The Warrior Chronicles

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Uhtred!’ Beocca squeaked.

  ‘I shall allow him that one utterance,’ I told Finan, ‘but the next time he speaks you will send him to his forefathers.’

  Finan grinned and drew his sword. Beocca went silent.

  ‘You could be king,’ Ragnar said to me again, and I was aware of Brida’s dark eyes resting on me.

  ‘My ancestors were kings,’ I said, ‘and their blood is in me. It is the blood of Odin.’ My father, though a Christian, had always been proud that our family was descended from the god Odin.

  ‘And you would be a good king,’ Ragnar said. ‘It is better that a Saxon rules, and you are a Saxon who loves the Danes. You could be King Uhtred of Northumbria, and why not?’ Brida still watched me. I knew she was remembering the night when Ragnar’s father had died, and when Kjartan and his yelling crew had cut down the men and women stumbling from the burning hall. ‘Well?’ Ragnar prompted me.

  I was tempted. I confess I was very tempted. In their day my family had been kings of Bernicia and now the throne of Northumbria was there for the taking. With Ragnar beside me I could be sure of Danish support, and the Saxons would do what they were told. Ivarr would resist, of course, as would Kjartan and my uncle, but that was nothing new and I was certain I was a better soldier than Guthred.

  And yet I knew it was not my fate to be king. I have known many kings and their lives are not all silver, feasting and women. Alfred looked worn out by his duties, though part of that was his constant sickness and another part an inability to take his duties lightly. Yet Alfred was right in that dedication to duty. A king has to rule, he has to keep a balance between the great thegns of his kingdom, he has to fend off rivals, he has to keep the treasury full, he has to maintain roads and fortresses and armies. I thought of all that while Ragnar and Brida stared at me and while Beocca held his breath beside me, and I knew I did not want the responsibility. I wanted the silver, the feasting and the women, but those I could have without a throne. ‘It is not my fate,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe you don’t know your fate,’ Ragnar suggested.

  The smoke whirled into the cold sky that was bright with sparks. ‘My fate,’ I said, ‘is to be the ruler of Bebbanburg. I know that. And I know Northumbria cannot be ruled from Bebbanburg. But perhaps it is your fate,’ I said to Ragnar.

  He shook his head. ‘My father,’ he said, ‘and his father, and his father before him, were all Vikings. We sailed to where we could take wealth. We grew rich. We had laughter, ale, silver and battle. If I were to be king then I would have to protect what I have from the men who would take it from me. Instead of being a Viking I would be a shepherd. I want to be free. I have been a hostage too long, and I want my freedom. I want my sails in the wind and my swords in the sun. I do not wish to be heaped with duties.’ He had been thinking what I had been thinking, though he had said it far more eloquently. He grinned suddenly, as if released from a burden. ‘I wish to be richer than any king,’ he declared to his men, ‘and I will make you all rich with me.’

  ‘So who is to be king?’ Rollo asked.

  ‘Guthred,’ Ragnar said.

  ‘Praise God,’ Beocca said.

  ‘Quiet,’ I hissed.

  Ragnar’s men were not happy with his choice. Rollo, gaunt and bearded and loyal, spoke for them. ‘Guthred favours the Christians,’ he said. ‘He is more Saxon than Dane. He would make us all worship their nailed god.’

  ‘He will do what he’s told to do,’ I said firmly, ‘and the first thing we tell him is that no Dane will pay a tithe to their church. He will be a king like Egbert was king, obedient to Danish wishes.’ Beocca was spluttering, but I ignored him. ‘What matters,’ I went on, ‘is which Dane gives him his orders. Is it to be Ivarr? Kjartan? Or Ragnar?’

  ‘Ragnar!’ men shouted.

  ‘And my wish,’ Ragnar had moved closer to the fire so that the flames illuminated him and made him look bigger and stronger, ‘my wish,’ he said again, ‘is to see Kjartan defeated. If Ivarr beats Guthred then Kjartan will grow stronger, and Kjartan is my enemy. He is our enemy. There is a bloodfeud between his family and mine, and I would end that feud now. We march to help Guthred, but if Guthred does not assist us in taking Dunholm then I swear to you that I shall kill Guthred and all his folk and take the throne. But I would rather stand in Kjartan’s blood than be king of all the Danes. I would rather be the slayer of Kjartan than be king of all the earth. My quarrel is not with Guthred. It is not with the Saxons. It is not with the Christians. My quarrel is with Kjartan the Cruel.’

