The Warrior Chronicles

by Bernard Cornwell

  But the tale begins with Alfred who was, indeed, a very pious man and frequently sick. A recent theory suggests that he suffered from Crohn’s Disease, which causes acute abdominal pains, and from chronic piles, details we can glean from a book written by a man who knew him very well, Bishop Asser, who came into Alfred’s life after the events described in this novel. Currently there is a debate whether Bishop Asser did write that life, or whether it was forged a hundred years after Alfred’s death, and I am utterly unqualified to judge the arguments of the contending academics, but even if it is a forgery it contains much that has the smack of truth, suggesting that whoever wrote it knew a great deal about Alfred. The author, to be sure, wanted to present Alfred in a glowing light, as warrior, scholar and Christian, but he does not shy away from his hero’s youthful sins. Alfred, he tells us, ‘was unable to abstain from carnal desire’ until God generously made him sick enough to resist temptation. Whether Alfred did have an illegitimate son, Osferth, is debatable, but it seems very possible.

  The biggest challenge Alfred faced was an invasion of England by the Danes. Some readers may be disappointed that those Danes are called Northmen or pagans in the novel, but are rarely described as Vikings. In this I follow the early English writers who suffered from the Danes, and who rarely used the word Viking which, anyway, describes an activity rather than a people or a tribe. To go viking meant to go raiding, and the Danes who fought against England in the ninth century, though undoubtedly raiders, were pre-eminently invaders and occupiers. Much fanciful imagery has been attached to them, chief of which are the horned helmet, the berserker and the ghastly execution called the spread-eagle, by which a victim’s ribs were splayed apart to expose the lungs and heart. That seems to have been a later invention, as does the existence of the berserker, the crazed naked warrior who attacked in a mad frenzy. Doubtless there were insanely frenzied warriors, but there is no evidence that lunatic nudists made regular appearances on the battlefield. The same is true of the horned helmet for which there is not a scrap of contemporary evidence. Viking warriors were much too sensible to place a pair of protuberances on their helmets so ideally positioned as to enable an enemy to knock the helmet off. It is a pity to abandon the iconic horned helmets, but alas, they did not exist.

  The assault on the church by the Danes is well recorded. The invaders were not Christians and saw no reason to spare churches, monasteries and nunneries from their attacks, especially as those places often contained considerable treasures. Whether the concerted attack on the northern monastic houses happened is debatable. The source is extremely late, a thirteenth-century chronicle written by Roger of Wendover, but what is certain is that many bishoprics and monasteries did disappear during the Danish assault, and that assault was not a great raid, but a deliberate attempt to eradicate English society and replace it with a Danish state.

  Ivar the Boneless, Ubba, Halfdan, Guthrum, the various kings, Alfred’s nephew Æthelwold, Ealdorman Odda and the Ealdormen whose names begin with Æ (a vanished letter, called the ash), all existed. Alfred should properly be spelt Ælfred, but I preferred the usage by which he is known today. It is not certain how King Edmund of East Anglia died, though he was certainly killed by the Danes and in one ancient version the future saint was indeed riddled with arrows like Saint Sebastian. Ragnar and Uhtred are fictional, though a family with Uhtred’s name did hold Bebbanburg (now Bamburgh Castle) later in the Anglo-Saxon period, and as that family are my ancestors I decided to give them that magical place a little earlier than the records suggest. Most of the major events happened; the assault on York, the siege of Nottingham, the attacks on the four kingdoms, all are recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle or in Asser’s life of King Alfred which together are the major sources for the period.

  I used both those sources and also consulted a host of secondary works. Alfred’s life is remarkably well documented for the period, some of that documentation written by Alfred himself, but even so, as Professor James Campbell wrote in an essay on the king, ‘arrows of insight have to be winged by the feathers of speculation’. I have feathered lavishly, as historical novelists must, yet as much of the novel as possible is based on real events. Guthrum’s occupation of Wareham, the exchange of hostages and his breaking of the truce, his murder of the hostages and occupation of Exeter all happened, as did the loss of most of his fleet in a great storm off Durlston Head near Swanage. The one large change I have made was to bring Ubba’s death forward by a year, so that, in the next book, Uhtred can be elsewhere, and, persuaded by the arguments in John Peddie’s book, Alfred, Warrior King, I placed that action at Cannington in Somerset rather than at the more traditional site of Countisbury Head in north Devon.

  Alfred was the king who preserved the idea of England, which his son, daughter and grandson made explicit. At a time of great danger, when the English kingdoms were perilously near to extinction, he provided a bulwark which allowed the Anglo-Saxon culture to survive. His achievements were greater than that, but his story is far from over, so Uhtred will campaign again.

