The Warrior Chronicles

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘I shall be sitting soon, dearest.’

  ‘A stool, I think, or a chair. And are you sure you don’t need a cloak? It would really be no trouble to fetch one!’

  Gisela looked at me and smiled, but Beocca and Thyra were oblivious of us as they fussed over each other. Then Gisela gave the smallest jerk of her head and I looked to see that a young monk was standing nearby and staring at me. He had obviously been waiting to catch my eye, and he was just as obviously nervous. He was thin, not very tall, brown haired and had a pale face that looked remarkably like Alfred’s. There was the same drawn and anxious look, the same serious eyes and thin mouth, and evidently the same piety judging by the monk’s robe. He was a novice, because his hair was untonsured, and he dropped to one knee when I looked at him. ‘Lord Uhtred,’ he said humbly.

  ‘Osferth!’ Beocca said, becoming aware of the young monk’s presence. ‘You should be at your studies! The wedding is over and novices are not invited to the feast.’

  Osferth ignored Beocca. Instead, with his head bowed, he spoke to me. ‘You knew my uncle, lord.’

  ‘I did?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘I have known many men,’ I said, preparing him for the refusal I was sure I would offer to whatever he requested of me.

  ‘Leofric, lord.’

  And my suspicion and hostility vanished at the mention of that name. Leofric. I even smiled. ‘I knew him,’ I said warmly, ‘and I loved him.’ Leofric had been a tough West Saxon warrior who had taught me about war. Earsling, he used to call me, meaning something dropped from an arse, and he toughened me, bullied me, snarled at me, beat me and became my friend and remained my friend until the day he died on the rain-swept battlefield at Ethandun.

  ‘My mother is his sister, lord,’ Osferth said.

  ‘To your studies, young man!’ Beocca said sternly.

  I put a hand on Beocca’s palsied arm to hold him back. ‘Your mother’s name?’ I asked Osferth.

  ‘Eadgyth, lord.’

  I leaned down and tipped Osferth’s face up. No wonder he looked like Alfred, for this was Alfred’s bastard son who had been whelped on a palace servant-girl. No one ever admitted that Alfred was the boy’s father, though it was an open secret. Before Alfred found God he had discovered the joys of palace maids, and Osferth was the product of that youthful exuberance. ‘Does Eadgyth live?’ I asked him.

  ‘No, lord. She died of the fever two years ago.’

  ‘And what are you doing here, in Wintanceaster?’

  ‘He is studying for the church,’ Beocca snapped, ‘because his calling is to be a monk.’

  ‘I would serve you, lord,’ Osferth said anxiously, staring up into my face.

  ‘Go!’ Beocca tried to shoo the young man away. ‘Go! Go away! Back to your studies, or I shall have the novice-master whip you!’

  ‘Have you ever held a sword?’ I asked Osferth.

  ‘The one my uncle gave me, lord, I have it.’

  ‘But you’ve not fought with it?’

  ‘No, lord,’ he said, and still he looked up at me, so anxious and frightened, and with a face so like his father’s face.

  ‘We are studying the life of Saint Cedd,’ Beocca said to Osferth, ‘and I expect you to have copied the first ten pages by sundown.’

  ‘Do you want to be a monk?’ I asked Osferth.

  ‘No, lord,’ he said.

  ‘Then what?’ I asked, ignoring Father Beocca who was spluttering protests, but unable to advance past my sword arm that held him back.

  ‘I would follow my uncle’s steps, lord,’ Osferth said.

  I almost laughed. Leofric had been as hard a warrior as ever lived and died, while Osferth was a puny, pale youth, but I managed to keep a straight face. ‘Finan!’ I shouted.

  The Irishman appeared at my side. ‘Lord?’

  ‘This young man is joining my household troops,’ I said, handing Finan some coins.

  ‘You can’t …’ Beocca began protesting, then went silent when both Finan and I stared at him.

  ‘Take Osferth away,’ I told Finan, ‘find him clothes fit for a man, and get him weapons.’

  Finan looked dubiously at Osferth. ‘Weapons?’ he asked.

  ‘He has the blood of warriors,’ I said, ‘so now we will teach him to fight.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Finan said, his tone suggesting he thought I was mad, but then he looked at the coins I had given him and saw a chance of profit. He grinned. ‘We’ll make him a warrior yet, lord,’ he said, doubtless believing he lied, then he led Osferth away.

