I did not know it but the three spinners were making my fate. They were thickening the threads, twisting them tighter, making me into what I am, but staring down from that high hill I only felt a flicker of fear, for there was Ubba’s fleet, rowing east, keeping pace with the horsemen and infantry who marched along the shore.
The folk who had fled their homes told us that the Danes had come from the Welsh lands across the wide Sæfern sea, and that they had landed at a place called Beardastopol, which lies far in Defnascir’s west, and there they had collected horses and supplies, but then their attack eastward into the West Saxon heartland had been delayed by the great storm that had wrecked Guthrum’s fleet. Ubba’s ships had stayed in Beardastopol’s harbor until the storm passed and then, inexplicably, they had still waited even when the weather improved and I guessed that Ubba, who would do nothing without the consent of the gods, had cast the runesticks, found them unfavorable, and so waited until the auguries were better. Now the runes must have been good for Ubba’s army was on the move. I counted thirtysix ships, which suggested an army of at least twelve or thirteen hundred men.
“Where are they going?” One of my men asked.
“East,” I grunted. What else could I say? East into Wessex. East into the rich heartland of England’s last kingdom. East to Wintanceaster or to any of the other plump towns where the churches, monasteries, and nunneries were brimming with treasure, east to where the plunder waited, east to where there was food and more horses, east to invite more Danes to come south across Mercia’s frontier, and Alfred would be forced to turn around and face them, and then Guthrum’s army would come from Exanceaster and the army of Wessex would be caught between two hosts of Danes, except that the fyrd of Defnascir was somewhere on this coast and it was their duty to stop Ubba’s men. We walked east, passing from Defnascir into Sumorsæte, and shadowing the Danes by staying on the higher ground, and that night I watched as Ubba’s ships came inshore and the fires were lit in the Danish camp, and we lit our own fires deep in a wood and were marching again before dawn and thus got ahead of our enemies and by midday we could see the first West Saxon forces. They were horsemen, presumably sent to scout the enemy, and they were now retreating from the Danish threat, and we walked until the hills dropped away to where a river flowed into the Sæfern sea, and it was there that we discovered that Ealdorman Odda had decided to make his stand, in a fort built by the old people on a hill near the river.
The river was called the Pedredan and close to its mouth was a small place called Cantucton, and near Cantucton was the ancient earthwalled fort that the locals said was named Cynuit. It was old, that fort; Father Willibald said it was older than the Romans, that it had been old when the world was young, and the fort had been made by throwing up earth walls on a hilltop and digging a ditch outside the walls. Time had worked on those walls, wearing them down and making the ditch shallower, and grass had overgrown the ramparts, and on one side the wall had been plowed almost to nothing, plowed until it was a mere shadow on the turf, but it was a fortress and the place where Ealdorman Odda had taken his forces and where he would die if he could not defeat Ubba, whose ships were already showing in the river’s mouth.
I did not go straight to the fort, but stopped in the shelter of some trees and dressed for war. I became Ealdorman Uhtred in his battle glory. The slaves at Oxton had polished my mail coat with sand and I pulled it on, and over it I buckled a leather sword belt for SerpentBreath and WaspSting. I pulled on tall boots, put on the shining helmet, and picked up my ironbossed shield and, when all the straps were tight and the buckles firm, I felt like a god dressed for war, dressed to kill. My men buckled their own straps, laced their boots, tested their weapons’ edges, and even Father Willibald cut himself a stave, a great piece of ash that could break a man’s skull. “You won’t need to fight, father,” I told him.
“We all have to fight now, lord,” he said. He took a step back and looked me up and down, and a small smile came to his face. “You’ve grown up,” he said.
“It’s what we do, father,” I said.
“I remember when I first saw you. A child. Now I fear you.”
“Let’s hope the enemy does,” I said, not quite sure what enemy I meant, whether Odda or Ubba, and I wished I had Bebbanburg’s standard, the snarling wolf’s head, but I had my swords and my shield and I led my men out of the wood and across the fields to where the fyrd of Defnascir would make its stand. The Danes were a mile or so to our left, spilling from the coast road and hurrying to surround the hill called Cynuit, though they would be too late to bar our path. To my right were more Danes, ship Danes, bringing their dragonheaded boats up the Pedredan.
