War of the Wolf

by Bernard Cornwell

  “How many have you seen?” I asked.

  “Only a dozen, lord. But I think there were more of them in the trees.” He turned in his saddle to look north. “The road runs beside a big wood, lord, and those trees could hide an army.”

  “Were there any cattle?”

  “None that I saw, lord. And the men all have shields and spears.” He meant they were warriors. Men raiding for livestock rarely encumbered themselves with heavy shields; they preferred to travel swiftly, running from a fight rather than seeking one.

  “Did they see you?” Finan asked.

  “They saw us,” Eadric said. “It’s open land. They showed themselves when we crossed the crest.” There was a slight rise in the road ahead, and Eadric said the woodland where the strangers had appeared lay a mile or so beyond it.

  “Sköll?” I asked.

  Eadric looked uncertain. “I didn’t see any of those gray wolf cloaks, lord. But it could be his men. Could be anyone.”

  Damn it, but had Sköll somehow got ahead of us? If he had men who knew this country, then that was possible, but they must have ridden hard. I looked east and west, but on both sides of the valley were low, bare hills. If we tried to evade the men ahead we would be seen crossing the skyline. “Maybe they’re friendly?” Eadric suggested.

  “The only friend we have is Sigtryggr,” I answered, “and it won’t be him. Were they flying a banner?”

  “None that I saw, lord,” Eadric said.

  “We can’t avoid them,” I said, “so let’s confront them.” If they were hostile, and they probably were, then perhaps our numbers alone would persuade them to let us pass. But only if we outnumbered the strangers. The alternative was to turn away, either retracing our steps, or riding eastward. The horsemen ahead might be Sköll’s men, but instinct alone told me that was unlikely. I still felt certain that Sköll was behind us, so turning back offered no hope, while to turn east or west was simply to invite pursuit from new enemies. Sometimes all we have is instinct, and I was tired of running away. “We’ll keep going,” I said.

  “And if there’s too many of them?” Finan asked.

  “We’ll find out,” I said grimly, and spurred Tintreg. I waved my men on. Perhaps the dozen men Eadric had seen were all that opposed us, in which case we would brush them aside and keep going. And perhaps my instinct was wrong and the mysterious warriors ahead were allies of Sköll and had numbers enough to trap us and slaughter us.

  I crossed the low rise in the road. The valley widened ahead, the drove road leading straight southward between open pastureland. There were no settlements in sight. A mile or so ahead the road turned slightly eastward, staying beneath a wooded ridge, and it was there that the horsemen waited. “Still only a dozen,” Finan said.

  The horsemen stood motionless, just a dozen warriors barring the road. By now they must have seen how many we were, and if they numbered just a dozen then their best course was to turn and flee from us. They did not. “We need to get on the ridge,” I told Finan. The ridge was high ground, and in any fight the higher ground is the best. “But not yet,” I added. If there were more warriors waiting among the trees then I wanted them to think we would stay on the road. I would take the high ground at the last moment.

  There were indeed more of them. As we drew closer they began to appear from the woods, and all of them were warriors. They wore gray mail and gray helmets, but none I saw had the gray cloak of an úlfheðinn. I tried to count the horsemen as they came from the thick undergrowth. Twenty, thirty, forty, and still they came. “What’s on their shields?” I asked Finan, whose eyesight was much better than mine.

  “Can’t tell yet, lord. But they look Saxon to me.”

  And I felt a surge of relief. Why? As a Northumbrian, my enemies were the Saxons. It was the Saxons who were grinding down the Northmen, it was the Saxons whose ambition was to conquer every Dane and Norseman and make a Christian Englaland, it was the Saxons who would impose their law on Northumbria, who would eradicate the older gods.

  “They are Saxon!” Eadric said, and I could see that for myself now. The Northmen were more flamboyant, more colorful, while the men who barred our road looked drab. “Seventy-four,” Finan had been counting, “and they have crosses on their shields.”

  “And priests,” Eadric said, and I saw he was right. At least two black-robed men rode with the mail-clad warriors.

