THE WARRIOR CHRONICLES
Books 1-6
BERNARD CORNWELL
Table Of Contents
Title Page
THE LAST KINGDOM
THE PALE HORSEMAN
THE LORDS OF THE NORTH
SWORD SONG
THE BURNING LAND
DEATH OF KINGS
About the Author
Also by Bernard Cornwell
The Sharpe Series
Copyright
About the Publisher
THE LAST KINGDOM
THE LAST KINGDOM
BERNARD CORNWELL
THE LAST KINGDOM
is for Judy, with love
Wyrd bið ful ãræd
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Place-names
Prologue: NORTHUMBRIA, 866–867 AD
Part One: A PAGAN CHILDHOOD
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two: THE LAST KINGDOM
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Three: THE SHIELD WALL
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Historical Note
Copyright
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 whatever spelling is cited in the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained within Alfred’s reign, 871–899 AD, 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 England to Englaland and, instead of Norðhymbralond, have used Northumbria to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list, like the spellings themselves, is capricious:
Æbbanduna Abingdon, Berkshire
Æsc’s Hill Ashdown, Berkshire
Baðum (pronounced Bathum) Bath, Avon
Basengas Basing, Hampshire
Beamfleot Benfleet, Essex
Beardastopol Barnstable, Devon
Bebbanburg Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
Berewic Berwick-upon-Tweed, Northumberland
Berrocscire Berkshire
Blaland North Africa
Cantucton Cannington, Somerset
Cetreht Catterick, Yorkshire
Cippanhamm Chippenham, Wiltshire
Cirrenceastre Cirencester, Gloucestershire
Contwaraburg Canterbury, Kent
Cornwalum Cornwall
Cridianton Crediton, Devon
Cynuit Cynuit Hillfort, nr. Cannington, Somerset
Dalriada Western Scotland
Defnascir Devonshire
Deoraby Derby, Derbyshire
Dic Diss, Norfolk
Dunholm Durham, County Durham
Eoferwic York (also the Danish Jorvic, pronounced Yorvik)
Exanceaster Exeter, Devon
Fromtun Frampton on Severn, Gloucestershire
Gegnesburh Gainsborough, Lincolnshire
the Gewæsc The Wash
Gleawecestre Gloucester, Gloucestershire
Grantaceaster Cambridge, Cambridgeshire
Gyruum Jarrow, County Durham
Haithabu Hedeby, trading town in Southern Denmark
Hamanfunta Havant, Hampshire
Hamptonscir Hampshire
Hamtun Southampton, Hampshire
Heilincigae Hayling Island, Hampshire
Hreapandune Repton, Derbyshire
Kenet River Kennet
Ledecestre Leicester, Leicestershire
Lindisfarena Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland
Lundene London
Mereton Marten, Wiltshire
Meslach Matlock, Derbyshire
Pedredan River Parrett
Pictland Eastern Scotland
the Poole Poole Harbour, Dorset
Readingum Reading, Berkshire
Sæfern River Severn
Scireburnan Sherborne, Dorset
Snotengaham Nottingham, Nottinghamshire
Solente Solent
Streonshall Strensall, Yorkshire
Sumorsæte Somerset
Suth Seaxa Sussex (South Saxons)
Synningthwait Swinithwaite, Yorkshire
Temes River Thames
Thornsæta Dorset
Tine River Tyne
Trente River Trent
Tuede River Tweed
Twyfyrde Tiverton, Devon
Uisc River Exe
Werham Wareham, Dorset
Wiht Isle of Wight
Wiire River Wear
Wiltun Wilton, Wiltshire
Wiltunscir Wiltshire
Winburnan Wimborne Minster, Dorset
Wintanceaster Winchester, Hampshire
PROLOGUE
Northumbria, 866–867 AD
My name is Uhtred. I am the son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred and his father was also called Uhtred. My father’s clerk, a priest called Beocca, spelt it Utred. I do not know if that was how my father would have written it, for he could neither read nor write, but I can do both and sometimes I take the old parchments from their wooden chest and I see the name spelled Uhtred or Utred or Ughtred or Ootred. I look at those parchments which are deeds saying that Uhtred, son of Uhtred is the lawful and sole owner of the lands that are carefully marked by stones and by dykes, by oaks and by ash, by marsh and by sea, and I dream of those lands, wave-beaten and wild beneath the wind-driven sky. I dream, and know that one day I will take back the land from those who stole it from me.
I am an Ealdorman, though I call myself Earl Uhtred, which is the same thing, and the fading parchments are proof of what I own. The law says I own that land, and the law, we are told, is what makes us men under God instead of beasts in the ditch. But the law does not help me take back my land. The law wants compromise. The law thinks money will compensate for loss. The law, above all, fears the bloodfeud. But I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, and this is the tale of a bloodfeud. It is a tale of how I will take from my enemy what the law says is mine. And it is the tale of a woman and of her father, a king.
He was my king and all that I have I owe to him. The food that I eat, the hall where I live and the swords of my men, all came from Alfred, my king, who hated me.
