‘Aldhelm leads the Mercian troops?’
Æthelflæd nodded. I knew Aldhelm. He was my cousin’s favourite and a man of unbounded ambition, sly and clever. ‘I hope your husband ordered Aldhelm to Fearnhamme,’ I said.
‘He did,’ Æthelflæd said, then lowered and quickened her voice, ‘but he also sent word that Aldhelm was to withdraw north if he thought the enemy too strong.’
I had half suspected that would happen. ‘So Aldhelm is to preserve Mercia’s army?’
‘How else can my husband take Wessex when my father dies?’ Æthelflæd asked in a voice of silken innocence. I glanced down at her, but she just gazed at the fires of Godelmingum.
‘Will Aldhelm fight?’ I asked her.
‘Not if it means weakening Mercia’s army,’ she said.
‘Then tomorrow I shall have to persuade Aldhelm to his duty.’
‘But you have no authority over him,’ Æthelflæd said.
I patted Serpent-Breath’s hilt. ‘I have this.’
‘And he has five hundred men,’ Æthelflæd said. ‘But there is one person he will obey.’
‘You?’
‘So tomorrow I ride with you,’ she said.
‘Your husband will forbid it,’ I answered.
‘Of course he will,’ she said calmly, ‘but my husband won’t know. And you will do me a service, Lord Uhtred.’
‘I am ever at your service, my lady,’ I said, too lightly.
‘Are you?’ she asked, turning to look up into my eyes.
I looked at her sad lovely face, and knew her question was serious. ‘Yes, my lady,’ I said gently.
‘Then tomorrow,’ she said bitterly, ‘kill them all. Kill all the Danes. Do that for me, Lord Uhtred,’ she touched my hand with the tips of her fingers, ‘kill them all.’
She had loved a Dane and she had lost him to a blade, and now she would kill them all.
There are three spinners at the root of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, and they weave our threads, and those spinners had made a skein of purest gold for Æthelflæd’s life, but in those years they wove that bright thread into a much darker cloth. The three spinners see our future. The gift of the gods to humankind is that we cannot see where the threads will go.
I heard songs from the Danes camped across the river.
And tomorrow I would draw them to the old hill by the river. And there kill them.
Next day was a Thursday, Thor’s Day, which I took as a good omen. Alfred had once proposed renaming the days of the week, suggesting the Thursday became Maryday, or perhaps it was Haligastday, but the idea had faded like dew under the summer sun. In Christian Wessex, whether its king liked it or not, Tyr, Odin, Thor and Frigg were still remembered each week.
And on that Thor’s Day I was taking two hundred warriors to Fearnhamme, though more than six hundred horsemen gathered in the burh’s long street before the sun rose. There was the usual chaos. Stirrup leathers broke and men tried to find replacements, children darted between the big horses, swords were given a last sharpening, the smoke of cooking fires drifted between the houses like fog, the church bell clanged, monks chanted, and I stood on the ramparts and watched the river’s far bank.
The Danes who had crossed to our bank the previous day had gone back before nightfall. I could see smoke from their fires rising among the trees, but the only visible enemy was a pair of sentries crouching at the river’s edge. For a moment I was tempted to abandon everything I had planned and instead lead the six hundred men across the river and let them rampage through Harald’s camp, but it was only a fleeting temptation. I assumed most of his men were in Godelmingum, and they would be well awake by the time we reached them. A swirling battle might result, but the Danes would inevitably realise their advantage in numbers and grind us to bloody shreds. I wanted to keep my promise to Æthelflæd. I wanted to kill them all.
I made my first move when the sun rose, and I made it loudly. Horns were sounded inside Æscengum, then the northern gate was dragged open, and four hundred horsemen streamed into the fields beyond. The first riders gathered at the river bank, in clear view of the Danes, and waited while the rest of the men filed through the gate. Once all four hundred were gathered they turned west and spurred away through the trees towards the road which would eventually lead to Wintanceaster. I was still on the ramparts from where I watched the Danes gather to stare at the commotion on our bank, and I did not doubt that messengers were galloping to find Harald and inform him that the Saxon army was retreating.
