The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8)

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘You ordered me here.’

  ‘But I did not order you to waste time finding a ship,’ she said tartly. A servant came to take her horse, while her men dismounted and stretched tired limbs. ‘There’s a rumour that Norsemen are coming here,’ she went on.

  ‘There are always rumours,’ I said dismissively.

  ‘We heard a report from Wales,’ she ignored my flippant comment, ‘that a fleet was off the coast. It might not be coming here, but there’s empty land north of the Mærse and that might tempt them.’ She frowned, sniffing the air and disliking what she smelt. ‘I did not scour Haki from that land just to make space for another pagan warlord! We have to settle folk on that land.’

  ‘Sigtryggr,’ I said.

  She frowned. ‘Sigtryggr?’

  ‘Your Welsh spies were right,’ I said, ‘Sigtryggr is the warlord who leads the Norse fleet.’

  ‘You know about him?’

  ‘Of course I do! His men are occupying Brunanburh.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she flinched at the news. ‘Oh God, no! So they did come here! Well that won’t last! We have to get rid of them quickly.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’d leave them alone.’

  She stared at me in shock. ‘Leave them alone? Are you mad? The last thing we want is Norsemen controlling the Mærse.’ She began striding towards the Great Hall. Two of her priests scurried behind carrying sheaves of parchment. ‘Find a strongbox,’ she talked over her shoulder as she went, ‘and make sure those documents stay dry! I can’t stay long,’ she was evidently talking to me now. ‘Gleawecestre is calm enough, but there’s still much work to do there. Which is why I want those Norsemen gone!’

  ‘They outnumber us,’ I said dubiously.

  She turned around fast, all energy and decision, and jabbed a finger at me. ‘And they’ll be reinforced if we give them any more time. You know that! We must get rid of them!’

  ‘They outnumber us,’ I said again, ‘and they’re battle-hardened. They’ve been fighting in Ireland, and men learn to be vicious there. If we’re to attack Brunanburh I’d want another three hundred men, at least!’

  She frowned, worried suddenly. ‘What’s happened to you? Are you frightened of this man, Sigtryggr?’

  ‘He’s a lord of war.’

  She looked into my eyes, evidently judging the truth of my words and whatever she saw must have convinced her. ‘Dear God,’ she said, still frowning. ‘Your wound, I suppose,’ she added half under her breath, and turned away. She believed I had lost my courage and as a consequence she now had another worry to add to her many burdens. She walked on till she noticed the swords, shields, spears, mail coats, helmets, and axes that were heaped by the Great Hall door beneath Sigtryggr’s banner of the red axe which was nailed to the wall. She stopped, puzzled. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I forgot to tell you,’ I said, ‘that the battle-hardened men attacked yesterday. They killed three of our men and wounded sixteen, but we killed seventy-two of theirs, and Sigtryggr is our hostage. We’re keeping him till tomorrow when his fleet sails back to Ireland. You really didn’t need to come! It’s very good to see you, of course, but Merewalh and I are quite capable of dealing with big bad Norsemen.’

  ‘You bastard,’ she said, though not in anger. She looked at the trophies, then back to me and laughed. ‘And God be thanked,’ she added, touching the silver cross that hung at her breast.

  That night we feasted with Sigtryggr again, though the arrival of Æthelflaed with so many warriors meant that the meat was scanty. There was ale enough, and the steward provided skins of wine and a large barrel of mead. Even so, Æthelflaed’s presence meant the mood of the hall was more subdued than the previous night. Men tended to talk more softly when she was in the hall, they were less liable to start fights or bawl their favourite songs about women at the tops of their voices. The mood was made even more sombre by the half-dozen churchmen who shared the top table, where Æthelflaed questioned Merewalh and myself about the fight at the North Gate. Sigtryggr had been given an honourable place at the table, as had my daughter. ‘It was her fault,’ Sigtryggr said, nodding towards Stiorra.

  I translated for Æthelflaed. ‘Why her fault?’ she asked.

  ‘He saw her and was distracted,’ I explained.

  ‘A pity,’ my daughter said coldly, ‘that he was not distracted for longer.’

  Æthelflaed smiled approvingly at that sentiment. She sat very straight, keeping a watchful eye on the hall. She ate little and drank less. ‘So she doesn’t get drunk, then?’ Sigtryggr said to me sourly, nodding at Æthelflaed. He was sitting across the table from me.

  ‘She doesn’t,’ I said.