“They outnumber us,” Willibald said.
“They do,” I agreed. There were swans on the river, corncrakes in the uncut hay, and crimson orchids in the meadows. This was the time of year when men should be haymaking or shearing their sheep.I need not be here, I thought to myself.I need not go to this hilltop where the Danes will come to kill us. I looked at my men and wondered if they thought the same, but when they caught my eye they only grinned, or nodded, and I suddenly realized that they trusted me. I was leading them and they were not questioning me, though Leofric understood the danger. He caught up with me.
“There’s only one way off that hilltop,” he said softly.
“I know.”
“And if we can’t fight our way out,” he said, “then we’ll stay there. Buried.”
“I know,” I said again, and I thought of the spinners and knew they were tightening the threads, and I looked up Cynuit’s slope and saw there were some women at the very top, women being sheltered by their men, and I thought Mildrith might be among them, and that was why I climbed the hill: because I did not know where else to seek her.
But the spinners were sending me to that old earth fort for another reason. I had yet to stand in the big shield wall, in the line of warriors, in the heave and horror of a proper battle where to kill once is merely to invite another enemy to come. The hill of Cynuit was the road to full manhood and I climbed it because I had no choice; the spinners sent me.
Then a roar sounded to our right, down in the Pedredan’s valley, and I saw a banner being raised beside a beached ship. It was the banner of the raven. Ubba’s banner. Ubba, last and strongest and most frightening of the sons of Lothbrok, had brought his blades to Cynuit. “You see that boat?” I said to Willibald, pointing to where the banner flew. “Ten years ago,” I said, “I cleaned that ship. I scoured it, scrubbed it, cleaned it.” Danes were taking their shields from the shield strake and the sun glinted on their myriad spear blades. “I was ten years old,” I told Willibald.
“The same boat?” he asked.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Perhaps it was a new ship. It did not matter, really. All that mattered was that it had brought Ubba.
To Cynuit.
The men of Defnascir had made a line where the old fort’s wall had eroded away. Some, a few, had spades and were trying to remake the earth barrier, but they would not be given time to finish, not if Ubba assaulted the hill, and I pushed through them, using my shield to thrust men out of my way and ignoring all those who questioned who we were, and so we made our way to the hill’s summit where Odda’s banner of a black stag flew.
I pulled off my helmet as I neared him. I tossed the helmet to Father Willibald, then drew SerpentBreath for I had seen Odda the Younger standing beside his father, and he was staring at me as though I were a ghost, and to him I must have appeared just that. “Where is she?” I shouted, and I pointed SerpentBreath at him. “Where is she?”
Odda’s retainers drew swords or leveled spears, and Leofric drew his battlethinned blade, DaneKiller.
“No!” Father Willibald shouted and he ran forward, his staff raised in one hand and my helmet in the other. “No!” He tried to head me off, but I pushed him aside, only to find three of Odda’s priests barring my way. That was one thing about Wessex, there were always priests. They appear
ed like mice out of a burning thatch, but I thrust the priests aside and confronted Odda the Younger. “Where is she?” I demanded.
Odda the Younger was in mail, mail so brightly polished that it hurt the eye. He had a helmet inlaid with silver, boots to which iron plates were strapped, and a blue cloak held about his neck by a great brooch of gold and amber.
“Where is she?” I asked a fourth time, and this time SerpentBreath was a hand’s length from his throat.
“Your wife is at Cridianton,” Ealdorman Odda answered. His son was too scared to open his mouth. I had no idea where Cridianton was. “And my son?” I stared into Odda the Younger’s frightened eyes.
“Where is my son?”
“They are both with my wife at Cridianton,” Ealdorman Odda answered, “and they are safe.”
“You swear to that?” I asked.