Except we were not retreating because, once among the trees, the four hundred men doubled back and re-entered Æscengum by the western gate, which was out of the enemy’s sight. It was then that I went down to the main street and hauled myself into Smoka’s saddle. I was dressed for war in mail, gold and steel. Alfred appeared at the church door, his eyes half closing against the sudden sunlight as he came from the holy gloom. He returned my greeting with a nod, but said nothing. Æthelred, my cousin, was noisier, demanding to know where his wife was. I heard a servant report that Æthelflæd was at prayer in the nunnery, and that seemed to satisfy Æthelred, who assured me loudly that his Mercian troops would be waiting at Fearnhamme. ‘Aldhelm’s a good man,’ he said, ‘he likes a fight.’
‘I’m glad of it,’ I said, pretending friendship with my cousin, just as Æthelred was pretending that Aldhelm had not been given secret instructions to retreat northwards if he took fright at the numbers opposing him. I even held my hand down from Smoka’s high saddle, ‘we shall win a great victory, Lord Æthelred,’ I said loudly.
Æthelred seemed momentarily astonished by my apparent affability, but clasped my hand anyway. ‘With God’s help, cousin,’ he said, ‘with God’s help.’
‘I pray for that,’ I answered. The king gave me a suspicious look, but I just smiled cheerfully. ‘Bring the troops when you think best,’ I called to Alfred’s son, Edward, ‘and always take Lord Æthelred’s advice.’
Edward looked to his father for some guidance on what he should reply, but received none. He nodded nervously. ‘I shall, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘and God go with you!’
God might go with me, but Æthelred would not. He had chosen to ride with the West Saxon troops who would follow the Danes, and thus be part of the hammer that would shatter Harald’s forces on the anvil of his Mercian warriors. I had half feared he would come with me, but it made sense for Æthelred to stay with his father-in-law. That way, if Aldhelm chose to retreat, Æthelred could not be blamed. I suspected there was another reason. When Alfred died, Edward would be named king unless the witan wanted an older and more experienced man, and Æthelred doubtless believed he would gain more renown by fighting with the West Saxons this day.
I pulled on my wolf-crested helmet and nudged Smoka towards Steapa who, grim in mail and hung with weapons, waited beside a smithy. Charcoal smoke sifted from the door. I leaned down and slapped my friend’s helmet. ‘You know what to do?’ I asked.
‘Tell me one more time,’ he growled, ‘and I’ll rip your liver out and cook it.’
I grinned. ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ I said. I was pretending that Edward commanded the West Saxons, and that Æthelred was his chief adviser, but in truth I trusted Steapa to make the day go as I had planned. I wanted Steapa to choose the moment when the seven hundred warriors left Æscengum to pursue Harald’s men. If they left too soon Harald could turn and cut them to ribbons, while leaving too late would mean my seven hundred troops would be slaughtered at Fearnhamme. ‘We’re going to make a famous victory this day,’ I told Steapa.
‘If God wills it, lord,’ he said.
‘If you and I will it,’ I said happily, then leaned down and took my heavy linden shield from a servant. I hung the shield on my back, then spurred Smoka to the northern gate where Alfred’s gaudy wagon waited behind a team of six horses. We had harnessed horses to the cumbersome cart because they were faster than oxen. Osferth, looking miserable, was the wagon’s only passenger. He was dressed in a br
ight blue cloak and wearing a circlet of bronze on his head. The Danes did not know that Alfred eschewed most symbols of kingship. They expected a king to wear a crown and so I had ordered Osferth to wear the polished bauble. I had also persuaded Abbot Oslac to give me two of his monastery’s less valuable reliquaries. One, a silver box moulded with pictures of saints and studded with stones of jet and amber, had held the toe bones of Saint Cedd, but now contained some pebbles which would puzzle the Danes if, as I hoped, they captured the wagon. The second reliquary, also of silver, had a pigeon feather inside, because Alfred famously travelled nowhere without the feather that had been plucked from the dove Noah had released from the ark. Besides the reliquaries we had also put an iron-bound wooden chest in the wagon. The chest was half filled with silver and we would probably lose it, but I expected to gain far more. Abbot Oslac, wearing a mail coat beneath his monkish robes, had insisted on accompanying my two hundred men. A shield hung at his left side and a monstrous war axe was strapped to his broad back. ‘That looks well used,’ I greeted him, noting the nicks in the axe’s wide blade.
