The Warrior Chronicles

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘At least once a month,’ I said, ‘and probably more often. He’s very fastidious about washing, but he still stinks. Do I stink?’

  ‘Like a boar,’ she said, grinning. ‘Will I like Alfred?’

  ‘No. He won’t approve of you because you’re not a Christian.’

  She laughed at that. ‘What will he do with you?’

  ‘He’ll give me land,’ I said, ‘and expect me to fight for him.’

  ‘Which means you’ll fight the Danes?’

  ‘The Danes are Alfred’s enemies,’ I said, ‘so yes. I’ll fight the Danes.’

  ‘But they’re my people,’ she said.

  ‘And I’ve given Alfred my oath,’ I said, ‘so I must do what he wants.’ I leaned back as the stallion picked its way down a steep hill. ‘I love the Danes,’ I said, ‘love them far more than I do the West Saxons, but it’s my fate to fight for Wessex. Wyrd bið ful aræd.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘That fate is fate. That it rules us.’

  She thought about that. She was dressed in her mail again, but around her neck was a golden torc taken from Kjartan’s treasures. It was made from seven strands twisted into one and I had seen similar things dug from the graves of ancient British chieftains. It gave her a wild look, which suited her. Her black hair was pinned under a woollen cap and she had a faraway look on her long face, and I thought I could look at that face for ever. ‘So how long must you be Alfred’s man?’

  ‘Until he releases me,’ I said, ‘or until either he or I die.’

  ‘But you say he’s sick. So how long can he live?’

  ‘Probably not very long.’

  ‘So who becomes king then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, and I wished I did. Alfred’s son, Edward, was a mewling child, much too young to rule, and his nephew, Æthelwold, from whom Alfred had usurped the throne, was a drunken fool. The drunken fool had the better claim to the throne, and I suddenly found myself hoping that Alfred would live long. That did surprise me. I had told Gisela the truth, that I did not like Alfred, but I recognised that he was the true power in the island of Britain. No one else had his vision, no one else had his determination, and Kjartan’s death was not so much our doing, but Alfred’s. He had sent us north, knowing we would do what he wanted even though he had not explicitly told us what that was, and I was struck by the thought that life as his oath-man might not be as dull as I had feared. But if he died soon, I thought, then that would be the end of Wessex. The thegns would fight for his crown and the Danes would scent the weakness and come like ravens to pluck the corpse-meat.

  ‘If you’re Alfred’s sworn man,’ Gisela asked carefully, and her question revealed that she must have been thinking the same thoughts, ‘why did he let you come here?’

  ‘Because he wants your brother to rule in Northumbria.’

  She thought about that. ‘Because Guthred is a Christian of sorts?’

  ‘That’s important to Alfred,’ I said.

  ‘Or because Guthred’s weak?’ she suggested.

  ‘Is he weak?’

  ‘You know he is,’ she said scornfully. ‘He’s a kind man, and folk have always liked him, but he doesn’t know how to be ruthless. He should have killed Ivarr when he first met him, and he should have banished Hrothweard a long time ago, but he didn’t dare. He’s too frightened of Saint Cuthbert.’

  ‘And why would Alfred want a weak king on Northumbria’s throne?’ I asked blandly.

  ‘So Northumbria will be weak,’ she said, ‘when the Saxons try to take back their land.’

  ‘Is that what your runesticks say will happen?’ I asked.

  ‘They say,’ she said, ‘that we will have two sons and a daughter, and that one son will break your heart, the other will make you proud, and that your daughter will be the mother of kings.’

  I laughed at that prophecy, not with scorn, but because of the certainty in Gisela’s voice. ‘And does that mean,’ I asked, ‘that you will come to Wessex, even though I fight the Danes?’

  ‘It means,’ she said, ‘that I’m not leaving your side. That’s my oath.’

  Ragnar had sent scouts ahead and as the long day passed some of those men came back on tired horses. Ivarr, they had heard, had taken Eoferwic. It had been easy for him. Guthred’s diminished garrison had surrendered the city rather than be slaughtered in its streets. Ivarr had taken what plunder he could find, placed a new garrison on the walls and was already marching back north. He would not have heard of the fall of Dunholm yet, so he was plainly hoping to catch Guthred who, he must assume, either lingered at Cetreht or was wandering disconsolately towards the wastes of Cumbraland. Ivarr’s army, the scouts had heard, was a horde. Some men said Ivarr led two thousand spears, a figure that Ragnar and I dismissed. It was certain, though, that Ivarr’s men far outnumbered ours and probable that he was marching north on the same Roman road down which we travelled south. ‘Can we fight him?’ Guthred asked me.

