The Lords of the North

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And here you are. And you’re just the man I want.’ He smiled, certain that I liked him, in which certainty he could not have been more mistaken, but Æthelred assumed that everyone else in the whole world was envious of him and wanted nothing more than to be his friend. ‘The king,’ he said, ‘has honoured me with the command of his household guard.’

  ‘Alfred has?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘At least until I assume my father’s duties.’

  ‘Your father’s well, I trust?’ I asked drily.

  ‘He’s sick,’ Æthelred said, sounding pleased, ‘so who knows how long I shall command Alfred’s guard. But you’d be of great use to me if you would serve in the household troops.’

  ‘I’d rather shovel shit,’ I said, then held a hand towards Brida. ‘Do you remember Brida?’ I asked. ‘You tried to rape her ten years ago.’

  He went bright red, said nothing, but just hurried away. Brida laughed as he retreated, then gave a very small bow because Ælswith, Alfred’s wife, was walking past us. Ælswith ignored us, for she had never liked Brida or me, but Eanflæd smiled. She was Ælswith’s closest companion and I kissed my hand towards her. ‘She was a tavern whore,’ I told Brida, ‘and now she rules the king’s household.’

  ‘Good for her,’ Brida said.

  ‘Does Alfred know she was a whore?’ Ragnar asked.

  ‘He pretends not to know,’ I said.

  Alfred came last. He looked sick, but that was nothing unusual. He half inclined his head to me, but said nothing, though Beocca scuttled over to me as we waited for the crowd at the door to thin. ‘You’re to see the king after midday prayers,’ he told me, ‘and you too, Lord Ragnar. I shall summon you.’

  ‘We’ll be in the Two Cranes,’ I told him.

  ‘I don’t know why you like that tavern.’

  ‘Because it’s a brothel too, of course,’ I said. ‘And if you go there, father, make sure you carve a notch in one of the beams to show you humped one of the ladies. I’d recommend Ethel. She’s only got one hand, but it’s a miracle what she can do with it.’

  ‘Oh, dear God, Uhtred, dear God. What an ugly cesspit you have for a mind. If I ever marry, and I pray God for that dear happiness, I shall go unstained to my bride.’

  ‘I pray you do too, father,’ I said, and I meant it. Poor Beocca. He was so ugly and he dreamed of a wife, but he had never found one and I doubted he ever would. There were plenty of women willing to marry him, squint and all, for he was, after all, a privileged priest high in Alfred’s estimation, but Beocca was waiting for love to strike him like a lightning bolt. He would stare at beautiful women, dream his hopeless dreams and say his prayers. Perhaps, I thought, his heaven would reward him with a glorious bride, but nothing I had ever heard about the Christian heaven suggested that such joys were available.

  Beocca fetched us from the Two Cranes that afternoon. I noted that he glanced at the beams and looked shocked at the number of notches, but he said nothing of them, leading us instead to the palace where we surrendered our swords at the gatehouse. Ragnar was commanded to wait in the courtyard while Beocca took me to Alfred who was in his study, a small room that had been part of the Roman building that was the heart of Wintanceaster’s palace. I had been in the room before, so I was not surprised by the scant furniture, nor by the piles of parchments that spilled from the wide window ledge. The walls were of stone, and whitewashed, so it was a well-lit room, though for some reason Alfred had a score of candles burning in one corner. Each candle had been scored with deep lines about a thumb’s width apart. The candles were certainly not there for illumination because an autumnal sun streamed through the big window, and I did not want to ask what purpose the candles served in case he told me. I merely assumed there was a candle for every saint he had prayed to over the last few days and each of the scored lines was a sin that had to be burned away. Alfred had a very acute conscience for sins, especially mine.

  Alfred was dressed in a brown robe so that he looked like a monk. His hands, like Beocca’s, were ink-stained. He appeared pale and sick. I had heard his stomach troubles were bad again and every now and then he flinched as a pain stabbed at his belly. But he greeted me warmly enough. ‘Lord Uhtred. I trust you are in health?’

  ‘I am, lord,’ I said, still kneeling, ‘and hope the same for you.’

  ‘God afflicts me. There is purpose in that, so I must be glad of it. Stand, please. Is Earl Ragnar with you?’

