The Pagan Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  The squat man who was training the boys was efficient. He knew something was wrong and he did the right thing. He bellowed at the guards on the High Gate, ‘Shut it! Shut it now!’

  I kicked the horse towards the gate, but the two dogs were in its face. Perhaps they had been Cenwalh’s hounds because they alone in all the fortress had realised something was wrong. They knew I was not Cenwalh. One leaped as if to bite my horse and I drew Serpent-Breath as the stallion snapped its teeth at the hound. ‘Ride for the gate!’ I shouted at my men.

  ‘Close it!’ the squat man bellowed.

  A horn sounded. I kicked the horse past the hounds, but it was already too late. The huge gates were being pulled shut and I heard the crash of the locking bar falling into its brackets. I cursed uselessly. Men were appearing on the rampart above the High Gate, too many men. They would be twenty feet above me and it was hopeless to try and assault that vast wooden arch. My only hope had been to take the gate by surprise, but the hounds had prevented that.

  The squat man ran towards me. The sensible thing to do now was to retreat, to realise that I had lost and, while there was still time, flee through the Low Gate and run to Middelniht, but I was reluctant to give up so easily. My men had paused in the centre of the courtyard, unsure what to do, and the squat man was shouting at me, demanding to know who I was, and the hounds were still howling and my horse was skittering sideways to escape them. More dogs were barking from the inner fortress. ‘Take the gate!’ I called to Osferth, pointing at the Low Gate. If I could not capture the inner rampart I would at least hold the outer one. The rain was slanting across the fortress, driven by the sea wind. The two guards by the smithy had their spears levelled, but neither had moved towards me, and Finan now led two of his men towards them.

  I could not watch what happened to Finan because the squat man had seized my bridle. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. The dogs calmed, perhaps because they recognised the man. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again. His eight youngsters watched wide-eyed, their shields and practice swords forgotten. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted at me a third time, then swore. ‘Christ, no!’

  He was looking towards the smithy. I glanced that way and saw Finan had begun the killing. The two guards were on the ground, though Finan and his men had vanished, and then I kicked my feet from the stirrups and slid from the saddle.

  I was doing everything wrong. I was confused. Confusion is inevitable in battle, but indecision is unforgivable, and I had hesitated to make any decision and then made all the wrong ones. I should have withdrawn fast, instead I had been reluctant to abandon Bebbanburg so I had allowed Finan to slaughter the two guards. I had sent Osferth to capture the Low Gate and that meant I had men in and around that archway and more men in the smithy, while the crew of the Middelniht was presumably still wading ashore, but I was isolated in the courtyard where the squat man chopped at me with his sword. And still I did the wrong thing. Instead of calling Finan and trying to get all my men into one place, I parried the hard blow with Serpent-Breath and, almost without thinking, drove the man back with two hard strikes, took a pace back to let him attack and, as he took the bait and came forward, I lunged into his belly with the blade. I felt the blade burst the mail links, I felt it puncture leather and slide into softness. He shuddered as I twisted Serpent-Breath in his guts, then he staggered down to his knees. He fell forward when I jerked the blade out of his belly. Two of his youngsters started towards me, but I turned on them, my sword red. ‘You want to die?’ I snarled, and they stopped. I had pushed the hood away from my crested helmet and closed the cheek-pieces. They were boys and I was a warlord.

  And I was a fool because I had done everything wrong. And then the High Gate opened.

  Men poured through. Men in mail, men with swords, men with spears and shields. I lost count at twenty, and still they came.

  ‘Lord!’ Osferth called from the Low Gate. He had captured it and I could see my son up on the high fighting platform. ‘Lord!’ Osferth called again. He wanted me to back away, to join him, but instead I looked to the smithy where the two guards lay in the rain. There was no sign of Finan.

  And then the spears and blades crashed on shields and I saw my uncle’s forces had made a shield wall in front of the High Gate. There were at least forty men there and they were beating their blades rhythmically on the willow boards. They were confident, and led by a tall man with fair hair who wore mail, but no helmet. He carried no shield, just a drawn sword. The shield wall was crammed on the roadway between the rocks, just twelve men wide. My own crew was arriving now, coming through the Low Gate and making a wall of their own, but I knew I had lost. I could attack, and we might even fight our way uphill into those tight ranks, but we would have to hack and lunge for every inch, and above us, on the High Gate’s fighting platform, there were men ready to hurl spears and rocks onto our heads. And even if we did force the passage, the gates were now closed again. I had lost.

