War of the Wolf

by Bernard Cornwell

  “The king desired your presence swiftly, lord,” Father Lucus insisted nervously.

  “Finan,” I said, “Berg, you two come with me.”

  “We’re coming too,” Sigtryggr said eagerly. There was the prospect of a fight, and that always thrilled him. He might be King of Northumbria, but at heart he was still a Norse raider.

  “But stay back from us,” I told him, “well back.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, then saw what I meant. He grinned. “You won’t even know we’re there.”

  I put on a helmet, then a hooded cloak that hid the armor. We were already wearing our mail coats. I had insisted on that from the moment we returned from seeing Æthelhelm. “We’re ready,” I told Father Lucus, and the three of us followed the priest out into the pelting rain. A wash of lantern light from the tavern’s open door showed a stream running down the street’s center, then the door closed and we walked uphill, our way lit by the small leakage of fire or candlelight from the chinks of shutters. “Do you know what the king wants?” I shouted to Father Lucus. I had to shout because the wind and rain were so loud.

  “He didn’t say, lord.”

  The Bullock was built opposite the burh’s outer wall that was a black shadow to our right, and suddenly another shadow moved in that darkness, and Berg’s sword was halfway out of his scabbard when a voice spoke. “Alms, lord, alms?”

  A beggar. “I thought all the beggars had been thrown out of the burh,” I said to the priest.

  “They creep back, lord. They’re like rats.”

  We turned left down a street of metalworkers whose fires burned bright. Dogs barked. The door of a small church was open, casting dim rushlight into the street. A priest, a white cape half covering his black robes, was kneeling at the altar. Ahead of us, just beyond the big Mallard tavern, the lane turned right to climb through the turf ridge that was all that remained of the old fort, and beyond that ridge lay the arched entrance to the palace courtyard. Æthelflaed had loved this place, but I had never liked it, and I liked it even less when we came to the palace’s torchlit archway. “Weapons, lord,” Father Lucus muttered to me.

  Guards had come from a shelter and were waiting for us to surrender our swords. Only the royal guards were allowed to carry weapons inside the king’s hall and so I dutifully unbuckled Wasp-Sting’s belt, then Serpent-Breath’s. I felt naked, but the guard commander, an older man with a scarred face and two fingers missing from his left hand, reassured me. “I was with you at Eads Byrig, lord. I promise your swords are safe.” I tried to remember his name, but could not place him. He rescued me before I needed to ask. “Harald, lord. I rode with Merewalh.”

  I smiled. Merewalh was a good man, a Mercian who had often fought beside me. “How is Merewalh?”

  “He does well, lord, he does well. He commands the Gleawecestre garrison now.”

  “And you lost your fingers at Eads Byrig?” I asked.

  “That was a woman with a corn sickle, lord.” Harald grinned. “You can’t win every time, can you?”

  I gave him a shilling as was expected of me, then followed Father Lucus across the courtyard, through a great door, and so into the bright light of the royal hall. Candles burned on two rows of tables, more were hanging in heavy iron brackets suspended from the roof beams, while a fire burned fierce in the central hearth and a smaller one, though just as fierce, in a brazier on the raised platform that was illuminated by a score of candles as thick as a man’s arm. There must have been at least a hundred and fifty men on the hall’s benches, while the tables were piled with the remnants of a feast. There were the carcasses of geese and ducks, pigs’ heads flensed to the bone, ale jugs, bread, fish bones, oyster shells, and wine flasks; a feast, I thought sourly, to which neither I nor Sigtryggr had been invited. A harpist played close to the platform, but his music was drowned by talk and laughter, which died when men saw us come into the light. Even the harpist stopped playing for a few heartbeats. We must have looked grim, three men in mail and helmets, and the royal guards, arrayed along the hall’s sides, started toward us until one recognized me and held up a hand to check his fellows. “Finan, Berg,” I said to my companions, “find someone you know and get some food. And don’t get into an argument.”

