Conqueror tt-2

by Stephen Baxter

  The warriors went about their business amid heaps of English treasure, extracted from the burned ruins of Alfred's hall. There were gangs of captives too, thegns, perhaps even ealdormen, great men of the kingdom of Wessex sitting in their own shit and tied together with lengths of rope like cattle. The Danes ignored the English save to prod them with their swords or piss on them, or they would pluck out a girl or a woman to be dragged into one of the tents.

  Arngrim was close enough to hear scraps of the Danes' conversation. There was talk of taking the booty and captives back to Eoforwic – which the Danes called Jorvik, a captured town which was becoming a major market for the Danes. Meanwhile they were planning to use Cippanhamm as their base in Wessex for the rest of the winter. This riverside camp would serve as their river port, and a shelter for the ships. The assault on Cippanhamm was a classic example of the Vikings' way of working, Amgrim reflected, as every English thegn had learned from hard experience: surprise, attacks at night, the use of forests for cover, the ability to throw up rapid fortifications, their willingness to move into English settlements and use them as bases.

  Amgrim did not see the Danes' leader, the petty king Guthrum. Nor did he spy Egil, the brutish leader of the war band.

  'Hsst! Hsst!'

  The call was loud enough to make Amgrim flinch. He looked back to the ragged copse at the bottom of this low ridge, where he had left Ibn Zuhr and Cynewulf. There was no sign of the Moor, but Cynewulf was standing in the open air, his habit streaked with dirt, filthy hair standing up around his tonsured scalp.

  Furious, Arngrim waved him back. With one last glimpse down at the Danes he slithered on his belly down the ridge.

  He met the others in the gloom of the forest. 'By Woden's eyes, what are you doing? Do you long for death, priest?'

  Cynewulf, agitated, struggled for self-control. 'Oh, yes I do, you pagan oaf. I long to be free of the trials of this life, and to enter the peace of God which is forever beyond your hell-born understanding. But not today, not today. I must know. Is she there?'

  'Aebbe? I did not see her. But she must be among the captives.' He described what he had seen of the camp.

  'I don't understand,' Ibn Zuhr said, 'why they want all this plunder.'

  Arngrim knew it was a sensible point. 'Among the Northmen the worth of a war leader is measured by the wealth he wins, and can give to those who follow him. We know this because long ago it was the same with us – and still is.' He raised an arm heavy with silver rings, most of them given him by Alfred.

  'As for Aebbe, perhaps they have killed her already,' Cynewulf said gloomily.

  'I doubt she is dead. Her youth and beauty will keep her alive.'

  'The heathens will abuse her.'

  'Perhaps. But they will not kill her.' Not unless, Amgrim told himself, she fights back too hard.

  Ibn Zuhr seemed fascinated by the priest's distress. 'You are agitated by the plight of this Aebbe because of the information she holds. But what of the other captives? You are a priest of the Christians. I do not understand how a Christian can accept slavery – yet your society could not function without slaves.'

  Cynewulf said, 'The Church tolerates slavery as a necessary evil, and an appropriate punishment for certain crimes. But the Church is concerned by the slave-taking by Danes, by heathens. And indeed by Moors. For the Church requires that all its devotees have the freedom to pursue their faith.'

  'How enlightened,' Ibn Zuhr said dryly.

  Arngrim valued Ibn Zuhr, but sometimes he pushed his luck. 'You ask barbed questions, Moor. Just remember you are a slave. Anyhow we're here to deal with the Danes, not debate philosophy.'

  'How many in the camp?' Cynewulf asked.

  'Hundreds. Not thousands.' In fact this was only a fraction of the original Danish force which had landed a dozen years ago; the rest had settled down to colonise the kingdoms they had shattered in the east and north.

  'Hundreds.' Cynewulf shook his head. 'How is it that we fall like straw men before mere hundreds?'

  'Few of us are warriors,' Arngrim said. 'The thegns are raised to fight. But the fyrd are farmers. And when the harvest is due they melt away anyhow. These Danes are blooded warriors. They do not fear a failed harvest for they simply steal food. What is worse, their war has become focused here, in Wessex, for the Danes have finished with the rest of England, save to farm it. It is only here that glory and booty may still be found, and so it is here that the hungriest warriors will come.'