  The tall man at the front of the enemy snapped his fingers and a servant brought him a helmet and cloak. He donned both, took the sword back and walked slowly towards me. His men stayed behind. The two hounds who had caused all the trouble ran to him, and he snapped his fingers again to make them lie down. He stopped some twenty paces from me, holding his sword low. It was an expensive blade, its hilt heavy with gold and the blade shimmering with the same swirling patterns that glistened on Serpent-Breath’s rain-cleansed steel. He looked at the horses we had been riding. ‘Where is Cenwalh?’ he asked. And, when I said nothing, added, ‘Dead, I suppose?’ I nodded. He shrugged. ‘My father said you’d come.’

  So this was Uhtred, my cousin, the Lord Ælfric’s son. He was some years younger than me, but I could have been looking at myself. He had not inherited his father’s dark looks and narrow build, but was burly, fair and arrogant. He had a short beard, fair in colour and trimmed close, and his eyes were very blue. His helmet was crested with a wolf, like mine, but his cheek-pieces were chased with gold inlay. His cloak was black and edged with wolf-fur. ‘Cenwalh was a good man,’ he said. ‘Did you kill him?’ I still said nothing. ‘Lost your tongue, Uhtred?’ he sneered.

  ‘Why waste words on a goat’s turd?’ I asked.

  ‘My father always says that a dog returns to its vomit, which is how he knew you would come here. Maybe I should welcome you? I do! Welcome, Uhtred!’ He offered me a mocking bow. ‘We have ale, we have meat, we have bread: will you eat with us in the high hall?’

  ‘Why don’t you and I fight here,’ I said, ‘just you and I?’

  ‘Because I outnumber you,’ he said easily, ‘and if we are to fight then I’d rather slaughter you all, not just give your guts to my dogs.’

  ‘Then fight,’ I said aggressively. I turned and pointed to my crew whose shield wall guarded the Low Gate. ‘They’re holding your entrance. You can’t get out until you defeat us, so fight.’

  ‘And how will you hold the entrance when you find a hundred men behind you?’ Ælfric’s son asked. ‘By tomorrow morning, Uhtred, you will find the causeway blocked. You have enough food, perhaps? There’s no well out here, but you brought water or ale?’

  ‘Then fight me now,’ I said, ‘show me you have some bravery.’

  ‘Why fight you when you’re already beaten?’ he asked, then raised his voice so my men could hear him. ‘I offer you life! You may leave here! You can go to your ship and leave! We shall do nothing to hinder you! All I demand is that Uhtred stays here!’ He smiled at me. ‘You see how eager we are for your company? You are family, after all, you must let us welcome you properly. Is your son with you?’

  I hesitated, not because I doubted my answer, but because he had said son and not sons. So he knew what had happened, knew I had disowned my eldest.

  ‘Of course he is,’ Ælfric’s son said, and raised his voice again. ‘Uhtred will stay here, as will his whelp! The rest of you are free to leave! But if you choose to stay then you will never leave!’

  He was trying to turn my men ag
ainst me and I doubted it would work. They were sworn to me and, even if they wished to take his offer, they would not break their oaths so easily. If I died, then some would bend the knee, but right now none wanted to show disloyalty in front of their companions. Ælfric’s son also knew that, but his offer was really intended to take away my crew’s confidence. They knew I was beaten and were waiting to see what I decided to do before they made any choice.

  My cousin looked at me. ‘Drop your sword,’ he commanded.

  ‘I shall bury her in your belly,’ I said.

  It was a pointless defiance. He had won, I had lost, but there was still a chance we could reach Middelniht and escape the harbour, but I dared not lead my men back to the shore until Finan and his two men had reappeared. Where was he? I could not abandon him, not ever. We were closer than brothers, Finan and I, and he had vanished into the smithy and I feared he and his two men had been overwhelmed and were lying dead or, worse, were already taken captive.

