“Useful people, saints,” Ragnar said distractedly. He looked behind again, still expecting to see an enemy appear on the crest, but the skyline stayed empty.
“Two of them are prisoners,” Finan said, gazing down at the men in the valley, “and one’s just a wee boy.”
“Is it a trap?” Ragnar asked of no one, then decided that only a fool would cede the high ground, and that therefore the fourteen men, who were now eighteen because the scouts had joined them, were not seeking a fight. “We’ll go down,” he decided.
Eighteen of us rode down the steep slope. When we reached the flatter land of the valley’s bed two of the Scots rode to meet us, and Ragnar, copying their example, held up a hand to check his men so that only he and I rode to meet the pair. They were a man and a boy. The man, who was wearing the dove-embroidered jerkin beneath a long blue cloak, was a few years younger than I. He rode straight-backed and had a fine gold chain with a thick gold cross hanging about his neck. He had a handsome, clean-shaven face with bright blue eyes. He was hatless and his brown hair was cut short in Saxon style. The boy, riding a small colt, was only five or six years old and wore the same clothes as the man I assumed was his father. The pair curbed their horses a few paces from us and the man, who wore a jewel-hilted sword, looked from me to Ragnar and then back to me. “I am Constantin,” he said, “son of Aed, Prince of Alba, and this is my son, Cellach mac Constantin, and also, despite his size, a Prince of Alba.” He spoke in Danish, though it was obvious he was not comfortable with the language. He smiled at his son. It is strange how we know immediately whether we like people or not, and though he was a Scot, I liked Constantin at once. “I assume one of you is Jarl Ragnar,” he said, “and the other is Jarl Uhtred, but forgive me for not knowing which is which.”
“I am Ragnar Ragnarson,” Ragnar said.
“Greetings,” Constantin said pleasantly. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your travels in our country?”
“So much,” Ragnar said, “that I intend to come again, only next time I shall bring more men to share the pleasures.”
Constantin laughed at that, then spoke to his son in their own language, making the boy stare at us wide-eyed. “I was telling him that you are both great warriors,” Constantin said, “and that one day he must learn how to beat such warriors.”
“Constantin,” I said. “That isn’t a Scottish name.”
“It is mine, though,” he said, “and a reminder that I must emulate the great Roman emperor who converted his people to Christianity.”
“He did them a disservice, then,” I said.
“He did it by defeating the pagans,” Constantin said smiling, though beneath that pleasant expression was a hint of steel.
“You’re nephew to the King of Alba?” Ragnar asked.
“Domnal, yes. He’s old, he won’t live long.”
“And you will be king?” Ragnar asked.
“If God wills it, yes.” He spoke mildly, but I got the impression that his god’s will would coincide with Constantin’s own wishes.
My borrowed horse snorted and took some nervous sideways steps. I calmed him. Our sixteen men were not far behind, all of them with hands on sword hilts, but the Scots were showing no sign of hostility. I looked up at the hills and saw no enemy.
“This isn’t a trap, Lord Uhtred,” Constantin said, “but I could not resist this chance to meet you. Your uncle sent envoys to us.”
“Looking for help?” I asked scornfully.
“He will pay us one thousand silver shillings,” Constantin said, “if this summer we bring men to attack you.”
“And why would you attack me?”
“Because you will be besieging Bebbanburg,” he said.
I nodded. “So I must kill you as well as Ælfric?”
“That will certainly add to your renown,” he said, “but I would propose a different arrangement.”
“Which is?” Ragnar asked.
“Your uncle,” Constantin still spoke to me, “is not the most generous of men. A thousand silver shillings would be welcome, of course, but it still seems to me a small payment for a large war.”
I understood then why Constantin had taken such trouble to make this meeting a secret, for if he had sent envoys to Dunholm my uncle would hear of it and suspect treachery. “So what is your price?” I asked.
“Three thousand shillings,” Constantin said, “will keep Alba’s warriors safe in their homes all summer.”
