Hundreds of men waited inside the gate. They made a passageway toward the fort’s great hall and the three of us had to walk between those twin grim lines of bearded, armed men toward two big farm wagons that had been placed together to make a long platform. In the center of that makeshift stage was a chair in which Sigefrid slouched. He was in his black bear robe despite the heat. His brother Erik stood to one side of the big chair while Haesten, grinning slyly, stood on the other. A row of helmeted guards was behind the trio, while in front of them, hanging from the wagons’ beds, were banners of ravens, eagles, and wolves. On the ground in front of Sigefrid were the standards captured from Æthelred’s fleet. The Lord of Mercia’s own great banner of a prancing horse was there, and beside it were flags showing crosses and saints. The standards were soiled, and I guessed the Danes had taken it in turns to piss on the captured flags. There was no sign of Æthelflaed. I had half expected that we should see her paraded in public, but she must have been under guard in one of the dozen buildings on the hilltop.
“Alfred has sent his puppies to yelp at us!” Sigefrid announced as we reached the fouled banners.
I took off my helmet. “Alfred sends you greetings,” I said. I had half expected to be met by Sigefrid inside his hall, then realized he had wanted to greet me in the open air so that as many of his followers as possible could see my humiliation.
“You whine like a puppy,” Sigefrid said.
“And he wishes you joy of the Lady Æthelflaed’s company,” I went on.
He scowled in puzzlement. His broad face looked fatter, indeed his body looked fatter because the wound Osferth had given him had taken away the use of his legs but not his appetite, and so he sat, a cripple, slumped and gross, staring indignantly at me. “Joy of her, puppy?” he growled. “What are you yapping about?”
“The King of Wessex,” I said loudly, letting the audience hear me, “has other daughters! There is the lovely Æthelgifu, and her sister, Æfthryth, so what need does he have of Æthelflaed? And what use are daughters anyway? He is a king and he has sons, Edward and Æthelweard, and sons are a man’s glory, while daughters are his burden. So he wishes you joy of her, and sent me to bid her farewell.”
“The puppy tries to amuse us,” Sigefrid said scornfully. He did not believe me, of course, but I hoped I had sown a small seed of doubt, just enough to justify the low ransom I was going to offer. I knew, and Sigefrid knew, that the final price would be huge, but maybe, if I repeated it often enough, I could persuade him that Alfred did not care deeply about Æthelflaed. “Perhaps I shall take her for my lover?” Sigefrid suggested.
I noticed Erik, beside his brother, shifting uncomfortably.
“She would be fortunate in that,” I said carelessly.
“You lie, puppy,” Sigefrid said, but there was just the smallest note of uncertainty in his voice. “But the Saxon bitch is pregnant. Perhaps her father will buy her child?”
“If it’s a boy,” I said dubiously, “perhaps.”
“Then you must make an offer,” Sigefrid said.
“Alfred might pay a small sum for a grandchild,” I began.
“Not to me,” Sigefrid interrupted me. “You must persuade Weland of your good faith.”
“Wayland?” I asked, thinking he meant the blacksmith to the gods.
“Weland the Giant,” Sigefrid said and, smiling, nodded past me. “He’s a Dane,” Sigefrid went on, “and no man has ever out-wrestled Weland.”
I turned and facing me was the biggest man I have ever seen. A huge man. A warrior, doubtless, though he wore neither weapons nor mail. He wore leather trews and boots, but above the waist he was naked to reveal muscles like twisted cord under a skin that had been scored and colored with ink so that his wide chest and massive arms writhed with black dragons. His forearms were thick with rings larger than any I had seen, for no normal ring would have fitted Weland. His beard, black as the dragons on his body, was tied with small amulets, while his skull was bald. His face was malevolent, scarred, brutish, though he smiled when I caught his eye.
“You must persuade Weland,” Sigefrid said, “that you do not lie, puppy, or else I will not talk with you.”
I had expected something of this sort. In Alfred’s mind we would have come to Beamfleot, conducted a civilized discussion, and reached a moderate compromise that I would duly report back to him, but I was more used to the Northmen. They needed amusement. If I were to negotiate then I must first show my strength. I must needs prove myself, but as I stared at Weland I knew I would fail. He was a head taller than me, and I was a head taller than most men, but the same instinct that had warned me of an ordeal had also persuaded me to bring Steapa.