This story begins long before I met Alfred. It begins when I was nine years old and first saw the Danes. It was the year 866 and I was not called Uhtred then, but Osbert, for I was my father’s second son and it was the eldest who took the name Uhtred. My brother was seventeen then, tall and well-built, with our family’s fair hair and my father’s morose face.
The day I first saw the Danes we were riding along the sea shore with hawks on our wrists. There was my father, my father’s brother, my brother, myself and a dozen retainers. It was autumn. The sea-cliffs were thick with the last growth of summer, there were seals on the rocks, and a host of seabirds wheeling and shrieking, too many to let the hawks off their leashes. We rode till we came to the criss-crossing shallows that rippled between our land and Lindisfarena, the Holy Island, and I remember staring across the water at the broken walls of the abbey. The Danes had plundered it, but that had been many years before I was born, and though the monks were living there again the monastery had never regained its former glo
ry.
I also remember that day as beautiful and perhaps it was. Perhaps it rained, but I do not think so. The sun shone, the seas were low, the breakers gentle and the world happy. The hawk’s claws gripped my wrist through the leather sleeve, her hooded head twitching because she could hear the cries of the white birds. We had left the fortress in the forenoon, riding north, and though we carried hawks we did not ride to hunt, but rather so my father could make up his mind.
We ruled this land. My father, Ealdorman Uhtred, was lord of everything south of the Tuede and north of the Tine, but we did have a king in Northumbria and his name, like mine, was Osbert. He lived to the south of us, rarely came north, and did not bother us, but now a man called Ælla wanted the throne and Ælla, who was an Ealdorman from the hills west of Eoferwic, had raised an army to challenge Osbert and had sent gifts to my father to encourage his support. My father, I realise now, held the fate of the rebellion in his grip. I wanted him to support Osbert, for no other reason than the rightful king shared my name and foolishly, at nine years old, I believed any man called Osbert must be noble, good and brave. In truth Osbert was a dribbling fool, but he was the king, and my father was reluctant to abandon him. But Osbert had sent no gifts and had shown no respect, while Ælla had, and so my father worried. At a moment’s notice we could lead a hundred and fifty men to war, all well armed, and given a month we could swell that force to over four hundred foemen, so whichever man we supported would be the king and grateful to us.
Or so we thought.
And then I saw them.
Three ships.
In my memory they slid from a bank of sea mist, and perhaps they did, but memory is a faulty thing and my other images of that day are of a clear, cloudless sky, so perhaps there was no mist, but it seems to me that one moment the sea was empty and the next there were three ships coming from the south.
Beautiful things. They appeared to rest weightless on the ocean, and when their oars dug into the waves they skimmed the water. Their prows and sterns curled high and were tipped with gilded beasts, serpents and dragons, and it seemed to me that on that far off summer’s day the three boats danced on the water, propelled by the rise and fall of the silver wings of their oar banks. The sun flashed off the wet blades, splinters of light, then the oars dipped, were tugged and the beast-headed boats surged and I stared entranced.
‘The devil’s turds,’ my father growled. He was not a very good Christian, but he was frightened enough at that moment to make the sign of the cross.
‘And may the devil swallow them,’ my uncle said. His name was Ælfric and he was a slender man; sly, dark and secretive.
The three boats had been rowing northwards, their square sails furled on their long yards, but when we turned back south to canter homewards on the sand so that our horses’ manes tossed like wind-blown spray and the hooded hawks mewed in alarm, the ships turned with us. Where the cliff had collapsed to leave a ramp of broken turf we rode inland, the horses heaving up the slope, and from there we galloped along the coastal path to our fortress.
To Bebbanburg. Bebba had been a queen in our land many years before, and she had given her name to my home, which is the dearest place in all the world. The fort stands on a high rock that curls out to sea. The waves beat on its eastern shore and break white on the rock’s northern point, and a shallow sea-lake ripples along the western side between the fortress and the land. To reach Bebbanburg you must take the causeway to the south, a low strip of rock and sand that is guarded by a great wooden tower, the Low Gate, that is built on top of an earthen wall, and we thundered through the tower’s arch, our horses white with sweat, and rode past the granaries, the smithy, the mews and the stables, all wooden buildings well thatched with rye straw, and so up the inner path to the High Gate which protected the peak of the rock that was surrounded by a wooden rampart encircling my father’s hall. There we dismounted, letting slaves take our horses and hawks, and ran to the eastern rampart from where we gazed out to sea.
The three ships were now close to the islands where the puffins live and the seal-folk dance in winter. We watched them, and my stepmother, alarmed by the sound of hooves, came from the hall to join us on the rampart. ‘The devil has opened his bowels,’ my father greeted her.
‘God and his saints preserve us,’ Gytha said, crossing herself. I had never known my real mother who had been my father’s second wife and, like his first, had died in childbirth, so both my brother and I, who were really half-brothers, had no mother, but I thought of Gytha as my mother and, on the whole, she was kind to me, kinder indeed than my father, who did not much like children. Gytha wanted me to be a priest, saying that my elder brother would inherit the land and become a warrior to protect it so I must find another life path. She had given my father two sons and a daughter, but none had lived beyond a year.
