War Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘No, you stay here. If trouble starts you’ll know when to come, and when you do, come fast.’

  He nodded, understanding me. Finan and I had fought together for so long that I rarely needed to explain what I planned. He grinned. ‘I’ll come like the wind.’

  ‘Lord Uhtred—’ Oda began.

  ‘I’ll do my best to keep Guthfrith alive,’ I interrupted him, ‘and the hostages too.’

  I was not sure I could succeed in that, but I was certain that if we all rode forward until we were within shouting distance of Guthfrith’s men then there would almost certainly be a fight, or else blades would be held at the hostages’ throats. Guthfrith was a fool, but a proud fool, and I knew he would refuse a demand that he give up his prisoners and meekly agree to return to Eoferwic. He must refuse because to agree would be to lose face in front of his warriors.

  And those warriors were Norsemen, proud Norsemen who believed they were the most feared warriors in all the known world. They outnumbered us and they saw a chance for slaughter and plunder. Many were young, they wanted reputation, they wanted their arms ringed with gold and silver, they wanted their names to be spoken with terror. They wanted to kill me, to take my arm rings, my weapons, my land.

  So I walked towards them alone, stopping a little more than halfway between my men and Guthfrith’s tired warriors, who were then about a long bowshot away. I waited, and when Guthfrith made no move, I sat on a fallen Roman milestone, pulled off my helmet, and watched the sheep on the far hill crest, then looked up to admire the hawk balancing on the small wind. The bird was circling, so no message from the gods in that.

  I had come alone because I wanted Guthfrith alone, or at most with only two or three companions. I was sure he was ready for a fight, but he knew his men were tired and his horses blown, and I reckoned that even a fool like Guthfrith would probably explore the chances of avoiding a fight if he could win this confrontation without sacrificing a dozen or more of his warriors. Besides, he had hostages and doubtless thought he could use them to force me into a humiliating retreat.

  And still Guthfrith made no move. He had to be puzzled. He saw that I was alone and apparently unafraid, but a man does not become a king without some measure of cunning, and he was wondering where the trap lay. I decided to let him believe there was no trap and so I stood, kicked at some of the half buried stones in the old road, shrugged, and started walking away.

  That prompted him to spur forward. I heard the hooves, turned back, pulled on my helmet, and waited again.

  He brought three men. Two were warriors, one of whom was leading a small horse that carried Archbishop Hrothweard who was still dressed in the brightly embroidered robes that Christian priests wear in their churches. He looked unhurt, though tired, his face burned by the sun and his white hair tangled.

  I also heard the hooves behind me and glanced back to see that Finan had sent Berg and my son. ‘Stay behind me,’ I called to them. They had seen that Guthfrith and his two men had drawn swords and they too now pulled their long blades from their scabbards. Berg was behind and to my right, facing the man who held Hrothweard’s horse. My son was to my left, confronting the other warrior.

  ‘What—’ my son began to ask.

  ‘Say nothing!’ I said.

  Guthfrith curbed his stallion just two or three paces from me. His plump face, framed by the steel of his helmet, glistened with sweat. His brother, the one-eyed Sigtryggr, had been a handsome man, but Guthfrith had drunk too much ale and eaten too much rich food so that he now sat heavy in the saddle. He had small, suspicious eyes, a flattened nose, and a long, plaited beard that hung down his elaborate mail. His horse had silver trappings, his helmet had a raven’s black wing on its crown, and his sword was now held at Hrothweard’s throat. ‘Lord Archbishop,’ I said in greeting.

  ‘Lord Uht—’ Hrothweard began, then stopped abruptly as Guthfrith pressed the blade’s edge against his gullet.

  ‘Address me first,’ Guthfrith growled at me. ‘I am your king.’

  I looked at him and frowned. ‘Remind me of your name?’ I said, and heard my son chuckle.

  ‘You want this priest dead?’ Guthfrith asked angrily. The pressure of his sword was forcing Hrothweard to lean back in his saddle. His frightened eyes watching me over the grey blade.

  ‘Not particularly,’ I said carelessly, ‘I like him well enough.’

  ‘Well enough to beg for his life?’

  I pretended to think about that question, then nodded. ‘I’ll beg for his life if you swear to release him, yes.’

  Guthfrith sneered at that. ‘There will be a price,’ he said. I noticed how awkward Guthfrith looked. Hrothweard was on his left, and Guthfrith was holding the sword with his right hand.