  “But still no flag,” Finan said, puzzled. I saw him touch the hilt of his sword. “You want us on the ridge, lord?” he asked.

  I shook my head. I saw no reason why a Saxon war-band should pick a quarrel with me, indeed I had felt relief because the Saxons were the enemies of the Norse, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Yet I also felt disappointment. “We’re still in Northumbria,” I said.

  “Are we?” Finan asked.

  “I’m sure of it,” I said. Yet here was a powerful war-band of Christians, with the cross on their shields and priests in their ranks, and they were deep inside Northumbria, deep inside a country they wanted to conquer, not just because it was ruled by Sigtryggr, a Norseman, but because they believed it was their holy duty to destroy paganism and replace it with the worship of their nailed God. I wanted a Britain where men could worship whatever god or goddess they chose, that allowed me to revere Thor and Odin, that was not subject to the whims and the greed of bishops and abbots, yet at that moment I also recognized that this priest-haunted war-band trespassing in my country was probably my salvation. Unless, of course, it was led by Æthelhelm the Younger. Yet I could see none of the red cloaks that Æthelhelm’s men wore and, besides, we were far from Æthelhelm’s native Wessex.

  The enemy of my enemy should have been my ally, yet the Christians in front of us were readying for battle. The warriors had dismounted to make a shield wall, and the boys were leading the horses back to the trees. “They want to fight us?” Finan asked in surprise. We outnumbered them, unless they had yet more men we had not seen.

  “They think we’re Norse,” I said. Like them we showed no flag, and this far north most warriors were pagans, so they had to assume we were enemies. Besides, like the Northmen, even my Saxons liked to wear crests and plumes on their helmets. Half of my men were Christians, yet they looked like pagans.

  “If not us,” Eadric said drily, “them,” and he pointed behind us.

  I turned and saw a scattering of horsemen on the low hills to the east. There were about twenty of them, still far away, but galloping southward on the crest, then there were suddenly more horsemen on the western skyline. “Sköll,” Finan said flatly.

  It could be no one else, and even as I watched them, I saw our scouts come hurrying along the drove road behind us. So Sköll had caught up with us. His scouts were coming south on either flank, while his main war-band would be advancing along the valley. We had a fearsome enemy behind us, while in front of us a shield wall began to clash sword-blades against willow-board shields. “They’re probably thinking we’re all Sköll’s men,” I said.

  “If they think that,” Finan said, “they should run like shit. They’re outnumbered!”

  Outnumbered or not the Christians seemed to be wanting a fight. They were still hammering their sword-blades against their cross-painted shields in a defiant invitation to come and test their wall.

  Then the shield wall split, and two horsemen, both dressed in black, rode toward us. One was a priest, while the other, a black cloak draped over his gray mail, was a warrior. And I knew him.

  It was Finan who spoke first. He was staring at the warrior with astonishment, then he made the sign of the cross because he believed he was seeing a ghost. “Lord,” he said to me, his voice scarce above a whisper, “it’s King Alfred!”

  And he was almost right.

  Part Two

  Eostre’s Feast

  Six

  The warrior who approached us did look like King Alfred, though that King of Wessex had died years before the youngest of my warriors was even born. Yet this man had the same
long, pale and stern face, the same disapproving eyes, the same short dark beard shot through with gray, the same air of containment that spoke of rigorous self-discipline, the same straight back, and the same reserve and calm.

  His name was Osferth, and I knew him well. “Lord Prince,” I greeted him, knowing he would reject the rank.

  “I am no prince, Lord Uhtred,” he said just as I had expected.

  “You’re welcome anyway,” I said.

  “Perhaps.” He even sounded like King Alfred. He had the same cold voice, precise and clear. A silver cross hanging from a chain studded with amber beads hung at his neck. It was the only decoration he allowed himself. His black cloak looked serviceable, but lacked a fur collar or embroidered hems. His mail was plain, his helmet plain, his boots plain, his horse’s saddlery and bridle were leather and iron, his sword’s hilt was wood and iron, his scabbard a plain sheath of wood. He looked past me, and I turned to see Sköll Grimmarson’s men appearing on the road a mile or so behind me. “Is that Sköll Grimmarson?” he asked.

