And in the void I thought of kings and of death, because Edward still lived. Edward, who styled himself Anglorum Saxonum Rex, King of the Angles and the Saxons. He was King of Wessex and of Mercia and of East Anglia, and he still lived. He had been ill, he had recovered, he had fallen sick again, then rumour said he was dying, yet still Edward lived. And I had taken an oath to kill two men when Edward died. I had made that promise, and I had no idea how I was to keep it.
Because to keep it I would have to leave Northumbria and go deep into Wessex. And in Wessex I was Uhtred the Pagan, Uhtred the Godless, Uhtred the Treacherous, Uhtred Ealdordeofol, which means Chief of the Devils, and, most commonly, I was called Uhtredærwe, which simply means Uhtred the Wicked. In Wessex I had powerful enemies and few friends. Which gave me three choices. I could invade with a small army, which would inevitably be beaten, I could go with a few men and risk discovery, or I could break the oath. The first two choices would lead to my death, the third would lead to the shame of a man who had failed to keep his word, the shame of being an oathbreaker.
Eadith, my wife, had no doubts about what I should do. ‘Break the oath,’ she had told me tartly. We had been lying in our chamber behind Bebbanburg’s great hall and I was gazing into the shadowed rafters, blackened by smoke and by night, and I had said nothing. ‘Let them kill each other,’ she had urged me. ‘It’s a quarrel for the southerners, not us. We’re safe here.’ And she was right, we were safe in Bebbanburg, but still her demand had angered me. The gods mark our promises, and to break an oath is to risk their wrath. ‘You would die for a stupid oath?’ Eadith had been angry too. ‘Is that what you want?’ I wanted to live, but I wanted to live without the stain of dishonour that marked an oathbreaker.
Spearhafoc took my mind from the quandary by quickening to a freshening wind and I grasped the steering-oar again and felt the quiver of the water coming through the long ash shaft. At least this choice was simple. Strangers had slaughtered my men, and we sailed to seek revenge across a wind-rippled sea that reflected a myriad flashes of sunlight. ‘Are we home yet?’ Finan asked.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘Dozing,’ Finan grunted, then heaved himself upright and stared around. ‘There’s a ship out there.’
‘Where?’
‘There,’ he pointed north. Finan had the sharpest eyesight of any man I’ve ever known. He might be getting older, like me, yet his sight was as keen as ever. ‘Just a mast,’ he said, ‘no sail.’
I stared into the haze, seeing nothing. Then I thought I saw a flicker against the pale sky, a line as tremulous as a charcoal scratch. A mast? I lost it, looked, found it again, and turned the ship northwards. The sail protested until we hauled in the steerboard sheet and Spearhafoc leaned again to the breeze and the water seethed louder down her flanks. My men stirred, woken by Spearhafoc’s sudden liveliness, and turned to look at the far ship.
‘No sail on her,’ Finan said.
‘She’s going into the wind,’ I said, ‘so they’re rowing. Probably a trader.’ No sooner had I spoken than the tiny scratch mark on the hazed horizon disappeared, replaced by a newly dropped sail. I watched her, the blur of the big square sail much easier to distinguish than the mast. ‘She’s turning towards us,’ I said.
‘It’s Banamaðr,’ Finan said.
I laughed at that. ‘You’re guessing!’
‘No guess,’ Finan said, ‘she has an eagle on her sail, it’s Egil.’
‘You can see that!’
‘You can’t?’
Our two ships were sailing towards each other now, and within moments I could clearly see a distinctive lime-washed upper strake that showed clearly against the lower hull’s darker planks. I could also see the big black outline of a spread-winged eagle on the sail and the eagle’s head on her high prow. Finan was right, it was Banamaðr, a name that meant ‘killer’. It was Egil’s ship.
