War of the Wolf

by Bernard Cornwell

  “And you believed him?” I asked. “A villager daring to follow úlfhéðnar?”

  “The other men said the same, lord,” Redbad put in. Redbad was a Frisian and devoted to my son. “Two of them had lost their daughters too.”

  “Who were these men?” I asked. “Danes? Norse? Saxon?”

  “Saxon,” my son answered miserably, knowing how thin his tale now sounded. “They said they held land from the monks at Cair Ligualid.”

  Cair Ligualid was at the far end of the great wall. I had been there often enough and had wondered whether the coming of so many Norse to the coast of Cumbraland had meant the destruction of the monastery and the town surrounding it. Nothing my son could tell me provided an answer to that, though the Saxons who had misled him had claimed that their families had taken shelter behind the monastery’s high walls.

  “So how many men were in this settlement?”

  “Six,” my son said.

  “And they knew where Sköll lived?”

  “They said he lived at Heahburh.”

  “Heahburh?” I had never heard of such a place. The name meant “high fort,” and that could have been a description of any one of the hundreds of ancient hill forts that crowned Britain’s heights.

  “They couldn’t describe just where it was,” my son said, “but offered to take us there.”

  “And they were certain Sköll wasn’t there,” Redbad said, “they said he’d gone south, lord, to fight off raiders.”

  “I thought that sounded likely,” my son went on, “because Sigtryggr has men in southern Cumbraland.”

  “He does,” I said.

  “Only Sköll hadn’t gone south,” my son said unhappily.

  Sköll had been waiting on either side of a steep valley, his men concealed behind both crests, and, when my son’s horsemen were at the valley’s center, the úlfhéðnar had attacked. They swarmed down both slopes, gray-cloaked men in gray mail on gray horses, and my son’s smaller troop stood no chance. He flinched as he described the scene. “You didn’t think,” I asked bitterly, “to have scouts on the high ground?”

  “I believed the men who led us,” he said, “and they said Sköll and most of his men were gone south.”

  “They were convincing, lord,” Redbad added loyally.

  “And I reckoned any scouts we sent to the hill crests would be seen by the men he’d left to garrison Heahburh,” my son went on, “and I wanted to approach unseen.”

  “And the men who led you,” I asked, “were Sköll’s men?”

  My son nodded. “They turned uphill to join the attackers.”

  In some ways I could understand why my son had been deceived. If the men who had betrayed him had been Danes or Norsemen he would have been far more cautious, but he had assumed that Saxon Christians would be his allies. Yet Sköll had clearly suborned the six men, a reminder that the leader of the úlfhéðnar was a subtle man. Rumor said he hated the Christians and took a delight in killing priests, but he evidently knew how to seduce and use them too.

  My son had only escaped because Sköll had attacked a moment too late. The úlfhéðnar had ridden recklessly down the valley’s slopes, but instead of striking the head of my son’s column, the horsemen had severed it in half. The men at the rear had stood no chance, but my son and those who survived with him had spurred away. They had been pursued, of course, and two more were lost in that wild chase, but Bebbanburg’s horses were good, and my son had come home.

  He had come home defeated, and I knew that bitter feeling of failure, made even more dreadful by the need to tell women and children that their husband and father was dead. And I could taste my son’s shame, that he had been so easily deceived, that he had decided, foolishly, to ride unfamiliar land without scouts, that he had then been humiliated by an enemy, and, maybe worst of all, that he had lost the confidence of my warriors.

  Christians like to dream of the perfect world, a place where there is no fighting, where sword-blades are hammered into plowshares, and where the lion, whatever that is, sleeps with the lamb. It is a dream. There has always been war and there will always be war. So long as one man wants another man’s wife, or another man’s land, or another man’s cattle, or another man’s silver, so long will there be war. And so long as one priest preaches that his god is the only god or the better god there will be war. King Alfred, a man who loved peace because peace encouraged prayer, education, and prosperity, nevertheless wanted to conquer the land held by the Danes and wipe out the worship of the old gods. He would have done that by persuasion if he could, but what could persuade the Danes to surrender their land, their rulers, and their religion? Only the sword, and so the peace-loving Alfred beat his plowshares into swords, raised armies, and set about his Christian duty of converting his enemies.