Who smiled his death’s-head smile. He had not understood anything I had said to Sigefrid, or Sigefrid to me, but he understood Weland’s stance. “He has to be beaten?” he asked me.
“Let me do it,” I said.
“Not while I live,” Steapa answered. He unbuckled his sword belt and gave the weapons to Father Willibald, then hauled the heavy mail coat over his head. The watching men, anticipating the fight, gave a raucous cheer.
“You had best hope your man wins, puppy,” Sigefrid said behind me.
“He will,” I said, with a confidence I did not feel.
“In the spring, puppy,” Sigefrid growled, “you stopped me from crucifying a priest. I am still curious, so if your man loses I shall crucify that piece of priestly piss beside you.”
“What’s he saying?” Willibald had seen the malevolent glance Sigefrid had shot in his direction and, unsurprisingly, sounded nervous.
“He says you’re not to use your Christian magic to influence the fight,” I lied.
“I shall pray anyway,” Father Willibald said bravely.
Weland was stretching his huge arms and flexing his thick fingers. He stamped his feet, then settled into a wrestler’s stance, though I doubted this fight would keep to the grappling rules of wrestling. I had been watching him carefully. “He’s favoring his right leg,” I said quietly to Steapa, “which could mean his left leg was wounded once.”
I might have saved my breath because Steapa was not listening to me. His eyes were narrow and furious, while his face, always stark, was now a taut mask of concentrated anger. He looked like a madman. I remembered the one time I had fought him. It had been on a day just before Yule, the same day that Guthrum’s Danes had descended unexpectedly on Cippanhamm, and Steapa had been calm before that fight. He had seemed to me, on that far-off winter’s day, like a workman going about his trade, confident in his tools and skill, but that was not how he looked now. Now he was in a private fury, and whether it was because he fought a hated pagan, or whether because, in Cippanhamm, he had underestimated me, I did not know. Nor did I care. “Remember,” I tried again, “Wayland the Smith was lame.”
“Start!” Sigefrid called behind me.
“God and Jesus,” Steapa bellowed, “hell and Christ!” He was not reacting to Sigefrid’s command, indeed I doubt he even heard it. Instead he was summoning his last tension, like a bowman drawing the cord of a hunting bow an extra inch to give the arrow deadly force, then Steapa howled like an animal and charged.
Weland charged too and they met like stags in the rutting season.
The Danes and Norsemen had crowded around, making a circle that was limited by the spears of Sigefrid’s bodyguard, and the watching warriors gave a gasp as those two men-animals crashed together. Steapa had lowered his head, hoping to drive his skull into Weland’s face, but Weland had moved at the last instant and instead their bodies slammed together and there was a flurry as they sought holds on each other. Steapa had a handful of Weland’s trews, Weland was pulling on Steapa’s hair, and both were using their free hands to flail at each other with clenched fists. Steapa tried to bite Weland, Weland butted him, then Steapa reached down in an attempt to crush Weland’s groin, and there was another desperate flurry as Weland brought a massive knee hard up between Steapa’s thighs.
&n
bsp; “Dear Jesus,” Willibald murmured beside me.
Weland broke away from Steapa’s grip and punched hard at Steapa’s face and the sound of the fist landing was like the splintering wet noise of a butcher’s ax striking meat. There was blood pouring from Steapa’s nose now, but he seemed oblivious to it. He traded blows, driving his fists at Weland’s ribs and head, then straightened his fingers and jabbed hard at the Dane’s eyes. Weland managed to avoid the gouging thrust and landed a knuckle-crunching blow on Steapa’s throat so that the Saxon staggered back, suddenly unable to breathe.
“Oh, my God, my God,” Willibald whispered, making the sign of the cross.
Weland followed fast, punching, then using his heavy arm rings to clout Steapa’s skull so that the metal ornaments raked across the Saxon’s scalp. More blood showed. Steapa was reeling, staggering, gasping, choking, and suddenly he dropped to his knees and the watching crowd gave a great jeer at his weakness. Weland drew back a mighty fist, but, before the blow was even launched, Steapa threw himself forward and seized the Dane’s left ankle. He pulled and twisted, and Weland went down like a felled oak. He crashed onto the turf and Steapa, snarling and bleeding, threw himself on top of his enemy and started punching again.