“Swear?” The ealdorman was angry now, his ugly, bulbous face red. “You dare ask me to swear?” He drew his own sword. “We can cut you down like a dog,” he said and his men’s swords twitched. I swept my own sword around till it pointed down to the river. “You know whose banner that is?” I asked, raising my voice so that a good portion of the men on Cynuit’s hill could hear me. “That is the raven banner of Ubba Lothbrokson. I have watched Ubba Lothbrokson kill. I have seen him trample men into the sea, cut their bellies open, take off their heads, wade in their blood, and make his sword screech with their death song, and you would kill me who is ready to fight him alongside you? Then do it.” I spread my arms, baring my body to the ealdorman’s sword. “Do it,” I spat at him, “but first swear my wife and child are safe.”
He paused a long time, then lowered his blade. “They are safe,” he said, “I swear it.”
“And that thing,” I pointed SerpentBreath at his son, “did not touch her?”
The ealdorman looked at his son who shook his head. “I swear I did not,” Odda the Younger said, finding his voice. “I only wanted her to be safe. We thought you were dead and I wanted her to be safe. That is all, I swear it.”
I sheathed SerpentBreath. “You owe my wife eighteen shillings,” I said to the ealdorman, then turned away.
I had come to Cynuit. I had no need to be on that hilltop. But I was there. Because destiny is everything.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ealdorman Odda did not want to kill Danes. He wanted to stay where he was and let Ubba’s forces besiege him. That, he reckoned, would be enough. “Keep their army here,” he said heavily, “and Alfred can march to attack them.”
“Alfred,” I pointed out, “is besieging Exanceaster.”
“He will leave men there to watch Guthrum,” Odda said loftily, “and march here.” He did not like talking to me, but I was an ealdorman and he could not bar me from his council of war that was attended by his son, the priests, and a dozen thegns, all of whom were becoming irritated by my comments. I insisted Alfred would not come to our relief, and Ealdorman Odda was refusing to move from the hilltop because he was sure Alfred would come. His thegns, all of them big men with heavy coats of mail and grim, weatherhardened faces, agreed with him. One muttered that the women had to be protected.
“There shouldn’t be any women here,” I said.
“But they are here,” the man said flatly. At least a hundred women had followed their men and were now on the hilltop where there was no shelter for them or their children.
“And even if Alfred comes,” I asked, “how long will it take?”
“Two days?” Odda suggested. “Three?”
“And what will we drink while he’s coming?” I asked. “Bird piss?”
They all just stared at me, hating me, but I was right for there was no spring on Cynuit. The nearest water was the river, and between us and the river were Danes, and Odda understood well enough that we would be assailed by thirst, but he still insisted we stay. Perhaps his priests were praying for a miracle.
The Danes were just as cautious. They outnumbered us, but not by many, and we held the high ground, which meant they would have to fight up Cynuit’s steep slope, and so Ubba chose to surround the hill rather than assault it. The Danes hated losing men, and I remembered Ubba’s caution at the Gewæsc where he had hesitated to attack Edmund’s forces up the two paths from the marsh, and perhaps that caution was reinforced by Storri, his sorcerer, if Storri still lived. Whatever the reason, instead of forming his men into the shield wall to assault the ancient fort, Ubba posted them in a ring about Cynuit and then, with five of his shipmasters, climbed the hill. He carried no sword or shield, which showed he wanted to talk.
Ealdorman Odda, his son, two thegns, and three priests went to meet Ubba and, because I was an ealdorman, I followed them. Odda gave me a malevolent look, but again he was unable to deny me, and so we met halfway down the slope where Ubba offered no greeting and did not even waste time on the usual ritual insults, but pointed out that we were trapped and that our wisest course was to surrender.
“You will give up your weapons,” he said. “I shall take hostages, and you will all live.”
One of Odda’s priests translated the demands to the ealdorman. I watched Ubba. He looked older than I remembered, with gray hairs among the black tangle of his beard, but he was still a frightening man: huge chested, confident, and harsh.
