The Pale Horseman

by Bernard Cornwell

  “He comes to pray with us,” Mildrith said.

  “He comes to eat,” I said.

  “And he says the bishop will take the land if we don’t pay the debt.”

  “The debt will be paid,” I said.

  “When? We have the money!” She gestured at the new hall. “When?” she insisted.

  “When I want to,” I snarled. I did not tell her when, or how, because if I had then Wirken the priest would know, and the bishop would know. It was not enough to pay the debt. Mildrith’s father had foolishly donated part of our land’s future produce to the church, and I wanted that burden taken away so the debt would not go on through eternity, and to do that I needed to surprise the bishop, and so I kept Mildrith ignorant, and inevitably those arguments would end with her tears. I was bored with her and she knew it. I found her beating Iseult’s maid one day. The girl was a Saxon I had given to Iseult as a servant, but she also worked in the dairy and Mildrith was beating her because some cheeses had not been turned. I dragged Mildrith away, and that, of course, provoked another argument and Mildrith proved not to be so blind after all for she accused me of trying to whelp bastards on Iseult, which was true enough, but I reminded her that her own father had sired enough bastards, half a dozen of whom now worked for us. “You leave Iseult and her maid alone,” I said, causing more tears. They were not happy days.

  It was the time when Iseult learned to speak English, or at least the Northumbrian version of English for she learned it mostly from me. “You’re my mon,” she said. I was Mildrith’s man and Iseult’s mon. She said she had been born again on the day I came into Peredur’s hall. “I had dreamed of you,” she said, “tall and golden-haired.”

  “Now you don’t dream?” I asked, knowing that her powers of scrying came from dreams.

  “I do still dream,” she said earnestly. “My brother speaks to me.”

  “Your brother?” I asked, surprised.

  “I was born a twin,” she told me, “and my brother came first and then, as I was born, he died. He went to the shadow world and he speaks to me of what he sees there.”

  “What does he see?”

  “He sees your king.”

  “Alfred,” I said sourly. “Is that good or bad?”

  “I don’t know. The dreams are shadowy.”

  She was no Christian. Instead she believed that every place and every thing had its own god or goddess: a nymph for a stream, a dryad for a wood, a spirit for a tree, a god for the fire and another for the sea. The Christian god, like Thor or Odin, was just one more deity among this unseen throng of powers, and her dreams, she said, were like eavesdropping on the gods. One day, as she rode beside me on the hills above the empty sea, she suddenly said that Alfred would give me power.

  “He hates me,” I told her. “He’ll give me nothing.”

  “He will give you power,” she said flatly. I stared at her and she gazed to where the clouds met the waves. Her black hair was unbound and the sea wind stirred it. “My brother told me,” she said. “Alfred will give you power and you will take back your northern home and your woman will be a creature of gold.”

  “My woman?”

  She looked at me and there was sadness in her face. “There,” she said, “now you know,” and she kicked back her heels and made the horse run along the ridgetop, her hair streaming, her eyes wet with tears. I wanted to know more, but she said she had told me what she had dreamed and I must be content.

  At summer’s end we drove the swine into the forests to feed on the fallen beech nuts and acorns. I bought bags of salt because the killing time was coming and the meat of our pigs and cattle would have to be salted into barrels to feed us through the winter. Some of that food would come from the men who rented land at the edge of the estate, and I visited them all so they would know I expected payment of wheat, barley, and livestock, and to show them what would happen if they tried to cheat me I bought a dozen good swords from a smith in Exanceaster. I gave the swords to my men, and in the shortening days we practiced with them. Mildrith might not believe war was coming, but I did not think God had changed Danish hearts.

  The late autumn brought heavy rain and the shire reeve to Oxton. The reeve was called Harald and he was charged with keeping the peace of Defnascir, and he came on horseback and with him were six other horsemen, all in mail coats and helmets, and all with swords or spears. I waited for him in the hall, making him dismount and come into the smoky shadows. He came cautiously, expecting an ambush. Then his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he saw me standing by the central hearth. “You are summoned to the shire court,” he told me.