“They’ll kill each other,” Father Willibald said in a frightened voice.
“Sigefrid won’t allow his champion to die,” I said, though having said it I wondered if that was true. I turned to look at Sigefrid and found that he was watching me. He gave me a sly smile, then looked back to the fighters. This was his game, I thought. The outcome of the battle would make no difference to the discussions. Nothing, except perhaps Father Willibald’s life, depended on the savage display. It was just a game.
Weland managed to turn Steapa so they lay side by side on the grass. They exchanged ineffective blows and then, as if by mutual consent, rolled away from each other and stood again. There was a pause as both men drew breath, then they crashed together a second time. Steapa’s face was a pulp of blood, Weland’s bottom lip and left ear were bleeding, one eye was almost closed and his ribs had taken a pounding. For a moment the two men grappled, seeking holds, feet shifting, grunting, then Weland managed to grasp Steapa’s trews and threw him so that the big Saxon turned on the Dane’s left hip and thumped down to the turf. Weland raised his foot to stamp Steapa’s groin, and Steapa seized the foot and twisted.
Weland yelped. It was an odd, small sound from such a big man, and the damage being done to him seemed trivial after the hammering he had already taken, but Steapa had at last remembered that Wayland the Smith had been lamed by Nidung, and his twisting of the Dane’s foot was aggravating an ancient injury. Weland tried to pull away, but lost his balance and fell again, and Steapa, breathing thick and spitting blood, crawled toward him and began hitting again. He was hitting blindly, his hammer fists thumping on arms, chest, and head. Weland responded by trying to gouge out Steapa’s eyes, but the Saxon snapped at the groping hand with his teeth and I distinctly heard the crunch as he bit off Weland’s small finger. Weland twitched away, Steapa spat the finger out and dropped his huge hands onto the Dane’s neck. He started to squeeze and Weland, choking for breath, began to jerk and flap like a banked trout.
“Enough!” Erik called.
No one moved. Weland’s eyes were widening while Steapa, blood blinded and teeth bared, had his hands around the Dane’s neck. Steapa was making mewing noises, then grunting as he tried to drive his fingers into the Dane’s gullet.
“Enough!” Sigefrid roared.
Steapa’s blood dripped onto Weland’s face as the Saxon throttled the Dane. I could hear Steapa growling and knew he would never stop until the huge man was dead and so I pushed past one of the horizontal spears that held the spectators back. “Stop!” I shouted at Steapa, and when he ignored me I drew Wasp-Sting and slapped the flat of her short blade hard across his bloodied skull. “Stop!” I shouted again.
He snarled at me and I thought, for an instant, he was going to attack me, but then sense came to his half-closed eyes and he let go of Weland’s neck and stared up at me. “I won,” he said angrily. “Tell me I won!”
“Oh, you won,” I said.
Steapa got to his feet. He stood unsteadily, then he braced himself on spread legs and punched both arms into the summer air. “I won!” he shouted.
Weland was still gasping for breath. He tried to stand, but fell back again.
I turned to Sigefrid. “The Saxon won,” I said, “and the priest lives.”
“The priest lives,” it was Erik who answered. Haesten was grinning, Sigefrid looked amused, and Weland was making a grating noise as he tried to breathe.
“Then make your offer,” Sigefrid said to me, “for Alfred’s bitch.”
And the haggling could begin.
TEN
Sigefrid was carried from the wagon platform by four men who struggled to lift his chair and lower it safely to the ground. He shot me a resentful scowl, as if I were to blame for his crippled condition, which, I suppose, I was. The four men carried the chair to his hall and Haesten, who had neither greeted me nor even acknowledged my presence other than by smiling slyly, gestured that we should follow.
“Steapa needs help,” I said.
“A woman will mop his blood,” Haesten said carelessly, then laughed suddenly. “So you discovered Bjorn was an illusion?”
“A good one,” I acknowledged grudgingly.
