Ragnar frowned at Æthelflaed. ‘Is the horse hungry?’
‘No.’ She knew he was playing a game and she wanted to see if she could win.
‘But suppose I use magic,’ Ragnar suggested, ‘and make it eat grass?’
‘You can’t.’
‘How do you know?’ he asked. ‘I have been to places where the wooden horses go to pasture every morning, and every night the grass grows to touch the sky and every day the wooden horses eat it back to nothing again.’
‘No they don’t,’ she said, grinning.
‘And if I say the magic words,’ Ragnar said, ‘your horse will eat the grass.’
‘It’s my horse,’ Edward insisted.
‘Magic words?’ Æthelflaed was interested now.
‘You have to put the horse on the grass,’ Ragnar said.
She looked at me, wanting reassurance, but I just shrugged, and so she looked back at Ragnar who was being very serious, and she decided she wanted to see some magic and so she carefully placed the wooden horse beside a swathe of cut grass. ‘Now?’ she asked expectantly.
‘You have to shut your eyes,’ Ragnar said, ‘turn around three times very fast, then shout Havacar very loudly.’
‘Havacar?’
‘Careful!’ he warned her, looking alarmed. ‘You can’t say magic words carelessly.’
So she shut her eyes, turned around three times, and while she did Ragnar pointed at the horse and nodded to Edward who snatched it up and ran off to the nurse, and by the time Æthelflaed, staggering slightly from dizziness, had shouted her magic word the horse was gone.
‘You cheated!’ she accused Ragnar.
‘But you learned a lesson,’ I said, squatting beside her as if I were going to tell her a secret. I learned forward and whispered in her ear. ‘Never trust a Dane.’
She smiled at that. She had known me well during the long wet winter when her family had been fugitives in the marshes of Sumorsæte and in those dismal months she had learned to like me and I had come to like her. She reached out now and touched my nose. ‘How did that happen?’
‘A man broke my nose,’ I said. It had been Hakka, striking me in Trader because he thought I was shirking at the oar.
‘It’s crooked,’ she said.
‘It lets me smell crooked smells.’
‘What happened to the man who broke it?’
‘He’s dead,’ I said.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be married.’
‘You are?’ I asked.
‘To Æthelred of Mercia,’ she said proudly, then frowned because a flicker of distaste had crossed my face.
‘To my cousin?’ I asked, trying to look pleased.
‘Is Æthelred your cousin?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m to be his wife,’ she said, ‘and live in Mercia. Have you been to Mercia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it nice?’
‘You will like it,’ I said, though I doubted she would, not married to my snotty-nosed, pompous cousin, but I could hardly say that.
She frowned. ‘Does Æthelred pick his nose?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘Edward does,’ she said, ‘and then he eats it. Ugh.’ She leaned forward, gave me an impulsive kiss on my broken nose, then ran off to the nurse.
‘A pretty girl,’ Ragnar said.
‘Who is to be wasted on my cousin,’ I said.
‘Wasted?’
‘He’s a bumptious little shit called Æthelred,’ I said. He had brought men to Ethandun, only a few, but enough to loft him into Alfred’s good graces. ‘The idea is,’ I went on, ‘that he’ll be Ealdorman of Mercia when his father dies and Alfred’s daughter will be his wife, and that will bind Mercia to Wessex.’
Ragnar shook his head. ‘There are too many Danes in Mercia. The Saxons won’t ever rule there again.’
‘Alfred wouldn’t waste his daughter on Mercia,’ I said, ‘unless he thought there was something to gain.’
‘To gain things,’ Ragnar said, ‘you have to be bold. You can’t write things down and win, you have to take risks. Alfred’s too cautious.’
I half smiled. ‘You really think he’s cautious?’
‘Of course he is,’ Ragnar said scornfully.
‘Not always,’ I said, then paused, wondering if I should say what I was thinking.
My hesitation provoked Ragnar. He knew I was hiding something. ‘What?’ he demanded.
I still hesitated, then decided no harm could come from an old tale. ‘Do you remember that winter night in Cippanhamm?’ I asked him. ‘When Guthrum was there and you all believed Wessex had fallen, and you and I drank in the church?’
‘Of course I remember it, yes.’