  ‘We can fight him,’ Ragnar answered for me, ‘but we can’t beat his army.’

  ‘So why are we marching south?’

  ‘To rescue Cuthbert,’ I said, ‘and to kill Ivarr.’

  ‘But if we can’t beat him?’ Guthred was puzzled.

  ‘We fight him,’ I said, adding to his confusion, ‘and if we can’t beat him then we retreat to Dunholm. That’s why we captured it, as a refuge.’

  ‘We’re letting the gods decide what happens,’ Ragnar explained and, because we were confident, Guthred pressed us no further.

  We reached Cetreht that evening. Our journey had been fast because we had no need to leave the Roman road, and we splashed through the Swale’s ford as the sun reddened the western hills. The churchmen, rather than take refuge in those hills, had preferred to stay with Cetreht’s meagre comforts and no one had disturbed them while we had gone to Dunholm. They had seen mounted Danes on the southern hills, but none of those riders had approached the fort. The horsemen had watched, counted heads and ridden away, and I assumed those men were Ivarr’s scouts.

  Father Hrothweard and Abbot Eadred seemed unimpressed that we had captured Dunholm. All they cared about was the corpse of the saint and the other precious relics which they dug up from the graveyard that same evening and carried in solemn procession to the church. It was there that I confronted Aidan, the steward of Bebbanburg, and his score of men who had stayed in the village. ‘It’s safe for you to ride home now,’ I told them, ‘because Kjartan is dead.’

  I do not think Aidan believed me at first. Then he understood what we had achieved and he must have feared that the men who had captured Dunholm would march on Bebbanburg next. I wanted to do that, but I was sworn to return to Alfred before Christmas and that left me no time to confront my uncle.

  ‘We shall leave in the morning,’ Aidan said.

  ‘You will,’ I agreed, ‘and when you reach Bebbanburg you will tell my uncle that he is never far from my thoughts. You will tell him I have taken his bride. You will promise him that one day I shall slit his belly, and if he dies before I can fulfil that oath then promise him I shall slice the guts out of his sons instead, and if his sons have sons I shall kill them too. Tell him those things, and tell him that folk thought Dunholm was like Bebbanburg, impregnable, and that Dunholm fell to my sword.’

  ‘Ivarr will kill you,’ Aidan said defiantly.

  ‘You had better pray as much,’ I said.

  All the Christians prayed that night. They gathered in the church and I thought they might be asking their god to give us victory over the approaching forces of Ivarr, but instead they were giving thanks that the precious relics had survived. They placed Saint Cuthbert’s body before the altar on which they put Saint Oswald’s head, the gospel book and the reliquary with the hairs of Saint Augustine’s beard and they chanted, they prayed, they chanted again, and I thought they would never stop praying, but at last, in the night’s dark heart, they fell silent.

  I walked the fort’s low wall, watching the Roman r
oad stretch south through the fields beneath the waning moon. It was from there that Ivarr would come and I could not be sure he would not send a band of picked horsemen to attack in the night and so I had a hundred men waiting in the village street. But no attack came, and in the darkness a small mist rose to blur the fields as Ragnar came to relieve me. ‘There’ll be a frost by morning,’ he greeted me.

  ‘There will,’ I agreed.

  He stamped his feet to make them warm. ‘My sister,’ he said, ‘tells me she’s going to Wessex. She says she’ll be baptised.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘No,’ he said. He gazed down the long straight road. ‘It’s for the best,’ he spoke bleakly, ‘and she likes your Father Beocca. So what will happen to her?’

  ‘I suppose she’ll become a nun,’ I said, for I could not think what other fate would wait for her in Alfred’s Wessex.

  ‘I let her down,’ he said, and I said nothing because it was true. ‘Must you go back to Wessex?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m sworn.’

  ‘Oaths can be broken,’ he said quietly, and that was true, but in a world where different gods ruled and fate is known only to the three spinners, oaths are our one certainty. If I broke an oath then I could not expect men to keep their oaths to me. That I had learned.