  Ibn Zuhr said, 'Every breath we take here we risk discovery, and an unpleasant fate. We must return to the King's camp with this intelligence.'

  'But Aebbe-'

  Arngrim grabbed the priest's arm. 'Perhaps we will be able to save her. But not today, cousin. The Danes are too strong.'

  Ibn Zuhr nodded. 'We will go back the way we came. Follow me.' Moving silent as a cat, he crept through the forest, following a trail visible only to his own dark-adapted eyes, away from the Danish camp.

  VI

  To the west of Cippanhamm there was a bank of forest, through which the King and his chastened party had retreated that dark night after the Twelve Days assault. Beyond this the ground rose to become boggy moorland where only a few stunted sheep browsed around heather-thatched hovels. During the retreat some of the thegns had begun to complain as the chill ice-crusted mud of the moorland weighed down their steps. But Arngrim and others, leading the grim flight, had known that the King would be as safe in this wilderness as anywhere else, for the Danes would be reluctant to move away from open water. Even the walled towns weren't safe; Escanceaster, for example, had been taken by the Danes the previous year.

  As for the King himself, he seemed shocked to his core by the midwinter truce-breaking treachery of the Danes. With his priests and clerks fluttering around in their spoiled robes, Alfred had walked steadily into the dismal wilderness, looking neither left nor right, giving no orders, allowing himself to be led as passively as a child.

  They had come at last to a place where the marshland was tidal, flooded daily by the Sabrina river, and in the sunlight open water shone everywhere, flat and calm and gummy with life.

  'I know this place,' Arngrim had said. 'When I was a boy, we hunted here – my cousins and the athelings, Alfred and his older brothers. We called it the Isle of the Princes.' Aethelingaig. 'Alfred will remember it.'

  'You have chosen well,' Cynewulf said.

  Aethelingaig was inhabited: indeed people had lived here for a long time. You found your way from island to island along paths, causeways of logs pressed into the mud, ancient and endlessly renewed. The people lived in hovels on stilts, feeding off coots, moorhens, ducks, grebes, and gulls, and in the streams were weirs of brushwood, funnels in which eels and lampreys could be caught. Cynewulf had been told it was possible that these people might be British, clinging to land owned by deep chains of forefathers, land too worthless to have been taken from them by the new English dynasties.

  And the people of the marshes were only dimly aware of what was going on outside their watery realm. As the King's procession passed, one grubby old chap had called, 'What's up, are the Romans back?'

  Despite the sanctuary of Aethelingaig the flight from Cippanhamm was an utter humiliation, made worse by the fact that the King's own estate had been taken by the Danes as a base. The very boldness of the Vikings' strike was daunting, Cynewulf thought. Guthrum's intention had clearly been to capture or kill Alfred himself. If he had done so, with only children available to occupy the last English throne, Wessex could have been thrown into a succession dispute and fratricidal turmoil – and with a single stroke Guthrum might have won England. The intelligence of the attack, its decisiveness, and the wile with which it had been carried out marked out Guthrum as a formidable leader.

  And worse in Cynewulf's mind was the vision of Egil son of Egil, the Beast from the outer dark who had rampaged through the broken sanctuary of the King's hall.

  'Yet they failed,' Arngrim had pointed out to Cynewulf
as they discussed this. 'There is still hope.'

  But Alfred could not fight back, not for now; English farmer-armies could not be raised in the depths of winter.

  By the time Arngrim and his companions got back to Aethelingaig after their spying expedition, Alfred's men had had three days to get organised. Around the camp a ditch had been dug out and an earthen bank thrown up. Inside this perimeter turf fires burned smokily, tents had been set up, and latrines and food pits were being dug. Parties had been sent out into the countryside to demand food for the King from the soggy water-folk. Further afield rivers had been blocked with logs to keep the Danes from sailing up.

  This toy fortress, scratched out of a sodden moor under a sky like a grey lid, was all that was left of the domain of the King of Wessex.

  In the camp the thegns huddled in uneasy groups, poring over bits of parchment, some even scribbling maps in the mud with bits of stick. The King was nowhere to be seen. Arngrim quizzed the thegns, telling what he had learned himself and finding out what else was known.

