of keeping your company on that long journey gives me horrors, Lord Uhtred, but Hywel will want to meet you. For some strange reason he speaks well of you.’

But before we could move, still more men, carrying still more torches, appeared from the western side of the spinney. Most carried shields that bore Æthelstan’s dragon and lightning bolt and they were led by a young man mounted on an impressive grey horse. He had to duck his head to get beneath the branches, then curbed the stallion close to me. ‘You’re carrying a sword,’ he snarled at me, then looked around at all the other weapons. ‘The king has commanded that only sentries carry weapons.’

‘I’m a sentry,’ I said.

That annoyed him, as it was meant to. He stared at me. He was young, maybe just twenty-one or -two, his boyish face clean-shaven. He had very blue eyes, bright blond hair, a long nose, and a haughty expression. In truth he was striking, a handsome man, made more striking by the quality of his mail and by the thick gold chain he wore about his neck. He carried a drawn sword and I could see that the heavy crosspiece was glinting with more gold. He still stared at me, his distaste for what he saw evident on his face. ‘And who,’ he asked, ‘are you?’

One of his own men began to answer, but was hushed by Fraomar who had come with the young man. Fraomar was smiling. So was Anwyn. ‘I’m a sentry,’ I said again.

‘You call me lord, old man,’ the horseman said, then leaned from the saddle and lifted his gold-hilted sword so that the blade pointed at my hammer. ‘You call me lord,’ he said again, ‘and you hide that idolatrous bauble around your neck. Now who are you?’

I smiled. ‘I’m the man who will ram Serpent-Breath up your arsehole and slice off your tongue, you rat-faced piece of worm-shit.’

‘God be praised,’ Bishop Anwyn intervened hurriedly, ‘that the Lord Uhtred still possesses the tongue of angels.’

The sword dropped. The young man looked startled. He also, to my satisfaction, looked scared. ‘And you call me lord,’ I growled.

He had nothing to say. His horse whinnied and stepped sideways as Bishop Anwyn took another step forward. ‘There’s no trouble here, Lord Ealdred. We just came because King Hywel is eager to see Lord Uhtred again.’

So this, I thought, was Ealdred, another of Æthelstan’s favourite companions. He had made a fool of himself, thinking that his closeness to the king made him invulnerable, and he had suddenly become aware that he and his men were confronted and outnumbered by bitter Welshmen and hostile Northmen, both enemies of the Saxons. ‘Weapons,’ he said, but without any of his former arrogance, ‘are not to be carried in the camp.’

‘Were you talking to me?’ I demanded harshly.

He hesitated. ‘No, lord,’ he said, almost choking on the last word, then turned his stallion with a brutal jerk of the reins and spurred away.

‘Poor boy,’ Anwyn said, plainly amused. ‘But that poor boy will cause you trouble, lord.’

‘Let him try,’ I snarled.

‘No, let King Hywel tell you. He’ll be pleased you’re here. Come, lord.’

So I took Finan, Egil and Berg, and went to meet a king.

I have met many kings. Some, like Guthfrith, were fools, some struggled because they never knew what to do, while a few, very few, were men who commanded loyalty. Alfred was one, Constantine of Alba another, and the third was Hywel of Dyfed. I knew Alfred best of the three and since his death many folk have asked me about him, and I invariably say that he was as honest as he was clever. Is that true? He was as capable of cunning as Constantine or Hywel, but for all three men that cunning was always used in the service of what they believed was the best for their people. I disagreed with Alfred frequently, but I trusted him because he was a man of his word. I hardly knew Constantine, but those who knew him well often compared him to Alfred. Alfred, Constantine and Hywel were the three greatest kings of my lifetime, and all three had wisdom and a natural authority, but of the three I liked Hywel the best. He had an ease that Alfred lacked and a humour as broad as his smile. ‘My God,’ he greeted me, ‘but look what an ill wind has blown to my tent. I thought a pig had farted!’

I bowed to him. ‘Lord King.’

