As we coasted in through the low breaking waves I saw men carrying sacks to the beached ships. The harvest was being stolen. Spearhafoc’s keel grated, the ship shuddered to a stop and the sail was dropped. Egil joined me in the bows. ‘We’re going ashore?’
‘You and I.’ I pointed to the gaudy tent. ‘I suspect Æthelstan’s here.’ I left Gerbruht in charge of the ship again. ‘You can go ashore,’ I told my men, ‘but don’t pick fights!’ Most of my crew were Northmen, many wore Thor’s hammer, but few had been on land during this voyage and they deserved a spell ashore. ‘Don’t fight!’ I warned them again. ‘And back on the ship by nightfall.’
‘They’ll fight,’ Egil said as he and I walked up the beach.
‘Of course they will. They’re idiots.’
Æthelstan was not in the camp. He had ridden inland with over four hundred men and was doubtless responsible for the fires that smoked above the low hills. Two mailed men guarded his tents, but I growled at them and they reluctantly let us enter the gaudy tent where I growled again to summon ale from a servant. Then we waited.
Æthelstan returned in the late afternoon. He was in an ebullient mood and seemed pleased to see me. ‘We laid them waste!’ he boasted as he peeled off his mail coat. ‘And do sit down again. Is that ale?’
‘Good ale,’ I said.
‘We stole it from a settlement down the coast.’ He sat and gazed at me. ‘Coenwulf said you deserted the fleet.’
‘Last time we saw the fleet, lord King, it was on a lee shore and being harried by Scotsmen. So while Coenwulf got out of his own mess we went looking for Constantine’s ships.’
Æthelstan smiled, recognising my hostility to his fleet’s commander. ‘We heard that Constantine’s ships went north. Fleeing us. Fifteen of them?’
‘Fifteen, yes, but they weren’t fleeing, lord King, they didn’t even know you were here.’
‘They’ll know by now,’ he said grimly. ‘So what are they doing? Sheltering in the islands? Waiting for more ships before they attack us?’
‘Is that what Coenwulf fears?’
‘It’s what he suspects.’
‘Then he’s wrong. They sailed west.’
‘Probably gone to Cumbria,’ Egil put in, ‘you won’t see them for a long time.’
Æthelstan gazed at us both for a few heartbeats. It was plain that this was news to him. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ I answered. ‘We think he left four ships on this coast, and they’re probably staying in harbour now they’ve seen your fleet.’
‘Then you bring me good news!’ Æthelstan said happily. ‘And your son has been useful!’
‘Has he lost men?’ I asked.
‘Not one! The Scots won’t fight.’ He paused, then smiled as the tent flap was pushed aside and Ingilmundr appeared.
The tall Norseman stopped when he saw us, then forced a smile and gave me a perfunctory bow. ‘Lord Uhtred.’
‘Jarl Ingilmundr,’ I responded coldly. I had disliked him from the first moment I had met him beside the Mærse. He was a young and strikingly handsome man with a straight blade of a nose and long hair that he wore tied in a leather lace so that it hung almost to his waist. When I had first encountered him he had worn a hammer about his neck, but now a bright cross hung from a golden chain. ‘And this is Jarl Egil Skallagrimmrson.’
‘I have heard of you,’ Ingilmundr said.
‘I would expect no less!’ Egil answered happily.
‘Ingilmundr brought two hundred warriors from Wirhealum,’ Æthelstan interrupted enthusiastically, ‘and very useful men they are too!’
‘They’re Norsemen,’ Egil said mischievously.
‘They are examples,’ Æthelstan said.
‘Examples?’ I asked.
‘That all men are welcome in Englaland so long as they are Christians.’ Æthelstan patted the seat next to his, inviting Ingilmundr to sit. He also gave the hammer at my breast a rueful glance. ‘And Lord Uhtred brings us good news,’ he spoke to Ingilmundr, ‘the Scottish fleet has gone, quite gone. Gone to the west coast!’
‘They fled from you, lord King,’ Ingilmundr said as he sat.
‘It appears not. If Lord Uhtred is right they didn’t even know we were here! But everyone else has fled.’
‘Everyone else?’ I asked.
