‘There is one problem,’ Æthelstan went on.
‘There always is.’
‘Ealdorman Godric left no heir, so the owner of his land is his widow, Eldrida. I can compensate her for the loss of the land, of course, but silver is short. War consumes it.’
‘It does,’ I answered warily.
‘So marry her.’
I looked at him, aghast. ‘I have a woman!’
‘You’re not married.’
‘As good as, lord King.’
‘Are you married? You’ve gone through some pagan ceremony?’
I hesitated, then told the truth. ‘No, lord King.’
‘Then marry Eldrida.’
I did not know what to say. Eldrida, whoever she was, would plainly be young enough to be my granddaughter. Marry her? ‘I am …’ I began, then found I had nothing to say.
‘I’m not asking you to bed her,’ Æthelstan said irritably, ‘except once, to make it legal, then you just put the girl away somewhere and stay with your Benedetta.’
‘I plan to stay with her,’ I said harshly.
‘It’s a formality,’ he said. ‘Marry the child, take her land and fortune, and defend the north. It’s a gift, Lord Uhtred!’
‘Not for her,’ I said.
‘Who cares? She’s a woman with property, she will do as she’s told.’
‘And if we lose this battle?’ I asked.
‘We won’t,’ he said curtly, ‘we mustn’t. But if we do she’ll be swived by a horde of Scotsmen and Norsemen. So will every other woman in Englaland. Take the gift, lord.’
I nodded, which was as much confirmation as I could give him, then looked back to the valley where, in two days, we would fight.
For Englaland.
Fourteen
Next day Æthelstan moved his army out of Ceaster and onto the heathland between the ridges. We camped either side of the road just short of the narrow bridge that would take us onto the chosen battlefield. There were tents for the ealdormen, but most of us made shelters from branches we chopped from the trees on the eastern ridge. It had taken most of the day for the men on foot to reach the encampment and to cut wood for shelters and fires, and Æthelstan sent orders that the army was to rest, though I doubt many men slept. Wagons brought food and bundles of extra spears. The only men who did not march with us were five hundred West Saxon horsemen who left Ceaster late in the afternoon and camped some way behind the rest of the army. Steapa commanded them. ‘I had a dream last night,’ he told me before we left the city.
‘A good one, I hope.’
‘It was Alfred.’ He paused. ‘I never understood him.’
‘Not many of us did.’
‘He was trying to put on his mail coat and it wouldn’t go over his head.’ He sounded puzzled.
‘That means we’re going to win tomorrow,’ I said confidently.
‘It does?’
‘Because his mail coat wasn’t needed.’ I hoped I was right.
‘I never thought of that!’ Steapa said, reassured. He hesitated. I was about to mount Snawgebland and he took a pace towards me. I thought he was about to cup his hands to help me into the saddle, but instead he gave me a shy and crude embrace. ‘God be with you, lord.’
‘We’ll meet tomorrow evening,’ I said, ‘on a field of dead enemies.’
‘I pray so.’
I had said my farewell to Benedetta and made sure she had a good horse and a rich purse of coins. ‘If we lose,’ I had told her, ‘you get out of the city, cross the bridge over the Dee, and go south!’
‘You will not lose,’ she said fiercely, ‘I cannot lose you!’ She had wanted to come to the battlefield, but I had forbidden it and she had reluctantly accepted my insistence, though at a price. She had unlooped the heavy gold cross from about her neck and pushed it into my hands. ‘Wear it for me,’ she said, ‘it will keep you safe.’
I hesitated. I did not want to offend my gods, and I knew that the cross was valuable, a gift to Benedetta from Queen Eadgifu. ‘Wear it!’ she said sharply. ‘It will keep you safe, I know it!’ I hung the cross about my neck, along with the silver hammer. ‘And don’t take it off!’ she warned me.
‘I won’t. And I will see you after we’ve won.’
‘Make sure you do!’ I left Eadric with her, telling him he was too old to fight and to keep her safe and to take her far southwards if the battle was lost. She and I had kissed, then I left her with tears in her eyes.
I had not told her of Æthelstan’s offer of a bride. That offer had appalled me as much as I suspected it would enrage Benedetta, and that morning I had glimpsed Eldrida as she went to church in the company of six nuns. She looked like a nun herself, dressed in drab grey robes and with a heavy silver cross at her breast. She was a small, plump girl with a face that reminded me of an indignant piglet, but the piglet was worth a fortune.