  Beocca rounded on me. ‘Do you know what you’ve just done?’ he spluttered.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘You know who that boy is?’

  ‘He’s the king’s bastard,’ I said brutally, ‘and I’ve just done Alfred a favour.’

  ‘You have?’ Beocca asked, still bristling, ‘and what kind of favour, pray?’

  ‘How long do you think he’ll last,’ I asked, ‘when I put him in the shield wall? How long before a Danish blade slits him like a wet herring? That, father, is the favour. I’ve just rid your pious king of his inconvenient bastard.’

  We went to the feast.

  The wedding feast was as ghastly as I expected. Alfred’s food was never good, rarely plentiful and his ale was always weak. Speeches were made, though I heard none, and harpists sang, though I could not hear them. I talked with friends, scowled at various priests who disliked my hammer amulet, and climbed the dais to the top table to give Æthelflaed a chaste kiss. She was all happiness. ‘I’m the luckiest girl in all the world,’ she told me.

  ‘You’re a woman now,’ I said, smiling at her upswept woman’s hair.

  She bit her lower lip, looked shy, then grinned mischievously as Gisela approached. They embraced, golden hair against the dark, and Ælswith, Alfred’s sour wife, glowered at me. I bowed low. ‘A happy day, my lady,’ I said.

  Ælswith ignored that. She was sitting beside my cousin, who gestured at me with a pork rib. ‘You and I have business to discuss,’ he said.

  ‘We do,’ I said.

  ‘We do, lord,’ Ælswith corrected me sharply. ‘Lord Æthelred is the Ealdorman of Mercia.’

  ‘And I’m the Lord of Bebbanburg,’ I said with an asperity that matched hers. ‘How are you, cousin?’

  ‘In the morning,’ Æthelred said, ‘I shall tell you our plans.’

  ‘I was told,’ I said, ignoring the truth that Alfred had asked me to devise the plans for the capture of Lundene, ‘that we were to meet the king tonight?’

  ‘I have other matters for my attention tonight,’ Æthelred said, looking at his young bride, and for an eyeblink his expression was feral, almost savage, then he offered me a smile. ‘In the morning, after prayers.’ He waved the pork rib again, dismissing me.

  Gisela and I lay in the principal chamber of the Two Cranes tavern that night. We lay close, my arm around her, and we said little. Smoke from the tavern hearth sifted up through the loose floorboards and men were singing beneath us. Our children slept across the room with Stiorra’s nurse, while mice rustled in the thatch above. ‘About now, I suppose,’ Gisela said wistfully, breaking our silence.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Poor little Æthelflaed is becoming a woman,’ she said.

  ‘She can’t wait for that to happen,’ I said.

  Gisela shook her head. ‘He’ll rape her like a boar,’ she said, whispering the words. I said nothing. Gisela put her head on my chest so that her hair was across my mouth. ‘Love should be tender,’ she went on.

  ‘It is tender,’ I said.

  ‘With you, yes,’ she said, and for a moment I thought she was crying.

  I stroked her hair. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I like her, that is all.’

  ‘Æthelflaed?’

  ‘She has spirit and he has none.’ She tilted her face to look at me and in the darkness I could just see the glint of her eyes. ‘You never told me,’ she said reprovingly, ‘that the Two Cranes is a brothel.’
/>   ‘There are not many beds in Wintanceaster,’ I said, ‘and not nearly enough for all the invited guests, so we were very lucky to find this room.’

  ‘And they know you very well here, Uhtred,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘It’s a tavern as well,’ I said defensively.

  She laughed, then reached out a long thin arm and pushed a shutter open to find the heavens were bright with stars.

  The sky was still clear next morning when I went to the palace, surrendered my two swords and was ushered by a young and very serious priest to Alfred’s room. I had met him so often in that small, bare chamber that was cluttered with parchments. He was waiting there, dressed in the brown robe that made him look like a monk, and with him was Æthelred who wore his swords because, as Ealdorman of Mercia, he had been granted that privilege within the palace. A third man was in the room, Asser the Welsh monk, who glared at me with undisguised loathing. He was a slight, short man with a very pale face that was scrupulously clean-shaven. He had good cause to hate me. I had met him in Cornwalum where I had led a slaughter of the kingdom where he was an emissary and I had tried to kill Asser too, a failure I have regretted all my life. He scowled at me and I rewarded him with a cheerful grin that I knew would annoy him.

