‘Owain of Strath Clota has made peace with us, formed an alliance with us,’ Domnall said, ‘so King Constantine has no enemies north of Bebbanburg. Owain is with us, so is Gibhleachán of the Islands. So who will be your ally, Lord Uhtred?’
‘Egil Skallagrimmrson,’ I said. It was a fatuous response, and I knew it. Egil was a friend, a Norseman, and a great warrior, but he had few men, just enough to man two ships. I had given him land north of Bebbanburg along the southern bank of the Tuede, which was the border between Northumbria and Constantine’s Alba.
‘Egil might have a hundred warriors?’ Domnall suggested, almost sounding sorry for me. ‘A hundred and fifty, perhaps? And they’re all rare fighters, but Egil’s not an ally to strike fear into a whole nation.’
‘Yet I dare say you sailed well clear of his coast on your way here?’
‘We did,’ Domnall admitted. ‘We sailed a good way offshore. No need to prod a wasps’ nest unnecessarily.’
‘What am I? A dung beetle?’
Domnall smiled at that. ‘You’re a great warrior with no strong allies,’ he said, ‘or do you think of Æthelstan as a friend?’ He paused, as if judging his next words before they were spoken. ‘A friend who breaks his oaths.’
And this meeting, I thought, was no different to Guthfrith talking with Constantine’s envoys. I had been angered when I learned of that, yet here I was, entertaining Domnall in my fortress. Æthelstan, I knew, would hear of this conversation. I was sure there were men in Bebbanburg who were paid to report to him, or else his spies in Constantine’s employment would make sure he heard. Which meant he must hear what I wanted him to hear. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said harshly, ‘has broken no oaths.’
‘No?’ Domnall enquired gently.
‘None,’ I said sharply.
Domnall leaned away from me and took a long pull of his ale. He cuffed his mouth and beard with his sleeve, then nodded at the small priest next to him. ‘Father Coluim?’
‘A little more than a month ago,’ the priest said in his surprisingly deep voice, ‘on the feast day of Saint Christina, virgin and martyr,’ he paused to make the sign of the cross, ‘in the great church at Wintanceaster, the Archbishop of Contwaraburg preached a sermon before King Æthelstan. And in that sermon the archbishop urged, most strongly, that oaths taken with pagans are not binding to Christians. He said, indeed, that it is a Christian’s pious duty to break any such oaths.’
I hesitated a heartbeat, then, ‘King Æthelstan is not responsible for the rubbish a priest vomits.’
Father Coluim was unmoved by my rudeness. ‘And that same day,’ he went on calmly, ‘the king rewarded the archbishop by giving into his keeping the lance of Charlemagne that Hugh, ruler of the Franks, had given to him.’
I felt a chill. I had men and women in Wintanceaster who sent me news, but none had mentioned that sermon, but then the oaths that Æthelstan and I had exchanged were supposed to be secret.
‘The very same lance,’ the priest continued, ‘with which a Roman soldier pierced the side of our Lord.’ Father Coluim again paused to cross himself. ‘And the very next day, on the holy day of Saint James the Apostle,’ another pause, another sign of the cross, ‘the archbishop preached from the book of Deuteronomy, castigating the pagan places, and laying upon the king the most Christian duty of eradicating them from his land and from among his people.’
‘Castigating,’ I said, repeating the unfamiliar word.
‘And as a reward,’ Coluim was looking into my eyes as he spoke, ‘the king gave into the archbishop’s keeping the sword of Charlemagne which has a sliver of the true cross enshrined in its hilt.’
There was silence, all but for the crackle of the fire and the sigh of the wind and the long waves beating on the shore.
‘It is strange, is it not?’ Domnall broke the silence. He was gazing up into the rafters. ‘That King Æthelstan has never married?’
‘I’m sure he will,’ I said, though I was far from sure.
‘And he wears his hair in ringlets,’ Domnall said, smiling at me now, ‘tangled with gold thread.’
‘It’s a fashion,’ I said dismissively.
‘A strange fashion for a king, surely?’
‘A warrior king,’ I retorted. ‘I have seen him fight.’
Domnall nodded, as if to suggest that Æthelstan’s choice of hair decoration was of small importance. He cut himself some cheese, but did not eat it. ‘You were his teacher, yes?’
‘Protector.’