‘The bastards won’t fight! Oh, they harry us. We can’t send out small forage parties, but they won’t confront our army. We know Constantine has men, at least fifteen hundred and that doesn’t include his allies from Strath Clota, but they won’t face us! They lurk in the hills.’
‘They are frightened of you, lord King.’ Ingilmundr said.
Æthelstan rewarded that with a warm smile. He loved the flattery, and Ingilmundr was adept at supplying it. He was oily, I thought, like the feel of raw seal flesh. ‘He should be frightened of me,’ Æthelstan said, ‘and after this campaign I hope he’ll be even more frightened!’
‘Or angry,’ I said.
‘Of course he’ll be angry,’ Æthelstan showed a flash of annoyance. ‘Angry, frightened, and chastened.’
‘And vengeful,’ I persisted.
Æthelstan gazed at me for a few heartbeats, then sighed. ‘What can he do? I’m deep in his land and he refuses to fight. You think he can do better in my land? If he takes one step beyond the frontier I’ll crush him and he knows it. I have more spears, more swords, and more silver. He can be as vengeful as he likes, but he’s also impotent. I will have peace in Britain, Lord Uhtred, and Constantine is learning the price he will pay for disturbing that peace.’
‘Do you have more men, lord King?’ Egil asked in a mild voice.
‘I do,’ Æthelstan said flatly.
‘And if Constantine unites your enemies? The Norse of the islands, the Danish settlers, the men of Strath Clota, and the Irish kingdoms? You would still have more men?’
‘That will not happen,’ Ingilmundr responded to Egil.
‘Why not?’ Egil asked in a very polite voice.
‘When did we Norse ever unite?’
That was a good question and Egil acknowledged it with a slight bow of his head. The Northmen, both Danes and Norse, were fearsome fighters, but notoriously quarrelsome.
‘Besides,’ Æthelstan went on, ‘Constantine is a Christian. He told me once that his ambition is to retire to a monastery! No, lord, he won’t rely on pagan swords. All he would achieve by asking Norse help is to invite more pagan enemies into his land and though he might be treacherous, he’s no fool.’ He frowned momentarily. ‘And what would Constantine gain by allying himself with the Norse? They’ll want a reward! What will he give them? Land?’
‘Northumbria,’ I said quietly.
‘Nonsense,’ Æthelstan said decisively. ‘Constantine wants Northumbria for himself! Why in God’s name would he put a Norse king on the throne in Eoferwic?’
‘Because he wants something more than Northumbria,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘The destruction of Saxon power, lord King. Your power.’
I think he knew I spoke the truth, but he dismissed it lightly. ‘Then he’ll just have to learn that Saxon power is indestructible,’ he said carelessly, ‘because I will settle his nonsense and I will have my peace.’
‘And I will have Bebbanburg,’ I said.
He ignored that, though Ingilmundr gave me a poisonous glance. ‘We march tomorrow,’ Æthelstan said, ‘so we must rest tonight.’ He stood, prompting all of us to stand.
That was our dismissal. I bowed, but Egil had one more question. ‘March where, lord King?’ he asked.
‘Further north, of course!’ Æthelstan answered, his good mood restored. ‘To the far north! I will show Constantine that there is no part of his kingdom that I cannot reach. Tomorrow we go to the end of his realm, to the far northern end of Britain!’
So the Monarchus Totius Brittaniae was proving his title to be true. His spears would glint from the beaches of Wessex to the cliffs of the cold north, and Æt
helstan believed that thereby he was stamping his authority on a sullen, rebellious land. But the Scots would not fight him, not yet, and so they had retreated into their mountains where they were watching, waiting, and dreaming of revenge.
And I remembered Anlaf’s cold, pale eyes.
Choose your side carefully.
PART THREE
The Slaughter
Eleven
Æthelstan’s army reached the northern coast of Scotland where great waves shattered on towering cliffs, where the sea birds shrieked and eagles flew, and where the wind blew cold and fierce. There was no battle. Scottish scouts watched Æthelstan’s army, but Constantine kept his troops far off to the west. It was a bleak, unfriendly land, and the unceasing wind brought the first hints of winter cold.