  ‘And in Dunholm,’ I said, ‘there is a hoard of silver worthy of the gods.’

  ‘So we will find Guthred,’ Ragnar announced, ‘and we shall fight for him!’

  A moment before, the crowd had wanted Ragnar to lead them against Guthred, but now they cheered the news that they were to fight for the king. There were seventy warriors there, not many, but they were among the best in Northumbria and they thumped swords against shields and shouted Ragnar’s name.

  ‘You can speak now,’ I told Beocca.

  But he had nothing to say.

  And next dawn, under a clear sky, we rode to find Guthred.

  And Gisela.

  PART THREE

  Shadow-Walker

  Eight

  We were seventy-six warriors, including Steapa and myself. All of us were on horseback and all had weapons, mail or good leather, and helmets. Two score of servants on smaller horses carried the shields and led our spare stallions, but those servants were not fighting men and were not counted among the seventy-six. There had been a time when Ragnar could raise over two hundred warriors, but many had died at Ethandun and others had found new lords in the long months while Ragnar was a hostage, but seventy-six was still a good number. ‘And they’re formidable men,’ he told me proudly.

  He rode under his banner of an eagle’s wing. It was a real eagle’s wing nailed to the top of a high pole, and his helmet was decorated with two more such wings. ‘I dreamed of this,’ he told me as we rode eastwards, ‘I dreamed of riding to war. All that time I was a hostage I wanted to be riding to war. There’s nothing in life like it, Uhtred, nothing!’

  ‘Women?’ I asked.

  ‘Women and war!’ he said, ‘women and war!’ He whooped for joy and his stallion pricked back its ears and took a few short, high steps as if it shared its master’s happiness. We rode at the front of the column, though Ragnar had a dozen men mounted on light ponies ranging far ahead of us. The dozen men signalled to each other and back to Ragnar, and they spoke to shepherds and listened to rumour and smelt the wind. They were like hounds seeking scent, and they looked for Guthred’s trail, which we expected to find leading west towards Cumbraland, but as the morning wore on the scouts kept tending eastwards. Our progress was slow, which frustrated Father Beocca, but before we could ride fast we had to know where we were going. Then, at last, the scouts seemed confident that the trail led east and spurred their ponies across the hills and we followed. ‘Guthred’s trying to go back to Eoferwic,’ Ragnar guessed.

  ‘He’s too late for that,’ I said.

  ‘Or else he’s panicking,’ Ragnar suggested cheerfully, ‘and doesn’t know what he’s doing.’

  ‘That sounds more likely,’ I said.

  Brida and some twenty other women rode with us. Brida was in leather armour and had a black cloak held at her neck with a fine brooch of silver and jet. Her hair was twisted high and held in place with a black ribbon, and at her side was a long sword. She had grown into an elegant woman who possessed an air of authority and that, I think, offended Father Beocca who had known her since she was a child. She had been raised a Christian, but had escaped the faith and Beocca was upset by that, though I think he found her beauty more disturbing. ‘She’s a sorceress,’ Beocca hissed at me.

  ‘If she’s a sorceress,’ I said, ‘then she’s a good person to have on your side.’

  ‘God will punish us,’ he warned.

  ‘This isn’t your god�
�s country,’ I told him. ‘This is Thor’s land.’

  He made the sign of the cross to protect himself from the evil of my words. ‘And what were you doing last night?’ he asked indignantly. ‘How could you even think of being king here?’

  ‘Easily,’ I said. ‘I am descended from kings. Unlike you, father. You’re descended from swineherds, aren’t you?’

  He ignored that. ‘The king is the Lord’s anointed,’ he insisted. ‘The king is chosen by God and by all the throng of holy saints. Saint Cuthbert led Northumbria to Guthred, so how could you even think of replacing him? How could you?’

  ‘We can turn around and go home then,’ I said.

  ‘Turn around and go home?’ Beocca was appalled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if Cuthbert chose him,’ I said, ‘then Cuthbert can defend him. Guthred doesn’t need us. He can go into battle with his dead saint. Or maybe he already has,’ I said, ‘have you thought of that?’

  ‘Thought of what?’

  ‘That Guthred might already be defeated. He could be dead. Or he could be wearing Kjartan’s chains.’

  ‘God preserve us,’ Beocca said, making the sign of the cross again.