  ‘You will find,’ my cousin said, ‘that our men are lethal. We train, as you do, we practise, as you do. It is why we still hold Bebbanburg, because not even the Danes want to feel our blades. If you fight then I shall regret the men I will lose, but I promise that you will pay for their deaths. Your own death won’t be quick, Uhtred, and you won’t have a sword in your hand. I shall kill you slowly, in exquisite pain, but not till I have done the same to your son. You will watch him die first. You will hear him call for his dead mother. You will hear him beg for mercy and there will be none. Is that what you want?’ He paused, waiting for an answer that I did not give him. ‘Or you can drop the sword now,’ he went on, ‘and I promise you both a swift and painless death.’

  I was still hesitating, still indecisive. Of course I knew what to do, I knew I should take my men back to Middelniht, but I dared not do that while Finan was still missing. I wanted to look at the smithy, but did not want to draw my cousin’s attention to it, so I just stared at him and, as my mind raced, and as I tried to find some other way out of this defeat, I suddenly sensed that he was nervous too. It did not show. He looked magnificent in his black cloak, and with his wolf-crowned helmet incised with Christian crosses, and holding his blade that was as formidable as Serpent-Breath, but beneath that confidence there was a fear. I had not seen it at first, but it was there. He was tense.

  ‘Where’s your father?’ I asked. ‘I’d like him to see you die.’

  ‘He will watch you die,’ cousin Uhtred said. Had he bridled at my question? My sense of his discomfort was slight, but it was there. ‘Drop your sword,’ he ordered me again and in a much firmer voice.

  ‘We shall fight,’ I said just as firmly.

  ‘So be it.’ He accepted the decision calmly. So it was no fear of fighting that made him nervous, and perhaps I had misjudged him? Perhaps there was no uncertainty in him. He turned to his men. ‘Keep Uhtred alive! You will slaughter the rest, but keep Uhtred and his son alive!’ He walked away, not bothering to look back at me.

  And I walked back to the Low Gate where my crew was waiting with their shields overlapping and weapons ready. ‘Osferth!’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Where’s Finan?’

  ‘He went to the smithy, lord.’

  ‘I know that!’ I hoped that Finan might have left the smithy and that I had not seen him leave, but Osferth confirmed he had not come out. So three of my men were inside that dark building, and I feared they were dead, that other guards had been inside and had overwhelmed them, but if that was the case why had those guards not appeared at the smithy door? I wanted to send men to discover Finan’s fate, but that would weaken my already weak shield wall.

  And my cousin’s men had begun beating their shields again. They were beating a rhythm with steel on wood, and they were advancing.

  ‘In a moment,’ I spoke to my men, ‘we’ll make the swine’s horn. Then we’ll break them.’

  It was my only hope. The swine’s horn was a wedge of men that would charge the enemy’s shield wall like a wild boar. We would go fast and the hope was that we could pierce their wall, break it and so begin to slaughter them. That was the hope, but the fear was that the swine’s horn would crumple. ‘Uhtred!’ I called.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘You should take a horse and ride now. Ride south. Keep riding till you reach friends. Keep our family alive and come back one day and take this fortress.’

  ‘If I die here,’ my son said, ‘then I’ll hold this fortress till Judgement Day.’

  I had expected that answer, or something like it, and so I did not argue. Even if he rode south I doubted he would reach safety. My uncle would send men in pursuit, and between Bebbanburg and Saxon-ruled Britain there was nothing but enemies. Still, I had offered him the chance. Perhaps, I thought, my eldest son, the priestly son who was no longer my son, would marry and have children, and one of those sons would hear of this fight and want revenge.

  The three Fates were laughing at me. I had dared and I had lost. I was trapped, and my cousin’s men reached the end of the rock-bound path and spread now. Their shield wall was wider than mine. They would overlap us, they would curl around our flanks and chew us with axes, spears and swords.

  ‘Step back,’ I told my men.