  And so long as there is war there will be warlords. Leaders. What makes a man follow a leader? Success. A warrior wants victory, he wants silver, he wants land, and he looks to his lord for all those things. My son was not a bad warrior, indeed I was proud of him and when I die he will hold Bebbanburg just as his son will hold it, but to hold the fortress he needs men who have confidence in him. Men who will follow him in the expectation of victory. One defeat at Sköll’s hand would not destroy his reputation, but now he needed a victory to show my men that he was a leader who could give them the land, silver, and cattle they craved.

  The easy way to give him some success was to send him north into the Scottish lands in search of plunder, but with Sköll threatening Northumbria, the last thing I wanted was to stir the Scots to anger. One enemy at a time is prudent. Besides, I reflected, there would soon be fighting enough, and Uhtred the Younger would have his opportunity.

  And then, I thought, if leadership is about success, how had Sköll survived? He had lost his lands in Ireland and had retreated eastward across the sea. He had led his men across Northumbria, pierced the gate of Eoferwic, and there been repulsed. He had pursued me south toward Mameceaster, and then had refused battle, preferring to retreat. None of it suggested success. He had managed to capture some cattle and slaves, but his setbacks were far greater than his gains, yet all I knew of him suggested that his power grew. The Northmen were famous for deserting an unsuccessful leader, their loyalty dissolving with a warlord’s defeats, yet Sköll’s reputation grew. Men feared him and they feared his úlfhéðnar, but fear had little force against failure, and Sköll had failed. Yet his men did not desert him, indeed even more men were swearing allegiance to him. “It’s his damned sorcerer,” Finan said.

  That was surely the answer. That Snorri was so feared that even Sköll’s failures could not hurt men’s faith in his ultimate success. Sköll possessed a sorcerer who could spy the future through blind eyes and use those empty sockets to kill men at a distance. I feared him! Men talked of Grayfang, Sköll’s sword, but his real weapon was Snorri, and it was the sorcerer’s reputation that persuaded ever more men to fly Sköll’s flag of the snarling wolf from their hall roofs, that brought ships of men from Ireland and from the western isles of Scotland to give Sköll their oaths. His power grew, and each report made me regret that we had not ridden sooner. Folk said Sköll led five hundred warriors, a week later it was seven hundred, and neither Sigtryggr nor I knew the truth, any more than we knew where to find Sköll. “Heahburh,” I said in frustration, “maybe there’s no such place as Heahburh!”

  Yet Sigtryggr’s scouts had heard the same name. It seemed Heahburh existed, but where? I began to fear the rumors that Sköll’s formidable sorcerer did indeed possess the mysterious power to conceal his fortress, and then, when I was close to despairing that we would ever solve the mystery, it was unraveled in the most unexpected way. It happened on a day when a letter was brought to Bebbanburg. The letter was from Æthelstan in Ceaster and was sent to Sigtryggr who, in turn, sent it on to me, carried by the priest who had brought the letter from Mercia.

  That priest was Father Swithred, Æthelstan’s confessor, who was escorted by six Mercian warrio
rs and accompanied by a younger priest who seemed terrified of Swithred’s disapproving eyes and sour tongue. “We have been dispatched,” Swithred told me haughtily, “to make certain King Sigtryggr is keeping to the terms agreed at Tamweorthin. We were also charged with delivering this letter to the king.” He handed me the letter, but gave me no chance to read it. “Under the treaty,” he went on, “King Sigtryggr promised to protect the Christians in his realm.”

  “He did,” I confirmed.

  “Yet King Sköll has slaughtered every missionary in Cumbraland,” he said indignantly.

  “King Sköll?” I asked, stressing the “king.”

  “So he now styles himself.”