We stayed with the fleet, though to what end I could not tell because no ships challenged us. Æthelstan’s army had marched and the fleet had sailed to the northern edge of Constantine’s land and we had butchered cattle, burned fishing boats, stolen paltry stores of grain, and torn down pathetic turf-roofed hovels. And here, where the land ended in jagged cliffs, Æthelstan declared victory. I went ashore at the land’s end and Æthelstan invited me to what he proclaimed was a feast, though in truth it was a score of men in a wind-lashed tent eating gristly beef and drinking sour ale. My son was among the guests. ‘It’s a miserable country,’ he told me, ‘cold, wet and poor.’
‘They wouldn’t fight you?’
‘Skirmishes,’ he said scornfully, ‘but nothing more.’
Æthelstan overheard his comments. ‘I offered them battle,’ he called across the table, ‘I planted the hazel rods.’
‘I thought only the Northmen did that, lord King.’
‘Constantine’s scouts saw us do it. They know what it means! And Constantine didn’t dare show his face.’
It was an old custom, brought to Britain by the men in dragon-ships. To plant the hazel rods was to choose a battle place and invite your enemy to come and fight. But Constantine, I thought, was too clever to accept the invitation. He knew Æthelstan’s army outnumbered his and so he would give the Saxons their easy victory and hold his forces back for another day. And so the ground between the hazel rods stayed empty.
And we went south.
I let Spearhafoc run, leaving Æthelstan’s fleet lumbering far behind, and then on a cold autumn day there was the blessed moment of rounding Lindisfarena’s sands and slipping back into Bebbanburg’s harbour. Benedetta waited for me, the great hall was warmed by a massive driftwood fire, and I was home.
Three weeks later Æthelstan’s army marched past the fortress. There had been no battle, but he was still ebullient when I met him outside the Skull Gate. The Scots, he claimed, had been humiliated. ‘They’ve pulled their forces back from Cumbria! That wretched man Eochaid is gone and Ealdorman Alfgar is back in Cair Ligualid.’ Alfgar was one of the two ealdormen sent to pacify Cumbria.
‘Good, lord King,’ I said, because to say anything else would simply have annoyed him. Eochaid might well have gone back to Scotland, but I did not doubt that Cumbria’s Norse settlers would still look north for protection, and while Alfgar and his garrison might be back in Cair Ligualid they were still surrounded by a sullen and hostile people. ‘You’ll dine with us tonight, lord King?’
‘With pleasure, lord, with pleasure!’
He brought a score of men into the fortress. Ingilmundr was one, and he prowled about the ramparts, no doubt wondering how they could be assaulted. Bishop Oda was another, and he at least was welcome. I found a moment to talk alone with him, both of us sitting in the cold moonlight and gazing at the wind-fretted sea. ‘I met Anlaf,’ I told him.
‘The king knows?’
‘I didn’t tell him. He has enough suspicions about me without learning that.’
‘He will learn!’
‘From you?’
‘No, lord.’
‘He’ll doubtless hear a rumour,’ I said, ‘and I will deny it.’
‘As you denied killing Guthfrith?’
‘The world is a better place without Guthfrith,’ I said harshly.
‘I did notice a new skull at the gate,’ Oda said slyly, and when I did not respond he just chuckled. ‘So tell me, what does Anlaf want?’
‘Northumbria.’
‘No surprise there.’
‘And he thinks Constantine will give it to him.’
Oda fingered the cross at his breast. ‘Why would Constantine want a pagan Norse king on his southern border?’
‘To humiliate Æthelstan, of course. And because he knows Æthelstan will never let the Scots rule in Eoferwic.’
‘But why would Æthelstan allow Anlaf to rule there?’
‘He won’t,’ I said, ‘but if Anlaf has the Scots as allies? The Strath Clotans? The men of the Suðreyjar Islands? All the northern pagans?’
‘All the northern pagans?’ Oda asked pointedly, looking at my hammer.
I laughed sourly. ‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I shall stay here and make my ramparts higher.’
Oda smiled. ‘Because you’re old? I seem to remember that Beowulf was as old as you when he fought the dragon, lord. And he killed the beast.’
And I had been sitting in this same place, just outside the hall, when I first heard of the great dragon flying southwards with its silver wings beating the sea into submission. ‘Beowulf was a hero,’ I retorted, ‘and yes, he killed the dragon, but he died doing it.’