  I still planned the swine’s horn, but for now I would let my cousin believe that I was going to make a wall inside the arch of the Low Gate. That would stop him from flanking me. It would make him cautious, and then I could charge him and hope to break him. Osferth stood beside me, my son behind me. We were under the arch now and I sent Rolla, Kettil and Eldgrim to the fighting platform so they could hurl stones at the advancing men. Osferth had told me the stones were piled there, ready, and I dared to hope we could survive this fight. I doubted I could take the High Gate, but just to survive and reach Middelniht would be victory enough.

  My cousin took his shield. It was round, iron-bound willow with a big bronze boss. The boards had been painted red, and the wolf’s head badge was grey and black against that blood-coloured field. The enemy tightened their ranks, their shields overlapping. The rain was slicing from the sea, heavy again, dripping from helmet rims and shield rims and from spear-blades. It was cold, wet and grey.

  ‘Shields,’ I said, and our brief front rank, just six men constrained by the oak walls of the arch’s tunnel, touched shields. Let them come, I thought. Let them die on our shield wall rather than go to them. If I used the swine’s horn I would have to leave the shelter of the gate. I was still being indecisive, but the enemy had stopped advancing. That was normal. Men have to steel themselves to fight. My cousin was talking to them, but I could not hear his words. I did hear them cheer as they started forward again. They came sooner than I had expected. I had thought they would take time to ready themselves, time in which they would hurl insults, but they were well trained and confident. They came slowly, deliberately, their shields locked. They came as warriors advancing to a fight they expected to win. A big black-bearded man holding a long-hafted war axe was at their line’s centre, next to my cousin. He was the man who would attack me. He would try to tear down my shield with the axe, leaving me open to my cousin’s sword thrust. I hefted Serpent-Breath, then remembered that my hammer of Thor was still hidden beneath the mail. That was a bad omen, and a man should never have to fight under the thrall of a bad omen. I wanted to tear the silver cross from about my neck, but my left hand was threaded into the shield’s grips and my right was holding Serpent-Breath.

  And the bad omen told me I would die there. I gripped Serpent-Breath more tightly, for she was my passage to Valhalla. I would fight, I thought, and I would lose, but the Valkyries would take me to that better world that lies beyond this one. And what better place to die than Bebbanburg?

  And then a horn blew again.

  It was a loud squawk, nothing like the brave, bold note of the first horn that had sounded the alarm from the High Gate. This horn sounded as if it was being blown by an enthusiastic child, and its raucous tone made my c
ousin look towards the smithy, and I looked too, and there at the door was Finan. He blew the horn a second time and, disgusted by the crude noise it made, threw it down.

  He was not alone.

  A few paces in front of him was a woman. She looked young and was wearing a white dress belted with a golden chain. Her hair was pale gold, so pale it was almost white. She had no cloak or cape and the rain was plastering the dress to her slim body. She stood motionless, and even at this distance I could see the anguish on her face.

  And my cousin started towards her, then stopped because Finan had drawn his sword. The Irishman did not threaten the woman, but just stood, grinning, with his long blade naked. My cousin glanced at me, uncertainty on his face, then looked back to the smithy just as Finan’s two companions appeared, and each had a captive.

  One captive was my uncle, Lord Ælfric, the other was a boy. ‘You want them dead?’ Finan called to my cousin. ‘You want me to slit their bellies open?’ He tossed his sword high into the air so that it turned end over end. It was an arrogant display and every man in the courtyard watched as he deftly caught the falling weapon by its hilt. ‘You want their guts fed to the dogs? Is that what you want? I’ll oblige you, by the living Christ I’ll oblige you! It would be a pleasure. Your dogs look hungry!’ He turned and took the small boy into his grasp. I saw my cousin motion to his men, ordering them to stay still. Now I knew why he had seemed nervous: because he had known his only son was in the smithy.

  And Finan now had the boy. He held him by one arm and brought him towards me. Ulfar, another of my Danes, followed with my uncle, while the woman, evidently the boy’s mother, walked with them. No one held her, but she was clearly reluctant to leave her son.

  Finan was still grinning as he reached me. ‘This wee bastard says his name is Uhtred. Would you believe today is his birthday? He’s eleven years old today and his grandfather bought him a horse, a fine one too! They were shoeing it, so they were. Just enjoying a sweet family outing which I interrupted.’