  The news was detailed, surprisingly, since even here the King's clerks scribbled and jotted constantly. After nearly a century of the Viking catastrophe the monastic system had collapsed and England was left empty of scholars. It was a tragedy for a land that in Bede's time had been full of books and learning. But to Alfred, the scholar-King, words on parchment were a weapon of war; he knew that it was with words, words, words, endlessly recorded, that the Roman army had mustered the deep collective wisdom that had once enabled it to conquer the world. So Alfred had searched for literate servants from the British nations of the west and north, from Ireland, even from the continent.

  Today the news, however painstakingly assembled, was dismal.

  There were three principal nations among the Northmen: the Norse, the Swedes and the Danes. It had been the Norse who had first struck at Lindisfarena. They assaulted Britain, Ireland and the Frankish kingdoms. Colonies were planted in Ireland, and on Britain's offshore islands. Some said the Norse had pushed ever further west, seeking lands beyond the ocean known only to the ancients.

  The Swedes, meanwhile, looked east. Using the great continental rivers, even dragging their boats between river courses, they plunged deep into Asia. In the end they had attacked even Constantinople.

  And the Danes, said to be fleeing tyrannical kings, turned west and south, hitting Britain and western Europe. The petty kingdoms of England and a fragmented Europe had been ripe fruit to be plucked by these ferocious raiders. After five decades of pinprick assaults the character of the incursions changed. A new generation of Danish invaders came in great coordinated waves, far more numerous than before, and they began to overwinter. They had come to seize, not just wealth, but land.

  Alfred's whole life had been shaped by the wars with the Danes.

  All four of the sons of Alfred's father, Aethelwulf, became kings. And it was in the reign of the second son, Aethelbert, that the Danish Force came to England, a unified army of perhaps two thousand warriors. The Danes landed first in East Anglia, whose king sued for peace. Then they headed north into Northumbria, where as usual rival kings were at each other's throats. The Danes burned out the great old city of Eoforwic, and in a great bloodbath around the Roman walls both the rival Northumbrian kings were slain: one of them, Aelle, suffered the blood eagle, his back split open and his lungs splayed. Northumbria, a kingdom which had once dominated Britain, had collapsed like a dry mushroom.

  In the next season the Force turned on Mercia. Alfred, still just nineteen, fought in a siege of the Danes at Snotingaham. Mercia fell; the Force took Lunden, among other prizes. The East Angles now made a belated stand, but their king, Edmund, too was toppled; he too suffered the blood eagle.

  Just five years after the Force landed, only Wessex survived, and it bore the brunt of the Force's fury. Alfred and his brothers won one mighty victory for the English, at a place called Aescesdun. But the repeated battles proved inconclusive. King Aethelred, Alfred's last surviving brother, died of wounds incurred on too many battlefields. Alfred, succeeding to the throne, sued for peace; both sides were exhausted.

  The Force used the time to consolidate its gains. More Danes flooded over from the homeland to settle in Northumbria, East Anglia and in the north-east of Mercia. Their leaders were already minting their own coins in Lunden, and Eoforwic began to develop as a Danish market town, a hub of a trading federation that stretched from Ireland across northern England and deep into Europe and Asia beyond.

  The mass of the common folk toiled at their land as they had always done. But if Wessex fell it would be the end of England. And in a new Dane-land, determinedly pagan, thoroughly illiterate, Danish-speaking, the brilliant age of Bede would soon be but a dream.

  The peace won by Alfred had been broken the previous year when the Danes, now under their petty king Guthrum, at last moved against Wessex. Storms wrecked their ships; weakened and cut off, Guthrum agreed another truce with Alfred, and withdrew. It was this truce which the Danes had treacherously broken, in their Twelve Days assault on Alfred's estate at Cippanhamm.

  And now, Arngrim learned, the news was worse yet. Since Cippanhamm many of the Wessex nobility, losing faith in English kings, had thrown in their lot with the Danes.

  When they had gleaned all they could from the dispirited thegns, Arngrim, Ibn Zuhr and Cynewulf found logs to sit on. Cradling mugs of bark tea, bitter-tasting but warming, they huddled in cloaks that were damp with dew, for the short January day was already ending.

  Arngrim grumbled, 'The King skulks in his tent, attending his endless prayer services and having his meaningless thoughts copied down by his clerks. He isn't doing anything.'