  ‘It hasn’t happened,’ I assured him.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because we’d have met his fugitives by now,’ I said, though I could not be certain of that. Perhaps Guthred was fighting even as we spoke, but I had a feeling he was alive and not too far away. It is hard to describe that feeling. It is an instinct, as hard to read as a god’s message in the fall of a wren’s feather, but I had learned to trust the feeling.

  And my instinct was right, for late in the morning one of the scouts came racing back across the moorland with his pony’s mane tossing in the wind. He slewed around in a burst of turf and bracken to tell Ragnar that there was a large band of men and horses in the valley of the River Swale. ‘They’re at Cetreht, lord,’ he said.

  ‘On our side of the river?’ Ragnar asked.

  ‘On our side, lord,’ the scout said, ‘in the old fort. Trapped there.’

  ‘Trapped?’

  ‘There’s another war-band outside the fort, lord,’ the scout said. He had not ridden close enough to see any banners, but two other scouts had ridden down into the valley while this first galloped back to bring us the news that Guthred was probably very near.

  We quickened our pace. Clouds raced in the wind and at midday a sharp rain fell briefly, and just after it ended we met the two scouts who had ridden down to the fields outside the fort and spoken to the war-band. ‘Guthred’s in the fort,’ one of them reported.

  ‘So who’s outside?’

  ‘Kjartan’s men, lord,’ the man said. He grinned, knowing that if any of Kjartan’s men were close then there would be a fight. ‘There are sixty of them, lord. Only sixty.’

  ‘Is Kjartan there? Or Sven?’

  ‘No, lord. They’re led by a man called Rolf.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘Spoke to him and drank his ale, lord. They’re watching Guthred. Making sure he doesn’t run away. They’re keeping him there until Ivarr comes north.’

  ‘Till Ivarr comes?’ Ragnar asked. ‘Not Kjartan?’

  ‘Kjartan stays at Dunholm, lord,’ the man said, ‘that’s what they said, and that Ivarr will come north once he’s garrisoned Eoferwic.’

  ‘There are sixty of Kjartan’s men in the valley,’ Ragnar shouted back to his warriors, and his hand instinctively went to the hilt of Heart-Breaker. That was his sword, given the same name as his father’s blade as a reminder of his duty to revenge Ragnar the Elder’s death. ‘There are sixty men to kill!’ he added, then called for a servant to bring his shield. He looked back to the scouts. ‘Who did they think you were?’

  ‘We claimed to serve Hakon, lord. We said we were looking for him.’

  Ragnar gave the men silver coins. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘So how many men does Guthred have in the fort?’

  ‘Rolf says he’s got at least a hundred, lord.’

  ‘A hundred? And he hasn’t tried to drive off sixty men?’

  ‘No, lord.’

  ‘Some king,’ Ragnar said scornfully.

  ‘If he fights them,’ I said, ‘then at the end of the day he’ll have fewer than fifty men.’

  ‘So what’s he doing instead?’ Ragnar wanted to know.

  ‘Praying, probably.’

  Guthred, as we later learned, had panicked. Thwarted in his efforts to reach Bebbanburg he had turned west towards Cumbraland, thinking that in that familiar country he would find friends, but the weather had slowed him, and there were enemy horsemen always in sight and he feared ambush in the steep hills ahead. So he had changed his mind and decided to return to Eoferwic, but had got no father than the Roman fort that had once guarded the crossings of the Swale at Cetreht. He was desperate by then. Some of his spearmen had deserted, reckoning that only death waited for them if they stayed with the king, so Guthred had sent messengers to summon help from Northumbria’s Christian thegns, but we had already seen the corpses and knew no help would come. Now he was trapped. The sixty men would hold him in Cetreht until Ivarr came to kill him.

  ‘If Guthred is praying,’ Beocca said sternly, ‘then those prayers are being answered.’

  ‘You mean the Christian god sent us?’ I asked.

  ‘Who else?’ he responded indignantly as he brushed down his black robe. ‘When we meet Guthred,’ he told me, ‘you will let me speak first.’

  ‘You think this is a time for ceremony?’

  ‘I’m an ambassador!’ he protested, ‘you forget that.’ His indignation suddenly burst like a rain-sodden stream overflowing its banks. ‘You have no conception of dignity! I am an ambassador! Last night, Uhtred, when you told that Irish savage to cut my throat, what were you thinking of?’