  His men had followed Harald into the hall. “You bring swords into my house?” I asked.

  Harald looked around the hall and he saw my men armed with their spears and axes. I had seen the horsemen approaching and summoned my men and ordered them to arm themselves.

  Harald had the reputation of being a decent man, sensible and fair, and he knew how weapons in a hall could lead to slaughter. “You will wait outside,” he told his men, and I gestured for my men to put their weapons down. “You are summoned…” Harald began again.

  “I heard you,” I said.

  “There is a debt to be paid,” he said, “and a man’s death to make good.”

  I said nothing. One of my hounds growled softly and I put a hand into its fur to silence it.

  “The court will meet on All Saints’ Day,” Harald said, “at the cathedral.”

  “I shall be there,” I said.

  He took off his helmet to reveal a balding pate fringed with brown hair. He was at least ten years older than I, a big man, with two fingers missing from his shield hand. He limped slightly as he walked toward me. I calmed the hounds, waited.

  “I was at Cynuit,” he said to me, speaking softly.

  “So was I,” I said, “though men pretend I was not.”

  “I know what you did,” he said.

  “So do I.”

  He ignored my surliness. He was showing me sympathy, though I was too proud to show I appreciated it. “The ealdorman has sent men,” he warned me, “to take this place once judgment is given.”

  There was a gasp behind me and I realized Mildrith had come into the hall. Harald bowed to her.

  “The hall will be taken?” Mildrith asked.

  “If the debt is not paid,” Harald said, “the land will be given to the church.” He stared up at the newly hewn rafters as if wondering why I would build a hall on land doomed to be given to God.

  Mildrith came to stand beside me. She was plainly distressed by Harald’s summons, but she made a great effort to compose herself. “I am sorry,” she said, “about your wife.”

  A flicker of pain crossed Harald’s face as he made the sign of the cross. “She was sick a long time, lady. It was merciful of God, I think, to take her.”

  I had not known he was a widower, nor did I care much. “She was a good woman,” Mildrith said.

  “She was,” Harald said.

  “And I pray for her.”

  “I thank you for that,” Harald said.

  “As I pray for Odda the Elder,” Mildrith went on.

  “God be praised, he lives.” Harald made the sign of the cross again. “But he is feeble and in pain.” He touched his scalp showing where Odda the Elder had been wounded.

  “So who is the judge?” I asked harshly, interrupting the two.

  “The bishop,” Harald said.

  “Not the ealdorman?”

  “He is at Cippanhamm.”

  Mildrith insisted on giving Harald and his men ale and food. She and Harald talked a long time, sharing news of neighbors and family. They were both from Defnascir and I was not, and so I knew few of the folk they talked about, but I pricked up my ears when Harald said that Odda the Younger was marrying a girl from Mercia. “She’s in exile here,” he said, “with her family.”

  “Well born?” Mildrith asked.

  “Exceedingly,” Harald said.

&nbs
p; “I wish them much joy,” Mildrith said with evident sincerity. She was happy that day, warmed by Harald’s company, though when he had gone she chided me for being churlish. “Harald is a good man,” she insisted, “a kind man. He would have given you advice. He would have helped you!”

  I ignored her, but two days later I went into Exanceaster with Iseult and all my men. Including Haesten I now had eighteen warriors and I had armed them, given them shields and leather coats, and I led them through the market that always accompanied the court’s sittings. There were stilt walkers and jugglers, a man who ate fire, and a dancing bear. There were singers, harpists, storytellers, beggars, and pens of sheep, goats, cattle, pigs, geese, ducks, and hens. There were fine cheeses, smoked fish, bladders of lard, pots of honey, trays of apples, and baskets of pears. Iseult, who had not been to Exanceaster before, was amazed at the size of the city, and the life of it, and the seething closeness of its houses, and I saw folk make the sign of the cross when they saw her for they had heard of the shadow queen held at Oxton and they knew her for a foreigner and a pagan.