Ealdorman Odda was plainly frightened. Ubba, after all, was a renowned Danish chieftain, a man who had ranged across long seas to give great slaughter, and now Odda was forced to confront him. He did his best to sound defiant, retorting that he would stay where he was and put his faith in the one true god.
“Then I shall kill you,” Ubba answered.
“You may try,” Odda said.
It was a feeble response and Ubba spat in scorn. He was about to turn away, but then I spoke and needed no interpreter. “Guthrum’s fleet is gone,” I said. “Njord reached from the deep, Ubba Lothbrokson, and he snatched Guthrum’s fleet down to the seabed. All those brave men are gone to Ran and Ægir.” Ran was Njord’s wife and Ægir the giant who guarded the souls of drowned men. I brought out my hammer charm and held it up. “I speak the truth, Lord Ubba,” I said. “I watched that fleet die and I saw its men go under the waves.”
He stared at me with his flat, hard eyes and the violence in his heart was like the heat of a forge. I could feel it, but I could also sense his fear, not of us, but of the gods. He was a man who did nothing without a sign from the gods, and that was why I had talked of the gods when I spoke about the fleet’s drowning.
“I know you,” he growled, pointing at me with two fingers to avert the evil of my words.
“And I know you, Ubba Lothbrokson,” I said, and I let go of the charm and held up three fingers. “Ivar dead,” I folded one finger down, “Halfdan dead,” the second finger, “and only you are left. What did the runes say? That by the new moon there will be no Lothbrok brother left in Midgard?”
I had touched a nerve, as I intended to, for Ubba instinctively felt for his own hammer charm. Odda’s priest was translating, his voice a low murmur, and the ealdorman was staring at me with wide astonished eyes.
“Is that why you want us to surrender?” I asked Ubba. “Because the runesticks tell you we cannot be killed in battle?”
“I shall kill you,” Ubba said. “I shall cut you from your crotch to your gullet. I shall spill you like offal.”
I made myself smile, though that was hard when Ubba was making threats. “You may try, Ubba Lothbrokson,” I said, “but you will fail. And I know. I cast the runes, Ubba. I cast the runes under last night’s moon, and I know.”
He hated it, for he believed my lie. He wanted to be defiant, but for a moment he could only stare at me in fear because his own runesticks, I guessed, had told him what I was telling him, that any attack on Cynuit would end in failure. “You’re Ragnar’s boy,” he said, placing me at last.
“And Ragnar the Fearless speaks to me,” I said. “He calls from the corpse hall. He wants vengeance, Ubba, vengeance on the Danes, for Ragnar was killed
treacherously by his own folk. I’m his messenger now, a thing from the corpse hall, and I have come for you.”
“I didn’t kill him!” Ubba snarled.
“Why should Ragnar care?” I asked. “He just wants vengeance and to him one Danish life is as good as another, so cast your runes again and then offer us your sword. You are doomed, Ubba.”
“And you’re a piece of weasel shit,” he said and said no more, but just turned and hurried away. Ealdorman Odda was still staring at me. “You know him?” he asked.
“I’ve known Ubba since I was ten years old,” I said, watching the Danish chieftain walk away. I was thinking that if I had a choice, that if I could follow my warrior’s heart, I would rather fight alongside Ubba than against him, but the spinners had decreed otherwise. “Since I was ten,” I went on, “and the one thing I know about Ubba is that he fears the gods. He’s terrified now. You can attack him and his heart will let him down because he thinks he will lose.”
“Alfred will come,” Odda said.
“Alfred watches Guthrum,” I said. I was not certain of that, of course. For all I knew Alfred could be watching us now from the hills, but I doubted he would leave Guthrum free to plunder Wessex. “He watches Guthrum,” I said, “because Guthrum’s army is twice as large as Ubba’s. Even with his fleet half drowned Guthrum has more men, and why would Alfred let them loose from Exanceaster? Alfred won’t come,” I finished, “and we shall all die of thirst before Ubba attacks us.”
“We have water,” his son said sulkily, “and ale.” He had been watching me resentfully, awed that I had spoken so familiarly with Ubba.
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