  “So he now styles himself, lord,” I said pointedly, waited until he had said the word, then unfolded the letter. Æthelstan had written that he had received disturbing news from the land south of the Ribbel, “which land,” he had written, “is ours to govern on behalf of our father, King Edward, and into which territory have come Christian folk fleeing the vile persecution of the heathen who calls himself King Sköll. This same Sköll has sent troops into our land below the Ribbel and done great harm to our folk, to their livestock and to their homes. Worse, to the great sadness of all Christians, the brethren we have sent to be a light to the gentiles have been foully put to martyrdom.” The letter went on to point out that it was Northumbria’s responsibility to stop Sköll, “and if you should be wayward in that duty our good King Edward will send forces into your land to punish the malefactor.”

  “Sköll has really killed your missionaries?” I asked Swithred. I talked to him in the sunlight outside the great hall. I had sent his escort and the nervous young priest to find food and ale.

  “He has martyred them,” Swithred said in disgust.

  “Strange,” I said, “because some Christian Saxons have allied with him.”

  “The devil stalks the land,” Swithred said, “and works his mischief.”

  I read the letter again. It was formal and cold, which suggested to me it was not Æthelstan’s work, even though it bore his seal and signature, but had probably been written by a priest. “Did you write this?” I asked Swithred.

  “To the prince’s orders, yes.”

  “And a copy was sent to King Edward?”

  “Of course.” I waited until at last, reluctantly, “Lord.”

  The letter, I thought, was really intended for Edward, assuring him of Æthelstan’s loyalty, but nevertheless it confirmed that Sköll was getting stronger, and it also hinted that Sköll’s savagery might give the Saxons reason to declare that the treaty had been broken and so provide them with an excuse to invade Cumbraland, and, if that invasion happened, Northumbria would never again rule the western part of its own land. By conquest it would become a part of Saxon Englaland.

  “I trust you will extirpate this heathen,” Father Swithred said when I had finished reading, then added, again reluctantly, “lord.”

  “I am sworn to kill him,” I said curtly. I did not need a Saxon priest to tell me my duty.

  “You say that and you do nothing!” Swithred retorted, and then his eyes opened in amazement as a gangly man climbed the steps to the rock platform in front of Bebbanburg’s great hall where we talked.

  The approaching man had white hair that hung to his waist and an aged face that was alight with enthusiasm, but what had astonished Father Swithred were the man’s clothes, for he was dressed in a cassock, a chasuble, a pallium, and a miter, and he carried a bishop’s crozier in his left hand, while on his right he wore a heavy silver ring studded with amber. He seemed excited to see Father Swithred, and, ignoring me, held his right hand toward the tall priest. “Kiss it!” he ordered. “Kiss it, man!” Father Swithred was so taken aback and, perhaps, so overwhelmed by the stranger’s radiant garments, that he half bowed and dutifully kissed the bishop’s ring. “Have you come from Rome?” the long-haired man demanded sternly.

  “No,” Swithred stammered, still confused.

  “You’re not from Rome!” The newcomer was outraged.

  “From Ceaster.”

  “What earthly or heavenly use is Ceaster! The papal throne is in Rome, you benighted fool, you goat-dropping, you spawn of Beelzebub! The keys of the fisherman shall be mine. God has decreed it!”

  Father Swithred, hearing the man speaking English with a Danish accent, was recovering his wits. He stepped back, frowning. There were enough Danes who had become Christians, but none, so far as I knew, had yet been made into a bishop. “Who are you?” Swithred demanded.

  “I am he who will govern Christ’s kingdom on earth! I am the Lord’s anointed!”

  “Father Swithred,” I intervened, “meet Bishop Ieremias.”

  Swithred’s reaction was all I could have wished for. He took another backward step, sketched the sign of the cross toward Ieremias, and looked furious. “You heretic!” he spat. “You disciple of Satan!”

  “Bishop Ieremias,” I rubbed salt into Swithred’s wounded pride, “is my tenant on Lindisfarena. You owe me rent, bishop.”

  “The Lord will provide,” Ieremias said airily.

  “You said that six months ago, and the Lord still hasn’t provided.”