  ‘My mother would be wrestling with my father’s warriors by now,’ he said gloomily, ‘or else out-drinking them.’

  ‘What is he saying?’ Æthelflaed demanded. She had seen the Norseman glance at her.

  ‘He complimented you on the wine,’ I said.

  ‘Tell him it is a gift from my youngest sister, Ælthryth.’

  Ælthryth had married Baldwin of Flanders who ruled territory south of Frisia, and if this was Flanders wine I would rather have drunk horse piss, but Sigtryggr seemed to like it. He offered to pour some for Stiorra, but she refused him curtly and went back to her conversation with Father Fraomar, a young priest in Æthelflaed’s service. ‘The wine is good!’ Sigtryggr pressed her.

  ‘I shall help myself,’ she said distantly. Alone among my family and followers she seemed immune to the Norseman’s appeal. I certainly liked him. He reminded me of myself, or at least of the man I was when I had been young and headstrong and had taken the risks that either end in death or reputation. And Sigtryggr had charmed my men. He had given Finan an arm ring, praised my warriors’ fighting skills, admitted that he had been well beaten, and had promised that one day he would come back to take his revenge. ‘If your father ever gives you another fleet,’ I had said.

  ‘He will,’ he said confidently, ‘only next time I won’t fight you. I’ll look for an easier Saxon to beat.’

  ‘Why not stay in Ireland?’ I had asked him.

  He had hesitated before answering and I suspected a jest was coming, but then he had looked at me with his one eye. ‘They’re savage fighters, lord. You attack and beat them, and then suddenly there’s another horde of them. And the deeper you go into their land the more there are, and half the time you can’t see them, but you know they’re there. It’s like fighting phantoms till they suddenly appear and attack.’ He half smiled. ‘They can keep their land.’

  ‘As we’ll keep ours.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ he had grinned. ‘We’ll row down the Welsh coast now and see if we can’t capture a slave or two to take home. My father will forgive me a lot if I take him a clutch of new girls.’

  Æthelflaed treated Sigtryggr with disdain. He was a pagan and she hated all pagans except for me. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t kill him,’ she said at the feast.

  ‘I tried.’

  She watched Stiorra rebuff every effort Sigtryggr made to be friendly. ‘She’s grown well,’ she said warmly.

  ‘She has.’

  ‘Unlike my daughter,’ she sighed, her voice low now.

  ‘I like Ælfwynn.’

  ‘She has a head full of feathers,’ she said dismissively. ‘But it’s time you found Stiorra a husband.’

  ‘I know.’

  She paused, her eyes looking around the hall that was lit by rushlights. ‘Æthelhelm’s wife is dying.’

  ‘So he told me.’

  ‘She may be dead by now. Æthelhelm told me that the priests have given her the last rites.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ I said dutifully.

  ‘I had a long conversation with him before I left Gleawecestre,’ Æthelflaed said, still looking down the hall, ‘with him and with my brother. They accept what our Witan decided. They also agreed to leave Æthelstan in my care. He will be raised in Mercia and there will be no attempt to spirit him away.’

  ‘You
believe that?’

  ‘I believe we must guard the boy,’ she said tartly. She looked at Æthelstan, who was with his twin sister at one of the lower tables. His royal birth meant he should have eaten at the top table, but I had spared him the conversation of Æthelflaed’s priests. ‘I believe my brother means the boy no harm,’ she went on, ‘and he insists there must be no enmity between Wessex and Mercia.’

  ‘Nor will there be, unless Æthelhelm gets ambitious again.’

  ‘He overreached himself,’ she said, ‘and he knows it. He apologised to me, and very graciously. But yes, he is ambitious, so perhaps a new wife might distract him? The woman I have in mind will certainly keep him busy.’

  It took me a moment to understand what she was saying. ‘You?’ I asked, astonished. ‘You’re thinking of marrying Æthelhelm?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘not me.’

  ‘Then who?’

  She hesitated for a heartbeat, then looked at me challengingly. ‘Stiorra.’

  ‘Stiorra!’ I spoke too loudly, and my daughter turned to look at me. I shook my head and she went back to her discussion with Father Fraomar. ‘Stiorra!’ I said again, but softer this time. ‘She’s young enough to be his granddaughter!’