‘It’s sent many a pagan to hell, Lord Uhtred,’ he answered happily.
I grinned and spurred to the gate where Father Beocca, my old and stern friend, waited to bless us. ‘God go with you,’ he said as I reached him.
I smiled down at him. He was lame, white-haired, cross-eyed and club-footed. He was also one of the best men I knew, though he mightily disapproved of me. ‘Pray for me, father,’ I said.
‘I never cease,’ Beocca said.
‘And don’t let Edward lead the men out too soon! Trust Steapa! He might be dumb as a parsnip, but he knows how to fight.’
‘I shall pray that God gives them both good judgement,’ my old friend said. He reached up his good hand to clutch my gloved hand. ‘How is Gisela?’
‘Maybe a mother again. And Thyra?’
His face lit up like tinder catching flame. This ugly, crippled man who was mocked by children in the street had married a Dane of startling beauty. ‘God keeps her in his loving hand,’ he told me. ‘She is a pearl of great price!’
‘So are you, father,’ I said, then ruffled his white hair to annoy him.
Finan spurred beside me. ‘We’re ready, lord.’
‘Open the gate!’ I shouted.
The wagon was first through the wide arch. Its holy banners swayed alarmingly as it lurched onto the rutted track, then my two hundred men, bright in mail, rode after it and turned westwards. We flew standards, braying horns announced our departure and the sun shone on the royal wagon. We were the lure, and the Danes had seen us. And so the hunt began.
The wagon led the way, lumbering along a farm track that would lead us to the Wintanceaster road. A shrewd Dane might well wonder why, if we wanted to retreat to the larger burh at Wintanceaster, we would use Æscengum’s northern gate instead of the western, which led directly onto the road, but I somehow doubted those worries would reach Harald. Instead he would hear that the King of Wessex was running away, leaving Æscengum to be protected by its garrison that was drawn from the fyrd. The men of the fyrd were rarely trained warriors. They were farmers and labourers, carpenters and thatchers, and Harald would undoubtedly be tempted to assault their wall, but I did not believe he would yield to the temptation, not while a much greater prize, Alfred himself, was apparently vulnerable. The Danish scouts would be telling Harald that the King of Wessex was in the open country, travelling in a slow wagon protected by a mere couple of hundred horsemen, and Harald’s army, I was certain, would be ordered to the pursuit.
Finan commanded my rearguard, his job to tell me when the enemy pursuit got too close. I stayed near the wagon and, just as we reached the Wintanceaster road a half-mile west of Æscengum, a slender rider spurred alongside me. It was Æthelflæd, clad in a long mail coat that appeared to be made from silver rings close-linked over a deerskin tunic. The mail coat fitted her tightly, clinging to her thin body, and I guessed that it was fastened at the back with loops and buttons because no one could pull such a tight coat over their head and shoulders. Over the mail she wore a white cloak, lined with red, and she had a white-scabbarded sword at her side. A battered old helmet with face-plates hung from her saddle’s pommel and she had doubtless used the helmet to hide her face before we left Æscengum, though she had also taken the precaution of covering her distinctive cloak and armour with an old black cape that she tossed into the ditch as she joined me. She grinned, looking as happy as she had once looked before her marriage, then nodded towards the lumbering wagon. ‘Is that my half-brother?’
‘Yes. You’ve seen him before.’
‘Not often. Doesn’t he look like his father!’
‘He does,’ I said, ‘and you don’t, for which I’m grateful.’ That made her laugh. ‘Where did you get the mail?’ I asked.
‘Æthelred likes me to wear it,’ she said. ‘He had it made for me in Frankia.’
‘Silver links?’ I asked. ‘I could pierce those with a twig!’
‘I don’t think my husband wants me to fight,’ she said drily, ‘he just wants to display me.’ And that, I thought, was understandable. Æthelflæd had grown to be a lovely woman, at least when her beauty was not clouded by unhappiness. She was clear-eyed and clear-skinned, with full lips and golden hair. She was clever, like her father, and a good deal cleverer than her husband, but she had been married for one reason only, to bind the Mercian lands to Alfred’s Wessex, and in that sense, if in no other, the marriage had been a success.
