War Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Stop it!’ Oda shouted, ‘stop it!’

  Gerbruht had seized Guthfrith and dragged him to his feet. The king had managed to retrieve his fallen sword, but I smacked his arm aside and held Serpent-Breath’s bloodied blade across his throat. ‘Enough,’ I bellowed at the horsemen, loud enough to hurt my throat. ‘Enough!’

  Guthfrith tried to stab my foot with his blade, but I tightened my own on his gullet. He whimpered and I drew the edge of Serpent-Breath a finger’s width across his neck. ‘Drop the sword, you bastard,’ I whispered.

  He dropped it. ‘You’re choking me,’ he croaked.

  ‘Good,’ I said, but released the blade’s pressure slightly.

  A horseman with Guthfrith’s boar on his shield spurred towards us. He held a spear low, the blade pointing at me, but then he saw Guthfrith, saw my sword, and he curbed his horse just paces away. He kept the spear pointed at me and I saw his eyes flicking between mine and Guthfrith’s scared gaze. He was judging whether a lunge could pierce my shoulder before my sword cut the king’s throat. ‘Don’t be a fool, boy,’ I said, but that just seemed to enrage him. He stared at me, raised the spear-blade slightly and I heard the stallion panting, saw the wide whites of its eyes, then suddenly the rider’s back arched, his head went back and a second spear-blade appeared.

  That second blade came from behind and shattered the boy’s spine. It slid through his guts and made a bulge in his mail coat before bursting through the iron links and thumping into the high pommel. Berg had thrust the spear and let go of it as the boy whimpered and gripped the spear-haft that now pinned him to his saddle. Berg drew his sword and wheeled his horse to face the other horsemen, but the fight was already dying. Berg looked at me. ‘There’s no fight in the bastards, lord!’ He edged his horse close to the dying boy and slashed his sword hard down to shear the spear-haft, and the rider, freed now from the saddle, fell.

  There had been fight in them, but not much. They had been tired, and Finan’s assault had been so fast and so savage that most had tried to avoid battle, and the few that had welcomed it or had been forced to it had suffered. Finan was coming back now, his mail coat drenched with blood. ‘Off your horses! Weapons down!’ he was shouting at Guthfrith’s men, then turned in the saddle to threaten one fool who hesitated to obey. ‘On the ground, you miserable turd! Throw your sword on the ground!’ The sword fell. Enemies often lost their courage when Finan was in a killing mood.

  I kicked Guthfrith’s sword well away from him, then let him go. ‘You can talk to the royal bastard now,’ I told Oda.

  Oda hesitated because Finan had spurred close to us. The Irishman nodded at me. ‘Young Immar took a nasty cut to the shoulder, but otherwise? We’re unhurt, lord. Can’t say as much for this bastard.’ He tossed something at Guthfrith. ‘That’s one of your beasts, lord King,’ Finan snarled and I saw he had thrown down a severed head that now rolled clumsily towards Guthfrith’s feet where it came to a bloody standstill. ‘He thought he’d take a child away,’ Finan explained to me, ‘for his amusement. But the women and bairns are safe now. Your son’s guarding them.’

  ‘And you, lord King, are also safe,’ Oda said, offering Guthfrith a bow, ‘and eager to meet King Æthelstan, I’m sure.’ He spoke as if nothing untoward had happened, as if there wasn’t a bloody head on the stones or a young man writhing with a shattered spear through his belly. ‘The king is eager to meet you!’ Oda spoke cheerfully. ‘He looks forward to it!’

  Guthfrith said nothing. He was trembling, though whether with rage or fear I could not tell. I picked up his sword and tossed it to Gerbruht. ‘He won’t need that for a while,’ I said, which made Guthfrith scowl.

  ‘We must go to Eoferwic, lord King,’ Oda went on.

  ‘Praise God,’ Hrothweard muttered.

  ‘We have a ship,’ Oda said brightly. ‘We can be in Eoferwic in two days, three perhaps?’

  ‘Jorvik,’ Guthfrith growled, giving Eoferwic its Danish name.

  ‘To Jorvik indeed.’

  I had spotted Boldar Gunnarson among the defeated horsemen. He was an older man, grey-bearded, with a missing eye and a leg mangled by a Saxon spear thrust. He had been one of Sigtryggr’s most trusted men, a warrior of experience and sense, and I was surprised that he had sworn allegiance to Guthfrith. ‘What choice did I have, lord?’ he asked when I summoned him. ‘I’m old, my family is in Jorvik, where would I go?’

