The Warrior Chronicles

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘No cattle raids?’

  ‘One or two,’ he shrugged. Since last I saw him he had lost the use of his legs and needed to be carried everywhere in a chair. ‘It’s old age,’ he told me. ‘I’m dying from the ground up. I suppose you want ale?’

  We exchanged news in his hall. He bellowed with laughter when I told him of the attempt on my life. ‘You use sheep to defend yourself these days?’ He saw his son enter the hall and shouted at him. ‘Come and hear how the Lord Uhtred won the battle of the sheep!’

  The son was called Beortsig and, like his father, was broad-shouldered and heavy-bearded. He laughed at the tale, but the laughter seemed forced. ‘You say the rogues came from Tofeceaster?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what the bastard said.’

  ‘That’s our land,’ Beortsig said.

  ‘Outlaws,’ Beornnoth said dismissively.

  ‘And fools,’ Beortsig added.

  ‘A thin, bald, one-eyed man recruited them,’ I said. ‘Do you know anyone who looks like that?’

  ‘Sounds like our priest,’ Beornnoth said, amused. Beortsig said nothing. ‘So what brings you here?’ Beornnoth asked, ‘other than the need to drain my ale barrels?’

  I told him of Alfred’s request that I seal a treaty with Eohric, and how Eohric’s envoys had explained their king’s request because of his fear of Sigurd and Cnut. Beornnoth looked sceptical. ‘Sigurd and Cnut aren’t interested in East Anglia,’ he said.

  ‘Eohric thinks they are.’

  ‘The man’s a fool,’ Beornnoth said, ‘and always was. Sigurd and Cnut want Mercia and Wessex.’

  ‘And once they possess those kingdoms, lord,’ Osferth spoke softly to our host, ‘they’ll want East Anglia.’

  ‘True, I suppose,’ Beornnoth allowed.

  ‘So why not take East Anglia first?’ Osferth suggested, ‘and add its men to their war-bands?’

  ‘Nothing will happen till Alfred dies,’ Beornnoth suggested. He made the sign of the cross, ‘and I pray he still lives.’

  ‘Amen,’ Osferth said.

  ‘So you want to disturb Sigurd’s peace?’ Beornnoth asked me.

  ‘I want to know what he’s doing,’ I said.

  ‘He’s preparing for Yule,’ Beortsig said dismissively.

  ‘Which means he’ll be drunk for the next month,’ the father added.

  ‘He’s left us in peace all year,’ the son said.

  ‘And I don’t want you poking his wasps out of their nest,’ Beornnoth said. He spoke lightly enough, but his meaning was heavy. If I rode on north then I might provoke Sigurd, then Beornnoth’s land would be thudded by Danish hooves and reddened by Danish blades.

  ‘I have to go to East Anglia,’ I explained, ‘and Sigurd’s not going to like the thought of an alliance between Eohric and Alfred. He might send men south to make his displeasure known.’

  Beornnoth frowned. ‘Or he might not.’

  ‘Which is what I want to find out,’ I said.

  Beornnoth grunted at that. ‘You’re bored, Lord Uhtred?’ he asked. ‘You want to kill a few Danes?’

  ‘I just want to smell them,’ I said.

  ‘Smell?’

  ‘Half Britain will already know of this treaty with Eohric,’ I said, ‘and who has the most interest in preventing it?’

  ‘Sigurd,’ Beornnoth admitted after a pause.

  I sometimes thought of Britain as a mill. At the base, heavy and dependable was the millstone of Wessex, while at the top, just as heavy, was the grindstone of the Danes, and Mercia was crushed between them. Mercia was where Saxon and Dane fought most often. Alfred had cleverly extended his authority over much of the kingdom’s south, but the Danes were lords of its north, and till now the struggle had been fairly evenly divided, which meant both sides sought allies. The Danes had offered enticements to the Welsh kings, but though the Welsh nursed an undying hatred of all Saxons, they feared the wrath of their Christian God more than they feared the Danes, and so most of the Welsh kept an uneasy peace with Wessex. To the east, though, lay the unpredictable kingdom of East Anglia, which was ruled by Danes, but was ostensibly Christian. East Anglia could tip the scales. If Eohric sent men to fight against Wessex then the Danes would win, but if he allied himself with the Christians then the Danes would face defeat.

