War of the Wolf

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Who were they fighting?”

  Brunulf looked at me suspiciously, but with a half-smile. “You mean you don’t know, lord?”

  “Me?” I asked. “Fight? Whatever makes you think I’d be part of a drunken street brawl? I’m an ealdorman of Northumbria, I’m respectable.”

  “Of course you are, lord.”

  I left him by the door and pushed my way through the growing crowd to the front of the hall. Æthelhelm saw me coming and turned to have an intense conversation with the stern-looking priest who sat beside him. Grimbald, sitting just a few paces away, began to stand, then realized he could not escape me, and sat again. I stopped right in front of him and just looked down at him, saying nothing. He gazed at my belt buckle, a wolf’s head cast in bronze. All around us men fell silent. I saw Grimbald tremble, so I smiled, bent down, and whispered in his ear, “You’re a dead man.”

  He did not move, just sat. I turned to Æthelhelm and smiled at him too. “Some time,” I said, “you really must visit Bebbanburg and meet your nephew. He’s a fine little boy. You know how I look forward to welcoming you.”

  Æthelhelm could not ignore me. He stood. He was a good-looking man, maybe thirty years old, with a narrow face and haughty eyes. A servant must have shaved him that morning because there were two small razor nicks on his chin. There was gold at his neck, on his red cloak, and on his fingers. He took a step toward me, evidently eager for a confrontation, but just then a horn announced the arrival of King Edward, and the seated men in the great hall stood, snatched off their caps, and bowed toward the platform. The blaring horn forced Æthelhelm to turn away from me and bow, though his bow was little more than a cursory nod. I neither bowed nor nodded, but just turned and walked back to Sigtryggr. “I just made someone wet himself,” I said.

  Sigtryggr ignored the boast. “Is that a king?” he asked derisively. He was looking at the platform.

  I looked too and was shocked. I had seen Edward the previous night, but he had been slumped on the table, his body cloaked, and his face half hidden, but now, in the sunlight coming through the large eastern windows, I could see him far more clearly. He had become fat, he limped, his dark hair was lank and gray under the emerald-encrusted crown, his beard was gray, and his once handsome face was lined and blotched. He could not live long, I thought, and when he died, the cockfight for the crown would begin.

  I had thought the five chairs would be for Edward, his wife Eadgifu, and his eldest son Ælfweard, with one of the others to be offered to Sigtryggr, but I was wrong. Queen Eadgifu and Prince Ælfweard were indeed to sit at either side of the king, but the two outer chairs were reserved for the archbishops, who followed the royal family onto the platform, both men swathed in richly embroidered robes. I did not know the new Archbishop of Contwaraburg, Athelm, a West Saxon who had a lean, ascetic face and a beard long enough to hide the pectoral cross on his breast. He looked sternly into the hall before taking his seat, while Hrothweard of Eoferwic smiled at the assembly, then waited for Eadgifu to take her seat before sitting himself. “They brought their sorcerers,” Sigtryggr grumbled.

  “They always do.” I looked around the hall, searching for Æthelstan, but to my surprise he was nowhere to be seen. I assumed he reckoned his father would not welcome him and so had stayed away. I leaned close to Sigtryggr. “Grimbald is on the front bench,” I whispered, “to the right of the hearth, he has a flattened nose and a fox-fur cap.” Sigtryggr just nodded.

  The day’s business began, as it always did at a Witan, with a prayer and then a sermon. Athelm preached, and I wandered into the courtyard rather than listen to his tedious harangue. Sigtryggr, Svart, and Finan joined me, and we sat on the edge of a stone horse trough and I stopped a passing servant and demanded ale. Sigtryggr was apprehensive and sometimes paced the courtyard, watched by the royal guards who were posted all about the courtyard’s edge. We must have waited for at least an hour before a nervous steward came into the sunlight and bowed to Sigtryggr. “Lord King, your presence is requested.”

  Sigtryggr rammed his crown over his unruly fair hair. “Shall we go?” he asked.

  “Home?” Svart suggested.

  “Into the hall,” Sigtryggr said grimly, and went to learn his fate. We followed and stood at the back of the hall as Sigtryggr, now escorted by two guards, walked through the benches, around the hearth, and took his place in front of the platform. Now, I thought, we would learn just what humiliation the Saxons would demand of him.