  ‘But to serve Guthfrith?’

  Boldar shrugged. ‘He’s not his brother,’ he allowed. Guthfrith’s brother had been Sigtryggr, my son-in-law, and a man I had liked and trusted.

  ‘You could have come to me when Sigtryggr died.’

  ‘I thought of that, lord, but Jorvik is home.’

  ‘Then go back there,’ I said, ‘and take Guthfrith’s men with you.’

  He nodded, ‘I will.’

  ‘And there’ll be no trouble, Boldar!’ I warned him. ‘Leave my villagers alone! If I hear a whisper of theft or rape I’ll do the same to your family.’

  He flinched at that, but nodded again. ‘There’ll be no trouble, lord,’ he paused, ‘but the wounded? Dead?’

  ‘Bury your dead or leave them for the crows. I don’t care. And take your wounded with you.’

  ‘Take them where?’ Guthfrith demanded. He was remembering he was a king and recovering his arrogance. He pushed me aside to confront Boldar. ‘Where?’

  ‘Home!’ I turned on him angrily, pushing him in turn. ‘Boldar takes your men home, and there’ll be no trouble!’

  ‘My men stay with me!’ Guthfrith insisted.

  ‘You’re going by ship, you miserable turd,’ I stepped closer, forcing him to retreat further, ‘and there’s no room on board. You can take four men. No more than four!’

  ‘Surely—’ Oda began, but I interrupted him.

  ‘He takes four!’

  He took four.

  We went back to Bebbanburg with Guthfrith, his four warriors, and with Archbishop Hrothweard who rode next to Oda. My son escorted the women south, waiting until Boldar and his men were safely gone. The ship that had brought Oda to Bebbanburg would carry him, the archbishop and the captive king south to Eoferwic. ‘King Æthelstan also wishes to see you, lord,’ Oda reminded me before they sailed.

  ‘He knows where I live.’

  ‘He would like you to come to Eoferwic.’

  ‘I stay here,’ I growled.

  ‘He commands you, lord,’ Oda said quietly. I said nothing and, when the silence had lasted long enough, Oda shrugged. ‘As you wish, lord.’

  Next day we watched Oda’s ship row from the harbour. The wind was a chilly north-easterly, which filled the sail. I saw the oars brought inboard and the water seethe along her flanks and widen white behind as she passed the Farnea Islands. I watched her till she vanished in a squall of rain far to the south.

  ‘So we’re not going to Eoferwic?’ Finan asked.

  ‘We’re staying here,’ I insisted.

  Æthelstan, whom I had nurtured as a boy and helped to the throne, now called himself the Monarchus Totius Brittaniae, so he could damn well sort out Britain by himself.

  I was staying at Bebbanburg.

  Two days later I sat with Finan and Benedetta in the morning sunlight. The hot weather of a few days before had given way to an unseasonal cold. Benedetta tucked some windblown strands of hair beneath her cap and shivered. ‘Is this summer?’

  ‘Better than the last two days,’ Finan said. The chill north-east wind that had driven Oda’s ship southwards had brought a sullen stubborn rain that had made me fear for the harvest, but that rain had gone and the sun shone weakly, and if the wind backed, I reckoned, the warmth would return.

  ‘Oda should be in Eoferwic by now,’ I said.

  ‘And how long before Æthelstan sends a summons to you?’ Finan asked, amused.

  ‘It’s probably on its way already.’

  ‘And you go?’ Benedetta asked.

  ‘If he asks nicely? Perhaps.’

 
; ‘Or perhaps not,’ Finan added.

  We were watching my younger men practise their sword-craft. Berg was teaching them. ‘Roric’s useless,’ I growled.

  ‘He’s learning.’

  ‘And look at Immar! Couldn’t fight a slug!’

  ‘His arm is still healing.’

  ‘And Aldwyn! He looks like he’s cutting hay.’

  ‘He’s still a boy, he’ll learn.’

  I leaned down and scratched the coarse hair of one of my wolfhounds. ‘And Roric’s getting fat.’

  ‘He’s humping one of the dairy girls,’ Finan said. ‘The fat one. I suspect she brings him butter.’

  I grunted. ‘Suspect?’

  ‘Cream too,’ Finan went on. ‘I’ll have her watched.’

  ‘And have her whipped if she’s stealing.’

  ‘Him too?’