  Alfred did not look up from his work, but gestured at me with his quill. The gesture was evidently a welcome. He was standing at the upright desk he used for writing and for a moment all I could hear was the quill spluttering scratchily on the skin. Æthelred smirked, looking pleased with himself, but then he always did.

  ‘De consolatione philosophiae,’ Alfred said without looking up from his work.

  ‘Feels as if rain is coming, though,’ I said, ‘there’s a haze in the west, lord, and the wind is brisk.’

  He gave me an exasperated look. ‘What is preferable,’ he asked, ‘and sweeter in this life than to serve and to be near to the king?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Æthelred said enthusiastically.

  I made no answer because I was so astonished. Alfred liked the formalities of good manners, but he rarely wanted obsequiousness, yet the question suggested that he wished me to express some doltish adoration of him. Alfred saw my surprise and sighed. ‘It is a question,’ he explained, ‘posed in the work I am copying.’

  ‘I look forward to reading it,’ Æthelred said. Asser said nothing, just watched me with his dark Welsh eyes. He was a clever man, and about as trustworthy as a spavined weasel.

  Alfred laid down the quill. ‘The king, in this context, Lord Uhtred, might be thought of as the representative of Almighty God, and the question suggests, does it not, the comfort to be gained from a nearness to God? Yet I fear you find no consolation in either philosophy or religion.’ He shook his head, then tried to wipe the ink from his hands with a damp cloth.

  ‘He had better find consolation from God, lord King,’ Asser spoke for the first time, ‘if his soul is not to burn in the eternal fire.’

  ‘Amen,’ Æthelred said.

  Alfred looked ruefully at his hands that were now smeared with ink. ‘Lundene,’ he said, curtly changing the subject.

  ‘Garrisoned by brigands,’ I said, ‘who are killing trade.’

  ‘That much I know,’ he said icily. ‘The man Sigefrid.’

  ‘One-thumbed Sigefrid,’ I said, ‘thanks to Father Pyrlig.’

  ‘That I also know,’ the king said, ‘but I would dearly like to know what you were doing in Sigefrid’s company?’

  ‘Spying on them, lord,’ I said brightly, ‘just as you spied on Guthrum so many years ago.’ I referred to a winter night when, like a fool, Alfred had disguised himself as a musician and gone to Cippanhamm when it was occupied by Guthrum in the days when he was an enemy of Wessex. Alfred’s bravery had gone badly wrong, and if I had not been there then I dare say Guthrum would have become King of Wessex. I smiled at Alfred, and he knew I was reminding him that I had saved his life, but instead of showing gratitude he just looked disgusted.

  ‘It is not what we heard,’ Brother Asser went onto the attack.

  ‘And what did you hear, brother?’ I asked him.

  He held up one long slender finger. ‘That you arrived in Lundene with the pirate Haesten,’ a second finger joined the first, ‘that you were welcomed by Sigefrid and his brother, Erik,’ he paused, his dark eyes malevolent, and raised a third finger, ‘and that the pagans addressed you as King of Mercia.’ He folded the three fingers slowly, as though his accusations were irrefutable.

  I shook my head in feigned wonderment. ‘I have known Haesten since I saved his life many years ago,’ I said, ‘and I used the acquaintance to be invited into Lundene. And whose fault is it if Sigefrid gives me a title I neither want nor possess?’ Asser did not answer, Æthelred stirred behind me while Alfred just stared at me. ‘If you don’t believe me,’ I said, ‘ask Father Pyrlig.’

  ‘He has been sent back to East Anglia,’ Asser said brusquely, ‘to continue his mission. But we will ask him. You may be sure of that.’

  ‘I already have asked,’ Alfred said, making a calming gesture towards Asser, ‘and Father Pyrlig vouched for you,’ he added those last words cautiously.

  ‘And why,’ I asked, ‘has Guthrum not taken revenge for the insults to his envoys?’

  ‘King Æthelstan,’ Alfred said, using Guthrum’s Christian name, ‘has abandoned any claims to Lundene. It belongs to Mercia. His troops will not trespass there. But I have promised to send him Sigefrid and Erik as captives. That is your job.’ I nodded, but said nothing. ‘So tell me how you plan to capture Lundene?’ Alfred demanded.