‘Sit down, man, sit down. Of course the King of the Sais has a great monastery as his lodging, but we poor Welshmen have to endure this,’ he waved around the great tent, which was carpeted with thick woollen rugs, warmed by a brazier, furnished with benches and tables, and lit by a host of tall, thick candles, ‘this hovel!’ He turned and spoke in Welsh to a servant who hurried to bring me a drinking horn that he filled with wine. A dozen other men were in the tent, sitting on benches around the brazier and listening to a harpist who played in the shadows. Hywel waved the man to silence, then smiled at me. ‘You’re still living, Lord Uhtred! I am pleased.’

‘You’re gracious, lord King.’

‘Ah, he butters me!’ He spoke to the other men in the tent, most of whom I suspected did not speak the Saxon tongue, but they smiled anyway. ‘I was gracious with His Holiness the Pope,’ Hywel continued, ‘who suffers from aches in his joints. I told the poor man to rub them with wool grease mixed with the urine of goats, but did he listen to me? He did not! Do you suffer from aches, Lord Uhtred?’

‘Frequently, lord King.’

‘Goat’s piss! Rub it in, man, rub it in. It might even improve the way you smell!’ He grinned. He looked as I remembered him, a sturdy man with a broad, wind-reddened face and eyes that readily creased with merriment. Age had whitened his clipped beard and his short hair over which he wore a simple gilt-bronze circlet. He looked to be about fifty years old, but he was still hale. He signalled to my companions. ‘Sit, all of you, sit. I remember you.’ He pointed at Finan. ‘You’re the Irishman?’

‘I am, lord King.’

‘Finan,’ I supplied the name.

‘And you fought like a demon, I remember that! You poor man, I’d think an Irishman had better sense than to fight for a Sais lord, eh? And you are?’ He nodded at Egil.

‘Egil Skallagrimmrson, lord King.’ Egil bowed, then touched Berg’s elbow, ‘and this is my brother, Berg Skallagrimmrson, who has to thank you.’

‘Me! Why would a Norseman thank me?’

‘You spared my life, lord King,’ Berg said, blushing as he bowed.

‘I did?’

‘On the beach,’ I reminded him, ‘where you killed Rognvald.’

Hywel’s face darkened as he remembered that fight. He made the sign of the cross. ‘Upon my word, but that was a wicked man. I take no pleasure in death, but that man’s screams were like the balm of Gilead to my soul.’ He looked at me. ‘Is he honest?’ He jerked his head at Berg. ‘Is he a good man?’

‘A very good man, lord King.’

‘But not a Christian,’ he said flatly.

‘I swore to have him taught the faith,’ I answered, ‘because you demanded that as a condition for his life, and I did not break my word.’

‘He chose otherwise?’

‘He did, lord King.’

‘The world is full of fools, is it not? And why, good bishop, are you holding an arrow? Do you plan to stab me?’

Anwyn explained what had happened in the darkness. He spoke in Welsh, but I did not need a translator to understand the tale. Hywel grunted when the bishop finished and took the arrow from him. ‘You think, Lord Uhtred,’ he asked, ‘it was one of my men?’

‘I don’t know, lord King.’

‘Did the arrow kill you?’

I smiled. ‘No, lord King.’

‘Then it wasn’t one of my boys. My boys don’t miss. And this isn’t one of my arrows. We fletch them with goose feathers. These look like eagle feathers?’ He tossed the arrow onto the brazier where the ashwood shaft flared up. ‘And other men in Britain use the long hunting bow, do they not?’ Hywel asked. ‘I hear they have some small skill with it in Legeceasterscir?’

‘It’s a rare skill, lord King.’

‘So it is, so it is. And wisdom is rare too, and you are going to need wisdom, Lord Uhtred.’

‘I am?’

Hywel gestured to a man sitting next to him, a man whose face was hidden by the deep hood of his cloak. ‘I have strange visitors this night, Lord Uhtred!’ Hywel said cheerfully, ‘you, your pagans, and now a new friend from a far place.’

The stink of the arrow’s burning feathers soured the tent as the man pushed back his hood and I saw it was Cellach, eldest son of Constantine and Prince of Alba.

I bowed my head. ‘Lord Prince,’ I said, and knew that Hywel was right; I would need wisdom.

I was among Æthelstan’s enemies.

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