It had been years since I saw a hall burning, but a few men can kill a large number if they do it right and I was certain that was what Eardwulf planned. He would wait for the heart of the night, for the darkest hour, and then he would bring embers in a clay pot. Most of his men would wait outside the hall door, while a few went to the southern side and blew life into the embers. Then they would fire the thatch. Even damp straw will burn if fed with enough fire, and once the flames catch they spread fast, filling the hall with smoke and panic. Folk run for the door and so flee into the waiting swords and spears. Those that stay inside are burned to death as the great hall collapses and the huge rafters fall in. His risk, of course, was that Ælfwynn would die in the blaze, but he must have reckoned we would hurry the girls out of danger first and so deliver them into his arms. It was a risk he had to take because this dark night was his only chance. Like a man losing at dice, he would risk everything on one throw.
‘Pray,’ I told Æthelflaed.
‘I always pray,’ she said tartly.
‘Pray for darkness,’ I said fervently, ‘for thick darkness. For utter darkness. Pray for clouds over the moon.’
I made the men sing, shout, and laugh. Except for three scouts hidden at the edge of the woodland they were all in the hall and all dressed in mail, with helmets and shields, the bright fire glinting off the metal of spearheads and shield bosses. They still sang as night fell, the mangy hound howling along with the bellowed songs, and as the clouds I had prayed for did come, as the moon was shrouded, and as the night grew as dark as Eardwulf’s ambitions, I had the men leave in small groups. They went to the barn, found a horse, any horse, and led the beasts southwards. I had told them to be silent, but it seemed to me that each group made as much noise as drunken men staggering through a street at midnight, though doubtless the sounds made little sense to Eardwulf’s men, who my scouts told me were gathering in the northern trees. I went with Æthelflaed and the girls, protected by Finan and four men, and we found some saddled horses and led them by the bridles till we could mount and ride south into the black shelter of the beech woods. Sihtric and a half-dozen men led Lidulf, his wife, and household out into the night. The old woman complained shrilly, but her noise was drowned by the raucous singing of the men left in the hall.
Finally there were just a dozen men singing, led by my son. They left at last, shutting the hall’s big doors and crossing to the barn where they found the remaining horses. They still sang. It was deep in the night’s dark heart when the last song faded. I had hoped to give Eardwulf’s listening men the impression of a drunken night in the hall, a night of shouting and singing, of ale and laughter. A night for a killing.
And we waited in the trees.
And we waited. An owl called. Somewhere a vixen cried.
And we waited.
Six
Time passes slower at night. Years ago, when I was a child, my father asked our priest why that was so, and Father Beocca, dear Father Beocca, preached a sermon about it the next Sunday. The sun, he said, was the light of the Christian god and is quick, while the moon is the lamp that travels through the darkness of sin. All of us, he explained, tread more slowly at night because we cannot see, so therefore, he declared, the night moves more slowly than the day because the sun moves in Christian brilliance, while the moon stumbles around in the devil’s darkness. The sermon made little sense to me, but when I asked Father Beocca to explain it he clipped me around the ear with his maimed hand and told me to concentrate on reading how Saint Cuthbert baptised a flock of puffins. But whatever the reason, time does slow at night, and puffins do go to heaven, or at least those puffins do who were lucky enough to have met Saint Cuthbert.
‘Are there herrings in heaven?’ I remember asking Father Beocca.
‘I can’t think so.’
‘Then what do the puffins eat if there aren’t any fish?’
‘None of us eat in heaven. We sing God’s glories instead.’
‘We don’t eat! We just sing for ever?’
‘And ever, amen.’
It sounded boring then, it still sounds boring now, almost as boring as waiting in the darkness for an attack I was sure was coming, but which never seemed to happen. It was quiet except for the sigh of wind in the treetops and, every now and then, the splash of men pissing or horses staling. An owl called for a time, then was silent.
And in the silence the doubts came. Suppose Eardwulf had anticipated the trap? Was he even now leading horsemen through the dark woods to attack us among the trees? I told myself that was impossible. The clouds had thickened, no one could travel these woods without blundering. I persuaded myself it was more likely that he had abandoned his ambition, that he had accepted defeat, and that I was imposing this discomfort and fear on my men for no reason.