  ‘I was thinking of keeping you quiet, father.’

  ‘I shall tell Alfred of your insolence. You can be sure of that. I shall tell him!’

  He went on complaining, but I was not listening for we had ridden across the skyline and there was Cetreht and the curving River Swale beneath us. The Roman fort was a short distance from the Swale’s southern bank and the old earth walls made a wide square which enclosed a village which had a church at its centre. Beyond the fort was the stone bridge the Romans had made to carry their great road which led from Eoferwic to the wild north, and half of the old arch still stood.

  As we rode closer I could see that the fort was full of horses and people. A standard flew from the church’s gable and I assumed that must be Guthred’s flag showing Saint Cuthbert. A few horsemen were north of the river, blocking Guthred’s escape across the ford, while Rolf’s sixty riders were in the fields south of the fort. They were like hounds stopping up a fox’s earth.

  Ragnar had checked his horse. His men were readying for a fight. They were pushing their arms into shield loops, loosening swords in scabbards and waiting for Ragnar’s orders. I gazed into the valley. The fort was a hopeless refuge. Its walls had long eroded into the ditch and there was no palisade, so that a man could stroll over the ramparts without even breaking stride. The sixty horsemen, if they had wished, could have ridden into the village, but they preferred to ride close to the old wall and shout insults. Guthred’s men watched from the fort’s edge. More men were clustered about the church. They had seen us on the hill and must have thought we were new enemies, for they were hurrying towards the remnants of the southern rampart. I stared at the village. Was Gisela there? I remembered the flick of her head and how her eyes had been shadowed by her black hair, and I unconsciously spurred my horse a few paces forward. I had spent over two years of hell at Sverri’s oar, but this was the moment I had dreamed of through all that time, and so I did not wait for Ragnar. I touched spurs to my horse again and rode alone into the valley of the Swale.

  Beocca, of course, followed me, squawking that as Alfred’s ambassador he must lead the way into Guthred’s presence, but I ignored him and, halfw
ay down the hill he tumbled from his horse. He gave a despairing cry and I left him limping in the grass as he tried to retrieve his mare.

  The late autumn sun was bright on the land that was still wet from rain. I carried a shield with a polished boss, I was in mail and helmet, my arm rings shone, I glittered like a lord of war. I twisted in my saddle to see that Ragnar had started down the hill, but he was slanting eastwards, plainly intent on cutting off the retreat of Kjartan’s men, whose best escape would lie in the eastern river meadows.

  I reached the hill’s foot and spurred across the flat river plain to join the Roman road. I passed a Christian cemetery, the ground lumpy and scattered with small wooden crosses looking towards the one larger cross which would show the resurrected dead the direction of Jerusalem on the day the Christians believed their corpses would rise from the earth. The road led straight past the graves to the fort’s southern entrance, where a crowd of Guthred’s men watched me. Kjartan’s men spurred to intercept me, barring the road, but they showed no apprehension. Why should they? I appeared to be a Dane, I was one man and they were many, and my sword was still in its scabbard. ‘Which of you is Rolf?’ I shouted as I drew near them.

  ‘I am,’ a black-bearded man urged his horse towards me. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Your death, Rolf,’ I said, and I drew Serpent-Breath and touched my heels to the stallion’s flanks and he went into the full gallop and Rolf was still drawing his sword when I pounded past him and swung Serpent-Breath and the blade sliced through his neck so that his head and helmet flew back, bounced on the road and rolled under my horse’s hooves. I was laughing because the battle-joy had come. Three men were ahead of me and none had yet drawn a sword. They just stared at me, aghast, and at Rolf’s headless trunk that swayed in the saddle. I charged the centre man, letting my horse barge into his and striking him hard with Serpent-Breath, and then I was through Kjartan’s horsemen and the fort was in front of me.

  Fifty or sixty men were standing at the fort’s entrance. Only a handful were mounted, but nearly all had swords or spears. And I could see Guthred there, his fair curly hair bright in the sun, and next to him was Gisela. I had tried so often to summon her face in those long months at Sverri’s oar, and I had always failed, yet suddenly the wide mouth and the defiant eyes seemed so familiar. She was dressed in a white linen robe, belted at her waist with a silver chain, and she had a linen bonnet on her hair which, because she was married, was bound into a knot. She was holding her brother’s arm, and Guthred was just staring at the strange events unfolding outside his refuge.