It had been the winter when Guthrum had invaded Wessex and it had seemed that Guthrum must have won the war, for the West Saxon army was scattered. Some thegns fled abroad, many made their own peace with Guthrum, while Alfred had been driven into hiding on the marshes of Sumorsæte. Yet Alfred, though he was defeated, was not broken, and he had insisted on disguising himself as a harpist and going secretly to Cippanhamm to spy on the Danes. That had almost ended in disaster, for Alfred did not possess the cunning to be a spy. I had rescued him that night, the same night that I had found Ragnar in the royal church. ‘And do you remember,’ I went on, ‘that I had a servant with me and he sat at the back of the church with a hood over his head and I ordered him to be silent?’
Ragnar frowned, trying to recall that winter night, then he nodded. ‘You did, that’s right.’
‘He was no servant,’ I said, ‘that was Alfred.’
Ragnar stared at me. In his head he was working things out, realising that I had lied to him on that distant night, and he was understanding that if he had only known that the hooded servant had been Alfred then he could have won all Wessex for the Danes that same night. For a moment I regretted telling him, because I thought he would be angry with me, but then he laughed. ‘That was Alfred? Truly?’
‘He went to spy on you,’ I said, ‘and I went to rescue him.’
‘It was Alfred? In Guthrum’s camp?’
‘He takes risks,’ I said, reverting to our talk of Mercia.
But Ragnar was still thinking of that far-off cold night. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he demanded.
‘Because I’d given him my oath.’
‘We would have made you richer than the richest king,’ Ragnar said. ‘We would have given you ships, men, horses, silver, women, anything! All you had to do was speak.’
‘I had given him my oath,’ I said again, and I remembered how close I had come to betraying Alfred. I had been so tempted to blurt out the truth. That night, with a handful of words, I could have ensured that no Saxon ever ruled in England again. I could have made Wessex into a Danish kingdom. I could have done all that by betraying a man I did not much like to a man I loved as a brother, and yet I had kept silent. I had given an oath and honour binds us to paths we might not choose. ‘Wyrd bið ful aræd,’ I said.
Fate is inexorable. It grips us like a harness. I thought I had escaped Wessex and escaped Alfred, yet here I was, back in his palace, and he returned that afternoon in a clatter of hooves and a noisy rush of servants, monks and priests. Two men carried the king’s bedding back to his chamber while a monk wheeled a barrow piled with documents which Alfred had evidently needed during his single day’s absence. A priest hurried by with an altar cloth and a crucifix, while two more brought home the relics that accompanied Alfred on all his travels. Then came a group of the king’s bodyguards, the only men allowed to carry weapons in the royal precincts, and then more priests, all talking, among whom was Alfred himself. He had not changed. He still had a clerk’s look about him, lean and pale and scholarly. A priest was talking urgently to him and he nodded his head as he listened. He was dressed simply, his black cloak making him look like a cleric. He wore no royal circlet, just a woollen cap. He was holding Æthelflaed’s hand and Æ
thelflaed, I noticed, was once again holding her brother’s horse. She was hopping on one leg rather than walking which meant that she kept tugging her father away from the priest, but Alfred indulged her for he was ever fond of his children. Then she tugged him purposely, trying to draw him onto the grass where Ragnar and I had stood to welcome him and he yielded to her, letting her bring him to us.
Ragnar and I knelt. I kept my head bowed.
‘Uhtred has a broken nose,’ Æthelflaed told her father, ‘and the man who did it is dead now.’
A royal hand tipped my head up and I stared into that pale, narrow face with its clever eyes. He looked drawn. I supposed that he was suffering another bout of the bowel cramps that made his life perpetual agony. He was looking at me with his customary sternness, but then he managed a half-smile. ‘I thought never to see you again, Lord Uhtred.’
‘I owe you thanks, lord,’ I said humbly, ‘so I thank you.’
‘Stand,’ he said, and we both stood and Alfred looked at Ragnar. ‘I shall free you soon, Lord Ragnar.’
‘Thank you, lord.’
‘But in a week’s time we shall be holding a celebration here. We shall rejoice that our new church is finished, and we shall formally betroth this young lady to Lord Æthelred. I have summoned the Witan, and I would ask you both to stay until our deliberations are over.’