  Sigurd, I thought, would want to prevent the treaty ever happening, and he had two weeks to do that. Had he sent the thirteen men to kill me? As I sat by Beornnoth’s fire, that seemed the best answer. And if he had, then what would he do next?

  ‘You want to smell him, eh?’ Beornnoth asked.

  ‘Not provoke him,’ I promised.

  ‘No deaths? No robbery?’

  ‘I won’t start anything,’ I promised.

  ‘God knows what you’ll discover without slaughtering a few of the bastards,’ Beornnoth said, ‘but yes. Go and sniff. Beortsig will go with you.’ He was sending his son and a dozen household warriors to make sure we kept our word. Beornnoth feared we planned to lay waste a few Danish steadings and bring back cattle, silver and slaves, and his men would be there to prevent that, but in truth I only wanted to smell the land.

  I did not trust Sigurd or his ally, Cnut. I liked both of them, but knew they would kill me as casually as we kill our winter cattle. Sigurd was the wealthier of the two men, while Cnut the more dangerous. He was young still, and in his few years he had gained a reputation as a sword-Dane, a man whose blade was to be respected and feared. Such a man attracted others. They came from across the sea, rowing to Britain to follow a leader who promised them wealth. And in the spring, I thought, the Danes would surely come again, or perhaps they would wait till Alfred died, knowing that the death of a king brings uncertainty, and in uncertainty lies opportunity.

  Beortsig was thinking the same. ‘Is Alfred really dying?’ he asked me as we rode north.

  ‘So everyone says.’

  ‘They’ve said it before.’

  ‘Many times,’ I agreed.

  ‘You believe it?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for myself,’ I said, and I knew I would not be welcome in his palace even if I wanted to see him. I had been told Æthelflaed had gone to Wintanceaster for the Christmas feast, but more likely she had been summoned for the death-watch rather than for the dubious delights of her father’s table.

  ‘And Edward will inherit?’ Beortsig asked.

  ‘That’s what Alfred wants.’

  ‘And who becomes king in Mercia?’ he asked.

  ‘There is no king in Mercia,’ I said.

  ‘There should be,’ he said bitterly, ‘and not a West Saxon either! We’re Mercians, not West Saxons.’ I said nothing in response. There had once been kings in Mercia, but now it was subservient to Wessex. Alfred had managed that. His daughter was married to the most powerful of the Mercian ealdormen, and most Saxons in Mercia seemed content that they were effectively under Alfred’s protection, but not all Mercians liked that West Saxon dominance. When Alfred died the powerful Mercians would start eyeing their empty throne, and Beortsig, I supposed, was one such man. ‘Our forefathers were kings here,’ he told me.

  ‘My forefathers were kings in Northumbria,’ I retorted, ‘but I don’t want the throne.’

  ‘Mercia should be ruled by a Mercian,’ he said. He seemed uncomfortable in my company, or perhaps he was uneasy because we rode deep into the lands that Sigurd claimed.

  We rode directly north, the low winter sun throwing our shadows far ahead of us. The first steadings we passed were nothing but burned out ruins, then after midday we came to a village. The people had seen us coming, and so I took my horsemen into the nearby woods until we had rousted a couple out of their hiding place. They were Saxons, a slave and his wife, and they said their lord was a Dane. ‘Is he in his hall?’ I asked.

  ‘No, lord.’ The man was kneeling, shaking, unable to lift his eyes to meet my gaze.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Jarl Jorven, lord.’

  I looked at Beortsig, wh
o shrugged. ‘Jorven is one of Sigurd’s men,’ he said, ‘and not really a jarl. Maybe he leads thirty or forty warriors?’

  ‘Is his wife in the hall?’ I asked the kneeling man.

  ‘She’s there, lord, and some warriors, but not many. The rest have gone, lord.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know, lord.’

  I tossed him a silver coin. I could scarcely afford it, but a lord is a lord.

  ‘Yule is coming,’ Beortsig said dismissively, ‘and Jorven has probably gone to Cytringan.’

  ‘Cytringan?’

  ‘We hear Sigurd and Cnut are celebrating Yule there,’ he said.