  The only woman in the hall was seated on the platform, where, at the long table, there were just three people. King Edward was in the center, to his left was his son Ælfweard, and on his right the queen. I had seen the queen some years before in the royal encampment outside Huntandun, and had been struck by her dark-eyed beauty and had thought then that she was just another of Edward’s beautiful whores. And so she probably had been, but she had also been a nobly born whore, daughter of Sigehelm, Ealdorman of Cent. She must have been an excellent whore because she had replaced Ælflæd, the sister of Æthelhelm the Younger, who was now a discarded wife shut away in a Wessex convent. And so the well-born whore had become Queen Eadgifu of Mercia, but not of Wessex, because that kingdom, for whatever reason, still refused to give the king’s wife the title of queen. Eadgifu was certainly more beautiful than the discarded Ælflæd. Her skin had the flawless bloom of youth, she had a high pale forehead, huge eyes, and hair as black as a raven’s wing, crowned by a gold circlet that held a single large emerald. Her dress was as dark as her hair, heavily embroidered with colorful birds and swags of ivy. A white shawl of rare and costly silk was draped on her shoulders. She watched as I climbed the dais steps. “Welcome, Lord Uhtred,” she said.

  I took off my helmet and bowed to her. “The king summoned me, my lady,” I explained my presence. I should have bowed to the king, of course, and waited for him to speak, but Edward was slumped on the table, apparently asleep and most likely drunk. “Maybe I should return in the morning, my lady?”

  Eadgifu gave her husband a scornful glance. “Or talk to me instead, Lord Uhtred?” She beckoned me.

  “A pleasure, my lady.” It was no such thing. Talking to the queen when the king was drunk was a dangerous thing to do, and even more dangerous when the conversation was in full view of the assembled ealdormen of Wessex, Mercia, and East Anglia. They were indeed watching us. Prince Ælfweard, who hated me, looked both bored and drunk, but he was not yet asleep. He had frowned when he recognized me, but now pointedly ignored me and gestured to a servant to pour him more wine.

  Eadgifu clapped her hands, and another servant scurried from the shadows. “A bench for Lord Uhtred,” she commanded, “and wine. Have you eaten?”

  “I have, my lady.”

  “Better than us, I expect. My husband did summon you, but seems to have forgotten.” She smiled brightly. “So we have a chance to talk.” She had spoken lightly, but I suspected Edward was far too drunk to have summoned me, which meant that Eadgifu had wanted to talk with me, and wanted to have that talk in front of her husband’s nobility. Dangerous, indeed. I turned to look down into the firelit hall and saw Æthelstan sitting at the table to my left. He nodded gravely, then shrugged as if to tell me that he did not know why I had been summoned. I looked at the other long table and saw Æthelhelm the Younger. He was staring at me with a blank expression, then looked away as I caught his eye.

  “Sit, Lord Uhtred,” Queen Eadgifu commanded. The servant had brought me a stool. I sat.

  Eadgifu leaned toward me, the white shawl parted and I could not help notice how low the dress was cut at her breasts. The candlelight cast a deep shadow in her cleavage as she briefly touched my hand. “I heard about your daughter. I am full of regret.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “I shall pray for her soul.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “I have two infant sons myself now,” she said, “and I cannot imagine the sorrow of losing a child.” I said nothing to that. “Prince Edmund,” she went on, “is my firstborn.” She smiled again, and then, to my surprise, laughed. It was forced laughter, as inappropriate as it was unnatural. She was still leaning close. She smelled of lavender. “You have a son, Lord Uhtred?” she aske
d.

  “I do, my lady.”

  “Such precious things, sons,” she said, still smiling. “My husband was surprised you were here in Tamweorthin.”

  “He should be surprised, my lady,” I said, “because he didn’t invite me to the Witan.”

  “Why ever not?” She was speaking softly, so softly that even if Edward had been awake he would have found it difficult to hear her, and the low voice also made me lean close so that to the watching guests it must have appeared that we were conspiring together. She laughed again, though at what I could not tell.

  “I’m told I no longer hold land in Wessex or Mercia, my lady,” I explained.

  She looked sympathetic and reached out a ringed hand to touch my arm. “That is so unjust, Lord Uhtred.”

  I was tempted to say I had no need of estates in Wessex or Mercia, that Bebbanburg was all I wanted, but instead I shrugged. “Bishop Wulfheard was granted my Mercian estates. I doubt I’ll see those lands again. The church doesn’t surrender property, my lady.”