As the Banamaðr drew closer I dropped my sail and let Spearhafoc wallow in the livening waves. It was a sign to Egil that he could come alongside, and I watched as his ship curved towards us. She was smaller than Spearhafoc, but just as sleek, a Frisian-built raider that was Egil’s joy because, like almost all Norsemen, he was happiest when he was at sea. I watched the sea break white at Banamaðr’s cutwater, she kept turning, the great yard dropped and men hauled the sail inboard, turned the long yard with its furled sail fore and aft, and then, sweet as any seaman could desire, she slewed alongside our steerboard flank. A man in Banamaðr’s bows threw a line, a second line sailed towards me from her stern, and Egil was shouting at his crew to drape sailcloth or cloaks over the pale upper strake so our timbers did not crash and grind together. He grinned at me. ‘Are you doing what I think you’re doing?’
‘Wasting my time,’ I called back.
‘Maybe not.’
‘And you?’
‘Looking for the bastards who took your ships, of course. Can I come aboard?’
‘Come!’
Egil waited to judge the waves, then leaped across. He was a Norseman, a pagan, a poet, a seaman, and a warrior. He was tall, like me, and wore his fair hair long and wild. He was clean-shaven with a chin as sharp as a dragon-boat’s prow, he had deep eyes, an axe-blade of a nose and a mouth that smiled often. Men followed him eagerly, women even more eagerly. I had only known him for a year, but in that year I had come to like and trust him. He was young enough to be my son and he had brought seventy Norse warriors who had sworn their allegiance to me in return for the land I had given them along the Tuede’s southern bank.
‘We should go south,’ Egil said briskly.
‘South?’ I asked.
Egil nodded at Finan, ‘Good morning, lord,’ he always called Finan ‘lord’ to their shared amusement. He looked back to me. ‘You’re not wasting your time. We met a Scottish trader sailing northwards, and he told us there were four ships down there.’ He nodded southwards. ‘Way out to sea,’ he said, ‘out of sight of land. Four Saxon ships, just waiting. One of them stopped him, they demanded three shillings duty, and when he couldn’t pay, they stole his whole cargo.’
‘They wanted to charge him duty!’
‘In your name.’
‘In my name,’ I said softly, angrily.
‘I was on my way back to tell you.’ Egil looked into Banamaðr where around forty men waited. ‘I don’t have enough men to take on four ships, but the two of us could do some damage?’
‘How many men in the ships?’ Finan had scrambled to his feet and was looking eager.
‘The one that stopped the Scotsman had forty, he said two of the others were about the same size, and the last one smaller.’
‘We could do some damage,’ I said vengefully.
Finan, while he listened to us, had been watching Egil’s crew. Three men were struggling to take the eagle’s head from the prow. They laid the heavy piece of wood on the brief foredeck, then helped the others who were unlacing the sail. ‘What are they doing?’ Finan asked.
Egil turned to Banamaðr. ‘If the scum see a ship with an eagle on the sail,’ he said, ‘they’ll know we’re a fighting ship. If they see my eagle they’ll know it’s me. So I’m turning the sail around.’ He grinned. ‘We’re a small ship, they’ll think we’re easy prey.’
I understood what he was suggesting. ‘So I’m to follow you?’
‘Under oars,’ he suggested. ‘If you’re under sail they’ll see you sooner. We’ll suck them in with Banamaðr as the bait, then you can help me finish them.’
‘Help?’ I repeated scornfully, which made him laugh.
‘But who are they?’ Finan asked.
That was the question that nagged at me as we rowed southwards. Egil had gone back to his ship and, with his sail showing a drab frontage, was plunging ahead of us. Despite his suggestion, the Spearhafoc was also under sail, but at least a half-mile behind Banamaðr. I did not want my men wearied by hard rowing if they were to fight, and so we had agreed that Egil would turn Banamaðr if he sighted th
e three ships. He would turn and pretend to flee towards the coast and so lead the enemy, we hoped, into our ambush. I would drop our sail when he turned, so that the enemy would not see the great wolf’s head, but would think us just another trading ship that would prove easy prey. We had taken the sparrowhawk’s head from the prow. The great carved symbols were there to placate the gods, to frighten enemies, and drive off evil spirits, but custom dictated that they could be removed in safe waters and so, instead of being nailed or scarfed into the prow, they were easily dismounted.