  Copyright

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Harper

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2004

  Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2004

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

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Ebook Edition © July 2009 ISBN: 9780007338818

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  THE PALE HORSEMAN

  THE PALE

  HORSEMAN

  BERNARD CORNWELL

  THE PALE HORSEMAN

  is for

  George MacDonald Fraser,

  in admiration

  Ac her forlo berað; fugelas singað,

  gylleð grœghama.

  For here starts war, carrion birds sing,

  and grey wolves howl.

  From The Fight at Finnsburh

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Map

  Place-names

  Part One: VIKING

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two: THE SWAMP KING

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Three: THE FYRD

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  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 whichever 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 n
ot foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hæglingaiggæ. Nor have I been consistent myself; I use England instead of Englaland, and 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, like the spellings themselves, is capricious.

  Æsc’s Hill Ashdown, Berkshire

  Æthelingæg Athelney, Somerset

  Afen River Avon, Wiltshire

  Andefera Andover, Wiltshire

  Baðum (pronounced Bathum) Bath, Avon

  Bebbanburg Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland

  Brant Brent Knoll, Somerset

  Bru River Brue, Somerset

  Cippanhamm Chippenham, Wiltshire

  Contwaraburg Canterbury, Kent

  Cornwalum Cornwall

  Cracgelad Cricklade, Wiltshire

  Cridianton Crediton, Devon

  Cynuit Cynuit Hillfort, nr. Cannington, Somerset

  Dærentmora Dartmoor, Devon

  Defereal Kingston Deverill, Wiltshire

  Defnascir Devonshire

  Dornwaraceaster Dorchester, Dorset

  Dreyndynas ‘Fort of thorns’, fictional, set in Cornwall

  Dunholm Durham, County Durham

  Dyfed South-west Wales, mostly now Pembrokeshire

  Dyflin Dublin, Eire

  Eoferwic York (also the Danish Jorvic, pronounced Yorvik)

  Ethandun Edington, Wiltshire

  Exanceaster Exeter, Devon

  Exanmynster Exminster, Devon

  Gewæsc The Wash

  Gifle Yeovil, Somerset

  Gleawecestre Gloucester, Gloucestershire

  Glwysing Welsh kingdom, approximately Glamorgan and Gwent

  Hamptonscir Hampshire

  Hamtun Southampton, Hampshire

  Lindisfarena Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland

  Lundene London

  Lundi Lundy Island, Devon

  Mærlebeorg Marlborough, Wiltshire

  Ocmundtun Okehampton, Devon

  Palfleot Pawlett, Somerset

  Pedredan River Parrett

  Penwith Land’s End, Cornwall

  Readingum Reading, Berkshire

  Sæfern River Severn

  Sceapig Isle of Sheppey, Kent

  Scireburnan Sherborne, Dorset

  Sillans The Scilly Isles

  Soppan Byrg Chipping Sodbury, Gloucestershire

  Sumorsæte Somerset

  Suth Seaxa Sussex (South Saxons)

  Tamur River Tamar

  Temes River Thames

  Thon River Tone, Somerset

  Thornsæta Dorset

  Uisc River Exe

  Werham Wareham, Dorset

  Wilig River Wylye

  Wiltunscir Wiltshire

  Winburnan Wimborne Minster, Dorset

  Wintanceaster Winchester, Hampshire

  PART ONE

  Viking

  One

  These days I look at twenty-year-olds and think they are pathetically young, scarcely weaned from their mothers’ tits, but when I was twenty I considered myself a full-grown man. I had fathered a child, fought in the shield wall, and was loath to take advice from anyone. In short I was arrogant, stupid and headstrong. Which is why, after our victory at Cynuit, I did the wrong thing.

  We had fought the Danes beside the ocean, where the river runs from the great swamp and the Sæfern Sea slaps on a muddy shore, and there we had beaten them. We had made a great slaughter and I, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, had done my part. More than my part, for at the battle’s end, when the great Ubba Lothbrokson, most feared of all the Danish leaders, had carved into our shield wall with his great war axe, I had faced him, beaten him and sent him to join the einherjar, that army of the dead who feast and swive in Odin’s corpse-hall.

  What I should have done then, what Leofric told me to do, was ride hard to Exanceaster where Alfred, King of the West Saxons, was besieging Guthrum. I should have arrived deep in the night, woken the king from his sleep and laid Ubba’s battle banner of the black raven and Ubba’s great war axe, its blade still crusted with blood, at Alfred’s feet. I should have given the king the good news that the Danish army was beaten, that the few survivors had taken to their dragon-headed ships, that Wessex was safe and that I, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, had achieved all of those things.

  Instead I rode to find my wife and child.

  At twenty years old I would rather have been ploughing Mildrith than reaping the reward of my good fortune, and that is what I did wrong, but, looking back, I have few regrets. Fate is inexorable, and Mildrith, though I had not wanted to marry her and though I came to detest her, was a lovely field to plough.