We were camped south of the bridge, ready to move to the battlefield at dawn. We had bread, cold beef, cheese, and ale. Showers blew through after nightfall and we saw the northern land beyond the small crest of the battlefield glow with the campfires of our enemies. They had marched south from Dingesmere where their ships were moored in the sea-pool, and there was not a man in our force who did not gaze at that great glow and wonder how many men were grouped around those fires. Æthelstan had brought over three thousand men to his encampment, not counting the fyrd who could contribute little against Anlaf’s trained warriors. Æthelstan also had Steapa’s five hundred men who were camped some two miles behind us, but I reckoned Anlaf and Constantine must have had closer to five thousand. Some insisted they had six or even seven thousand, but no one truly knew.
I ate with my son, Finan, Egil and Thorolf. We said little and ate less. Sihtric joined us, but only to drink ale. ‘When does the truce end?’ he asked.
‘Midnight.’
‘But they won’t fight till daylight,’ Egil said.
‘Late morning,’ I said. It would take time to array the armies, and then for the fools to flaunt themselves between the lines to offer single combat.
Rain pattered on the sailcloth we had rigged between poles as a crude shelter. ‘The ground will be wet,’ Finan said gloomily, ‘slippery.’
No one answered. ‘We should sleep,’ I said, but knew sleep would be difficult. It would be difficult for the enemy too, just as the ground would be as slippery for them as it was for us. The rain hardened and I prayed that it would last through the next day because the Irish Norse liked to use archers and rain would slacken the cords of their bows.
I walked around my men’s campfires. I said the usual things, reminded them that they had trained for this, that the hours and days and months and years spent practising would keep them alive next day, but I knew many must die despite their skill. The shield wall is unforgiving. A priest was praying with some of my Christians, and I did not disturb him, just told the rest to eat, to sleep if they could, and to be confident. ‘We’re the wolves of Bebbanburg,’ I told them, ‘and we have never been defeated.’
A burst of harder rain made me move towards the brighter fires at the encampment’s centre. I expected no fighting till late morning, but I was wearing mail, mostly for the warmth that the leather liner gave me. There was candlelight showing in the king’s gaudy tent and I wandered towards it. Two guards at the entrance recognised me and, because I wore no sword or seax, let me pass. ‘He’s not here, lord,’ one of them said.
I went inside anyway, just to escape the rain. The tent was empty except for a priest in his embroidered robes who was kneeling on a cushion in front of a makeshift altar that held a silver crucifix. He turned when he heard me and I saw it was my son, the bishop. I stopped, tempted to leave the tent, but my son stood, looking as awkward as I felt. ‘Father,’ he said uncertainly, ‘the king has gone to talk to his men.’
‘I was doing the same.’ I decided I would stay. The rain would surely drive Æthelstan back to his tent. I had no real reason to talk to the king, other than to share our fears and hopes o
f the next day. I crossed to a table and saw a clay jug of wine that did not smell like vinegar so I poured some into a beaker. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll mind me stealing his wine.’ I saw my son had noticed the heavy gold cross hanging at my neck. I shrugged. ‘Benedetta insists I wear it. She says it will protect me.’
‘It will, father.’ He hesitated, his right hand touching his own cross. ‘Can we win?’
I looked into his pale face. Men said he resembled me, though I could not see it. He looked nervous. ‘We can win,’ I said as I sat on a stool.
‘But they outnumber us!’
‘I’ve fought many battles when I was outnumbered,’ I said. ‘It isn’t numbers, it’s fate.’
‘God is on our side,’ he said, though he did not sound certain.
‘That’s good.’ I had sounded sarcastic and regretted it. ‘I liked your sermon.’
‘I was aware you were in the church,’ he frowned, as if unsure that he had preached the truth. He sat on a bench, still frowning. ‘If they win tomorrow …’
‘It will be a slaughter,’ I said. ‘Our men will be trapped against the streams. Some will escape over the bridge, but it’s narrow, and some will scramble through the gully, but most will die.’
‘So why fight here?’
‘Because Anlaf and Constantine believe we can’t win. They’re confident. So we use that confidence to defeat them.’ I paused. ‘It won’t be easy.’
‘You’re not frightened?’