  We rode away from the wood, back into a damp pasture. Clouds were hiding the sun now, and I thought it would begin to rain before long. ‘Tell me about Jorven,’ I said to Beortsig.

  He shrugged. ‘A Dane, of course. He arrived two summers ago and Sigurd gave him this land.’

  ‘Is he kin to Sigurd?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘His age?’

  Another shrug. ‘Young.’

  And why would a man go to a feast without his wife? I almost asked the question aloud, then thought that Beortsig’s opinion would be worthless and so I kept silent. Instead I kicked my horse on until I reached a place where I could see Jorven’s hall. It was a fine enough building with a steep roof and a bull’s skull attached to the high gable. The thatch was new enough to have no moss. A palisade surrounded the hall and I could see two men watching us. ‘This would be a good time to attack Jorven,’ I said lightly.

  ‘They’ve left us in peace,’ Beortsig said.

  ‘And you think that will last?’

  ‘I think we should turn back,’ he said, and then, when I said nothing, he added, ‘if we want to make home by nightfall.’

  Instead I headed farther north, ignoring Beortsig’s complaints. We left Jorven’s hall unmolested and crossed a low ridge to see a wide valley. Small smoke trails showed where villages or steadings stood, and glimmers of dull light betrayed a river. A fine place, I thought, fertile and well-watered, exactly the sort of land that the Danes craved. ‘You say Jorven has thirty or forty warriors?’ I asked Beortsig.

  ‘No more.’

  ‘One crew, then,’ I said. So Jorven and his followers had crossed the sea in a single ship and sworn loyalty to Sigurd, who in return had given him frontier land. If the Saxons attacked, Jorven would likely die, but that was the risk he ran, and the rewards could be much greater if Sigurd decided to attack southwards. ‘When Haesten was here, last summer,’ I asked Beortsig as I urged my horse forward, ‘did he give you trouble?’

  ‘He left us alone,’ he said. ‘He did his damage farther west.’

  I nodded. Beortsig’s father, I thought, had become tired of fighting the Danes and he was paying tribute to Sigurd. There could be no other reason for the apparent peace that had prevailed on Beornnoth’s land, and Haesten, I assumed, had left Beornnoth alone on Sigurd’s orders. Haesten would never have dared to offend Sigurd, so doubtless he had avoided the lands of those Saxons who paid for peace. That had left him most of southern Mercia to ravage, and he had burned, raped and pillaged until I took away most of his strength at Beamfleot. Then, in fear, he had fled to Ceaster.

  ‘Something worries you?’ Finan asked me. We were riding down towards the distant river. A thin rain was blowing from our backs. Finan and I had spurred ahead, out of earshot of Beortsig and his men.

  ‘Why would a man go to the Yule feast without his wife?’ I asked Finan.

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s ugly. Maybe he keeps something younger and prettier for feast days?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I grunted.

  ‘Or maybe he’s been summoned,’ Finan said.

  ‘And why would Sigurd summon warriors in midwinter?’

  ‘Because he knows about Eohric?’

  ‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ I said.

  The rain was coming harder, gusting on a sharp wind. The day was closing in, dark and damp and cold. Remnants of snow lay white in frozen ditches. Beortsig tried to insist that we turn back, but I kept riding north, deliberately going close to two large halls. Whoever guarded those places must have seen us, yet no one rode out to challenge us. Over forty armed men, carrying shields and spears and swords, were riding through their country and they did not bother to discover who we were or what we did? That told me that the halls were lightly guarded. Whoever saw us pass was content to let us go in the hope that we would ignore them.

  And then, ahead of us, was the scar on the land. I checked my horse at its edge. The scar ran across our path, gouged into the water meadows on the southern bank of the river, which was being dimpled by raindrops. I turned my horse then, pretending no interest in the trampled ground and deep hoof-prints. ‘We’ll go back,’ I told Beortsig.

  The scar had been made by horses. Finan, as he rode into the cold rain, edged his stallion close to mine. ‘Eighty men,’ he said.

  I nodded. I trusted his judgement. Two crews of men had ridden from west to east and the hooves of their horses had trampled that scar into the waterlogged ground. Two crews were following the river to where? I slowed my horse, letting Beortsig catch us. ‘Where did you say Sigurd was celebrating Yule?’ I asked.