  ‘It isn’t unknown for men to marry younger women,’ Æthelflaed said waspishly. She glanced at Eadith, who was sitting on a lower table with Finan and my son. Æthelflaed had not been pleased to find Eardwulf’s sister in Ceaster, but I had defended Eadith’s presence fiercely, saying I owed her my recovery. ‘What else?’ Æthelflaed had asked sharply, a question I had ignored, just as Æthelflaed had since ignored Eadith. ‘And Æthelhelm is in good health,’ she continued now, ‘and he’s wealthy. He’s a good man.’

  ‘Who tried to kill you.’

  ‘That was Eardwulf,’ she responded, ‘who misunderstood Æthelhelm’s wishes.’

  ‘He would have killed you,’ I said, ‘he would have killed Æthelstan, and killed anyone else who stands in his grandson’s way.’

  She sighed. ‘My brother needs Æthelhelm,’ she said. ‘He’s too powerful to be ignored and he’s too useful. And if Wessex needs Æthelhelm, so does Mercia.’

  ‘You’re saying Wessex is ruled by Æthelhelm?’

  She shrugged, unwilling to admit it. ‘I’m saying that Æthelhelm is a good man, ambitious yes, but effective. We need his support.’

  ‘And you think sacrificing Stiorra to his bed will get it?’

  She winced at my tone. ‘I think your daughter should be married,’ she said, ‘and Lord Æthelhelm admires her.’

  ‘You mean he wants to hump her,’ I growled. I looked at my daughter, whose head was bowed as she listened to Fraomar. She looked grave and beautiful. ‘So she’s to be a peace cow between Mercia and Wessex?’ I asked. A peace cow was a woman married between enemies to seal a treaty.

  ‘Think on it,’ Æthelflaed said urgently. ‘When she’s widowed she’ll inherit more land than you can dream of, more warriors than you could hope to raise, and more money than Edward’s whole treasury.’ She paused, but I said nothing. ‘And it will be ours,’ she added in a low voice. ‘Wessex won’t swallow Mercia, we’ll swallow Wessex.’

  There is a story in the Christian scripture about someone or other being taken to the hilltop and offered the whole world. I do not remember the tale now, only that the idiot turned it down, and, at that feast, I felt like the idiot. ‘Why not marry Ælfwynn to Æthelhelm?’ I asked.

  ‘My daughter isn’t clever,’ Æthelflaed said, ‘Stiorra is. And it needs a clever woman to manage Æthelhelm.’

  ‘So what will you do with Ælfwynn?’

  ‘Marry her to someone. Merewalh perhaps? I don’t know. I despair of the child.’

  Stiorra. I gazed at her. She was indeed clever and beautiful, and I had to find her a husband, so why not find her the richest husband in Wessex? ‘I’ll think about it,’ I promised, and I thought of the old prophecy that my daughter would be the mother of kings.

  And so it proved.

  Dawn. A small mist on the Mærse was broken by the dark shapes of twenty-six dragon-ships that rowed slowly to hold their place against the flooding tide. Sigtryggr’s men had kept their word. The ships were ready to sail, and Brunanburh was ours again. The only Norsemen left ashore were Svart and six others who guarded Eardwulf and his three remaining followers. I had wanted Eardwulf handed to me on the day of Sigtryggr’s defeat, but he had fled too quickly, though he had only got as far as one of the Danish halls on Wirhealum, where Sigtryggr’s men had discovered him. Now he waited for our arrival.

  I brought Finan, my son, and twenty men, and Æthelflaed was escorted by a dozen more. I had insisted that Æthelstan ride with me to Brunanburh, while my daughter had also wanted to see the Norsemen leave, and so she had accompanied us, bringing her maid, Hella. ‘Why did you bring a maid?’ I asked her.

  ‘Why not? There’s no danger, is there?’

  ‘None,’ I said. I trusted Sigtryggr to keep his promise that there would be no fighting between his men and ours, nor was there. We met Svart and his few men close to the half-finished burh, where Sigtryggr dismounted from his borrowed horse. Svart brought him his sword, and Sigtryggr looked at me as if asking for permission to take it. I nodded. He pulled the blade from its scabbard and kissed the steel. ‘You want me to kill the Saxons?’ he asked, nodding towards Eardwulf.

  ‘I do my own work,’ I said, and I swung myself from the saddle and was amazed that there was no pain.

  ‘Father,’ Uhtred called. He wanted to do the killing.

  ‘I do my own work,’ I said again, and though there was no pain I took care to lean against the horse. I gasped as if the agony had come back, then I pushed off the stallion’s flank and limped towards Eardwulf. The limp was a pretence.