‘Yes, lord,’ I said. In truth all I wanted was to go to Northumbria, but I was beholden to Alfred and could wait a week or two.
‘And at that time,’ he went on, ‘I may have matters,’ he paused, as if fearing that he spoke too much, ‘matters,’ he said vaguely, ‘in which you might be of service to me.’
‘Yes, lord,’ I repeated, then he nodded and walked away.
And so we waited. The town, anticipating the celebrations, filled with folk. It was a time of reunions. All the men who had led Alfred’s army at Ethandun were there, and they greeted me with pleasure. Wiglaf of Sumorsæte and Harald of Defnascir and Osric of Wiltunscir and Arnulf of Suth Seaxa all came to Wintanceaster. They were the powerful men of the kingdom now, the great lords, the men who had stood by their king when he had seemed doomed. But Alfred did not punish those who had fled Wessex. Wilfrith was still Ealdorman of Hamptonscir, even though he had run to Frankia to escape Guthrum’s attack, and Alfred treated Wilfrith with exaggerated courtesy, but there was still an unspoken divide between those who had stayed to fight and those who had run away.
The town also filled with entertainers. There were the usual jugglers and stilt-walkers, story-tellers and musicians, but the most successful was a dour Mercian called Offa who travelled with a pack of performing dogs. They were only terriers, the kind most men use to hunt rats, but Offa could make them dance, walk on their hind legs and jump through hoops. One of the dogs even rode a pony, holding the reins in its teeth, and the other dogs followed with small leather pails to collect the crowd’s pennies. To my surprise Offa was invited to the palace. I was surprised because Alfred was not fond of frivolity. His idea of a good time was to discuss theology, but he commanded the dogs be brought to the palace and I assumed it was because he thought they would amuse his children. Ragnar and I both went to the performance, and Father Beocca found me there.
Poor Beocca. He was in tears because I lived. His hair, that had always been red, was heavily touched by grey now. He was over forty, an old man, and his wandering eye had gone milky. He limped and had a palsied left hand, for which afflictions men mocked him, though none did in my presence. Beocca had known me since I was a child, for he had been my father’s mass-priest and my early tutor, and he veered between loving me and detesting me, though he was ever my friend. He was also a good priest, a clever man and one of Alfred’s chaplains, and he was happy in the king’s service. He was delirious now, beaming at me with tears in his eyes. ‘You live,’ he said, giving me a clumsy embrace.
‘I’m a hard man to kill, father.’
‘So you are, so you are,’ he said, ‘but you were a weakly child.’
‘Me?’
‘The runt of the litter, your father always said. Then you began to grow.’
‘Haven’t stopped, have I?’
‘Isn’t that clever!’ Beocca said, watching two dogs walk on their hind legs. ‘I do like dogs,’ he went on, ‘and you should talk to Offa.’
‘To Offa?’ I asked, glancing at the Mercian who controlled his dogs by clicking his fingers or whistling.
‘He was in Bebbanburg this summer,’ Beocca said. ‘He tells me your uncle has rebuilt the hall. It’s bigger than it was. And Gytha is dead. Poor Gytha,’ he made the sign of the cross, ‘she was a good woman.’
Gytha was my stepmother and, after my father was killed at Eoferwic, she married my uncle and so was complicit in his usurpation of Bebbanburg. I said nothing of her death, but after the performance, when Offa and his two women assistants were packing up the hoops and leashing the dogs, I sought the Mercian out and said I would talk with him.
He was a strange man. He was tall like me, lugubrious, knowing, and, oddest of all, a Christian priest. He was really Father Offa. ‘But I was bored with the church,’ he told me in the Two Cranes where I had bought him a pot of ale, ‘and bored with my wife. I became very bored with her.’
‘So you walked away?’
‘I danced away,’ he said, ‘I skipped away. I would have flown away if God had given me wings.’
He had been travelling for a dozen years now, ranging throughout the Saxon and Danish lands in Britain and welcome everywhere because he provided laughter, though in conversation he was a gloomy man. But Beocca had been right. Offa had been in Northumbria and it was clear that he had kept a very sharp eye on all that he saw. So sharp that I understood why Alfred had invited his dogs to the palace. Offa was plainly one of the spies who brought news of Britain to the West Saxon court. ‘So tell me what happens in Northumbria,’ I invited him.