  ‘He is outside, lord.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. I stood in the only space left in the small room. The mysterious candles took up a large area, and Beocca was standing against the wall next to Steapa who took up even more. I was surprised to see Steapa. Alfred favoured clever men and Steapa was hardly clever. He had been born a slave, now he was a warrior, and in truth he was not much good for anything beyond consuming ale and slaughtering the king’s enemies, two tasks he did with a brutal efficiency. Now he stood just beyond the king’s high writing desk with an awkward expression as though he were unsure why he had been summoned.

  I thought Alfred would ask about my ordeal, for he liked to hear stories of distant places and strange people, but he ignored it utterly, instead asking for my opinion of Guthred and I said I liked Guthred, which seemed to surprise the king. ‘You like him,’ Alfred asked, ‘despite what he did to you?’

  ‘He had little choice, lord,’ I said. ‘I told him that a king must be ruthless in defence of his realm.’

  ‘Even so,’ Alfred watched me with a dubious face.

  ‘If we mere men, lord, wanted gratitude from kings,’ I said with my most earnest expression, ‘then we should be forever disappointed.’

  He looked at me sternly then gave a rare burst of laughter. ‘I’ve missed you, Uhtred,’ he said. ‘You are the only man who is impertinent with me.’

  ‘He did not mean it, lord,’ Beocca said anxiously.

  ‘Of course he meant it,’ Alfred said. He pushed some parchments aside on the window ledge and sat down. ‘What do you think of my candles?’ he asked me.

  ‘I find, lord,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘that they’re more effective at night.’

  ‘I am trying to develop a clock,’ he said.

  ‘A clock?’

  ‘To mark the passing hours.’

  ‘You look at the sun, lord,’ I said, ‘and at night, the stars.’

  ‘Not all of us can see through clouds,’ he remarked tartly. ‘Each mark is supposed to represent one hour. I am endeavoring to find which markings are most accurate. If I can find a candle that burns twenty-four divisions between midday and midday then I shall always know the hour, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ I said.

  ‘Our time must be properly spent,’ he said, ‘and to do that we must first know how much time we have.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ I said again, my boredom obvious.

  Alfred sighed, then looked through the parchments and found one embossed with a huge seal of sickly-green wax. ‘This is a message from King Guthred,’ he said. ‘He has asked for my advice and I am minded to offer it. To which end I am sending an embassy to Eoferwic. Father Beocca has agreed to speak for me.’

  ‘You do me a privilege, lord,’ Beocca said happily, ‘a great privilege.’

  ‘And Father Beocca will be carrying precious gifts for King Guthred,’ Alfred went on, ‘and those gifts must be protected, which means an escort of warriors. I thought, perhaps, you would provide that protection, Lord Uhtred? You and Steapa?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ I said, enthusiastically this time, for all I dreamed of was Gisela and she was in Eoferwic.

  ‘But you are to understand,’ Alfred said, ‘that Father Beocca is in charge. He is my ambassador and you will take his orders. Is that understood?’

  ‘Indeed, lord,’ I said, though in truth I had no need to accept Alfred’s instructions. I was no longer sworn to him, I was not a West Saxon, but he was asking me to go where I wanted to go and so I did not remind
him that he lacked my oath.

  He did not need reminding. ‘You will all three return before Christmas to report on your embassy,’ he said, ‘and if you do not swear to that,’ he was looking at me now, ‘and swear to be my man, then I shall not let you go.’

  ‘You want my oath?’ I asked him.

  ‘I insist on it, Lord Uhtred,’ he said.

  I hesitated. I did not want to be Alfred’s man again, but I sensed there was far more behind this so-called embassy than the provision of advice. If Alfred wanted to advise Guthred why not do it in a letter? Or send a half-dozen priests to weary Guthred’s ears? But Alfred was sending Steapa and myself and, in truth, the two of us were only fit for one thing, fighting. And Beocca, though undoubtedly a good man, was hardly an impressive ambassador. Alfred, I thought, wanted Steapa and me in the north, which meant he wanted violence done, and that was encouraging, but still I hesitated and that annoyed the king.

  ‘Must I remind you,’ Alfred asked with some asperity, ‘that I went to a deal of trouble to free you from your slavery?’

  ‘Why did you do that, lord?’ I asked.

  Beocca hissed, angry that I had not yielded immediately to the king’s wishes, and Alfred looked affronted, but then he seemed to accept that my question deserved an answer. He motioned Beocca to silence, then fidgeted with the seal on Guthred’s letter, shredding scraps of green wax. ‘The Abbess Hildegyth convinced me,’ he said at last. I waited. Alfred glanced at me and saw I thought there was more to the answer than Hild’s entreaties. He shrugged. ‘And it seemed to me,’ he said awkwardly, ‘that I owed you more than I repaid you for your services at Æthelingæg.’