I did not have nearly that amount, but Ragnar nodded. Constantin plainly believed that we were planning to attack Bebbanburg, and of course we were not, but Ragnar still feared an invasion of his land by the Scots while he was away in Wessex. Such an invasion was always a possibility because Alfred took care to keep the Scottish kings friendly as a threat against the Danes in northern England. “Let me suggest,” Ragnar said carefully, “that I pay you three thousand silver shillings and that you vow to keep your warriors out of all Northumbria for one full year.”
Constantin considered that. Ragnar’s suggestion differed hardly at all from what Constantin himself had proposed, but the small dif ference was important. Constantin glanced at me and I saw the shrewdness in his mind. He understood that maybe Bebbanburg was not our ambition. He nodded. “I could accept that,” he said.
“And King Domnal?” I asked, “will he accept that?”
“He will do what I say,” Constantin said confidently.
“But how do we know you will keep your word?” Ragnar demanded.
“I bring you a gift,” Constantin said, and beckoned toward his men. The two prisoners were ordered out of their saddles and, with bound hands, fetched across the stream to stand beside Constantin. “These two men are brothers,” Constantin said to Ragnar, “and they led the raid on your land. I shall return the women and children they captured, but for the moment I give you these two.”
Ragnar glanced at the two bearded men. “Two lives as surety?” he asked, “and when they are dead, what’s to stop you breaking your word?”
“I give you three lives,” Constantin said. He touched his son’s shoulder. “Cellach is my eldest and he is dear to me. I give him to you as a hostage. If one of my men crosses into Northumbria with a sword then you may kill Cellach.”
I remembered Haesten’s joy at foisting a false son on us as a hostage, but there was no doubt that Cellach was Constantin’s boy. The resemblance was striking. I looked at the boy and felt an instant regret that my eldest son did not have his bold demeanor and firm gaze.
Ragnar thought for a moment, but saw no disadvantage. He kicked his horse forward and held out his hand, and Constantin took it. “I shall send the silver,” Ragnar promised.
“And it will be exchanged for Cellach,” Constantin promised. “You will permit me to send servants and a tutor with the boy?”
“They will all be welcome,” Ragnar said.
Constantin looked pleased. “Our business is concluded, I think.”
And so it was. The Scots rode away and we stripped the two prisoners naked, then Ragnar killed both men with his sword. He did it quickly. Mist was flowing soft and silent down the hills and we were in a hurry to leave. The two men were decapitated and their corpses left beside the junction of the streams. Then we mounted and rode on south.
Ragnar rode with the pledge that his northern frontier would be peaceful while he was fighting in Wessex. It was, indeed, a good agreement, but it left me uncomfortable. I had liked Constantin, but there was an intelligence and a calculation in him that promised he would be a difficult and formidable enemy. How had he arranged the secret meeting with Ragnar? By instigating the raid that had prompted our retaliatory attack, of course, and then Constantin had betrayed the men who had done his bidding in the first place. He was clever and he was young. I would have to live with Constantin a long time, and if I had known then what I know now I would have slit both his and his son’s throats.
But, at least for the next twelve months, he kept his word.
Spring came late, but when at last it arrived the land greened swiftly. Lambs were born, the days grew long and warm, and men’s minds turned to war.
The two powerful Northumbrian jarls, Sigurd Thorrson and Cnut Ranulfson, came to Dunholm together, and after them a slew of lesser lords, all of them Danes and even the least of them capable of leading more than a hundred trained warriors into battle. They came with just a handful of warriors, servants, and slaves each, but Ragnar’s capacious halls were still insufficient and so some of the lesser jarls were accommodated in the town south of the fortress.
There was feasting and gift-giving and, during the day, talking. The jarls had arrived believing the tale that we gathered men for an assault on Bebbanburg, but Ragnar disabused them on the first day. “And Alfred will hear we plan to attack Wessex,” he warned them, “because some of you will tell your men, and they will tell others, and this news will reach Alfred within days.”
“So keep silent,” Sigurd Thorrson growled.