We shivered. Not just because it was cold, but because the night is when the ghosts and sprites and elves and dwarves come to Midgard. They prowl silently through the dark. You might not see them, and will never hear them unless they choose to be heard, but they are there; malevolent things of darkness. My men were silent, fearful, not of Eardwulf or his warriors, but of the things we cannot see. And with the fears came memories, the recollection of Ragnar’s death in a fearful hall burning. I had been a child, shivering with Brida on the hill, watching the great hall flame and collapse, and listening to the screams of men, women, and children dying. Kjartan and his men had surrounded the hall and massacred those who fled the fire, all but the young women who could be taken and used just as Ragnar’s lovely daughter, Thyra, had been raped and shamed. She had found happiness in the end by marrying Beocca, and she still lived, a nun now, and I had never spoken to her of that night of fire when her mother and father had died. I had loved Ragnar. He had been my true father, the Dane who had taught me to be a man, and he had died in those flames, and I always hoped he had seized his sword before he was killed so that he was in Valhalla to see when I took revenge for him by slaughtering Kjartan on a northern hilltop. Ealdwulf had died in that fire, his name so similar to my newest enemy. Ealdwulf had been the blacksmith at Bebbanburg, the fortress stolen from me by my uncle, but he had fled Bebbanburg to be my man, and it had been Ealdwulf who had hammered Serpent-Breath into life on his massive anvil.
So many dead. So many lives twisted by fate, and now we began the dance again. Æthelred’s death had woken ambitions, Æthelhelm’s greed was threatening the peace, or perhaps it was my stubbornness that tried to thwart West Saxon hopes.
‘What are you thinking?’ Æthelflaed asked me in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
‘That I must find the man who took Ice-Spite from Teotanheale,’ I answered just as quietly.
She sighed, though perhaps that was the wind in the leaves. ‘You should submit to God,’ she finally said.
I smiled. ‘You don’t mean that. You just have to say it. Besides, it isn’t pagan magic. Father Cuthbert told me to find the sword.’
‘I sometimes wonder if Father Cuthbert is a good Christian,’ she said.
‘He’s a good man.’
‘He is, yes.’
‘So a good man can be a bad Christian?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then a bad man,’ I said, ‘can be a good Christian?’ She did not answer. ‘That explains half the bishops,’ I went on, ‘Wulfheard for one.’
‘He’s a very able man,’ she said.
‘But greedy.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘For power,’ I said, ‘for money. And for women.’
She was silent for a while. ‘We live in a world of temptation,’ she finally spoke, ‘and few of us aren’t tainted by the devil’s fingers. And the devil works hardest on men of God. Wulfheard is a sinner, but which of us isn’t? You think he doesn’t know his failures? That he doesn’t pray to be redeemed? He’s been a good servant to Mercia. He’s administered the law, he’s kept the treasury filled, he’s given sage advice.’
‘He burned down my home too,’ I sa
id vengefully, ‘and for all we know he conspired with Eardwulf to have you killed.’
She ignored that accusation. ‘There are so many good priests,’ she said instead, ‘so many decent men who feed the hungry, tend the sick, and comfort the sad. Nuns too! So many good ones!’
‘I know,’ I said, and thought of Beocca and of Pyrlig, of Willibald and Cuthbert, of Abbess Hild, but such men and women rarely achieved power in the church. It was the sly and ambitious ones like Wulfheard who gained preferment. ‘Bishop Wulfheard,’ I said, ‘wants you gone. He wants your brother as King of Mercia.’
‘And is that such a bad thing?’ she asked.
‘It is if they put you in a nunnery.’
She thought for a short while. ‘It’s thirty years since Mercia had a king,’ she said. ‘Æthelred ruled for most of that time, but only because my father let him. Now you say he’s dead. So who succeeds him? We had no son. Who better than my brother?’
‘You.’
She said nothing for a long while. ‘Can you see any ealdorman supporting a woman’s right to rule?’ she finally asked. ‘Any bishop? Any abbot? Wessex has a king, and Wessex has kept Mercia alive these thirty years, so why not unite the countries?’
‘Because Mercians don’t want that.’