‘He did his duty, my friend,’ Oda said, then paused to listen to a gust of singing coming from the hall. Æthelstan had brought his own harpist who was playing the famous song of Ethandun, telling how Alfred had defeated Guthrum and his great army. Men beat their hands on the tables and roared the words, especially when the lines came that described how Uhtred the Northman had cut down the foemen. ‘Mighty was his sword,’ they bellowed, ‘and eager its hunger. Many the Danish warrior rued the day.’ Was I the last man alive who had fought on the hill of Ethandun?
‘Is Steapa still alive?’ I asked Oda.
‘He is! As old as you, but still strong. He wanted to come with us to Scotland, but the king commanded him to stay at home.’
‘Because he’s old?’
‘On the contrary! Because he wanted a strong warrior to defend the coast in case the Northmen landed ships.’
Steapa had been at Ethandun and he and I had to be among the few survivors of that great battle. He was a huge man, a fearsome warrior, and we had started as enemies, but had become close friends. Steapa had begun life as a slave, but had risen to command Alfred’s household troops. He had once been given the ironic nickname Steapa Snotor, Steapa the Clever, because men reckoned him slow-witted, but Steapa had proved himself to be a subtle and savage fighter. ‘I should like to see him again,’ I said wistfully.
‘Then come south with us!’
I shook my head. ‘I fear trouble in the north. I’ll stay here.’
Oda smiled and touched my arm. ‘You worry too much, my friend.’
‘I do?’
‘There will be no great war. Anlaf has Norse enemies in Ireland. If he brings his army across the sea those enemies will take his land, and if he brings just half his army that won’t be enough to capture Northumbria, even with Constantine’s help. Strath Clota says they’re at peace, but now they’ve seen Constantine’s weakness why shouldn’t they attack him again? And do you really believe the pagan Norse will unite behind one man? They never have, so why should they now? No, my friend. There is much noise in the north because they are a noisy people, but the Scots have been beaten into submission, the Norse are more likely to fight each other than fight us, and I can assure you that there will be peace. Æthelstan will be crowned in Eoferwic, and, God be praised, Englaland will at last exist.’
‘God be praised?’ I asked sourly.
‘One people, one nation, one god.’
Somehow that declaration made me feel doomed, perhaps because it spelt the end of Northumbria? I touched the hilt
of the small knife I wore at my belt. In deference to Æthelstan’s presence we had allowed no swords in the great hall, but the knife’s hilt would be enough to ensure my passage to Valhalla. I had seen sudden death in the hall, men falling from the bench with a hand grasping at their chest, and though I felt well I knew that death had to be coming. And it had to be soon, I thought, and regret crossed my mind like a cloud shadow sliding across the sea. I might never know what would happen, might never know whether Constantine sought revenge, or whether Anlaf would bring his fleet across the sea, or whether my son could hold Bebbanburg against all that the world could throw against it.
‘Come inside, lord,’ Oda stood, ‘it’s getting cold.’
‘Does Æthelstan still want Bebbanburg?’ I asked him abruptly.
‘I think not, lord. That passion died with Ealdred.’
‘Then I should thank whoever killed him.’
‘Many of us agree, lord,’ Oda said calmly, ‘because he gave the king bad counsel.’ For a moment I thought he would thank me, but he just smiled and turned away.
I let him go into the hall, but I stayed outside, still sitting, staring at the sea and at the moon-silvered clouds. I wanted to see the dragon. It did not come.
The dragon slept, but not in my dreams.
I had half forgotten the saga of Beowulf until Oda reminded me of the old tale. Beowulf was a Geat, one of the Norse tribes, who went to the land of the Danes to slaughter monsters. He slew Grendel, then Grendel’s mother, and after fifty more winters had passed, he killed the dragon. The tale was sometimes chanted at feasts, to tables of warriors in the great halls of smoke and song.
And though this dragon of the north slept it still came to my dreams. Night after night I would wake sweating. Benedetta said I cried out in fear. She would hold me, comfort me, but still the dragon came. It did not fly on great wings that made the sea shudder, but slithered like a serpent through the underworld, through a pillared passage of stone-carved arches lit by the flames of its nostrils that gaped like caverns. It should have been sleeping, its vast slack body slumped on the heaped gold, on the piled helmets, on the goblets and plates, on the woven arm rings and on the cut gems of its hoard. But in every dream it was awake and crawling towards me.
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