  “It is; how did you know?”

  “I didn’t. I presumed. He’s pursuing you?”

  “I’d prefer to say he’s following me. So you’ve heard of him?”

  “I’ve heard of him,” Osferth said, “and I’ve heard nothing good.” He frowned, watching as Sköll’s men stopped a half-mile away, checked by the sight of the shield wall. The scouts who had been riding the eastern ridge were coming down to join the larger group, but I noticed the horsemen on the western hills were staying on the high ground. They were scouts too, of course, all riding swift horses and none of them carrying a heavy shield that might slow them down. “They won’t fight now,” Osferth said confidently, “we outnumber them.”

  I was not so sure. A single horseman had left Sköll’s ranks and was climbing the western hill. The man had a gray cloak and a long wolf tail flying from his helmet’s crest. Sköll, meanwhile, seemed content to watch us. I looked back to Osferth. “You’re far from home,” I said accusingly.

  “As are you, lord.”

  I gestured at the valley and the woodland. “Northumbria is my home.”

  “And Northumbrian Danes came to raid the farms around Mameceaster,” he responded tartly, “and we killed them.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “It’s why we left Mameceaster,” he said evasively.

  “Was one of the raiders called Hergild?”

  “He was.” Osferth sounded slightly surprised, but did not ask how I knew that name. “My task is to discourage such raiders.”

  “Praise God,” the priest who accompanied him said.

  We both ignored the priest. “So you serve Treddian?” I asked Osferth.

  “I replaced Treddian,” Osferth said. “Prince Æthelstan put me in command of the burh at Mameceaster.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, and I was.

  “Glad, lord?”

  “You deserve a command.”

  “I commanded at Brunanburh,” he said with a trace of indignation.

  “You did,” I said. Æthelflaed had put Osferth, her half-brother, in command of the garrison, a decision that had annoyed King Edward, who disliked the fact that he was not his father’s eldest son. Osferth was the eldest son, Alfred’s bastard son, whelped on a servant girl before the young Alfred discovered he loved his god more than he loved women, a mistake I have never made. And the bastard Osferth, of all Alfred’s children, most resembled his father. I had heard that Edward, the oldest legitimate son, had dismissed Osferth from Brunanburh after Æthelflaed’s death, fearing perhaps that the bastard might prove a rival, and now Æthelstan had given him a bigger garrison to command. “Does your half-brother know you command Mameceaster?” I asked.

  Osferth rewarded me with a cold gaze. “My half-brother?”

  “King Edward.”

  He hated being reminded of his parentage, and had never tried to take advantage of it. “He surely will know if he doesn’t already. We must wait to see if he approves.” He frowned at Sköll’s men, then cleared his throat. “I am sorry, lord,” he spoke very awkwardly, “about your daughter. I am very sorry.”

  “So am I,” I said. I looked up at Sköll’s horsemen on the western ridge. “How did you hear about her?” I asked, still watching the horsemen, who were not moving. There had been twenty men there a moment ago, now there were only half that number, and none had come down into the valley.

  “A man called Beadwulf told us,” Osferth said, and that brought my eyes back to him.

  “Brother Beadwulf?” I asked in surprise.

  “Is he a monk? I think not. He travels with his wife.”

  “It’s a nickname,” I said dismissively. So Beadwulf and the squirrel, far from fleeing back to Arnborg, had ridden south to look for help. I owed them thanks, and revealing to the pious Osferth that Beadwulf was a monk in love would not be kind. And Beadwulf, I reasoned, had told Osferth about Sköll, which explained why Osferth had known who was pursuing me. “So you rode to rescue me?” I asked.

  “Once we learned you were being pursued, yes.”

  I thought about what he had said as I gazed up at the western ridge. “You left Mameceaster,” I said, “to pursue cattle-raiders. So how did you meet Beadwulf?”

  “The poor man was captured by them,” Osferth said, “he and his wife.”

  I flinched at that news. “I suppose they took turns with her?”

  He looked pained. “I fear so.”