  ‘There’s always a price,’ I said, taking a small step to my left, thus forcing Guthfrith to half turn his head away from Hrothweard. The sword wavered. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘merely wishes to speak with you. He promises you both your life and your kingdom.’

  ‘Æthelstan,’ Guthfrith said, ‘is shit from a swine’s arsehole. He wants Northumbria.’

  He was right, of course, at least about what Æthelstan wanted. ‘Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘keeps his promises.’ Yet in truth Æthelstan had betrayed me, he had broken his promise, yet here I was; doing just what he wanted.

  ‘He promised,’ Guthfrith said, ‘not to invade Northumbria while you lived, yet he’s here!’

  ‘He came to talk with you, nothing else.’

  ‘Maybe I should kill you. Maybe the little turd would like that.’

  ‘You can try,’ I said. My son’s horse stirred behind me, a hoof clicking against one of the road’s broken stones.

  Guthfrith edged his horse towards me and swept the sword over and down so the blade was in front of me. ‘You have never sworn me an oath of loyalty, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘yet I am your king.’

  ‘True,’ I said.

  ‘Then on your knees, Jarl Uhtred,’ he said, sneering at the word ‘jarl’, ‘and give me your sworn oath.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then you will feed Boar Tusk.’ I assumed Boar Tusk was the name of his sword that was now close to my face. I could see the nicks in the sharpened edges, could feel the heat of the steel on my cheek, and was dazzled by the sun reflecting brilliant from the vague whorls in the hammered steel. ‘Down!’ Guthfrith commanded, jerking the blade.

  I looked up into his small dark and suspicious eyes. ‘I shall demand the archbishop’s life in exchange for the oath,’ I said, ‘and the lives of the other hostages.’

  ‘You can demand nothing,’ he snarled, ‘nothing!’ He prodded the sword hard, grating its tip on my mail until it lodged in one of the links, forcing me back a half pace. ‘You will be my sworn man,’ he said, ‘and you will get only what I choose to give. Now down on your knees!’ He prodded again, harder.

  There was a gasp of astonishment from my son as I knelt meekly and lowered my head. Guthfrith chuckled and held his sword’s tip close to my face. ‘Kiss the blade,’ he said, ‘and say the words.’

  ‘Lord King,’ I said humbly, and paused. My left hand found a stone about the size of a fist.

  ‘Louder!’ Guthfrith snarled.

  ‘Lord King,’ I said again, ‘I swear by Odin …’ and with that I brought the stone up and smashed it into the stallion’s mouth. I hit the snaffle, crushing the silver decoration, but the blow must have hurt because the horse reared and whinnied. Guthfrith’s sword vanished from my sight. ‘Now!’ I bellowed, though neither my son nor Berg needed the encouragement. Guthfrith was struggling to stay in the saddle of his rearing horse. I stood, cursing the pain in my knees, and seized his sword arm. My son was to my left, keeping that man distracted by thrusting a sword at his belly. I hauled on Guthfrith, pulled again, was jerked to my right by the stallion, but Guthfrith fell at last, crashing down onto the road and I wrenched his sword free, dropped on his belly with my knees, and held Boar Tusk’s blade at his straggl
ing beard. ‘You’ll only get one oath from me, you miserable slime-toad,’ I snarled, ‘and that’s a promise to kill you.’

  He lurched up and I forced the sword down hard, which stilled him.

  And behind me Finan was charging. My men’s spears were lowered, the blades glittering in the harsh sun. Guthfrith’s men had been much slower to react, but now they were coming too.

  And once again I was not certain I was fighting for the right side.

  Two

  Was it the wrong side?

  I had no liking for Guthfrith. He was a drunken bully, a fool, and in the short time he had been King of Northumbria he had only succeeded in shrinking its borders. Now, on the hard road, he grunted something and I pressed the sword to silence him.

  My son had pierced his enemy through the belly. He had ripped the sword free, turned his horse, then swung the blade back onto the man’s neck. It was brutal, it was quick, and it was well done. The man swayed, his horse swerved, and he fell with a thump into the weeds beside the road. His body jerked as the blood stained the dust.

  Guthfrith lurched again and I rammed the sword-blade harder, crushing his beard against his throat. ‘You’re a guest on my land,’ I told him, ‘so behave yourself.’

  Berg had freed Hrothweard. The man holding the archbishop’s horse had released his grip on the reins, then tried to turn and flee. That was fatal, especially against a man as skilled and fierce as Berg, a Norseman himself. Now the man was writhing on the ground and his horse was trotting away alongside Guthfrith’s bloody-mouthed stallion. ‘To me, Berg!’ I bellowed. Guthfrith tried to speak and flapped a hand at me. ‘Move again,’ I told him, ‘and I’ll cut your fat throat.’ He stayed still.