  ‘Of course.’ I yawned. ‘Who won the eating contest last night?’

  Finan grinned. ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘Gerbruht?’

  ‘Eats like an ox.’

  ‘Good man, though.’

  ‘He is,’ Finan said, ‘and he won the farting contest too.’

  ‘Ouff!’ Benedetta grimaced.

  ‘It amuses them,’ I insisted. I had heard the laughter in the hall from the seaward ramparts where I had been watching the moon’s long reflection on the sea and thinking about Æthelstan. Wondering why he was in Eoferwic. Wondering how many years or months I had before none of it mattered to me any longer.

  ‘They’re easily amused,’ Finan said.

  ‘There’s a ship,’ I pointed northwards.

  ‘Saw it ten minutes ago,’ Finan said. He had the eyesight of a hawk. ‘And not a cargo ship either.’

  He was right. The approaching vessel was long, low and lean, a ship made for war, not trade. Her hull was dark and her sail was almost black. ‘She’s the Trianaid,’ I said. The name meant Trinity.

  ‘You know her?’ Finan sounded surprised.

  ‘Scottish ship. We saw her at Dumnoc a few years ago.’

  ‘Evil comes from the north,’ Benedetta said balefully, ‘the star and the dragon! They do not lie!’

  ‘It’s only one ship,’ I said, to calm her.

  ‘And coming here,’ Finan added. The ship, under sail, was close to Lindisfarena and turning her cross-decorated prow towards Bebbanburg’s harbour channel. ‘Silly bugger will go aground if he’s not careful.’

  But the Trianaid’s helmsman knew his business and the ship skirted the sandbanks, dropped her sail, and rowed into the channel where we lost sight of her. I waited for the sentries on the northern ramparts to bring me news. One ship could not pose a danger. At most the Trianaid could carry sixty or seventy men, but still my son rousted resting warriors and sent them to the walls. Berg broke off his practice and led men to retrieve most of Bebbanburg’s horses that had been put to pasture just outside the village. Some of the villagers, fearing that the dark ship’s arrival presaged a short, savage raid, were driving livestock towards the Skull Gate.

  Vidarr Leifson brought me news. ‘Scots, lord,’ he said. ‘They hailed us. They’re moored in the harbour now and waiting.’

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘They say they want to talk to you, lord.’

  ‘Are they flying a standard?’

  ‘A red hand holding a cross, lord.’

  ‘Domnall!’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Haven’t seen that bastard in a good while,’ Finan commented. Domnall was one of Constantine’s war leaders and a formidable warrior. ‘Do we let him in?’

  ‘Him and six men,’ I said, ‘but no more than six. We’ll meet him in the hall.’

  It was a half hour or more before Domnall climbed to Bebbanburg’s great hall. His men, all but the six who kept him company, stayed on their ship. Plainly they were under orders not to provoke me because none even tried to come ashore, and Domnall even went so far as to voluntarily surrender his sword at the door of the hall, and instructed his men to do the same. ‘I know you’re terrified of me, Lord Uhtred,’ Domnall bellowed as my steward took the blades, ‘but we come in peace!’

  ‘When the Scots talk of peace, Lord Domnall,’ I said, ‘I lock up my daughters.’

  He paused, nodded curtly, and when he spoke again his voice was sympathetic. ‘You had a daughter, I know, and I’m sorry for her, lord. She was a brave woman.’

  ‘She was,’ I said. My daughter had died defending Eoferwic against Norsemen. ‘And your daughters?’ I asked. ‘They’re all well?’

  ‘They’re well,’ he said, striding down the hall towards the blazing fire we had revived in the big central hearth. ‘All four married now and squeezing out babies like good sows. Dear Lord above,’ he held his hands to the flames, ‘but it’s a raw day.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘King Constantine sends his greetings,’ he said casually and then, more enthusiastically, ‘is that ale?’

  ‘The last time you drank my ale you said it reminded you of horse piss.’

  ‘It probably will again, but what’s a thirsty man to do?’ He saw Benedetta sitting beside me and bowed to her. ‘My sympathy, lady.’

  ‘Sympathy?’ she asked.

  ‘Because you live with me,’ I explained, then waved Domnall to the other side of the table where benches could sit all his men.

  Domnall was looking about the hall. The high roof was held by great beams and rafters, the lower walls were now dressed stone, and the rush-covered floor was made from wide pine planks. I had spent a fortune on the fortress and it showed. ‘It’s a grand place, Lord Uhtred,’ Domnall said, ‘it would be a pity to lose it.’