Jarl Sigurd was a tall, hard-looking man with a beard plaited into two great ropes which he twisted about his thick neck. He owned land that stretched from southern Northumbria into northern Mercia and had learned his trade by fighting Æthelred’s warriors. His friend, Cnut Ranulfson, was slighter, but had the same wiry strength that Finan possessed. Cnut was reputed to be the finest swordsman in all Britain, and his blade, together with the horde of household warriors his wealth commanded, had given him lands bordering Sigurd’s estates. His hair was bone white, though he was only thirty years old, and he had the palest eyes I have ever seen, which, with his hair, gave him a spectral appearance. He had a quick smile, though, and an infinite store of jests. “I had a Saxon slave girl just as pretty as that one,” he had told me when we first met. He was gazing at one of Ragnar’s slaves who was carrying wooden platters to the great hall. “But she died,” he went on gloomily, “died from drinking milk.”
“The milk was bad?”
“The cow collapsed on top of her,” Cnut said and burst into laughter.
Cnut was in a serious mood when Ragnar announced that he wanted to lead an assault on Wessex. Ragnar gave a good speech, explaining that West Saxon power was growing and that West Saxon ambitions were to capture Mercia, then East Anglia and finally to invade Northumbria. “King Alfred,” Ragnar said, “calls himself King of the Angelcynn, and English is spoken in my land as it is in all your lands. If we do nothing then the English will take us one by one.”
“Alfred is dying,” Cnut objected.
“But his ambitions will live on,” Ragnar said. “And Wessex knows its best defense is attack, and Wessex has a dream of pushing its boundary to touch the land of the Scots.”
“Wish the bastards would conquer the Scots,” a man interjected glumly.
“If we do nothing,” Ragnar said, “then one day Northumbria will be ruled by Wessex.”
There was an argument about the real power of Wessex. I kept silent, though I knew more than any man there. I let them talk their way to sense and, under Ragnar’s guidance, they at last understood that Wessex was a country that had organized itself for war. Its defense was the burhs, garrisoned by the fyrd, but its offense was the growing number of household warriors who could gather under the king’s banner. The Danes were more feared, man for man, but they had never organized themselves as Alfred had organized Wessex. Every Danish jarl protected his own land, and was reluctant to follow the orders of another jarl. It was possible to unite them, as Harald had done, but at the first setback the crews would scatter to find easier plunder.
“So,” Sigurd growled dubiously, “we have to capture the burhs?”
“Harald captured one,” Ragnar pointed out.
“I hear it was only half built,” Sigurd said, looking at me for confirmation. I nodded.
“If you want Wessex,” Ragnar said, “we must take the burhs.” He forced a confident smile. “We sail to his south coast,” he went on, “in a great fleet! We’ll capture Exanceaster and then march on Wintanceaster. Alfred will be expecting an attack from the north, so we’ll assault from the south.”
“And his ships will see our fleet,” Cnut objected, “and his warriors will be waiting for us.”
“His warriors,” a new voice intervened from the back of the hall, “will be fighting against my crews. So you will only have Alfred’s fyrd to fight.” The speaker stood in the open hall doorway and the sun was so bright that none of us could see him properly. “I shall assault Mercia,” the man said in a loud and confident voice, “and Alfred’s forces will march to defend it, and with them gone, Wessex will be ripe for your plucking.” The man came a few paces forward, followed by a dozen mailed warriors. “Greetings, Jarl Ragnar,” he said, “and to you all,” he swept an expansive hand around the company, “greetings!”
It was Haesten. He had not been invited to this council, yet there he was, smiling and glittering with gold chains. It was a mild day, yet he had chosen to wear an otterskin cloak lined with rare yellow silk to show his wealth. There was a moment’s embarrassment fol lowing his arrival as though no one was certain whether to treat him as a friend or an interloper, but then Ragnar leaped to his feet and embraced the newcomer.