  Hrothweard, Archbishop of York, had been deputed to tell Sigtryggr of Wessex’s terms, and that, at least, showed some tact on Edward’s part. Hrothweard knew Sigtryggr well, and the two men respected and liked each other. Sigtryggr ruled in a city that had far more Christians than pagans, and he had ever followed Hrothweard’s advice on how to curb antagonisms between the two, while the archbishop sternly demanded of his clergy that they did not preach hate against their fellow Northumbrians. Now Hrothweard smiled at Sigtryggr. “It is good to see you here, lord King,” he said. He spoke in Danish, which surprised me.

  A monk, one of two sitting at a table at the side of the platform where they were busily writing what I supposed was a record of the Witan’s deliberations, interpreted for the benefit of the hall. “Louder!” a man called from the benches, and the monk repeated his translation, and then, almost immediately, Æthelhelm stood.

  “I have a protest, lord King,” Æthelhelm said loudly.

  Hrothweard, about to start reading from a parchment, paused. Edward, who looked thoroughly disgruntled with the proceedings, frowned at his richest nobleman. “You wish to speak, lord?” he asked.

  “I wish to speak, lord King,” Æthelhelm said.

  Edward paused, then nodded. “We shall hear you, lord,” he said.

  Æthelhelm turned to face the hall. “I do not believe, lord King,” he spoke silkily, “that Uhtred of Bebbanburg was summoned to this assembly.” He turned back to Edward. “I demand he be removed.”

  Æthelhelm’s supporters, and that was at least half of the Witan, murmured their support, and the murmur grew louder until Edward held up a hand. Sigtryggr spoke some English, but not well, and he looked bemused by the protest. Edward scowled at me. “You were not summoned, Lord Uhtred,” he said, plainly siding with his most powerful noble.

  I had anticipated and was ready for the challenge. I could not say that Æthelstan had invited me because invitations to the Witan are issued by the king, not by his sons, so instead, respectfully, I claimed to have come as a witness.

  “A witness?” Edward seemed perplexed by the word.

  “As a witness for a petitioner, lord King,” I said, “and witnesses have always been allowed to attend Witans since at least your father’s time.”

  “We have enough business today without hearing any petitions,” Æthelhelm snarled.

  “I believe that is for the king to decide,” Archbishop Hrothweard intervened before Æthelhelm’s supporters could make any noise. “I am sure my lord of Contwaraburg would agree with me?”

  Athelm looked startled, tugged at his beard, then nodded. “The king may allow whoever he wishes to attend,” he muttered, and Eadgifu, looking resplendent in a gown of pale yellow silk, leaned and whispered in her husband’s ear.

  Edward looked annoyed, but waved a hand toward me. “You may remain, Lord Uhtred,” he said, “but only as a witness. You can say nothing of other matters.”

  I bowed, Æthelhelm sat, and Hrothweard looked down at Sigtryggr, and, in English now, read out the list of demands that Edward was making for a lasting treaty of peace between the Saxon kingdoms and Northumbria. The monk translated each demand, and Sigtryggr stood, tall and straight, suffering.

  The demands were mostly what we had expected. Svart, next to me, growled as they were revealed, but I could not share his indignation. The West Saxons, I knew, had no intention of keeping to the treaty. It bought them time, no more, and when they were ready they would tear up the parchment and send their warriors north. And
if the West Saxons could ignore the terms, so could Sigtryggr.

  The treaty, Hrothweard declared, would usher in an era of lasting peace between the kingdoms. Swords, he declared grandly, would be beaten into plowshares. Svart spat when that was translated. To bring that peace, the archbishop continued, it was necessary for Sigtryggr to acknowledge Edward as his overlord, to swear loyalty to him, and, in reparation for the damages done by Northumbrian outlaws who had preyed on honest Christian folk in Mercia, silver weighing three thousand pounds was to be paid into King Edward’s treasury at Wintanceaster before the Feast of Pentecost. There was an intake of breath at that vast sum, but Hrothweard was not finished. He spoke gently, knowing how his words must gall Sigtryggr, but the demands were anything but gentle. Sigtryggr must swear he would do all in his power to prevent cattle raids and, if any such raids took place, the King of Northumbria undertook to pay the full value of the stolen livestock to King Edward’s treasury and as much again to the folk whose cattle were stolen. Northumbrian merchants trading in Wessex, Mercia, or East Anglia were to pay a new tax, but no such levy was to be imposed on subjects of King Edward who traded in Northumbria. King Edward’s troops could march through Northumbria without impedance. King Sigtryggr must agree to protect the lives and property of all Christian folk living in Northumbria. When he read that last demand Hrothweard had the decency to lower the document and smile at Sigtryggr, “As I know you already do, lord King.”