‘Four ships,’ Finan said flatly, ‘Saxons.’
‘And being clever,’ I said.
‘Clever? You call poking you with a sharp stick clever?’
‘They attack ships from Bebbanburg, but only harass the others. How long before King Constantin hears that Uhtred of Bebbanburg is confiscating Scottish cargoes?’
‘He’s probably heard already.’
‘So how long before the Scots decide to punish us?’ I asked. ‘Constantin might be fighting Owain of Strath Clota, but he still has ships he can send to our coast.’ I gazed at Banamaðr that was heeling gently to the west wind and leaving a white wake. For a small boat she was quick and lively. ‘Somebody,’ I went on, ‘wants to tangle us in a quarrel with the Scots.’
‘And not just the Scots,’ Finan said.
‘Not just the Scots,’ I agreed. Ships from Scotland, from East Anglia, from Frisia, and from all the Viking homelands sailed past our coast. Even ships from Wessex. And I had never charged duty on those cargoes. I reckoned it was none of my business if a Scotsman sailed past my coast with a ship filled with pelts or pottery. True, if a ship put into one of my harbours then I would charge a fee, but so did everyone else. But now a small fleet had come to my waters and was levying a duty in my name, and I suspected I knew where that fleet had come from. And if I was right, then the four ships had come from the south, from the lands of Edward, Anglorum Saxonum Rex.
Spearhafoc plunged her bows into a green sea to shatter a hard white foam along her decks. Banamaðr was pitching too, driven by a rising west wind, both of us sailing southwards to hunt down the ships that had killed my tenants, and if I was right about those ships, then I had a bloodfeud on my hands.
A bloodfeud is a war between two families, both sworn to destroy the other. My first had been against Kjartan the Cruel who had slaughtered the whole household of Ragnar, the Dane who had adopted me as a son. I had welcomed that feud, and ended it too by killing both Kjartan and his son, but this new bloodfeud was against a far more powerful enemy. An enemy who lived far to the south in Edward’s Wessex, where they could raise an army of household warriors. And to kill them I must go there, to where that army waited to kill me. ‘She’s turning!’ Finan interrupted my thoughts.
Banamaðr was indeed turning. I saw her sail come down, saw the late morning light reflected from oar-blades as they were thrust outboard. Saw the long oars dip and pull, and saw Banamaðr labouring westwards as if seeking the safety of a Northumbrian harbour.
So the bloodfeud, it seemed, had come to me.
I had liked Æthelhelm the Elder. He had been Wessex’s richest ealdorman, a lord of many estates, a genial and even a generous man, and yet he had died as my enemy and as my prisoner.
I had not killed him. I had taken him prisoner when he fought against me, then treated him with the honour that his rank deserved. But then he had caught a sweating sickness, and though we had bled him, though we had paid our Christian priests to pray for him, and though we had wrapped him in pelts and given him the herbs that women had said might cure him, he had died. His son, Æthelhelm the Younger, spread the lie that I had killed his father, and he swore to take revenge. He swore a bloodfeud against me.
Yet I had thought of Æthelhelm the Elder as a friend before his eldest daughter married King Edward of Wessex and gave the king a son. That son, Æthelhelm’s grandson, Ælfweard, became the ætheling. Crown Prince Ælfweard! He was a petulant and spoiled child who had grown to be a sour, sullen and selfish young man, cruel and vain. Yet Ælfweard was not Edward’s eldest son, that was Æthelstan, and Æthelstan was also my friend.
So why was Æthelstan not the ætheling? Because Æthelhelm spread the rumour, a false rumour, that Æthelstan was a bastard, that Edward had never married his mother. So Æthelstan was exiled to Mercia, where I had met him and where I came to admire the boy. He grew into a warrior, a man of justice, and the only fault I could find in him was his passionate adherence to his Christian god.