‘Terrified.’ I smiled. ‘Only a fool is not frightened before a battle. But we’ve trained our men, we’ve survived other fights, we know what to do.’
‘So do the enemy.’
‘Of course.’ I sipped the wine. It was sour. ‘You weren’t born when I fought at Ethandun. Anlaf’s grandfather fought Æthelstan’s grandfather there, and we were outnumbered. The Danes were confident, we were desperate.’
‘God won that battle for us.’
‘So Alfred said. Me? I think we knew we would lose our homes and our land if we lost, so we fought with a desperate ferocity. And we won.’
‘And tomorrow will be the same? I pray so.’ He really was frightened and I wondered whether it was better that he had become a priest because he might never have made a warrior. ‘I must have faith,’ he said plaintively.
‘Have faith in our men,’ I said. I heard some singing in the encampment, which surprised me. The men I had spoken with had been brooding on what the next day would bring, too sombre to sing. We had heard no singing from the enemy camp either, but suddenly there was a small group of men making a raucous noise. ‘They’re in good spirits,’ I said.
‘It’s the ale, I suppose?’ he said.
An awkward silence followed. The ragged singing came closer, a dog barked, and the rain made its seething noise on the tent’s roof. ‘I never thanked you,’ I said, ‘for your warning at Burgham. I’d have lost Bebbanburg if you hadn’t spoken.’
For a heartbeat he seemed flustered, not sure what to say. ‘It was Ealdred,’ he finally found his tongue. ‘He wanted to be Lord of the North. He was not a good man.’
‘And I am?’ I asked, smiling.
He did not answer that. He frowned at the singing, which was getting louder, then made the sign of the cross. ‘The king said you told him how we could win the battle?’ he asked, his nervousness plain again.
‘I suggested something.’
‘What?’
‘Something we’re not telling anyone. Suppose Anlaf sends men tonight to take a prisoner? And the prisoner knew?’ I smiled. ‘That would make your god’s job a lot harder if he means us to win.’
‘He does,’ he said, trying to sound firm, ‘tomorrow the Lord will work wonders for us!’
‘Tell that to our troops,’ I said, standing, ‘tell them your god is on our side. Tell them to do their best and be sure that their god will help.’ I poured the wine onto the rugs. Æthelstan, I reckoned, had taken shelter elsewhere and I would return to my men.
My son stood too. ‘Father,’ he said uncertainly, then looked at me with tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, but I never could be the son you wanted.’
I was struck by his misery, embarrassed by the raw feeling of regret that we both felt. ‘But you are!’ I said. ‘You are a lord of the church! I’m proud of you!’
‘You are?’ he asked, astonished.
‘Uhtred,’ I said, using the name I had taken from him in anger, ‘I’m sorry too.’ I held out my arms and we embraced. I had never thought to embrace my eldest son again, but I held him close, so close that my hands were scratched by the gold and silver wire embroidered into his robes. I felt tears in my eyes. ‘Be brave,’ I said, still holding him, ‘and when we’ve won you must visit us at Bebbanburg. You can say mass in our chapel.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Be brave and have faith,’ I said, ‘and we can win.’
I left him, cuffing my eyes as I walked away from the tent that glowed from all the candle lanterns inside. I passed campfires where men squatted in the rain, heard the voices of women from inside the shelters. Every whore in northern Mercia had followed the army and for all I knew from Wessex too. The raucous singing was far behind me now. They were drunk, I decided, and I had almost reached the fires of my own men when that singing turned to angry shouting. A scream cut the night. There was the distinctive sound of blades clashing. More shouts. I had no weapon other than a small knife, but I turned and ran towards the commotion. Other men were running with me towards a sudden flare of lurid light. The king’s tent was on fire, the wax-smeared linen blazing bright. The shouting was all around me now. Men were carrying swords, their eyes wide with fear. I saw the guards who had stood at the tent door were dead, their bodies lit by the fierce flames of the burning linen. Æthelstan’s bodyguard, distinctive in their scarlet cloaks were making a cordon around the tent, others were hauling the burning fabric down and away. ‘They’ve gone!’ someone bellowed. ‘They’ve gone!’
A group of Anlaf’s men had somehow crept into the encampment. It had been those men who had been singing, pretending to be drunk. Their hope had been to kill Æthelstan and so tear the heart from our army on the eve of battle, but Æthelstan had been nowhere near his tent. They had found a bishop instead.