  It was hardly an apology, but it was an acknowledgment that five hides were no reward for a kingdom. I bowed my head. ‘Thank you, lord,’ I said, ‘and you shall have my oath.’ I did not want to give it to him, but what choice did I have? Thus are our lives decided. For years I had swayed between love of the Danes and loyalty to the Saxons and there, beside the guttering candle-clocks, I gave my services to a king I disliked. ‘But might I ask, lord,’ I went on, ‘why Guthred needs advice?’

  ‘Because Ivarr Ivarson tires of him,’ Alfred said, ‘and Ivarr would have another, more compliant, man on Northumbria’s throne.’

  ‘Or take the throne for himself?’ I suggested.

  ‘Ivarr, I think, does not want a king’s heavy responsibilities,’ Alfred said. ‘He wants power, he wants money, he wants warriors, and he wants another man to do the hard work of enforcing the laws on the Saxons and raising taxes from the Saxons. And he will choose a Saxon to do that.’ That made sense. It was how the Danes usually governed their conquered Saxons. ‘And Ivarr,’ Alfred went on, ‘no longer wants Guthred.’

  ‘Why not, lord?’

  ‘Because King Guthred,’ Alfred said, ‘attempts to impose his law equally on Danes and Saxons alike.’

  I remembered Guthred’s hope that he would be a just king. ‘Is that bad?’ I asked.

  ‘It is foolishness,’ Alfred said, ‘when he decrees that every man, whether pagan or Christian, must donate his tithe to the church.’

  Offa had mentioned that church tax and it was, indeed, a foolish imposition. The tithe was a tenth of everything a man grew, reared or made, and the pagan Danes would never accept such a law. ‘I thought you would approve, lord,’ I said mischievously.

  ‘I approve of tithing, of course,’ Alfred said wearily, ‘but a tithe should be given with a willing heart.’

  ‘Hilarem datorem diligit Deus,’ Beocca put in unhelpfully. ‘It says so in the gospel book.’

  ‘“God approves a cheerful giver”,’ Alfred provided the translation, ‘but when a land is half pagan and half Christian you do not encourage unity by offending the more powerful half. Guthred must be a Dane to the Danes and a Christian to the Christians. That is my advice to him.’

  ‘If the Danes rebel,’ I asked, ‘does Guthred have the power to defeat them?’

  ‘He has the Saxon fyrd, what’s left of it, and some Danish Christians, but too few of those, alas. My estimate is that he can raise six hundred spears, but fewer than half of those will be reliable in battle.’

  ‘And Ivarr?’ I asked.

  ‘Nearer a thousand. And if Kjartan joins him then he will have far more. And Kjartan is encouraging Ivarr.’

  ‘Kjartan,’ I said ‘doesn’t leave Dunholm.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to leave Dunholm,’ Alfred said, ‘he needs only to send two hundred men to assist Ivarr. And Kjartan, I am told, has a particular hatred of Guthred.’

  ‘That’s because Guthred pissed all over his son,’ I said.

  ‘He did what?’ The king stared at me.

  ‘Washed his hair with piss,’ I said. ‘I was there.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Alfred said, plainly thinking that every man north of the Humber was a barbarian.

  ‘So what Guthred must do now,’ I said, ‘is destroy Ivarr and Kjartan?’

  ‘That is Guthred’s business,’ Alfred said distantly.

  ‘He must make peace with them,’ Beocca said, frowning at me.

  ‘Peace is always desirable,’ Alfred said, though without much enthusiasm.

  ‘If we are to send missionaries to the Northumbrian Danes, lord,’ Beocca urged, ‘then we must have peace.’

  ‘As I said,’ Alfred retorted, ‘peace is desirable.’ Again he spoke without fervour and that, I thought, was his real message. He knew there could not be peace.

  I remembered what Offa, the dog-dancing man, had told me about marrying Gisela to my uncle. ‘Guthred could persuade my uncle to support him,’ I suggested.

  Alfred gave me a speculative look. ‘Would you approve of that, Lord Uhtred?’

  ‘Ælfric is a usurper,’ I said. ‘He swore to recognise me as heir to Bebbanburg and broke that oath. No, lord, I would not approve.’