  There was a sharp gasp of surprise from the Witan at those last words and one or two men looked ready to protest, but Hrothweard held up a hand to quell the unrest. “Further,” he read, “you are to allow Christian missionaries free passage and protection within the borders of your realm.”

  I was tempted to ask whether Wessex would allow men and women to travel its roads preaching the worship of Thor and Odin, but I had the sense to keep quiet. Sigtryggr was likewise silent, even though the terms being imposed on him were brutal, humiliating, and not negotiable.

  “And finally,” Hrothweard frowned slightly as he came to the end of the document, “we cannot rely upon the word of a pagan king, for it is well known in this kingdom and in all Christian kingdoms that pagans treat solemn promises with disdain, swearing their oaths on false gods and breaking such oaths with impunity.” I doubted Hrothweard had written the words, but Athelm of Contwaraburg was looking mightily pleased with himself. Edward just looked bored. “To make certain that Sigtryggr of Northumbria keeps to the terms of this treaty,” Hrothweard continued, “it is required that he undergo baptism this day and accept our Christian God in full faith as the one God, the only God, and the true God, and must understand that by that acceptance he places his soul in jeopardy of hell’s eternal torments if he break so much as one sentence of this treaty. He agrees moreover that he will extirpate the worship of false gods and of foul idols from all his lands.”

  Finan nudged me. “He means you,” he muttered.

  Hrothweard waited as the monk translated his last words, then looked sympathetically at Sigtryggr. “Do you accept the terms, lord King?” he asked.

  Sigtryggr paused long enough for the hall to become restless. Edward, surprised by Sigtryggr’s silence, sat up straighter. Like everyone else in the hall he had expected Sigtryggr to meekly agree to whatever was demanded. “Do you accept the terms, lord King?” Hrothweard asked again.

  Sigtryggr answered directly to Edward, though his words needed to be interpreted by the monk. “You say, lord King, that you cannot trust the oath of a pagan?”

  “That is true,” Hrothweard answered for Edward.

  “Yet it is the Christians who have broken their pledges,” Sigtryggr said forcefully.

  Uproar followed the translation of those words. Hrothweard called for silence, but it was Edward’s frown and upraised hand that finally stilled the hall. “How have Christians broken their pledges?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Was I not promised safe conduct if I agreed to attend this Witan?” Sigtryggr demanded.

  There was an uncomfortable shuffling in the hall. Men started murmuring, but Archbishop Hrothweard raised his voice. “You were indeed so promised, lord King,” he said loudly, silencing the protests.

  “Then how can I trust your words,” Sigtryggr was looking directly at Edward now, and repeating the words we had agreed, “when only last night your men made an attack on my life?” The monk translated, and there was a roar of indignation from the hall’s crowded benches, mainly, I thought, from those men who looked to Æthelhelm for leadership. “I accuse Grimbald!” Sigtryggr had to shout to make himself heard. He waited for the noise to subside, then pointed at Grimbald, “I accuse Grimbald,” he said again. “I accuse him of breaking the king’s peace, of attempting to murder me, of bad faith.” He looked back to Edward. “Give me justice in this matter, lord King, and I will accept all your terms. That is my petition in which I bring Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg as my witness.”

  There was renewed uproar, of course, but every man in the hall knew of the bodies discovered in the street of the metalworkers, knew there had been a fight by Saint Ælfthryth’s church, and knew that Grimbald’s men had taken a beating. Some few, those who were the closest allies of Æthelhelm, must also have known that no one had demanded Sigtryggr’s death, that the men had been sent to kill me instead, but that was hardly a defense for Grimbald, who, summoned to answer the accusation, stammered that his men had acted on their own, that he knew nothing of the night’s events, and that he was not responsible for what drunken men did in the middle of an ale-steeped night. “Two men returned to me,” Grimbald said desperately, “and I will punish them, lord King.”