  I paused. ‘You attempted to ransom the city, lord?’ I asked.

  Alfred looked irritated at the question, then nodded abruptly. ‘I offered silver,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Offer more,’ I suggested.

  He gave me a very sour look. ‘More?’

  ‘The city will be difficult to take, lord,’ I said. ‘Sigefrid and Erik have hundreds of men. Haesten will join them as soon as he hears that we have marched. We would have to assault stone walls, lord, and men die like flies in such attacks.’

  Æthelred again stirred behind me. I knew he wanted to dismiss my fears as cowardice, but he had just enough sense to keep silent.

  Alfred shook his head. ‘I offered them silver,’ he said bitterly, ‘more silver than a man can dream of. I offered them gold. They said they would take half of what I offered if I added one more thing.’ He looked at me belligerently. I gave a small shrug as if to suggest that he had rejected a bargain. ‘They wanted Æthelflaed,’ he said.

  ‘They can have my sword instead,’ Æthelred said belligerently.

  ‘They wanted your daughter?’ I asked, amazed.

  ‘They asked,’ Alfred said, ‘because they knew I would not grant their request, and because they wished to insult me.’ He shrugged, as if to suggest that the insult was as feeble as it was puerile. ‘So if the Thurgilson brothers are to be thrown out of Lundene, then you must do it. Tell me how.’

  I pretended to gather my thoughts. ‘Sigefrid does not have sufficient men to guard the whole circuit of the city walls,’ I said, ‘so we send a large attack against the western gate, and then launch the real assault from the north.’

  Alfred frowned and sifted through the parchments piled on the windowsill. He found the page he wanted and peered at the writing. ‘The old city, as I understand it,’ he said, ‘has six gates. To which do you refer?’

  ‘In the west,’ I said, ‘the gate nearest the river. The local folk call it Ludd’s Gate.’

  ‘And on the northern side?’

  ‘There are two gates,’ I said, ‘one leads directly into the old Roman fort, the other goes to the market place.’

  ‘The forum,’ Alfred corrected me.

  ‘We take the one that leads to the market,’ I said.

  ‘Not the fort?’

  ‘The fort is part of the walls,’ I explained, ‘so capture that gate and we still have to cross the fort’s southern wall. But captur
e the market place and our men have cut off Sigefrid’s retreat.’

  I was talking nonsense for a reason, though it was plausible nonsense. Launching an attack from the new Saxon town across the River Fleot onto the old city’s walls would draw defenders to Ludd’s Gate, and if a smaller, better-trained force could then attack from the north they might find those walls lightly guarded. Once inside the city that second force could assault Sigefrid’s men from the rear and open Ludd’s Gate to let in the rest of the army. It was, in truth, the obvious way to assault the city, indeed it was so obvious that I was sure Sigefrid would be guarding against it.

  Alfred pondered the idea.

  Æthelred said nothing. He was waiting for his father-in-law’s opinion.

  ‘The river,’ Alfred said in a hesitant tone, then shook his head as though his thought was leading nowhere.

  ‘The river, lord?’

  ‘An approach by ship?’ Alfred suggested, still hesitant.

  I let the idea hang, and it was like dangling a piece of gristle in front of an unschooled puppy.

  And the puppy duly pounced. ‘An assault by ship is frankly a better idea,’ Æthelred said confidently. ‘Four or five ships? Travelling with the current? We can land on the wharves and attack the walls from behind.’

  ‘An attack by land will be hazardous,’ Alfred said dubiously, though the question suggested he was supporting his son-in-law’s ideas.

  ‘And probably doomed,’ Æthelred contributed confidently. He was not trying to hide his scorn of my plan.

  ‘You considered a shipborne assault?’ Alfred asked me.

  ‘I did, lord.’

  ‘It seems a very good idea to me!’ Æthelred said firmly.

  So now I gave the puppy the whipping it deserved. ‘There’s a river wall, lord,’ I said. ‘We can land on the wharves, but we still have a wall to cross.’ The wall was built just behind the wharves. It was another piece of Roman work, all masonry, brick and studded with circular bastions.

  ‘Ah,’ Alfred said.

  ‘But of course, lord, if my cousin wishes to lead an attack on the river wall?’

  Æthelred was silent.