  Beggars crowded at the bishop’s gate. There was a crippled woman with a blind child, men who had lost arms or legs in the wars, a score of them, and I threw them some pence. Then, because I was on horseback, I ducked under the archway of the courtyard beside the cathedral where a dozen chained felons were awaiting their fate. A group of young monks, nervous of the chained men, were plaiting beehives, while a score of armed men were clustered around three fires. They eyed my followers suspiciously as a young priest, his hands flapping, hurried across the puddles. “Weapons are not to be brought into the precinct!” he told me sternly.

  “They’ve got weapons,” I said, nodding at the men warming themselves by the flames.

  “They are the reeve’s men.”

  “Then the sooner you deal with my business,” I said, “the sooner my weapons will be gone.”

  He looked up at me, his face anxious. “Your business?”

  “Is with the bishop.”

  “The bishop is at prayer,” the priest said reprovingly, as though I should have known that. “And he cannot see every man who comes here. You can talk to me.”

  I smiled and raised my voice a little. “In Cippanhamm, two years ago,” I said, “your bishop was friends with Eanflæd. She has red hair and works her trade out of the Corncrake tavern. Her trade is whoring.”

  The priest’s hands were flapping again in an attempt to persuade me to lower my voice.

  “I’ve been with Eanflæd,” I said, “and she told me about the bishop. She said—”

  The monks had stopped making beehives and were listening, but the priest cut me off by half shouting. “The bishop might have a moment free.”

  “Then tell him I’m here,” I said pleasantly.

  “You are Uhtred of Oxton?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I am Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Sometimes known as Uhtredærwe,” I added mischievously. Uhtred the Wicked.

  “Yes, lord,” the priest said again and hurried away.

  The bishop was called Alewold and he was really the Bishop of Cridianton, but that place had not been thought as safe as Exanceaster and so for years the Bishops of Cridianton had lived in the larger town, which, as Guthrum had shown, was not the wisest decision. Guthrum’s Danes had pillaged the cathedral and the bishop’s house, which was still scantily furnished, and I discovered Alewold, sitting behind a table that looked as if it had once belonged to a butcher, for its hefty top was scored with knife cuts and stained with old blood. He looked at me indignantly. “You should not be here,” he said snidely.

  “Why not?”

  “You have business before the court tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said, “you sit as a judge. Today you are a bishop.”

  He acknowledged that with a small nod. He was an elderly man with a heavy jowled face and a reputation as a severe judge. He had been with Alfred in Scireburnan when the Danes arrived in Exanceaster, which is why he was still alive, and, like all the bishops in Wessex, he was a fervent supporter of the king, and I had no doubt that Alfred’s dislike of me was known to Alewold, which meant I could expect little clemency when the court sat.

  “I am busy,” Alewold said, gesturing at the parchments on the stained table. Two clerks shared the table and a half dozen resentful priests had gathered behind the bishop’s chair.

  “My wife,” I said, “inherited a debt to the church.”

  Alewold looked at Iseult who alone had come into the house with me. She looked beautiful, proud, and wealthy. There was silver at her throat and in her hair, and her cloak was fastened with two brooches, one of jet and the other of amber. “Your wife?” the bishop asked snidely.

  “I would discharge the debt,” I said, ignoring his question, and I tipped a bag onto his butcher’s table and the big silver plate we had taken from Ivar slid out. The silver made a satisfying noise as it thumped down and suddenly, in that small dark room ill lit by three rush lights and a small, wood-barred window, it seemed as if the sun had come out. The heavy silver glowed and Alewold just stared at it.

  There are good priests. Beocca is one and Willibald another, but I have discovered in my long life that most churchmen preach the merits of poverty while they lust after wealth. They love money and the church attracts money like a candle brings moths. I knew Alewold was a greedy man, as greedy for wealth as he was for the delights of a red-haired whore in Cippanhamm, and he could not take his eyes from that plate. He reached out and caressed the thick rim as if he scarce believed what he was seeing, and then he pulled the plate toward him and examined the twelve apostles. “A pyx,” he said reverently.