  “I will remind Him,” Ieremias said. In truth I never expected any rent from Ieremias, and I was not at all sure that Lindisfarena was mine to let anyway. It was church land, the home of Saint Cuthbert’s great monastery that had been ransacked and burned by the Danes a generation before. The church had yet to reoccupy the island, which, by tradition, fell under the protection of Bebbanburg and, much to the fury of most churchmen, I had allowed Ieremias and his followers to settle in the ruins of the old monastic house. Their fury, I suspected, was because Ieremias was about as good a Christian as I was.

  His real name was Dagfinnr Gundarson, but Jarl Dagfinnr the Dane had turned himself into Ieremias, a self-appointed bishop. He had served Ragnar the Younger, whose father had raised me, and one morning Dagfinnr had appeared naked in Dunholm’s great hall and announced that he was now the son of the Christian god and had adopted the name Ieremias and demanded that Ragnar, a pagan, should worship him. Brida, Ragnar’s woman and a hater of all Christians, insisted that Dagfinnr should be put to death, but Ragnar had been amused and let Ieremias live. The bishop was mad, of course, but even the moon-touched can make some sense, and Ieremias had thrived. He had owned a ship that he renamed Guds Moder and used it to fish, and his success attracted a following of landless men and women whom he called his flock. “I have brought you a message from God, lord,” he now said, waving the angry Swithred to one side and explaining his visit to me, “but first I must tell you, with great joy, that the flock has been diligent and made salt, which you may buy from us.”

  “I already have salt, bishop.”

  “He’s no bishop!” Swithred hissed.

  “May the devil fart in your mouth,” Ieremias said loftily, “and worms shit in your soup.” He turned back to me. “My salt is no common salt, lord. It is blessed by our Redeemer. It is our Savior’s salt.” He smiled triumphantly. “If you buy it, lord,” he added slyly, “I will have silver to give you as rent!”

  I sometimes thought he was not mad at all, and, like Ragnar, I was amused by him. “I gave you silver last week,” I reminded him, “for the herring and salmon.”

  “I gave those coins to the poor, lord, as the Lamb of God commanded me.”

  “You being the poor?” I asked.

  “The Son of Man hath nowhere to lay His head,” Ieremias said mysteriously, then turned on Swithred, who was looking appalled. “Are you married?”

  “I am not,” Swithred said stiffly.

  “I find a wife’s breasts make a fine pillow,” Ieremias said brightly. “Our Lord should have married. He’d have slept better.”

  “Heretic,” Swithred spat.

  “May maggots crawl up your arse,” Ieremias said, then turned to me, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask me about Eadith’s breasts, but it seemed he had other
matters on his mind. “You have heard of Sköll the Norseman, lord?”

  I was startled by the question. “Of course I have.”

  “The heathen tyrant who calls himself a king,” Ieremias said scornfully. He had changed to his native Danish, presumably because he did not want Swithred to follow the conversation. “He is an enemy of God, lord. Have you met him?”

  “I have.”

  “And you live! God be praised!”

  “How do you know of Sköll?”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “How do I know? Lord, you do speak to your servants, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, I am God’s servant.”

  “And he talks to you?”

  “Of course he does! And at great length.” He glanced at Father Swithred as if to make sure the priest was not understanding what we said. “God brings me tidings, lord, but there are times,” he had lowered his voice, “when I wish He would speak less. I’m not married to Him!”

  “So you’ve heard stories of Sköll,” I said, trying to move the conversation on. I doubted Ieremias’s god had whispered the news to him, but lurid tales of Sköll’s cruelty were spreading across Northumbria and could easily have reached Lindisfarena.

  “The heathen has come from his high place,” Ieremias intoned, “and it is the Lord’s will that you smite him. That is God’s message for you, lord, that you smite him!” He hitched up his mud-stained cassock to reveal a pouch hanging from the belt of his breeches. He fished in the pouch and brought out a stone about the size of a walnut, which he offered to me. “This, lord, will assist in the smiting.”