‘A warrior king,’ he said carefully, ‘has no need of a protector, nor of a teacher. He just wants,’ he paused, searching for a word, ‘advisers?’
‘No king lacks for advice,’ I said.
‘But they usually only want the advice that agrees with them. An adviser who opposes his monarch will not long stay an adviser.’ He smiled. ‘This is good cheese!’
‘Goat cheese.’
‘If you can spare some, lord, my king would appreciate the gift. He is fond of cheese.’
‘I shall order it readied,’ I said.
‘You’re generous,’ Domnall smiled again, ‘and it seems that your warrior king has found an adviser who agrees with him.’
‘He has Wulfhelm,’ I said scornfully. Wulfhelm was the new Archbishop of Contwaraburg and had the reputation of being a fiery preacher. I did not know the man.
‘I am certain King Æthelstan listens to his priests. He is famed for his piety, is he not?’
‘As was his grandfather.’
‘Yet King Alfred did not have a Norseman as his chief adviser,’ Domnall hesitated, ‘or should I say companion?’
‘Should you?’
‘They hunt together, they kneel together in church, they eat at the same table.’
‘You mean Ingilmundr.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Briefly.’
‘A young and handsome man, I hear?’
‘He’s young,’ I said.
‘And King Æthelstan has other,’ he paused, ‘advisers. Ealdred of Mærlebeorg offers advice when Ingilmundr is away.’ I said nothing. I had heard of Ealdred, a young warrior who had made a reputation fighting against the southern Welsh kingdoms. ‘But Ingilmundr seems to be the chief,’ another pause, ‘adviser. You know that the king has generously given him much land in Wirhealum?’
‘I do know that,’ I said. Ingilmundr was a Norse chieftain who had fled Ireland with his followers and had taken land on Wirhealum, a wide strip of land between the seaward reaches of the Dee and the Mærse. That was where I had met Ingilmundr, at the fortress Æthelflaed had ordered built at Brunanburh to guard against Norse forays up the river Mærse. I remembered a striking-looking man, young, charming and about as trustworthy as an untrained hawk. Æthelstan, though, had trusted him. Had liked him.
‘And Ingilmundr, I hear,’ Domnall continued, ‘has become a good Christian!’
‘That will please Æthelstan,’ I said drily.
‘I hear that much about Ingilmundr pleases him,’ Domnall said with a smile, ‘especially his advice about Northumbria.’
‘Which is?’ I asked. Even to ask suggested my ignorance, but why else had Constantine sent Domnall, if not to surprise me?
‘We’re told Ingilmundr claims Northumbria is a wild, untamed land, that by right it belongs to Æthelstan, and that it needs a firm ruler, a Norseman perhaps? A Christian Norseman who will swear allegiance to Æthelstan and work tirelessly to convert the many heathens who infest the northern land.’
I stayed silent for a moment, testing the truth of what Domnall had said. I did not like it. ‘And how, I wonder,’ I said, ‘does King Constantine know so much about the advice of a hunting companion?’
Domnall shrugged. ‘You receive news from other countries, Lord Uhtred, and so do we. And King Owain, our new friend,’ he nodded courteously at the grim Dyfnwal who was Owain’s brother and chief warrior, ‘is fortunate in having other friends, some of whom who serve Anlaf Guthfrithson.’ He paused. ‘In Irelan
d.’
I said nothing, but felt the shiver of cold again. Anlaf Guthfrithson was a cousin to Sigtryggr and Guthfrith, and he was renowned as a pitiless and brilliant warrior who had carved a savage reputation by defeating his Norse rivals in Ireland. I knew little else of him except that he was young, that he had made his warlike reputation quickly, and that he claimed the throne of Northumbria by kinship, a claim that did not keep me awake at nights because Ireland is a long way from Eoferwic and Bebbanburg.
‘In Ireland,’ Domnall repeated pointedly.
‘Ireland is a long way off,’ I observed shortly.
Dyfnwal spoke for the first time. ‘A good ship can make the voyage between Strath Clota and Ireland in half a day.’ His voice was toneless and harsh. ‘Less,’ he added.
And what,’ I asked Domnall, ‘does Anlaf Guthfrithson have to do with Ingilmundr?’
‘A year ago,’ Dyfnwal answered instead, his voice still flat, ‘Ingilmundr and Anlaf met on the island called Mön. They met as friends.’
‘They’re both Norsemen,’ I said dismissively.