“He’s dead now,” Haesten said, with as much feeling as if he spoke of a hound that had died. “He caught a fever about two weeks after you saw him. And now he can’t come from his grave anymore, the bastard!” Haesten wore a gold chain now, a rope of thick links that hung heavy on his broad chest. I remembered him as a young man, he had been scarce more than a boy when I had rescued him, but now I saw the adult in Haesten and I did not like what I saw. His eyes were friendly enough, but they had a guarded quality as if, behind them, was a soul ready to strike like a snake. He punched my arm familiarly. “You know this royal Saxon bitch is going to cost you a lot of silver?”
“If Alfred decides he wants her back,” I said airily, “then I suppose he might pay something.”
Haesten laughed at that. “And if he doesn’t want her back? We’ll take her around Britain, around Frankia and back to our homeland, and we’ll strip her naked and strap her to a frame with her legs open, and let everyone come and see the King of Wessex’s daughter. You want that for her, Lord Uhtred?”
“You want me for an enemy, Earl Haesten?” I asked.
“I think we’re enemies already,” Haesten said, for once allowing the truth to show, but he immediately smiled as if to prove he was not serious. “Folk will pay good silver to see the daughter of the King of Wessex, don’t you think? And men will pay gold to enjoy her.” He laughed. “I think your Alfred will want to prevent that humiliation.”
He was right, of course, though I dared not acknowledge it. “Has she been harmed?” I asked.
“Erik won’t let us near her!” Haesten said, evidently amused. “No, she’s unscratched. If you’re selling a sow you don’t beat her with a holly stick, do you?”
“True,” I said. Beating a pig with a stick made from a branch of holly left bruises so deep that the beast’s compacted flesh could never be properly salt-cured. Haesten’s entourage waited nearby and among them I recognized Eilaf the Red, the man whose hall had been used to show me Bjorn, and he gave me a small bow. I ignored the courtesy.
“We’d best go in,” Haesten said, gesturing toward Sigefrid’s hall, “and see how much gold we can squeeze out of Wessex.”
“I must see Steapa first,” I said, though by the time I found Steapa he was surrounded by Saxon women slaves, who were using a lanolin salve on his cuts and bruises. He did not need me and so I followed Haesten into the hall.
A ring of stools and benches had been placed around the hall’s central hearth. Willibald and I were given two of the lowest stools, while Sigefrid glared at us from his chair on the far sid
e of the empty hearth. Haesten and Erik took their places on either side of the cripple, then other men, all of them with lavish arm rings, filled the circle. These, I knew, were the more important Northmen, the ones who had brought two or more ships, and the men who, if Sigefrid succeeded in conquering Wessex, would be rewarded with rich grants of land. Their followers crowded at the hall’s edges where women distributed horns of ale. “Make your offer,” Sigefrid commanded me abruptly.
“She is a daughter, not a son,” I said, “so Alfred is not minded to pay a great sum. Three hundred pounds of silver would seem adequate.”
Sigefrid stared at me for a long while, then stared around the hall where the men watched and listened. “Did I hear a Saxon fart?” he demanded, and was rewarded with laughter. He sniffed ostentatiously, then wrinkled his nose, while the spectators erupted into a chorus of farting noises. Then Sigefrid slammed a huge fist onto the arm of his chair and the hall went immediately silent. “You insult me,” he said, and I saw the anger in his eyes. “If Alfred is minded to offer so little, then I am minded to bring the girl here now and make you watch while we tup her. Why shouldn’t I!” He struggled in the chair as if he wanted to get to his feet, then slumped back. “Is that what you want, you Saxon fart? You want to see her raped?”
The anger, I thought, had been feigned. Just as I had to try and diminish Æthelflaed’s value, so Sigefrid had to exaggerate the threat to her, but I had noticed a flicker of disgust on Erik’s face when Sigefrid suggested rape, and that disgust had been aimed at his brother, not at me. I kept my voice calm. “The king,” I said, “gave me some discretion to increase his offer.”
“Oh, what a surprise!” Sigefrid said sarcastically, “so let me discover the limits of your discretion. We wish to be given ten thousand pounds of silver and five thousand pounds of gold.” He paused, wanting a response from me, but I kept silent. “And the money,” Sigefrid finally went on, “is to be brought here by Alfred himself. He is to pay it in person.”
Sword Song: The Battle for London Page 27