  So, in that late spring of the year 877, I spent the Saturday riding to Cridianton instead of going to Alfred. I took twenty men with me and I promised Leofric that we would be at Exanceaster by midday on Sunday and I would make certain Alfred knew we had won his battle and saved his kingdom.

  ‘Odda the Younger will be there by now,’ Leofric warned me. Leofric was almost twice my age, a warrior hardened by years of fighting the Danes. ‘Did you hear me?’ he asked when I said nothing. ‘Odda the Younger will be there by now,’ he said again, ‘and he’s a piece of goose shit who’ll take all the credit.’

  ‘The truth cannot be hidden,’ I said loftily.

  Leofric mocked that. He was a bearded squat brute of a man who should have been the commander of Alfred’s fleet, but he was not well-born and Alfred had reluctantly given me charge of the twelve ships because I was an ealdorman, a noble, and it was only fitting that a high-born man should command the West Saxon fleet even though it had been much too puny to confront the massive array of Danish ships that had come to Wessex’s south coast. ‘There are times,’ Leofric grumbled, ‘when you are an earsling.’ An earsling was something that had dropped out of a creature’s backside and was one of Leofric’s favourite insults. We were friends.

  ‘We’ll see Alfred tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘And Odda the Younger,’ Leofric said patiently, ‘has seen him today.’

  Odda the Younger was the son of Odda the Elder who had given my wife shelter, and the son did not like me. He did not like me because he wanted to plough Mildrith, which was reason enough for him to dislike me. He was also, as Leofric said, a piece of goose shit, slippery and slick, which was reason enough for me to dislike him.

  ‘We shall see Alfred tomorrow,’ I said again, and next morning we all rode to Exanceaster, my men escorting Mildrith, our son and his nurse, and we found Alfred on the northern side of Exanceaster where his green and white dragon banner flew above his tents. Other banners snapped in the damp wind, a colourful array of beasts, crosses, saints and weapons announcing that the great men of Wessex were with their king. One of those banners showed a black stag, which confirmed that Leofric had been right and that Odda the Younger was here in south Defnascir. Outside the camp, between its southern margin and the city walls, was a great pavilion made of sail-cloth stretched across guyed poles, and that told me that Alfred, instead of fighting Guthrum, was talking to him. They were negotiating a truce, though not on that day, for it was a Sunday and Alfred would do no work on a Sunday if he could help it. I found him on his knees in a makeshift church made from another poled sail-cloth, and all his nobles and thegns were arrayed behind him, and some of those men turned as they heard our horses’ hooves. Odda the Younger was one of those who turned and I saw the apprehension show on his narrow face.

  The bishop who was conducting the service paused to let the congregation make a response, and that gave Odda an excuse to look away from me. He was kneeling close to Alfred, very close, suggesting that he was high in the king’s favour, and I did not doubt that he had brought the dead Ubba’s raven banner and war axe to Exanceaster and claimed the credit for the fight beside the sea. ‘One day,’ I said to Leofric, ‘I shall slit that bastard from the crotch to the gullet and dance on his offal.’

  ‘You shou
ld have done it yesterday.’

  A priest had been kneeling close to the altar, one of the many priests who always accompanied Alfred, and he saw me and slid backwards as unobtrusively as he could until he was able to stand and hurry towards me. He had red hair, a squint, a palsied left hand and an expression of astonished joy on his ugly face. ‘Uhtred!’ he called as he ran towards our horses, ‘Uhtred! We thought you were dead!’

  ‘Me?’ I grinned at the priest. ‘Dead?’

  ‘You were a hostage!’

  I had been one of the dozen English hostages in Werham, but while the others had been murdered by Guthrum, I had been spared because of Earl Ragnar who was a Danish war-chief and as close to me as a brother. ‘I didn’t die, father,’ I said to the priest, whose name was Beocca, ‘and I’m surprised you did not know that.’

  ‘How could I know it?’

  ‘Because I was at Cynuit, father, and Odda the Younger could have told you that I was there and that I lived.’

  I was staring at Odda as I spoke and Beocca caught the grimness in my voice. ‘You were at Cynuit?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Odda the Younger didn’t tell you?’

  ‘He said nothing.’

  ‘Nothing!’ I kicked my horse forward, forcing it between the kneeling men and thus closer to Odda. Beocca tried to stop me, but I pushed his hand away from my bridle. Leofric, wiser than me, held back, but I pushed the horse into the back rows of the congregation until the press of worshippers made it impossible to advance further, and then I stared at Odda as I spoke to Beocca. ‘He didn’t describe Ubba’s death?’ I asked.

  ‘He says Ubba died in the shield wall,’ Beocca said, his voice a hiss so that he did not disturb the liturgy, ‘and that many men contributed to his death.’

  ‘Is that all he told you?’

  ‘He says he faced Ubba himself,’ Beocca said.

  ‘So who do men think killed Ubba Lothbrokson?’ I asked.