‘Friends,’ Domnall pointedly repeated Dyfnwal’s last word.
I just looked at him, meeting his gaze. For a moment I did not know what to say. My first instinct was to challenge him, to deny that Æthelstan could possibly be so foolish as to trust Ingilmundr. I wanted to defend the king whom I had raised as a son, loved like a son, and helped to his throne, but I believed Domnall. ‘Go on,’ I said as tonelessly as Dyfnwal.
Domnall leaned back, relaxing, as if he understood that I had received the message he had brought me. ‘There are two possibilities, Lord Uhtred,’ he said. ‘The first is that King Æthelstan is adding Northumbria to his realm. He is creating, what is it called? Englaland?’ he said the word with scorn. ‘And he will give its governance to a friend, to a man he can trust.’
‘Ingilmundr,’ I grunted.
Domnall held up a hand as if to tell me to wait before I spoke. ‘And whoever rules in Northumbria,’ he went on, ‘whether it’s Ingilmundr or another, Æthelstan will want to secure his northern frontier. He will build burhs, he will strengthen the existing burhs, and he will want those burhs held by men who are wholly loyal to him.’
He meant Bebbanburg, of course. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘has no reason to doubt my loyalty.’
‘And he will want those men,’ Domnall continued as if I had not spoken, ‘to be Christians.’
I kept silent.
‘The second possibility,’ Domnall poured himself more ale, ‘is that Ingilmundr works to be appointed as the governor of Northumbria and, once secure in Eoferwic and with Æthelstan far away in Wintanceaster, he invites Anlaf Guthfrithson to join him. The Norsemen need a kingdom, why not one called Northumbria?’
I shrugged. ‘Ingilmundr and Anlaf will fight each other like polecats. Only one of them can be king, and neither will give way to the other.’
Domnall nodded as if he accepted my point. ‘Except they’ll share enemies, and shared enemies can make even polecats into unlikely friends.’ He smiled and nodded at Dyfnwal in proof.
Dyfnwal did not smile. ‘Anlaf Guthfrithson has a daughter,’ he said, ‘and she is not married. Nor is Ingilmundr.’ He shrugged as if to suggest he had proven Domnall’s argument.
Yet what was that argument? That Æthelstan wanted Northumbria? He always had. That Æthelstan had sworn not to invade Northumbria while I lived, but had broken the oath? That was true, but Æthelstan had yet to explain himself. That Ingilmundr was an untrustworthy Norseman who had his own designs on Northumbria? So did Constantine. And one great thing stood in their way; Bebbanburg.
I do not claim that Bebbanburg is impregnable. My ancestor had captured the fort centuries before and I had captured it again, but any man, Saxon, Norse or Scot, would find Bebbanburg a challenge. I had strengthened an already formidable fortress, and the only sure way to seize it now was to place a fleet off Bebbanburg’s shore and an army at its gates to stop supplies reaching us and so starve us into surrender. Either that or treachery. ‘What do you want?’ I asked Domnall, wanting this uncomfortable meeting to end.
‘My king,’ Domnall said carefully, ‘is offering you an alliance.’ He held up a hand to stop me speaking. ‘He will swear never to attack you and, more, he will come to your aid if you are attacked.’ He paused, expecting me to respond, but I stayed silent. ‘And he will give you his eldest son as a hostage, Lord Uhtred.’
‘I had his son as a hostage before,’ I said.
‘Prince Cellach sends you greetings. He speaks well of you.’
‘And I of him,’ I said. Cellach had been my hostage years before when Constantine had wanted a truce between Alba and Northumbria. The truce had been kept, and I had kept the young prince for a year and had grown to like him, but now, I thought, he must be middle-aged. ‘And what,’ I asked, ‘does King Constantine want of me?’
‘Cumbria,’ Domnall answered.
I looked at Dyfnwal. ‘Which will belong to Strath Clota?’ I asked. Cumbria bordered the smaller kingdom and I could not imagine that King Owain would want Scottish warriors on his southern border. Neither man answered, so I looked back to Domnall. ‘Just Cumbria?’
‘King Constantine,’ Domnall was speaking very carefully now, ‘wants all the land north of the Tinan and the Hedene.’
I smiled. ‘He wants me to be a Scot?’
‘There are worse things to be,’ Domnall smiled back.