‘Some don’t. Most don’t. They’d like a Mercian to rule here, but will they want a woman on the throne?’
‘If it’s you, yes. They love you.’
‘Some do, many don’t. And all of them would think a woman as ruler to be unnatural.’
‘It is unnatural,’ I said, ‘it’s ridiculous! You’re supposed to spin wool and have babies, not rule a country. But you’re still the best choice.’
‘Or my brother Edward.’
‘He’s not the warrior you are,’ I said.
‘He’s the king,’ she said simply.
‘So,’ I asked, ‘you’ll just hand the kingdom to Edward? Here you are, brother, here’s Mercia.’
‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘No?’
‘Why do you think we go to Gleawecestre? There’s going to be a meeting of the Witan, there has to be, so we’ll let them choose.’
‘And you think they’ll choose you?’
She paused a long time and I sensed that she smiled. ‘Yes,’ she finally said.
I laughed. ‘Why? You just said no man will support a woman’s right to rule, so why will they choose you?’
‘Because you might be old and crippled and headstrong and infuriating,’ she said, ‘but they’re still frightened of you, and you’re going to persuade them.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you are.’
I smiled in the darkness. ‘Then we’d better make sure we live through this night,’ I said, and just then heard the unmistakable sound of a hoof striking a stone in the ploughland to our north.
The waiting was over.
Eardwulf was being careful. The hall door faced north, which meant the hall’s southern side was a great blank timber wall, and so he had brought his men to the southern fields where they could not be seen by any sentry I might have placed at the hall door. We heard that first hoof, then more hooves, then the soft chink of bridles, and we held our breath. We could see nothing, just hear the men and horses who were between us and the hall and then, quite suddenly, there was light.
There was a flare of light, a sudden burst of flame that appeared much closer than I had expected, and I realised Eardwulf was lighting the brands well away from the hall. His men were not far beyond the trees, and the sudden light made me think they must see us, but none of them was looking back into the tangled shadows of the woodland. The first brand flamed high, then six more were lit, one bundle of straw lighting another. They waited till all seven were burning fiercely, then the torches’ long handles were given to seven horsemen. ‘Go,’ I distinctly heard the command given, then watched all seven flamebearers gallop across the pasture. They held the torches wide, the sparks trailing behind. Eardwulf’s men followed.
I kicked my horse to the wood’s edge and paused there. My men waited with me as the bright torches were hurled up onto the hall’s roof and as Eardwulf’s men dismounted and drew their swords. ‘One of my ancestors crossed the sea,’ I said, ‘and captured the rock on which Bebbanburg is built.’
‘Bebbanburg?’ Æthelflaed asked.
I did not answer. I was gazing at the seven fires, which looked dull now. For a moment it seemed the hall roof would not burn, but then the flames spread as they found the drier straw beneath the wet outer layer of tightly woven thatch, and once that drier straw caught the fire it spread with a vicious speed. Most of Eardwulf’s men had gone to make a cordon around the closed hall door, which meant they were hidden from us, though some stayed on horseback and a half-dozen others remained on the southern side of the building in case anyone tried to break through the wall and so escape.
‘What has Bebbanburg to do with this?’ Æthelflaed asked.
‘My ancestor’s name was Ida the Flamebearer,’ I said, looking at the lurid flames, then took a deep breath. ‘Now,’ I shouted, and drew Serpent-Breath. The pain stabbed at me, but I shouted again. ‘Now!’
Eadric had been right. There were no more than thirty men with Eardwulf, the rest must have refused to join the murder of Æthelflaed. And thirty men would have been enough if we had been inside the hall. The morning would have revealed smouldering embers and thick smoke and would have left Eardwulf as Æthelred’s heir, but instead he was my victim, and I spurred my horse as my men streamed from the trees and galloped through the flame-lit darkness.
And Eardwulf’s hopes died. It was sudden and it was slaughter. Men expecting to see half-woken panic come from the hall door were instead overwhelmed by mounted spearmen erupting from the night. My men attacked from both sides of the hall, converging on the warriors waiting at the hall door, and there was nowhere for them to run. We hacked down with swords or lunged with spears. I saw my son split a helmet with Raven-Beak, saw the blood fly in the firelight, saw Finan spear a man through the belly and leave the spear buried in the dying man’s gut before drawing his sword to find the next victim. Gerbruht used an axe to crush and split a man’s helmeted skull, all the time bellowing in his native Frisian.