  “Yet they confessed they acted on your orders,” Sigtryggr pressed his advantage, “and in witness of their confession I bring Lord Uhtred—”

  The mention of my name was sufficient to start another commotion, loud enough to startle the sparrows perched on the rafters, who flew about in panic. Beneath them men were standing and shouting, most of them, it seemed to me, supporting Grimbald’s claim that he knew nothing of the nighttime brawl, but some, more than a few, shouted that I should be allowed to speak.

  Edward again held up a hand for silence, while Archbishop Hrothweard thumped his silver-topped crozier on the platform’s boards. “Lord Uhtred,” Hrothweard called down the length of the hall when at last he could be heard, “are King Sigtryggr’s words true?”

  A few men started to protest, but were hushed by others who wanted to hear me. “They are true,” I said to Hrothweard, “but you would expect me to say that. However, I am willing to bring the priest of Saint Ælfthryth’s church to this assembly. He too heard the men say they were sent by Grimbald.” Bringing the priest to the Witan was a risk, of course. The man might lie, and, even if he spoke the truth, he could not testify that the men were sent to kill Sigtryggr. I had thought to keep one of the two men we had captured and threaten him with dire pain if he did not tell the truth, but again the truth would not reveal a plot against Sigtryggr, and the man would most likely deny any plot at all, knowing his dishonesty would be rewarded by Grimbald and by Æthelhelm. Yet by offering a Christian priest as a witness I knew I had thwarted Grimbald’s lies so long as the priest was not fetched from the lower town, and that, I thought, was most unlikely, because King Edward and the two archbishops wanted this tedious Witan over and done. The men in the hall simply assumed the priest would support Sigtryggr’s account and so would not need to be summoned, and that assumption proved to be true.

  There was an anxious silence from Æthelhelm’s supporters as Hrothweard stooped to speak with Edward, who could hardly hide his impatience. Archbishop Athelm leaned across the moonfaced Ælfweard to add yet more advice, and Edward, who looked ever more unhappy, finally nodded.

  Edward pointed at Grimbald. “I offered King Sigtryggr safe passage,” the king said, his voice sullen, “and by breaking my peace you have forfeited your life.” There was a gasp at that. Grimbald, still standing, opened his mouth as if to s
peak, found he had no words, and looked at Æthelhelm, who ostentatiously turned his back on the doomed man.

  “Lord!” Grimbald at last found his voice, but by then two royal guards had taken his arms and he was being escorted from the hall. Æthelhelm did not turn to watch. Everyone present, the king included, knew Grimbald must have acted on Æthelhelm’s orders, yet Æthelhelm did nothing to save Grimbald’s life. The king could have saved him, but Edward wanted to see Sigtryggr on his knees, he wanted the peace treaty, he was greedy for the treaty’s silver, and one Saxon life was a small price to pay for that triumph. Men muttered bitterly as Grimbald left, while Æthelhelm just stared bleakly into the flames of the hearth.

  That one Saxon life was our sole victory of the day. I thought Sigtryggr’s ordeal was over, all but for the misery of being baptized, yet when Grimbald was gone to his death Edward struggled to his feet and held out a hand for silence. He looked tired and ill, and I wondered what had happened to the young man I had known, and thought how swiftly he had decayed into this heavy, sullen graybeard. “It is our pleasure,” he said tonelessly, “to seal this treaty by marriage, to bind Northumbria to our royal house with bonds of blood.” He stopped abruptly, evidently out of words, and just sat. And I could do nothing but stare at him in amazement. Marriage? No one had spoken of marriage, and the ashes of Sigtryggr’s queen, my daughter, were scarce cold, yet Edward was offering a bride?

  Then there was a stir at the door, spearmen marched in, and behind them came Æthelstan, and on his arm was the girl we had seen on the cart. I recognized her then. She was Eadgyth, Æthelstan’s twin, whom I had last known as a child. She walked with a straight back, head held high, but her pale face was a mask of misery. Sigtryggr was wrong, I thought. She was not ugly. Her long face, like Æthelstan’s, was strong, and her eyes piercing, but her unhappiness and the grim set of her thin lips made her look plain. Æthelstan stopped with his sister a few paces short of the rearmost bench, evidently waiting for a summons.