The three ships were coming closer now. It seemed they had come to inspect Bebbanburg, which did not worry us for the fortress was reckoned impregnable, and so the Danes could stare all they wanted. The nearest ship had twin banks of twelve oars each and, as the ship coasted a hundred paces offshore, a man leaped from the ship’s side and ran down the nearer bank of oars, stepping from one shaft to the next like a dancer, and he did it wearing a mail shirt and holding a sword. We all prayed he would fall, but of course he did not. He had long fair hair, very long, and when he had pranced the full length of the oar bank he turned and ran the shafts again.
‘She was trading at the mouth of the Tine a week ago,’ Ælfric, my father’s brother, said.
‘You know that?’
‘I saw her,’ Ælfric said, ‘I recognise that prow. See how there’s a light-coloured strake on the bend?’ He spat. ‘She didn’t have a dragon’s head then.’
‘They take the beast-heads off when they trade,’ my father said. ‘What were they buying?’
‘Exchanging pelts for salt and dried fish. Said they were merchants from Haithabu.’
‘They’re merchants looking for a fight now,’ my father said, and the Danes on the three ships were indeed challenging us by clashing their spears and swords against their painted shields, but there was little they could do against Bebbanburg and nothing we could do to hurt them, though my father ordered his wolf banner raised. The flag showed a snarling wolf’s head and it was his standard in battle, but there was no wind and so the banner hung limp and its defiance was lost on the pagans who, after a while, became bored with taunting us, settled to their thwarts and rowed off to the south.
‘We must pray,’ my stepmother said. Gytha was much younger than my father. She was a small, plump woman with a mass of fair hair and a great reverence for Saint Cuthbert whom she worshipped because he had worked miracles. In the church beside the hall she kept an ivory comb that was said to have been Cuthbert’s beard-comb, and perhaps it was.
‘We must act,’ my father snarled. He turned away from the battlements. ‘You,’ he spoke to my elder brother, Uhtred. ‘Take a dozen men, ride south. Watch the pagans, but nothing more, you understand? If they land their ships on my ground I want to know where.’
‘Yes, father.’
‘But don’t fight them,’ my father ordered. ‘Just watch the bastards and be back here by nightfall.’
Six other men were sent to rouse the country. Every free man owed military duty and so my father was assembling his army, and by the morrow’s dusk he expected to have close to two hundred men, some armed with axes, spears or reaping hooks, while his retainers, those men who lived with us in Bebbanburg, would be equipped with well-made swords and hefty shields. ‘If the Danes are outnumbered,’ my father told me that night, ‘they won’t fight. They’re like dogs, the Danes. Cowards at heart, but they’re given courage by being in a pack.’ It was dark and my brother had not returned, but no one was unduly anxious about that. Uhtred was capable, if sometimes reckless, and doubtless he would arrive in the small hours and so my father had ordered a beacon lit in the iron becket on top of the High Gate to guide him ho
me.
We reckoned we were safe in Bebbanburg for it had never fallen to an enemy’s assault, yet my father and uncle were still worried that the Danes had returned to Northumbria. ‘They’re looking for food,’ my father said. ‘The hungry bastards want to land, steal some cattle, then sail away.’
I remembered my uncle’s words, how the ships had been at the mouth of the Tine trading furs for dried fish, so how could they be hungry? But I said nothing. I was nine years old and what did I know of Danes?
I did know that they were savages, pagans and terrible. I knew that for two generations before I was born their ships had raided our coasts. I knew that Father Beocca, my father’s clerk and our mass priest, prayed every Sunday to spare us from the fury of the Northmen, but that fury had passed me by. No Danes had come to our land since I had been born, but my father had fought them often enough and that night, as we waited for my brother to return, he spoke of his old enemy. They came, he said, from northern lands where ice and mist prevailed, they worshipped the old gods, the same ones we had worshipped before the light of Christ came to bless us, and when they had first come to Northumbria, he told me, fiery dragons had whipped across the northern sky, great bolts of lightning had scarred the hills and the sea had been churned by whirlwinds.
‘They are sent by God,’ Gytha said timidly, ‘to punish us.’
‘Punish us for what?’ my father demanded savagely.
‘For our sins,’ Gytha said, making the sign of the cross.
‘Our sins be damned,’ my father snarled. ‘They come here because they’re hungry.’ He was irritated by my stepmother’s piety, and he refused to give up his wolf’s head banner that proclaimed our family’s descent from Woden, the ancient Saxon god of battles. The wolf, Ealdwulf the smith had told me, was one of Woden’s three favoured beasts, the others being the eagle and the raven. My mother wanted our banner to show the cross, but my father was proud of his ancestors, though he rarely talked about Woden. Even at nine years old I understood that a good Christian should not boast of being spawned by a pagan god, but I also liked the idea of being a god’s descendant and Ealdwulf often told me tales of Woden, how he had rewarded our people by giving us the land we called England, and how he had once thrown a war spear clear around the moon, and how his shield could darken the midsummer sky and how he could reap all the corn in the world with one stroke of his great sword. I liked those tales. They were better than my stepmother’s stories of Cuthbert’s miracles. Christians, it seemed to me, were forever weeping and I did not think Woden’s worshippers cried much.
The Warrior Chronicles Page 1