  'It's said he muses on the ageing of the English race,' Cynewulf said. Our centuries of vigour are done, and now we must be pushed aside, as once we pushed aside the Romans.'

  Arngrim grunted. 'If you asks me he spends too much time thinking about the Romans.' Alfred's father Aethelwulf, deeply pious himself, had sent his youngest son to Rome, twice before his tenth birthday. Alfred was struck deeply by the ancient city, its fabric rotting after centuries of neglect and sackings. 'I heard a rumour that he's planning a pilgrimage to Rome. He wouldn't be the first to escape that way.'

  'That,' said Cynewulf, 'would be a disaster.'

  'Well, if the King is in shock, it seems to me he must be drawn out of it. But how?'

  Cynewulf said slowly, 'I think I know a way.'

  Arngrim said, 'You mean your prophecy.'

  'Yes.' Seeing Arngrim's sceptical expression, he said quickly, 'Think about it, cousin. Aebbe has told me damnably little about this vision from the past. She always knew it was her sole bit of power. But what she did tell me was tantalising. "Even the dragon must lie/At the foot of the Cross." What can that prophesy but the triumph of Christ over the pagans-and what Christian king can lead us but Alfred? For if he falls, there will be none to follow.'

  Arngrim scowled. 'How do you know this has anything to do with our century at all? Perhaps this verse speaks of the dead past, or the far future.'

  'No,' Cynewulf said. 'The prophecy contains specific dates, tied to the appearances of a comet – the calculations are difficult. I know it speaks of now, cousin. I am sure of it.'

  'So you say. Even though you can't work out these dates for yourself.'

  Ibn Zuhr said, 'I would be intrigued to hear your prophecy. I know a different way of figuring, more advanced than yours. Perhaps I could interpret the dates for you-'

  Arngrim ignored him. 'The trouble is,' he said practically, 'we don't have Aebbe. The Danes do, and they are intent on taking her to Eoforwic, where they will sell her, body, soul, prophecy and all.'

  Cynewulf clenched his small fist. 'Then we must find her, and bring her back. If it means we must travel all the way to Eoforwic – well, that's what we will do, for we must give the King hope. Are you with me, cousin?'

  Arngrim was reluctant. He felt he should stay here; his instinct was to fight. Ther
e was talk of finding ways to use this marshy base to strike back at the Danes. But if the King could not be revived from his scholarly torpor, perhaps there would be no fighting at all. He said reluctantly, 'I don't have any better idea.'

  Ibn Zuhr, an outsider in this drama of kin, kingship, religion and culture, smiled to himself. 'Tell me – what oracle is the author of your prophecy?'

  'It is said to be a Weaver. An emperor of the future who sees all history, like the pages of an open book.'

  'Perhaps we should consider why he would want Alfred to prevail.'

  These strange words, quietly delivered, made Cynewulf shudder, unaccountably.

  VII

  Arngrim requisitioned horses, stout travelling clothes and a few purses packed with silver. Early one February morning he, Ibn Zuhr and Cynewulf set off to cross England to the Vikings' greatest city.

  Avoiding the Danes at Cippanhamm they headed east across a countryside still locked down by winter, and they met few people on the road. This may have been a country at a pivot of its history, but almost everybody in England worked on the land, and January and February, when you could venture out at all, were months for ploughing and pruning, for eking out last year's stores, for preparing for the spring, not for travelling. They developed a habit of setting off before dawn and riding until after dark, with Cynewulf fretting at the shortness of the midwinter days. Ibn Zuhr negotiated places for them to stay each night, where their horses could be stabled or exchanged. The German tradition of hospitality had survived even in these times of raids and invasion, but Ibn Zuhr was always careful to approach any dwelling cautiously, his cloak thrown back to show he had no weapons drawn, and with a blast on his horn well before he came within bow-shot.

  During the journey Ibn Zuhr asked more questions about the prophecy. Though Cynewulf didn't have a copy of the Menologium itself he did have fragments of analysis of it, much of it by a long-dead monk called Boniface, whose commentary had been rescued from the ruined library of Lindisfarena. Ibn Zuhr read all this avidly, but if he came to any conclusions he kept them to himself.