  “Bishop Wulfheard! Such a horrid man!” she said brightly, still with that smile.

  “Not my favorite bishop,” I said drily.

  She laughed. “Then you’ll be pleased to know Wulfheard is not here. They say he’s dying.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said dutifully.

  “No you’re not. I’m told he has leprosy.” She smiled at me. Her teeth were surprisingly white and even. “Are you really a pagan?”

  “I am, my lady.”

  She laughed again, louder this time, and Edward muttered something, moved his head, but did not seem to wake. I could see his face more clearly now and was shocked. His skin was lined and blotched, his beard was gray, he looked ill. Ælfweard edged his chair closer, trying to overhear our conversation. I supposed he was eighteen or nineteen years old, about the same age as Eadgifu. He was a moonfaced, sullen boy with petulant eyes and a pathetic fringe of a beard. I saw him stare indignantly at his uncle, Æthelhelm, then look back to me. I caught his eye, smiled, and he scowled. “I think you’re the first pagan I’ve met,” Eadgifu said.

  “You’ve met many, my lady.”

  “I have?”

  “Among your husband’s troops.”

  Again that bright laughter. “I assure you, lord,” she said, “my husband’s men are all good Christians.”

  “And in battle,” I said, “many men who wear the cross take care to die with a sword in their hand.”

  She opened her eyes wide with surprise. “I don’t understand.”

  “To make certain they go to Valhalla.”

  She laughed yet again, and even patted my arm. It was such an unnatural reaction that, for a moment, I wondered if she was as drunk as her husband and his son, yet though she smiled and laughed so unnaturally, her voice was sober. She kept her hand on my arm as she asked her next question. “How many men have you killed, Lord Uhtred?”

  “Too many,” I said sharply, and she twitched back at the vehemence of my tone.

  She forced the smile back, then the scrape of benches on a stone floor made her look down into the hall, and, for an instant, I saw a look of pure venom on her pretty face. I turned too, and saw that Æthelhelm was leaving, striding toward the door followed by six of his men. Custom dictated that no man should leave a feast hall before the king rose from the table, but I suppose neither Æthelhelm nor Edward cared about that courtesy this evening. “Do you know Lord Æthelhelm?” Eadgifu asked, and now she was not smiling.

  “Not well. I knew his father better.”

  “And your son married Lord Æthelhelm’s sister?” She still watched Æthelhelm and his followers.

  “He did.”

  “So you are bound to the family by treaty?” she asked, looking back into my eyes.

  “You know we’re not, my lady. We’re bound by bonds of mutual hatred.”

  She laughed, and this time the laugh was genuine, and loud enough to attract glances from the hall. She lay her hand on my arm again. She wore a glove of fine kidskin, and over the pale leather were rings of gold, decorated with jet and rubies. “I am so glad we had this talk,” she said.

  “As am I, my lady,” I replied politely and, understanding that I was being dismissed, stood and bowed to her. I walked to the steps, watched by the men at the long tables, and, as I went down to the hall floor, I saw Father Lucus standing by the wall where the guards slouched. I beckoned him. “Tell me,” I said, “did the king summon me?”

  “So I was told, lord,” he answered nervously.

  “Told by whom?”

  “By the queen, lord.”

  “And the king was already asleep?”

  “He was tired, lord,” the priest answered carefully.

  I left him. Finan and Berg joined me. “So what,” Finan asked, “was that about?”

  “That black-haired bitch,” I said as we walked down the hall’s length, “has just given Æthelhelm another reason to kill me.”

  “Why?” Berg asked.

  “Because she has a son called Edmund.”

  “A son called—”

  “I’ll explain later. We need our swords first.”

  Eadgifu had said nothing important to me, but that was not why she had summoned me. All that mattered was what men saw, and what they had seen was a queen in close conversation with Uhtred of Bebbanburg, a queen smiling and laughing. And why was it important that men see that? Because she had a son called Edmund.