  Finan, as he had promised, was coming like the wind, the horses leaving a plume of dust from the dry ground. Our horses were far less tired than Guthfrith’s stallions and so Finan had reached me sooner. ‘Stop!’ I bellowed at Finan over the thunder of hooves. ‘Stop! All of you! Stop!’ I had to stand and hold my hands wide to make them understand, and Guthfrith tried to haul me down so I smacked his helmet with the flat of Boar’s Tusk. He tried to seize the blade and I jerked it back and saw blood start from his hand. ‘Idiot,’ I snarled and thumped him with the blade again. ‘Gerbruht!’ I shouted. ‘Gerbruht! Come here!’

  My men had stopped in a cloud of dust. Gerbruht, a hugely strong Frisian, kicked his stallion towards me and slid from the saddle. ‘Lord?’

  ‘Hold him upright,’ I said. ‘He’s a king, but you can hammer the bastard senseless if he struggles.’

  Guthfrith’s men had been much slower to understand what was happening, but they had finally responded by spurring forward and now saw Gerbruht holding their king upright with a sword-blade at his neck. They slowed and stopped.

  Guthfrith did not struggle, just spat at me, which made Gerbruht increase the sword’s pressure. ‘Keep him alive,’ I said reluctantly.

  I had captured a king, a king who had wasted his kingdom, robbed his people, and let their enemies ride hard and savage across his western lands. Now King Æthelstan was in Eoferwic, and King Æthelstan was a just king, a stern king, but he was only king because I had fought for him at Lundene’s Crepelgate. I had once thought of Æthelstan as a son. I had protected him from powerful enemies, taught him the skills of a warrior, and watched him grow. Yet he had betrayed me. He had sworn never to invade Northumbria while I lived, yet he was here, in Northumbria, with an army.

  I am a Northumbrian. My country is the wind-flogged coast and the rain-darkened hills and the gaunt high rocks of the north. From the lush farmlands around Eoferwic to the high pastures where folk scratch a living from thin soil, from the harsh waters where men fish to the bleak moors and deep forests where we hunt the deer, it is a land my ancestors conquered. They settled it, built strong homesteads and fortresses, and then they defended it. We are Saxons and Danes, Norsemen and Angles, and we are Northumbrians.

  Yet a little country in a big land has a small future. I knew that. To our north was Constantine’s Alba, which we called Scotland, and Constantine feared the Saxons to our south. The Saxons and the Scots were both Christians, and Christians tell us that their god is love, and we must love one another and turn the other cheek, but when land is at stake those beliefs fly away and swords are drawn. Constantine ruled Alba, and Æthelstan ruled Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia, and both wanted Northumbria. ‘Northumbria speaks our tongue,’ Æthelstan had told me once, ‘the tongue of our folk, and they must be part of one country, the country that speaks Ænglisc!’

  That was the dream of King Alfred. Back when the Danes seemed to have conquered all of Britain, and when Alfred was a fugitive in the marshes of Sumorsæte, that dream had been as feeble as a dying rushlight. Yet we had fought, we had won, and now King Alfred’s grandson ruled all the land of Englaland except my land, Northumbria.

  ‘Fight for me,’ a voice said.

  I turned and saw it was Guthfrith who had spoken. ‘You could have fought at Eoferwic,’ I said, ‘but you ran away.’

  He hated me, yet I saw the shudder cross his face as he forced himself to speak calmly. ‘You’re a pagan, a Northumbrian. You want the Christians to win?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then fight for me! My men, your men, and Egil Skallagrimmrson will bring his men!’

  ‘And we’ll still be outnumbered six to one,’ I said curtly.

  ‘And if we’re behind the walls of Bebbanburg?’ Guthfrith pleaded. ‘What will that matter? Constantine will help us!’

  ‘Then he’ll take your kingdom,’ I said.

  ‘He promised not to!’ he blurted desperately.

  I paused. ‘Promised?’ I asked, but he said nothing. Guthfrith had doubtless spoken in despair and spoken more than he had meant to say, and now regretted it. So Constantine had sent envoys to Eoferwic? And Guthfrith had received them? I wanted to draw Wasp-Sting, my short-sword, and ram it into his belly, but Archbishop Hrothweard was at my side and Bishop Oda had dismounted and now stood beside him.