‘Tell me about Aldhelm,’ I said.
‘You already know about him,’ she retorted.
‘I know he doesn’t like me,’ I said happily.
‘Who does?’ she asked, grinning. She slowed her horse, that was getting too close to the crawling wagon. She wore gloves of soft kid leather over which six bright rings glittered with gold and rare stones. ‘Aldhelm,’ she said softly, ‘advises my husband, and he has persuaded Æthelred of two things. The first is that Mercia needs a king.’
‘Your father won’t allow it,’ I said. Alfred preferred Mercia look to Wessex for its kingly authority.
‘My father will not live for ever,’ she said, ‘and Aldhelm has also persuaded my husband that a king needs an heir.’ She saw my grimace and laughed. ‘Not me! Ælfwynn was enough!’ She shuddered. ‘I have never known such pain. Besides, my dear husband resents Wessex. He resents his dependency. He hates the hand that feeds him. No, he would like an heir from some nice Mercian girl.’
‘You mean. …’
‘He won’t kill me,’ she interrupted blithely, ‘but he would love to divorce me.’
‘Your father would never allow that!’
‘He would if I was taken in adultery,’ she said in a remarkably flat tone. I stared at her, not quite believing what she told me. She saw my incredulity and mocked it with a smile. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you did ask me about Aldhelm.’
‘Æthelred wants you to. …’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘then he can condemn me to a nunnery and forget I ever existed.’
‘And Aldhelm encourages this idea?’
‘Oh, he does, he does,’ she smiled as if my question was silly. ‘Luckily I have West Saxon attendants who protect me, but after my father dies?’ she shrugged.
‘Have you told your father?’
‘He’s been told,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think he believes it. He does, of course, believe in faith and prayer, so he sent me a comb that once belonged to Saint Milburga and he says it will strengthen me.’
‘Why doesn’t he believe you?’
‘He thinks I am prone to bad dreams. He also finds Æthelred very loyal. And my mother, of course, adores Æthelred.’
‘She would,’ I said gloomily. Alfred’s wife, Ælswith, was a sour creature and, like Æthelred, a Mercian. ‘You could try poison,’ I suggested. ‘I know a woman in Lundene who brews some vicious potions.’
‘Uhtred!’ she chided me, but before she could say more, one of
Finan’s men came galloping from the rearguard, his horse throwing up clods of earth torn from the meadow beside the road.
‘Lord!’ he shouted, ‘time to hurry!’
‘Osferth!’ I called, and our pretend king happily jumped from his father’s wagon and hauled himself into the saddle of a horse. He threw the bronze circlet back into the wagon and pulled on a helmet.
‘Dump it,’ I shouted to the wagon’s driver. ‘Take it into the ditch!’
He managed to get two wheels in the ditch and we left the heavy vehicle there, canted over, the frightened horses still in their harness. Finan and our rearguard came pounding up the road and we spurred ahead of them into a stretch of woodland where I waited until Finan caught up, and just as he did so the first of the pursuing Danes came into sight. They were pushing their horses hard, but I reckoned the abandoned wagon with its tawdry treasures would delay them a few moments and, sure enough, the leading pursuers milled about the vehicle as we turned away.
‘It’s a horse race,’ Finan told me.
‘And our horses are faster,’ I said, which was probably true. The Danes were mounted on whatever animals their raiding parties had succeeded in capturing, while we were riding some of Wessex’s best stallions. I snatched a last glance as dismounted enemies swarmed over the wagon, then plunged deeper into the trees. ‘How many of them are there?’ I shouted at Finan.
‘Hundreds,’ he called back, grinning. Which meant, I guessed, that any man in Harald’s army who could saddle a horse had joined the pursuit. Harald was feeling the ecstasy of victory. His men had plundered all eastern Wessex, now he believed he had turned Alfred’s army out of Æscengum, which effectively opened the way for the Danes to maraud the whole centre of the country. Before those pleasures, however, he wanted to capture Alfred himself and so his men were wildly following us, and Harald, unconcerned about their lack of discipline, believed his good fortune must hold. This was the wild hunt, and Harald had loosed his men and sent them to deliver him the King of Wessex.
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