  ‘I won’t break my oath to Alfred,’ I said, ‘but I will make another oath to you. That I will never fight you, that what I have is yours to share, and that if you need help I will do all I can to bring it.’

  Ragnar said nothing for a while. He kicked at the turf on the wall’s top and looked into the mist. ‘I swear the same,’ he said quietly and he, like me, was embarrassed and so he kicked at the turf again. ‘How many men will Ivarr bring?’

  ‘Eight hundred?’

  He nodded. ‘And we have fewer than three hundred.’

  ‘There won’t be a fight,’ I said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Ivarr will die,’ I said, ‘and that will be the end of it.’ I touched Serpent-Breath’s hilt for luck and felt the slightly raised edges of Hild’s cross. ‘He will die,’ I said, still touching the cross, ‘and Guthred will rule, and he will do what you tell him to do.’

  ‘You want me to tell him to attack Ælfric?’ he asked.

  I thought about it. ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Bebbanburg’s too strong,’ I said, ‘and there’s no back gate as there was at Dunholm. Besides, I want to kill Ælfric myself.’

  ‘Will Alfred let you do that?’

  ‘He will,’ I said, though in truth I doubted Alfred ever would allow me such a luxury, but I was certain that my fate was to go back to Bebbanburg and I had faith in that destiny. I turned and stared at the village. ‘All quiet there?’

  ‘All quiet,’ he said. ‘They’ve given up praying and are sleeping instead. You should sleep too.’

  I walked back up the street, but before joining Gisela I quietly opened the church door and saw priests and monks sleeping in the small light of the few candles guttering on the altar. One of them snored and I closed the door as silently as I had opened it.

  I was woken in the dawn by Sihtric who banged on the door lintel. ‘They’re here, lord!’ he shouted. ‘They’re here!’

  ‘Who’s here?’

  ‘Ivarr’s men, lord.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Horsemen, lord, across the river!’

  There were only a hundred or so riders, and they made no attempt to cross the ford and I guessed they had only been sent to the Swale’s northern bank to cut off our escape. Ivarr’s main force would appear to the south, though that prospect was not the chief excitement in that misted dawn. Men were shouting in the village. ‘What is it?’ I asked Sihtric.

  ‘Christians are upset, lord,’ he said.

  I walked to the church to discover that the golden reliquary of Saint Augustine’s beard, the precious gift from Alfred to Guthred, had been stolen. It had been on the altar with the other relics, but during the night it had vanished, and Father Hrothweard was wailing beside a hole scratched and torn into the wall of wattle and daub behind the altar. Guthred was there, listening to Abbot Eadred who was declaring the theft a sign of God’s disapproval.

  ‘Disapproval of what?’ Guthred asked.

  ‘The pagans, of course,’ Eadred spat.

  Father Hrothweard was rocking back and forth, wringing his hands and shouting at his god to bring vengeance on the heathens who had desecrated the church and stolen the holy treasure. ‘Reveal the culprits, lord!’ he shouted, then he saw me and evidently decided the revelation had come, for he pointed at me. ‘It was him!’ he spat.

  ‘Was it you?’ Guthred asked.

  ‘No, lord,’ I said.

  ‘It was him!’ Hrothweard said again.

  ‘You must search all the pagans,’ Eadred told Guthred, ‘for if the relic isn’t found, lord, then our defeat is certain. Ivarr will crush us for this sin. It will be God’s chastisement on us.’

  It seemed a strange punishment, to allow a pagan Dane to defeat a Christian king because a relic had been stolen, but as a prophecy it seemed safe enough, for in the mid-morning, while the church was still being searched in a vain attempt to find the reliquary, one of Ragnar’s men brought word that Ivarr’s army had appeared. They were marching from the south and already forming their shield wall a half-mile from Ragnar’s small force.

  It was time, then, for us to go. Guthred and I were already in mail, our horses were saddled, and all we needed to do was ride south to join Ragnar’s shield wall, but Guthred had been unnerved by the loss of the relic. As we left the church he took me aside. ‘Will you ask Ragnar if he took it?’ he begged me. ‘Or ask if perhaps one of his men did?’