  ‘I’ll try not to.’

  He chuckled at that, then swung his great legs across a bench. He was a huge man, and one I was devoutly glad never to have faced in battle. I liked him. His companions, all but for a whey-faced priest, were similarly impressive, no doubt chosen to intimidate us by their appearance, but chief of them, and sitting on Domnall’s right, was another huge man. He looked to be around forty years old, had a lined and scarred face burned dark by the sun against which his hair, worn long, was a startling white. He stared at me with undisguised hostility, yet what was strangest about him were the two amulets hanging above his polished mail coat. He wore a silver cross and, next to it, a silver hammer. Christian and pagan.

  Domnall pulled an ale jug towards himself, then gestured that the priest should sit on his left. ‘Don’t worry yourself, father,’ he told the priest, ‘Lord Uhtred might be a pagan, but he’s not such a bad fellow. Father Coluim,’ Domnall was talking to me now, ‘is trusted by King Constantine.’

  ‘Then you’re welcome, father,’ I said.

  ‘Peace be on this hall,’ Coluim said in a strong voice that conveyed a deal more confidence than his nervous appearance suggested.

  ‘High walls, a strong garrison and good men keep it peaceful, father,’ I suggested.

  ‘And good allies,’ Domnall said, reaching for the ale jug again.

  ‘And good allies,’ I echoed him. Behind the Scots a log fell, spewing sparks.

  Domnall poured himself ale. ‘And at this time Lord Uhtred,’ he went on, ‘you have no allies.’ He spoke quietly and again sounded sympathetic.

  ‘No allies?’ I asked. I could think of nothing else to say.

  ‘Who is your friend? King Constantine holds you in high regard, but he’s no ally to Northumbria.’

  ‘True.’

  He was leaning forward, looking into my eyes with an intense gaze, and speaking so quietly that men at the ends of the benches had to strain to hear. ‘Mercia used to be your best friend,’ he went on, ‘but she died.’

  I nodded. When Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, had ruled Mercia she had indeed been an ally. A lover too. I said nothing.

  ‘Hywel of Dyfed admires you,’ Domnall continued remorselessly, ‘but Wales is a long way off. And why would Hywel march to your help?’

  ‘I know no reason why he should,’ I allowed
.

  ‘Or why would any Welsh king help you?’ He paused, expecting an answer, but again I said nothing. ‘And the Norse of Cumbria hate you,’ Domnall went on. He was talking of Northumbria’s wild western lands beyond the hills. ‘You defeated them too often.’

  ‘But not often enough,’ I growled.

  ‘They breed like mice. Kill one and a dozen more come at you. And your own King Guthfrith dislikes you. He wouldn’t lift a drunken hand to help you.’

  ‘He hates me,’ I answered, ‘ever since I held a sword to his throat two days ago.’ That plainly surprised Domnall who had yet to hear of Guthfrith’s flight from Eoferwic. ‘He was on his way to you, I suspect,’ I went on blandly.

  ‘And you stopped him?’ Domnall asked cautiously.

  I decided not to reveal I had heard of the Scottish envoys meeting with Guthfrith, so I shrugged. ‘His men had raped some of the women in my villages. I didn’t like that.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  ‘I gave him a choice. Fight me or go home. He went home.’

  ‘So Guthfrith is no ally of yours.’ Domnall was intrigued by the tale, but sensed he would get nothing more by questioning me about it. ‘So who is your ally? Æthelstan?’

  I gave him an answer he did not expect. ‘Owain of Strath Clota is your king’s enemy,’ I said, ‘and I daresay he would welcome an ally. Not that he needs one. How long have you been trying to defeat him?’

  And then it was Domnall’s turn to surprise me. He turned to the man on his right, the grim-looking warrior with the long bone-white hair who had the cross and the hammer hanging at his chest. ‘This is Dyfnwal,’ Domnall said, still speaking softly, ‘brother to Owain.’

  I must have shown my astonishment because the hard-faced Dyfnwal responded with a mocking look. ‘Dyfnwal,’ I repeated the name clumsily. It was a Welsh name because Strath Clota was a Welsh kingdom, formed by the Britons who had been pushed northwards by the Saxon invasion. Most Britons, of course, had gone to Wales, but some had found a refuge on the western coast of Alba where their small kingdom had been strengthened by Norsemen seeking land.