  King Edward had a dozen children. I had lost count, but I had noticed that Æthelstan, his eldest son, had not been invited to the top table where Ælfweard was seated. So far as Wessex was concerned Æthelstan and his twin sister were bastards, by-blows of a youthful indiscretion, which meant that the ætheling, the eldest legitimate son, was Ælfweard, Æthelhelm’s nephew, which in turn meant that Wessex expected Ælfweard to inherit his father’s throne and with it the riches of southern Englaland. Æthelhelm’s family would control the kingdom then, and Edward’s other sons, the sons of different women, would be lucky to escape with their lives. Eadgifu had hinted, no, she had more than hinted, that I would be rewarded by the return of my southern lands if I supported her son’s claim on the throne, but she had been too clever to seek a formal alliance with me. She must have known I would refuse to offer her an oath, so instead she had staged a dumb show of smiles, laughter, and intimacy that would convince the watching nobles and churchmen that Uhtred of Bebbanburg was her ally.

  I turned to look back when I reached the hall door. Two servants were helping Edward to his feet. He was fading, I thought, and the men on the long benches were already taking sides. Many would support Æthelhelm because of his wealth and power, but others would follow Eadgifu in hopes that they could share the plunder of Æthelhelm’s estates. And some of those men, the lesser nobles who had their own reasons for disliking Æthelhelm, would declare for Eadgifu if they believed I was her ally. I might be old, but I was still formidable. Edward, I thought, should have destroyed Æthelhelm at the same time that he cast off Æthelhelm’s sister as his wife, but he must have known that would start a civil war in Wessex that would likely end in his own death and the possible destruction of his kingdom. So for the moment, Ælfweard was still the ætheling, and that kept Æthelhelm content.

  But if Æthelhelm believed I was Eadgifu’s champion then he would want to slide a blade into my belly, twist the blade, and dance on my guts. “We should go home to Northumbria,” I grumbled, “and kill Sköll. This mess is none of our business.”

  Except Sigtryggr had been summoned to the Witan. So the mess was ours whether we liked it or not.

  And we followed Æthelhelm into the rain-swept night.

  Harald, the guard commander who had fought beside me at Eads Byrig, handed me my swords. “Have you seen Lord Æthelhelm?” I asked.

  “He took his men into the royal chapel, lord.” Harald nodded across the courtyard where an open door led into a chamber lit by candles. I could just hear the low chanting of monks beneath the i
nsistent seethe of hard rain. So Æthelhelm would claim he was at his prayers while his men hunted me through Tamweorthin’s dark streets.

  I gave Harald another coin, then the three of us left the palace. For a moment we sheltered from the rain by lingering under the big arch where burning torches guttered in the wind. The town lay dark beneath us, stinking of sewage and smoke. “You think Æthelhelm’s men have had time—” Berg began, then was interrupted by Finan.

  “We were summoned over an hour ago,” the Irishman said. “So the bastard has had plenty time enough to send his dogs into the town.”

  “But where?” I asked. The rain still pelted down. We were talking beneath the palace arch, and must have been visible to anyone in the lower town, so I moved into the rain and a deeper darkness where the old fort’s turf ridge stood at the top of the steep slope. “He won’t attack us close to the palace.”

  “He won’t?” Berg asked.

  “Too many royal guards within earshot.”

  “So his men are waiting in the town?”

  “Sigtryggr’s out there too,” Finan said, crouching beside me.

  “But he can’t see us and we can’t see him.”

  I was in a bitter mood. Brother Beadwulf had led me a dance across Britain, my daughter had died, Sköll had escaped my vengeance, and Eadgifu had toyed with me for her own ambitions. Now Æthelhelm was taking me for a fool, and I suspected his men were waiting for us. Or were they? The night was so foul and dark, perhaps he had decided to wait.

  There had been a time when I was proud of my ability to stalk the night as a sceadugenga, a shadow-walker, but in this relentless downpour I would not stalk anyone, merely blunder. I cursed, then Finan touched my elbow. “Listen!” I listened and heard nothing but the beat of rain on the thatch below us. Finan must have had better hearing. “Who is it?” he called.

  “Me, lord!” a voice called, and I dimly saw a shadowy figure scrambling up the slope. It was Rorik, my servant. He almost slipped back down the slick turf, but I grabbed his wrist and hauled him to the top. “King Sigtryggr sent me, lord.”