He grimaced and stared up at the ceiling beams. It was the pleasure of the Two Cranes for a man to cut a notch in the beam every time he hired one of the tavern’s whores and Offa seemed to be counting the cuts, a job that might take a lifetime, then he glanced at me sourly. ‘News, lord,’ he said, ‘is a commodity like ale or hides or the service of whores. It is bought and sold.’ He waited until I laid a coin on the table between us, then all he did was look at the coin and yawn, so I laid another shilling beside the first. ‘Where do you wish me to begin?’ he asked.
‘The north.’
Scotland was quiet, he said. King Aed had a fistula and that distracted him, though of course there were frequent cattle raids into Northumbria where my uncle, Ælfric the Usurper, now called himself the Lord of Bernicia.
‘He wants to be king of Bernicia?’ I asked.
‘He wants to be left in peace,’ Offa said. ‘He offends no one, he amasses money, he acknowledges Guthred as king and he keeps his swords sharp. He is no fool. He welcomes Danish settlers because they offer protection against the Scots, but he allows no Danes to enter Bebbanburg unless he trusts them. He keeps that fortress safe.’
‘But he wants to be king?’ I insisted.
‘I know what he does,’ Offa said tartly, ‘but what he wants is between Ælfric and his god.’
‘His son lives?’
‘He has two sons now, both young, but his wife died.’
‘I heard.’
‘His eldest son liked my dogs and wanted his father to buy them. I said no.’
He had little other news of Bebbanburg, other than that the hall had been enlarged and, more ominously, the outer wall and the low gate rebuilt higher and stronger. I asked if he and his dogs were welcome at Dunholm and he gave me a very sharp look and made the sign of the cross. ‘No man goes to Dunholm willingly,’ Offa said. ‘Your uncle gave me an escort through Kjartan’s land and I was glad of it.’
‘So Kjartan thrives?’ I asked bitterly.
‘He spreads like a green bay tree,’ Offa said and, when he saw my puzzlement, enlarged the answer. ‘H
e thrives and steals and rapes and kills and he lurks in Dunholm. But his influence is wider, much wider. He has money and he uses it to buy friends. If a Dane complains about Guthred then you can be sure he has taken Kjartan’s money.’
‘I thought Kjartan agreed to pay a tribute to Guthred?’
‘It was paid for one year. Since then Good King Guthred has learned to do without.’
‘Good King Guthred?’ I asked.
‘That is how he is known in Eoferwic,’ Offa said, ‘but only to the Christians. The Danes consider him a gullible fool.’
‘Because he’s a Christian?’
‘Is he a Christian?’ Offa asked himself. ‘He claims to be, and he goes to church, but I suspect he still half believes in the old gods. No, the Danes dislike him because he favours the Christians. He tried to levy a church tax on the Danes. It was not a clever idea.’
‘So how long does Good King Guthred have?’ I asked.
‘I charge more for prophecy,’ Offa said, ‘on the grounds that what is worthless must be made expensive.’
I kept my money in its purse. ‘What of Ivarr?’ I asked.
‘What of him?’
‘Does he still acknowledge Guthred as king?’
‘For the moment,’ Offa said carefully, ‘but the Earl Ivarr is once again the strongest man in Northumbria. He took money from Kjartan, I hear, and used it to raise men.’
‘Why raise men?’
‘Why do you think?’ Offa asked sarcastically.
‘To put his own man on the throne?’
‘It would seem likely,’ Offa said, ‘but Guthred has an army too.’
‘A Saxon army?’
‘A Christian army. Mostly Saxon.’
‘So civil war is brewing?’
‘In Northumbria,’ Offa said, ‘civil war is always brewing.’
‘And Ivarr will win,’ I said, ‘because he’s ruthless.’
‘He’s more cautious than he was,’ Offa said. ‘Aed taught him that three years ago. But in time, yes, he will attack. When he’s sure he can win.’
‘So Guthred,’ I said, ‘must kill Ivarr and Kjartan.’
‘What kings must do, lord, is beyond my humble competence. I teach dogs to dance, not men to rule. You wish to know about Mercia?’
The Warrior Chronicles Page 93