  “A plate,” I said casually.

  One of the other priests leaned over a clerk’s shoulder. “Irish work,” he said.

  “It looks Irish,” Alewold agreed, then looked suspiciously at me. “You are returning it to the church?”

  “Returning it?” I asked innocently.

  “The plate was plainly stolen,” Alewold said, “and you do well, Uhtred, to bring it back.”

  “I had the plate made for you,” I said.

  He turned the plate over, which took some effort for it was heavy, and once it was inverted he pointed to the scratches in the silver. “It is old,” he said.

  “I had it made in Ireland,” I said grandly, “and doubtless it was handled roughly by the men who brought it across the sea.”

  He knew I was lying. I did not care. “There are silversmiths in Wessex who could have made you a pyx,” one of the priests snapped.

  “I thought you might want it,” I said, then leaned forward and pulled the plate out of the bishop’s hands, “but if you prefer West Saxon work,” I went on, “then I can—”

  “Give it back!” Alewold said and, when I made no move to obey, his voice became pleading. “It is a beautiful thing.” He could see it in his church, or perhaps in his hall, and he wanted it. There was silence as he stared at it. If he had known that the plate existed, if I had told Mildrith of it, then he would have had a response ready, but as it was he was overwhelmed by desire for the heavy silver. A maid brought in a flagon and he waved her out of the room. She was, I noted, red-haired. “You had the plate made,” Alewold said skeptically.

  “In Dyflin,” I said.

  “Is that where you went in the king’s ship?” the priest who had snapped at me asked.

  “We patrolled the coast,” I said, “nothing more.”

  “The value of the plate—” Alewold began, then stopped.

  “Is far and above the debt Mildrith inherited,” I said. That was probably not true, but it was close to the amount, and I could see Alewold did not care. I was going to get what I wanted.

  The debt was discharged. I insisted on having that written down, and written three times, and I surprised them by being able to read and so discovering that the first scrap of parchment made no mention of the church yie
lding their rights to the future produce of my estate, but that was corrected and I let the bishop keep one copy while I took two. “You will not be arraigned for debt,” the bishop said as he pressed his seal into the wax of the last copy, “but there is still the matter of Oswald’s wergild.”

  “I rely on your good and wise judgment, bishop,” I said, and I opened the purse hanging at my waist and took out a small lump of gold, making sure he could see there was more gold inside as I placed the small lump on the plate. “Oswald was a thief.”

  “His family will make oaths that he was not,” the priest said.

  “And I will bring men who will swear he was,” I said. A trial relied heavily on oaths, but both sides would bring as many liars as they could muster, and judgment usually went to the better liars or, if both sides were equally convincing, to the side who had the sympathy of the onlookers. It was better, though, to have the sympathy of the judge. Oswald’s family would have many supporters around Exanceaster, but gold is much the best argument in a law court.

  And so it proved. To Mildrith’s astonishment the debt was paid and Oswald’s family denied two hundred shillings of wergild. I did not even bother to go to the court, relying on the persuasive power of gold, and sure enough the bishop peremptorily dismissed the demand for wergild, saying it was well known that Oswald had been a thief, and so I won. That did not make me any more popular. To the folk who lived in the Uisc’s valley I was a Northumbrian interloper and, worse, it was known I was a pagan, but none dared confront me for I went nowhere beyond the estate without my men and my men went nowhere without their swords.

  The harvest was in the storehouses. Now was the time for the Danes to come, when they could be sure to find food for their armies, but neither Guthrum nor Svein crossed the frontier. The winter came instead and we slaughtered the livestock, salted the meat, scraped hides, and made calves’ foot jelly. I listened for the sound of church bells ringing at an unusual time, for that would have been a sign that the Danes had attacked, but the bells did not ring.