Constantine had made the claim before, asserting that the great wall the Romans had built across Britain, a wall that stretched from the River Tinan in the east to the Hedene in the west, was the natural frontier between the Scots and the Saxons. It was an audacious claim and one I knew that Æthelstan would resist with all his power. It would make Bebbanburg into a Scottish fortress and, unspoken, but clear to me, it would demand that I swear allegiance to Constantine.
Northumbria, I thought, poor Northumbria! She was a small and ill-governed country with a greater nation on either frontier. To the north the Scots, to the south the Saxons, and both wanted her. The Norsemen of Cumbria, which was Northumbria’s western region, would probably prefer the Scots, but the Saxons of eastern Northumbria had learned to fear the Scots, and their best defence was the power of Bebbanburg. ‘And what of Bebbanburg?’ I asked.
‘The king swears it will belong to you and to your heirs for ever.’
‘For ever is a long time.’
‘And Bebbanburg is a fortress for all time,’ Domnall said.
‘And the Scottish Christians?’ I asked. ‘How long will they endure paganism?’
‘King Owain,’ Dyfnwal spoke again, ‘respects the beliefs of the Norse in our country.’
That explained the hammer hanging next to the cross. ‘He respects their beliefs,’ I retorted sharply, ‘for as long as he needs their swords.’
‘I don’t dispute that,’ Domnall said. He glanced at my son who was sitting to my right. ‘Yet I see your son is a Christian?’ he asked gently. I nodded. ‘Then in time, Lord Uhtred,’ he continued, ‘and may it be a very long time, Bebbanburg will belong to a Christian.’
I grunted at that, but said nothing. Was I tempted? Yes. But what Constantine had proposed was so bold, so drastic, that I had no response. Domnall seemed to understand that dilemma. ‘We don’t ask an answer now, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘just that you think on these things. And give us an answer in three weeks.’
‘Three weeks?’
‘At Burgham,’ he said.
‘Burgham?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘You have not been summoned?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Where’s Burgham?’ I asked.
‘A place in Cumbria,’ Domnall said. ‘King Æthelstan has summoned us all,’ he spoke sourly, but almost spat his next words, ‘for a Witan of all Britain.’
‘I know nothing about it,’ I said, wondering why Oda had not told me. ‘And you’ll be there?’
‘We are summoned,’ Domnall still spoke sourly, ‘an
d when our master summons us, we must obey.’ Meaning, I thought, that Æthelstan wanted to overawe the Scots with his army, and so persuade them to abandon any claims on Northumbria. And why, I wondered, would the Scots attend the meeting? Because Æthelstan was the strongest king in Britain and because behind the summons to talk was the threat of war, and it was a war Constantine did not yet want.
And Domnall had hinted that Æthelstan wanted more than just Northumbria, he wanted Bebbanburg too.
So once again my fortress was threatened, and this time I had no allies.
So I would go to Burgham.
Three
Did Constantine really expect me to agree to his proposal? To swear loyalty to him and so deliver Bebbanburg and its wide lands to Scotland? He knew me too well to expect my agreement, but that was not what Domnall had been sent to secure. He had been sent to warn me that Æthelstan wanted Bebbanburg too. And that I did believe, because folk in Wessex had sent me word of what happened in Æthelstan’s court and I did not like it. The great hall in Wintanceaster now had gilded beams, the throne had been lined with scarlet cloth, the king’s bodyguard wore scarlet cloaks and had silver embellished helmets. Æthelstan would dazzle us with his magnificence, and about him were young, ambitious men who wanted land and silver and magnificence of their own.
And the King of all Britain summoned me to Burgham.
The summons was brought by a priest who was accompanied by forty horsemen whose shields displayed the dragon of Wessex with a lightning bolt grasped in one talon. ‘The king sends you greetings, lord,’ the priest said, then dismounted awkwardly and went on one knee to hand me a scroll that was tied with a red ribbon and sealed with the same dragon and lightning bolt pressed into the wax. It was Æthelstan’s seal.
I was surly because Domnall had persuaded me to mistrust Æthelstan. I had permitted only a half dozen of the West Saxon horsemen to come through the Skull Gate and then denied them permission to go further than the stable yard where I reluctantly gave them weak ale and demanded that they leave my land before sunset. ‘And you with them,’ I told the priest, a young man with wispy hair, weak eyes, and a running nose.
War Lord Page 5