  Poor little squirrel, I thought. I had liked Wiburgh well enough, but if her husband raped captives then he deserved whatever death Osferth had given him. “I suppose you killed the raiders?” I asked.

  “We captured six, the rest died.”

  “Where are the six?”

  “I sent them back to Mameceaster.”

  “They raped a woman! Put them to death!”

  “They must be tried when I return,” he said stiffly. “If they are found guilty, they will die.”

  “Tried!” I said scornfully. “Just kill the bastards.”

  “There is law in Mameceaster,” Osferth said, “the king’s law.”

  A horn blared loud behind me, but I did not turn. “How many men, Finan?” I asked.

  “Ninety-two,” the Irishman said, “and coming closer. Then there are some on the—”

  “I know about them,” I interrupted him.

  “Some men?” Osferth asked. “Where?”

  “Scouts,” I said, “on the hill.”

  He glanced at the western skyline where there were now just six men. He dismissed the half-dozen scouts as unimportant and looked back to Sköll’s main force. The horn sounded again, louder now and more persistent. “He wants us to look at him,” I said, meaning Sköll wanted us to ignore the western crest, beyond which his real attack was forming. I still had my back to the Norse leader and his horsemen. “Can you see him, Finan?”

  “Aye, the big bastard’s right at the center of their line.”

  “The man with the white cloak?” Osferth asked.

  “Skinned from a white bear,” I said, “but he has the spirit of a wolf. He is an úlfheðinn.”

  “An úlfheðinn?” Osferth said. “I thought they were just rumors.”

  “The úlfhéðnar are not rumors, lord,” the priest said, “though they are rare. They are warriors of the wolf. They anoint themselves with a sorcerous ointment that makes them behave like madmen. My people call it berserkergang.”

  “Your people, priest?” I asked.

  “I am a Dane,” he said calmly. He was young, stern-faced, and I had an impression of intelligence and severity.

  “Father Oda,” Osferth said, “was converted to the faith in East Anglia where his family had settled.”

  “God be praised,” Oda said.

  “And he is now my interpreter,” Osferth went on, “and one of my chaplains.”

  “How many chaplains do you have?”

  Osferth ignored the question. He knew me well enough to
know that I would respond to his answer with mockery, and he did indeed know me. Years before, when he came into manhood, his father had sent him to be trained as a priest, but the young Osferth had yearned to be a warrior and he had pleaded with me to take him under my wing. In truth he should have been a priest; he had the piety, the dedication, the belief, even the passion, but his reading of the Christian scriptures had convinced him that his bastard birth made him unworthy of the priesthood. But nothing in the holy book said a bastard could not kill Danes, and so he had shrugged off the robe and put on mail. He was clever, like his father, and that cleverness had made him a useful warrior. He was brave too. His bravery, I knew, came from a deep fear, but he possessed the discipline to overcome the fear, and I admired him for that. I not only admired Osferth, I liked him, but I suspected that, like many Christians, he could never like a man who worshipped a different god. He looked past me as the horn sounded again. I was showing no alarm, and he must have thought that meant I believed the Norsemen posed no threat. We did, after all, outnumber them. “This meeting is fortuitous,” Osferth said.

  “You mean it’s a chance to kill Sköll?” I asked.

  “I mean,” he said, sounding faintly annoyed, “that Prince Æthelstan said we might meet with you, and that if we did I was to give you a message.”

  “Before you tell me,” I said, “can we line my horsemen beside your wall?”

  He was startled by the question. He frowned. “Is that necessary?”

  “Desirable,” I said, “if Sköll decides to attack.”

  “He won’t,” Osferth said confidently.

  “I’ll do it anyway,” I said, and told my men to form a line of horsemen on the right of Osferth’s shield wall.

  “Do you want shields, lord?” Rorik asked me. The boys and servants were looking after our spare mounts and the packhorses that carried our shields.

  “You won’t need shields,” Osferth said, “because they won’t fight.”

  “We need shields,” I told Rorik.

  “They won’t fight!” Osferth insisted, even though Sköll’s men were slowly advancing.