  ‘Cytringan,’ he said.

  ‘And where’s Cytringan?’

  He pointed north. ‘A good day’s journey, probably two. He keeps a feasting hall there.’

  Cytringan lay to the north, but the hoof-prints had been going east.

  Someone was lying.

  Two

  I had not realised quite how important the proposed treaty was to Alfred until I returned to Buccingahamm and found sixteen monks eating my food and drinking my ale. The youngest of them were still unshaven striplings, while the oldest, their leader, was a corpulent man of about my own age. He was called Brother John, and was so fat that he had trouble offering me a bow. ‘He is from Frankia,’ Willibald said proudly.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He is the king’s songmaster! He leads the choir.’

  ‘A choir?’ I asked.

  ‘We sing,’ Brother John said in a voice that seemed to rumble from somewhere inside his capacious belly. He waved a peremptory hand at his monks and shouted at them, ‘The Soli Deo Gloria. Stand up! Breathe deep! Upon my word! A one! A two!’ They began chanting. ‘Mouths open!’ Brother John bellowed at them, ‘Mouths wide! Mouths wide as little birdies! From the stomach! Let me hear you!’

  ‘Enough!’ I shouted before they had finished their first line. I tossed my sheathed sword to Oswi, my servant, then went to warm myself by the hall’s central hearth. ‘Why,’ I asked Willibald, ‘must I feed singing monks?’

  ‘It’s important we make an impressive display,’ he answered, casting a dubious eye on my mud-spattered mail. ‘We represent Wessex, lord, and we must demonstrate the glory of Alfred’s court.’

  Alfred had sent banners with the monks. One showed the dragon of Wessex, while others were embroidered with saints or holy images. ‘We’re taking those rags as well?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Willibald said.

  ‘I can take a banner showing Thor, perhaps? Or Woden?’

  Willibald sighed. ‘Please lord, no.’

  ‘Why can’t we have a banner showing one of the women saints?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ Willibald said, pleased at the suggestion, ‘if that’s what you’d like.’

  ‘One of those women who were stripped naked before they were killed,’ I added, and Father Willibald sighed again.

  Sigunn brought me a horn of mulled ale and I gave her a kiss. ‘All well here?’ I asked her.

  She looked at the monks and shrugged. I could see Willibald was curious about her, especially when I put an arm around her and drew her close. ‘She’s my woman,’ I explained.

  ‘But,’ he began and finished abruptly. He was thinking about Æthelflaed, but did not have the courage to name her.
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  I smiled at him. ‘You have a question, father?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly.

  I looked at the largest banner, a great gaudy square of cream linen emblazoned with an embroidery of the crucifixion. It was so large that it would need two men to parade it, and even more if the wind was blowing anything above a gentle breeze. ‘Does Eohric know we’re bringing an army?’ I asked Willibald.

  ‘He has been told to expect up to one hundred people.’

  ‘And does he expect Sigurd and Cnut too?’ I enquired acidly, and Willibald just stared at me with a vacant expression. ‘The Danes know about this treaty,’ I told him, ‘and they’ll try to prevent it.’

  ‘Prevent it? How?’

  ‘How do you think?’ I asked.

  Willibald looked paler than ever. ‘King Eohric is sending men to escort us,’ he said.

  ‘He’s sending them here?’ I spoke angrily, thinking that I would be expected to feed even more men.

  ‘To Huntandon,’ Willibald said, ‘and from there they take us to Eleg.’

  ‘Why are we going to East Anglia?’ I asked.

  ‘To make the treaty, of course,’ Willibald said, puzzled by the question.

  ‘So why isn’t Eohric sending men to Wessex?’ I demanded.

  ‘Eohric did send men, lord! He sent Ceolberht and Ceolnoth. The treaty was King Eohric’s suggestion.’

  ‘Then why isn’t it being sealed and signed in Wessex?’ I persisted.

  Willibald shrugged. ‘Does it matter, lord?’ he asked with a trace of impatience. ‘And we’re supposed to meet at Huntandon in three days,’ he went on, ‘and if the weather turns bad,’ he let his voice fade away.