  ‘Lord King,’ Bishop Oda bowed to Guthfrith, ‘I am sent with brotherly greetings from King Æthelstan.’ Oda looked at Gerbruht. ‘Release him, man, release him!’

  Guthfrith just stared at Oda as if he could not believe what was happening, while Gerbruht looked at me for confirmation. I nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Lord Uhtred will return your sword, lord King.’ Oda spoke reassuringly, as if to a frightened child. ‘Please, Lord Uhtred?’

  This was madness! Holding Guthfrith as hostage was my only chance of avoiding a slaughter. His men still had drawn swords or levelled spears and they outnumbered us. Guthfrith held out his hand, still bleeding. ‘Give it to me!’ he demanded. I did not move.

  ‘His sword, lord,’ Oda said.

  ‘You want him to fight?’ I asked angrily.

  ‘There will be no violence,’ Oda spoke to Guthfrith, who paused, then gave an abrupt nod. ‘Please return the king’s sword, Lord Uhtred,’ Oda said very formally. I hesitated. ‘Please, lord,’ Oda said.

  ‘Stand still,’ I snarled at Guthfrith. I ignored his bloody outstretched hand and stood close to him. I was taller by a head, which he did not like, and he flinched when I took hold of his gold-decorated scabbard. He probably thought I was about to steal it, but instead I slid Boar’s Tusk through the scabbard’s fleece-lined throat, then stepped back and drew Serpent-Breath. Guthfrith put a hand to his sword’s hilt, but I twitched Serpent-Breath and he went still.

  ‘King Æthelstan,’ Oda said, still calm, ‘beseeches a meeting with you, lord King, and he vouches for both your life and your kingdom.’

  ‘Much as Constantine did, no doubt,’ I put in.

  Oda ignored that. ‘There is much to discuss, lord King.’

  ‘This!’ Guthfrith snapped, gesturing at me, then at my men. ‘Discuss this!’

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ Oda said, ‘nothing more. A regrettable misunderstanding.’

  Archbishop Hrothweard had said nothing, just looke
d frightened, but now he nodded eagerly. ‘King Æthelstan’s word can be trusted, lord King.’

  ‘Please,’ Bishop Oda looked at me, ‘there’s no need for a drawn sword, Lord Uhtred. We meet as friends!’

  And a woman screamed.

  I could not see the hostages, they were hidden by Guthfrith’s men, but Finan must have seen something because he spurred his stallion forward, shouting at Guthfrith’s men to let him through, but some young fool lifted a spear and urged his horse at Finan. Finan’s sword, Soul-Stealer, swept the spear aside, lunged into the man’s chest, pierced mail, but seemed to glance off a rib. The young rider leaned back in his saddle, his nerveless hand letting go of the spear, and Finan burst past him, swung Soul-Stealer back onto the man’s neck and there was a bellowing of rage, men were turning horses to pursue Finan, which only provoked my men to follow the Irishman. It happened in an eye-blink. One moment the two sides were calm, though wary, then the scream brought a tumult of hooves, bright blades and angry shouts.

  Guthfrith was faster than I expected. He shoved Oda hard, making the bishop stagger against Hrothweard, then stumbled away, shouting at his men to bring him a horse. He was heavily built, hot and tired, and I caught him easily, kicked the back of one knee and he sprawled onto the road. He swung an arm at me just as one of his men spurred hard towards us. The man lowered his spear, leaned from the saddle, and Guthfrith swung again, this time trying to hit me with a stone, but his wild swing only knocked the spear shaft aside. The butt of the spear hit me on the arm so hard that I almost dropped Serpent-Breath. Guthfrith was trying to draw his own sword, then Gerbruht barged past me and kicked the scabbard so fiercely that it wrenched the sword’s hilt from Guthfrith’s hand. The horseman had turned. His piebald stallion was sweat-whitened, its hooves skewing gravel and earth, the man wrenched the reins, his mouth open and his eyes wide beneath the grey helmet’s rim. He was young, shouting, though I heard nothing. He spurred savagely, but the horse reared instead, towering above me. The young man had been trying to move his spear from his right to his left hand, but now let the weapon fall and gripped the saddle’s high pommel as the horse flailed. Then he half fell backwards as I rammed Serpent-Breath up his thigh, ripping mail, cloth and flesh from his knee to his groin, the blade only wrenched free as his horse bolted, pounding up the road to where my men had pierced Guthfrith’s troops like a swine-horn splitting a shield wall.