Æthelstan came to the charred ruin of his tent. ‘Were there no sentries?’ he was asking angrily of one of his companions, then saw me. ‘Lord Uhtred. I am sorry.’
My eldest son was dead. Cut by swords, his blood reddening his lavish robes. His heavy pectoral cross had been stolen. His body had been dragged from the burning tent, but too late. Now I knelt by him and touched his face that was unmarked and oddly peaceful. ‘I’m sorry,’ Æthelstan said again.
For a moment I could not speak. ‘We had made our peace, lord King.’
‘Then tomorrow we will make war,’ Æthelstan said harshly, ‘terrible war, and we will avenge his death.’
Tomorrow the lord would work wonders for us? Except my eldest son was dead and the flames of the campfires blurred as I went back to my men.
Dawn. Birds singing in the high woods as though this was just another day. The rain had eased in the night, but a shower blew through as I left my shelter. My joints ached, reminding me that I was old. Immar Hergildson, the young Dane I had saved from a hanging, vomited beside the charred remains of a campfire. ‘Drunk last night?’ I asked him, kicking away a dog that came to eat the vomit.
He just shook his head. He was pale, frightened. ‘You’ve stood in a shield wall,’ I told him, ‘you know what to do.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘And they’re frightened too,’ I said, nodding north to where the enemy was camped beyond the low crest.
‘Yes, lord,’ he said uncertainly.
‘Just watch for the low spear thrust,’ I told him, ‘and don’t lower your shield.’ He had been prone to doing so in practice. A man in the enemy’s second rank would thrust a spear at an ankle or calf and Immar’s natural reaction was to lower th
e shield and so open himself to a sword thrust into the throat or chest. ‘You’ll be fine,’ I told him.
Aldwyn, my servant, brought me a cup of ale. ‘There’s bread, lord, and bacon.’
‘You eat,’ I told him. I had no appetite.
My son, my only son now, came to me. He was pale too. ‘It was Ingilmundr,’ he told me.
I knew he meant that it had been Ingilmundr who had infiltrated our camp and killed my eldest son. ‘You know that?’
‘He was recognised, lord.’
That made sense. Ingilmundr, the tall handsome Norseman who had sworn his oath to Æthelstan, who had pretended to be a Christian, who had been given land on Wirhealum, and who had made his secret alliance with Anlaf, had led a group of men through the darkness. He knew Æthelstan’s army, he spoke our language, and in the rainswept night he had come to kill the king, hoping to leave us leaderless and afraid. Instead he had killed my son and, in the night’s blazing chaos, had escaped into the dark. ‘It’s a bad omen,’ I said.
‘A good omen, father.’
‘Why good?’
‘If he had struck a few minutes earlier you would have died.’
I had lain awake, thinking just that. ‘Your brother and I made our peace,’ I told him, ‘before he died.’ I remembered the embrace, and my awareness that he had sobbed silently on my shoulder. ‘I was a bad father,’ I said softly.
‘No!’
‘Too late now,’ I said harshly. ‘And today we kill Ingilmundr. And we make it hurt.’
I was wearing leggings and a tunic, but Aldwyn brought me my best coat of Frisian mail, the links heavy, backed with leather, and edged at the neck and skirt hems with gold and silver rings. I pulled on my rich bracelets, the glittering trophies of victories past that would betray to the enemy that I was a warlord. I pulled on the heavy boots that were lined with iron strips and heeled with golden spurs. I buckled the smaller sword belt, sewn with silver squares, that held Wasp-Sting at my right side, then the heavier belt, blazoned with gold wolf heads that held Serpent-Breath at my left hip. Around my neck I wrapped a scarf of rare white silk, a gift from Benedetta, and over it I hung a thick gold chain, with the silver hammer hanging over my heart and next to it the gold cross that Benedetta swore would protect me. I fastened a night-black cloak about my shoulders, then pulled on my finest war-helm that was crested with a silver wolf. I stamped my feet then walked a few paces to settle the heavy armour. Aldwyn, an orphan from Lundene, stared at me wide-eyed. I was a warlord, the warlord of Bebbanburg, a warlord of Britain, and Aldwyn saw glory and power, ignorant of the fear that made my stomach sour, that mocked me, that made my voice harsh. ‘Is Snawgebland saddled?’
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