  ‘Ragnar didn’t take it,’ I said scornfully. ‘If you want to find the culprit,’ I went on, ‘search them.’ I pointed to Aidan and his horsemen who, now that Ivarr was close, were eager to start on their journey north, though they dared not leave so long as Ivarr’s men barred the ford across the Swale. Guthred had asked them to join our shield wall, but they had refused, and now they waited for a chance to escape.

  ‘No Christian would steal the relic!’ Hrothweard shouted. ‘It’s a pagan crime!’

  Guthred was terrified. He still believed in Christian magic and he saw the theft as an omen of disaster. He plainly did not suspect Aidan, but then he did not know who to suspect and so I made it easy for him.

  I summoned Finan and Sihtric who were waiting to accompany me to the shield wall. ‘This man,’ I told Guthred, pointing at Finan, ‘is a Christian. Aren’t you a Christian, Finan?’

  ‘I am, lord.’

  ‘And he’s Irish,’ I said, ‘and everyone knows the Irish have the power of scrying.’ Finan, who had no more powers of scrying than I did, tried to look mysterious. ‘He will find your relic,’ I promised.

  ‘You will?’ Guthred asked Finan eagerly.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Finan said confidently.

  ‘Do it, Finan,’ I said, ‘while I kill Ivarr. And bring the culprit to us as soon as you find him.’

  ‘I will, lord,’ he said.

  A servant brought my horse. ‘Can your Irishman really find it?’ Guthred asked me.

  ‘I will give the church all my silver, lord,’ I said loudly enough for a dozen men to hear, ‘and I will give it my mail, my helmet, my arm rings and my swords, if Finan does not bring you both the relic and the thief. He’s Irish and the Irish have strange powers.’ I looked at Hrothweard. ‘You hear that, priest? I promise all my wealth to your church if Finan does not find the thief!’

  Hrothweard had nothing to say to that. He glared at me, but my promise had been made publicly and it was testimony to my innocence, so he contented himself by spitting at my horse’s feet. Gisela, who had come to take the stallion’s reins, had to skip aside to avoid the spittle. She touched my arm as I straightened the stirrup. ‘Can Finan find it?’ she asked in a low voice.

  ‘He can find it,’ I promis
ed her.

  ‘Because he has strange powers?’

  ‘Because he stole it, my love,’ I said quietly, ‘on my orders. It’s probably hidden in a dung-heap.’ I grinned at her, and she laughed softly.

  I put my foot in the stirrup and readied to heave myself up, but again Gisela checked me. ‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘Men fear to fight Ivarr,’ she warned me.

  ‘He’s a Lothbrok,’ I said, ‘and all Lothbroks fight well. They love it. But they fight like mad dogs, all fury and savagery, and in the end they die like mad dogs.’ I mounted the stallion, settled my right foot in its stirrup, then took my helmet and shield from Gisela. I touched her hand for farewell, then pulled the reins and followed Guthred south.

  We rode to join the shield wall. It was a short wall, easily outflanked by the much larger wall that Ivarr was forming to the south. His wall was over twice as long as ours which meant his men could wrap themselves about our line and kill us from the edges inwards. If it came to battle we would be slaughtered, and Ivarr’s men knew it. Their shield wall was bright with spears and axe-heads, and noisy with anticipation of victory. They were beating their weapons against their shields, making a dull drumbeat that filled the Swale’s wide valley, and the drumbeat rose to a great clattering thunder when Ivarr’s standard of the two ravens was lifted in the centre of their line. Beneath the banner was a knot of horsemen who now broke free of the shield wall to ride towards us. Ivarr was among them, as was his rat-like son.

  Guthred, Steapa, Ragnar and I rode a few paces towards Ivarr and then waited. Ten men were in the approaching party, but it was Ivarr I watched. He was mounted on Witnere, which I had hoped he would be, for that gave me cause to quarrel with him, but I hung back, letting Guthred take his horse a few steps forward. Ivarr was staring at us one by one. He looked momentarily surprised to see me, but said nothing, and he seemed irritated when he saw Ragnar and he was duly impressed by Steapa’s huge size, but he ignored the three of us, nodding instead at Guthred. ‘Worm-shit,’ he greeted the king.

  ‘Lord Ivarr,’ Guthred replied.

  ‘I am in a strangely merciful mood,’ Ivarr said. ‘If you ride away, then I shall spare your men’s lives.’