I will not describe the tedium that followed over the next two days. The men assembled in Dunholm were capable of raising the greatest Danish army ever seen in Britain, yet they were still apprehensive because all knew that Wessex had defeated every assault. Ragnar now had to persuade them that the circumstances were changed. Alfred was sick and could not be expected to behave as a young and energetic leader, his son was inexperienced and, he flattered me, Uhtred of Bebbanburg had deserted Wessex. So it was at last agreed that Wessex was vulnerable, but who would be king? I had expected that argument to last forever, but Sigurd and Cnut had discussed it privately and agreed that Sigurd would rule Wessex while Cnut would take the throne of Northumbria when the sick, mad, and sad Guthred died. Ragnar had no ambition to live in the south, nor did I, and though Haesten doubtless hoped to be offered Wessex’s crown, he accepted that he would be named King of Mercia.
Haesten’s arrival made the whole idea of attacking Wessex appear more feasible. No one really trusted him, but few doubted that he planned an assault on Mercia. He really wanted our troops to join his, and in truth that would have made sense because, united, we would have made a mighty army, but no one could ever have agreed on who commanded that army. And so it was decided that Haesten would lead at least two thousand men westward from his stronghold at Beamfleot and, once the West Saxon troops marched to oppose him, the Northumbrian fleet would assault the south coast. Every man present swore to keep the plans secret, though I doubted that solemn oath was worth a whisker. Alfred would hear soon enough.
“So I’ll be King of Mercia,” Haesten told me on the last night, when again the great hall was lit by fire and filled with feasting.
“Only if you hold off the West Saxons long enough,” I warned him. He waved a hand as though that task were trivial. “Capture a Mercian burh,” I advised him, “and force them to besiege you.”
He bit into a goose leg and the fat ran down into his beard. “Who’ll command them?”
“Edward, probably, but he’ll be advised by Æthelred and Steapa.”
“They’re not you, my friend,” he said, jabbing my forearm with the goose bone.
“My children are in Mercia,” I told him. “Make sure they live.”
Haesten heard the grimness in my voice. “I promise you,” he said earnestly, “I swear it on my life. Your children will be safe.” He touched my arm as if to assure me, then pointed the goose bone at Cellach. “Who’s that child?”
“A hostage from Scotland,” I said. Cellach had arrived a week before with a small entourage. He had two warriors to guard him, two servants to dress and feed him, and a hunchbacked priest to educate him. I liked him. He was a sturdy little boy who had accepted his exile bravely. He had already made friends among the fortress’s children and was forever escapi
ng the hunchback’s lessons to scamper wildly along the ramparts or scramble down the steep slope of Dunholm’s rocks.
“So no trouble from the Scots?” Haesten asked.
“The boy dies if they so much as piss across the border,” I said.
Haesten grinned. “So I’ll be King of Mercia, Sigurd of Wessex, Cnut of Northumbria, but what of you?”
I poured him mead and paused a moment to watch a man juggle with flaming sticks. “I shall take West Saxon silver,” I said, “and reclaim Bebbanburg.”
“You don’t want to be king of somewhere?” he asked disbelievingly.
“I want Bebbanburg,” I said, “it’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ll take my children there, raise them, and never leave.”
Haesten said nothing. I did not think he had even heard me. He was staring in awe, and he stared at Skade. She was in drab servant’s dress, yet even so her beauty shone like a beacon in the dark. I think, at that moment, I could have stolen the chains of gold from around Haesten’s neck and he would have been unaware. He just stared and Skade, sensing his gaze, turned to face him. They locked eyes.
“Bebbanburg,” I said again, “it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Yes,” he said distractedly, “I heard you.” He still stared at Skade. No other folk existed for them in that roaring hall. Brida, sitting further along the high table, had seen their locked gazes and she turned to me and raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.
Brida was happy that night. She had arranged Britain’s future, though her influence had been wielded through Ragnar. Yet it was her ambition that had spurred him, and that ambition was to destroy Wessex and, eventually, the power of the priests who spread their gospel so insidiously. In a year, we all believed, the only Christian king in England would be Eohric of East Anglia, and he would change allegiance when he saw how the wind had turned. Indeed, there would be no England at all, just Daneland. It all seemed so simple, so easy, so straightforward and, on that night of harp music and laughter, of ale and comradeship, none of us could anticipate failure. Mercia was weak, Wessex was vulnerable, and we were the Danes, the feared spear-warriors of the north.
The Burning Land sc-5 Page 23