  He watched me approach. He stood tall, his narrow face expressionless. His dark hair, no longer oiled as it used to be, was tied with a ribbon. There was a few days’ growth of beard on his long chin, his cloak was dirty and his boots scuffed. He looked like a man who had suffered fate’s blows. ‘You should have killed me,’ I said, ‘at Alencestre.’

  ‘If I had,’ he said, ‘I would rule in Mercia now.’

  ‘And now you’ll rule a Mercian grave,’ I answered, then drew Serpent-Breath. I grimaced, as if her weight was too much for me.

  ‘You’d kill an unarmed man, Lord Uhtred?’ Eardwulf asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Berg,’ I shouted without turning around, ‘give your sword to this man!’

  I rested on my sword, placing the tip on a flat stone and leaning my weight on the hilt. Behind Eardwulf was the unfinished burh, its long earthen wall topped now by thorn bushes that made a temporary palisade. I thought the Norsemen might have burned the church and stables, but they stood unharmed. Svart and his men guarded Eardwulf’s followers.

  Berg trotted his horse forward. He glanced at me, then drew Ice-Spite and tossed the blade onto the dew-wet grass by Eardwulf’s feet. ‘That,’ I told Eardwulf, ‘is Ice-Spite. Cnut Longsword’s blade. Your sister tells me you tried to buy it once and now I give it to you. It almost killed me, so see if you can finish the job.’

  ‘Father!’ Stiorra called anxiously. She must have believed Eardwulf and Ice-Spite were more than a match for me.

  ‘Quiet, girl. I’m busy.’

  Why did I choose to fight him? He was going to die whether I fought him or not, and he was dangerous, half my age and a warrior. But it is reputation, always reputation. Pride, I suppose, is the most treacherous of virtues. The Christians call it a sin, but no poet sings of men who have no pride. Christians say the meek will inherit the earth, but the meek inspire no songs. Eardwulf had wanted to kill me, to kill Æthelflaed and Æthelstan. Eardwulf had wanted to rule, and Eardwulf was the last vestige of Æthelred’s hatred. It was fitting that I should kill him and that all Saxon Englaland should know that I had killed him.

  He stooped and picked up the sword. ‘You are in mail,’ he said, and that told me he was nervous. />
  ‘I’m old,’ I said, ‘and wounded. You’re young. And Ice-Spite has pierced my mail once, so let her do it again. She’s a magic blade.’

  ‘Magic?’ he asked, then looked at the sword and saw the inscription.

  His eyes widened, and he hefted the sword.

  I lifted Serpent-Breath and winced as if her weight was gnawing at my ribs. ‘Besides,’ I went on, ‘you’ll move faster without mail.’

  ‘And if I kill you?’ Eardwulf asked.

  ‘Then my son will kill you,’ I said, ‘but for all time men will know that Lord Eardwulf conquered Uhtred.’ I made the ‘lord’ into a sneer.

  And he came for me. He came fast. I carried no shield, and he swept Ice-Spite at my unprotected left side, but it was little more than an exploration, an attempt to see if I could parry, and I did not even need to think about it. The blades clashed and Serpent-Breath stopped Ice-Spite dead. I took a pace backwards and lowered my blade. ‘You won’t kill me with a cut,’ I said, ‘even Vlfberht’s blades won’t cut mail open. You need to lunge.’

  He was watching my eyes. He took a step forward, his sword rising, and I did not move, and he stepped back again. He was testing me, but he was also nervous. ‘Your sister,’ I said, ‘tells me you fought in the rear rank of the shield wall, never in the front rank.’

  ‘She lied.’

  ‘She was lying,’ I said, ‘lying in my bed when she told me. She said you let other men do your fighting.’

  ‘Then she’s a whore and a liar.’

  I grimaced again, slightly bending at the waist as I used to do when the pain struck suddenly. Eardwulf did not know I was healed, and he saw Serpent-Breath drop even lower and he stamped his right foot forward and rammed Ice-Spite fast at my chest and I turned to one side to let the blade slide past me and then I punched him in the face with Serpent-Breath’s heavy hilt. He staggered. I heard Finan chuckle as Eardwulf brought the sword back in a swing, again to my left side, but there was no force in the cut because he was still recovering from the lunge and from my blow and I just raised my arms and let the blade hit my mail. It struck just above the wound and the mail stopped the blade and there was no pain. I smiled at Eardwulf and flicked Serpent-Breath so that her tip cut open his left cheek, already bloody from the blow I had given him.