I was looking for Eardwulf. Æthelflaed galloped in front of me and I shouted at her to get out of the fight. Pain filled me. I turned my horse to follow her and to push her away, and it was then I saw Eardwulf. He was still mounted. He too had seen Æthelflaed, and he spurred towards her, followed by a group of his men who had also stayed on horseback. I headed him off. Æthelflaed vanished to my left, Eardwulf was to my right, and I swung Serpent-Breath in a wide cut that slammed into his ribs but did not break his mail. More of my men arrived, and Eardwulf wrenched his reins and dug his spurs back. ‘Follow him!’ I shouted.
There was chaos. Horsemen wheeling, men shouting, some trying to surrender, and all in a whirl of sparks and smoke. It was hard to tell which horsemen were enemies in the flickering light. Then I saw Eardwulf and his companions galloping clear and I spurred after him. The fire was bright enough to light the pastureland, casting long black shadows from the grass tussocks. Some of my men were following, whooping as though they were on a hunt. One of the fugitives’ horses stumbled. The rider had long dark hair hanging beneath his helmet. He glanced back and saw me catching him and kicked desperately as I lunged with Serpent-Breath, aiming the blade’s tip at the base of his spine, but instead the sword caught in the high cantle of his saddle just as the horse twisted hard aside. The horse stumbled again and the man fell. I heard a scream. My own horse sheered away from the tumbling stallion, and I almost lost my grip on Serpent-Breath. My horsemen pounded past me, hooves throwing up gobbets of damp soil, but Eardwulf and his remaining companions were far ahead of us now, vanishing into the northern woods. I swore and reined in.
‘Enough! Stop!’ I heard Æthelflaed shout, and I turned back to the burning hall. I had thought she was in t
rouble, but instead she was halting the slaughter. ‘I will kill no more Mercians!’ she shouted. ‘Stop!’ The survivors were being herded together and stripped of their weapons.
I sat motionless, pain filling my chest, my sword held low. The fire was roaring now, the whole hall roof ablaze and filling the night with smoke, sparks, and blood-coloured light. Finan came to my side. ‘Lord?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I’m not hurt. It’s just the wound.’
He led my horse back to where Æthelflaed had gathered the prisoners. ‘Eardwulf escaped,’ I told her.
‘There’s nowhere he can go,’ she said. ‘He’s an outlaw now.’
A roof beam collapsed, surging new flames higher and showering the sky with bright sparks. Æthelflaed kicked her horse towards the prisoners, fourteen of them, who stood beside the barn. There were six corpses between the barn and the hall. ‘Take them away,’ Æthelflaed ordered, ‘and bury them.’ She looked at the fourteen men. ‘How many of you,’ she asked, ‘swore oaths of loyalty to Eardwulf?’
All but one raised their hands. ‘Just kill them,’ I growled.
She ignored me. ‘Your lord,’ she said, ‘is now an outlaw. If he lives he will flee to a far country, to heathen lands. How many of you wish to accompany your oath-lord?’
Not one of them raised a hand. They stood silent and fearful. Some were wounded, their scalps or shoulders bleeding from sword cuts made by the horsemen who had ambushed them.
‘You can’t trust them,’ I said, ‘so kill them.’
‘Are you all Mercians?’ Æthelflaed asked, and all nodded except for the one man who had not admitted his loyalty to Eardwulf. The Mercians looked at that man and he flinched. ‘What are you?’ Æthelflaed asked him. He hesitated. ‘Tell me!’ she commanded.
‘Grindwyn, my lady. I’m from Wintanceaster.’
‘A West Saxon?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
I kicked my horse closer to Grindwyn. He was an older man of maybe thirty or forty summers with a neatly trimmed beard, expensive mail, and a finely crafted cross hanging at his neck. The mail and the cross suggested he was a man who had earned silver across the years, not some adventurer driven by poverty to seek service with Eardwulf. ‘Who do you serve?’ I asked him.
The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) Page 15