  Alfred peered at his candles that guttered away, smearing the whitewashed wall with their smoke. ‘This one,’ he said, ‘burns too fast.’ He licked his fingers, pinched out the flame, and put the dead candle in a basket with a dozen other rejects. ‘It is greatly to be wished,’ he said, still examining his candles, ‘that a Christian king reigns in Northumbria. It is even desirable that it should be Guthred. He is a Dane, and if we are to win the Danes to a knowledge and love of Christ then we need Danish kings who are Christians. What we do not need is Kjartan and Ivarr making war on the Christians. They would destroy the church if they could.’

  ‘Kjartan certainly would,’ I said.

  ‘And I doubt your uncle is strong enough to defeat Kjartan and Ivarr,’ Alfred said, ‘even if he were willing to ally himself with Guthred. No,’ he paused, thinking, ‘the only solution is for Guthred to make his peace with the pagans. That is my advice to him.’ He spoke the last few words directly to Beocca.

  Beocca looked pleased. ‘Wise advice, lord,’ he said, ‘praise be to God.’

  ‘And speaking of pagans,’ Alfred glanced at me, ‘what will the Earl Ragnar do if I release him?’

  ‘He won’t fight for Ivarr,’ I said firmly.

  ‘You can be sure of that?’

  ‘Ragnar hates Kjartan,’ I said, ‘and if Kjartan is allied to Ivarr then Ragnar will hate both men. Yes, lord, I can be sure of that.’

  ‘So if I release Ragnar,’ Alfred asked, ‘and allow him to go north with you, he will not turn against Guthred?’

  ‘He’ll fight Kjartan,’ I said, ‘but what he will think of Guthred I don’t know.’

  Alfred considered that answer, then nodded. ‘If he is opposed to Kjartan,’ he said, ‘that should be sufficient.’ He turned and smiled at Beocca. ‘Your embassy, father, is to preach peace to Guthred. You will advise him to be a Dane among the Danes and a Christian among the Saxons.’

  ‘Yes, of course, lord,’ Beocca said, but it was plain he was thoroughly confused. Alfred talked peace, but was sending warriors, for he knew there could not be peace while Ivarr and Kjartan lived. He dared not make such a pronouncement publicly
, or else the northern Danes would accuse Wessex of interfering in Northumbrian affairs. They would resent that, and their resentment would add strength to Ivarr’s cause. And Alfred wanted Guthred on Northumbria’s throne because Guthred was a Christian, and a Christian Northumbria was more likely to welcome a Saxon army when it came, if it came. Ivarr and Kjartan would make Northumbria into a pagan stronghold if they could, and Alfred wanted to prevent that. Beocca, therefore, was to preach peace and conciliation, but Steapa, Ragnar and I would carry swords. We were his dogs of war and Alfred knew full well that Beocca could not control us.

  He dreamed, Alfred did, and his dreams encompassed all the isle of Britain.

  And I was once again to be his sworn man, and that was not what I had wanted, but he was sending me north, to Gisela, and that I did want and so I knelt to him, placed my hands between his, swore the oath and thus lost my freedom. Then Ragnar was summoned and he also knelt and was granted his freedom.

  And next day we all rode north.

  Gisela was already married.

  I heard that from Wulfhere, Archbishop of Eoferwic, and he should have known because he had performed the ceremony in his big church. It seemed I had arrived five days too late and when I heard the news I felt a despair like that which had caused my tears in Haithabu. Gisela was married.

  It was autumn when we reached Northumbria. Peregrine falcons patrolled the sky, stooping on the newly arrived woodcock or on the gulls that flocked in the rain-drowned furrows. It had been a fine autumn so far, but the rains arrived from the west as we travelled north through Mercia. There were ten of us; Ragnar and Brida, Steapa and myself and Father Beocca who had charge of three servants who led the packhorses carrying our shields, armour, changes of clothing and the gifts Alfred was sending to Guthred. Ragnar led two men who had shared his exile. All of us were mounted on fine horses that Alfred had given us and we should have made good time, but Beocca slowed us. He hated being on horseback and even though we padded his mare’s saddle with two thick fleeces he was still crippled by soreness. He had spent the journey rehearsing the speech with which he would greet Guthred, practising and practising the words until we were all bored by them. We had encountered no trouble in Mercia, for Ragnar’s presence ensured that we were welcome in Danish halls. There was still a Saxon king in northern Mercia, Ceolwulf was his name, but we did not meet him and it was plain that the real power lay with the great Danish lords. We crossed the border into Northumbria under a pelting rainstorm and it was still raining as we rode into Eoferwic.