And now Edward was sick. Men knew he must die soon. And when he died there would be a struggle between the supporters of Æthelhelm the Younger, who wanted Ælfweard on the throne, and those who knew that Æthelstan would make the better king. Wessex and Mercia, joined in an uncertain union, would be torn apart by battle. And so Æthelstan had asked me to swear an oath. That on King Edward’s death I would kill Æthelhelm and so destroy his power over the nobles who must meet in the Witan to confirm the new king.
And that was why I would need go to Wessex, where my enemies were numerous.
Because I had sworn an oath.
And I had no doubt that Æthelhelm had sent the ships north to weaken me, to distract me, and, with any luck, to kill me.
The four ships appeared in the summer haze. They were wallowing in the summer sea, but as we appeared they hoisted their sails and turned to pursue us.
Banamaðr had dropped her sail so that, as she pretended to flee westwards, the four ships would not see the black eagle that now faced aft. And we, the moment we saw Banamaðr turn, also dropped our sail so that the enemy would not see the wolf’s head of Bebbanburg.
‘Now row!’ Finan called to the benches. ‘Row!’
The summer haze was thinning. I could see the distant sails bellying in the gusting wind and could see they were gaining on Egil, who was only using three oarsmen on each side. To show more oars was to betray that his ship was no merchant’s vessel, but a serpent-ship crammed with men. I wondered for a moment whether I should follow his example, then decided that the four distant ships were unlikely to fear a single warship. They outnumbered us, and I did not doubt that these men had been sent to kill me if they had the chance.
So I would give them the chance.
But would they take it? More urgently, they were gaining on Banamaðr, driven fast by the brisk wind, and I decided to reveal myself, shouting at my crew to hoist the big sail again. The sight of the wolf’s head might give the enemy pause, but surely they must reckon on winning the coming fight, even against Uhtredærwe.
The sail flapped as it rose, boomed in the wind, then was sheeted home, and Spearhafoc leaned into the sea as her speed increased. The oars were brought inboard and the oarsmen pulled on their mail coats and fetched their shields and weapons. ‘Rest while you can!’ I called to them.
The sea was white-flecked now, the crests of the waves being blown to spume. Spearhafoc was dipping her bow, drenching the deck, then rising, before plunging down into the next roller. The steering-oar was heavy in my hands, needing all my strength to push or pull as it quivered with speed. I was still sailing south to face the four ships, to challenge them, and Egil now did the same. Two ships against four.
‘You think those are Æthelhelm’s ships?’ Finan asked.
‘Who else?’
‘He won’t be on any of them,’ Finan grunted.
I laughed at that. ‘He’s safe home in Wiltunscir. He hired these bastards.’
The bastards were in a line now, spread across our path. Three of the ships looked to be about the size of Spearhafoc, while the fourth, which was furthest east, was smaller, no bigger than Banamaðr. That ship, seeing us race southwards, was lagging as if reluctant to join a fight. We were still far away, but it seemed to me that the smaller ship had very few crewmen.
Unlike the three larger ships, which kept coming towards us. ‘They’re well manned,’ Finan said calmly.
‘Egil’s Scotsman said there were about forty men in
the ship that stopped him.’
‘I’d guess more.’
‘We’ll find out.’
‘And they have archers.’
‘They do?’
‘I can see them.’
‘We have shields,’ I said, ‘and archers like a steady ship, not a boat pitching like an unbroken colt.’
Roric, my servant, brought me my helmet. Not the proud helmet with the silver wolf crouching on its crest, but a serviceable helm that had belonged to my father and was always left on board Spearhafoc. The metal cheek-pieces had rusted and been replaced with boiled leather. I pulled the helmet over my head and Roric laced the cheek-pieces so that an enemy would see nothing but my eyes.
Three of the ships bore no symbols on their sails, though the craft furthest west, closest to the unseen Northumbrian coast, showed a coiled snake, which, like our wolf, was probably woven from wool. The huge slab of cloth was reinforced with rope that made a diamond pattern through which the black snake showed. I could see the water shattering white at her bow.
Egil had turned Banamaðr so, instead of feigning a clumsy flight west towards the harbours of the Northumbrian coast, he was now sailing south next to Spearhafoc. Like me he had hoisted his sail, his crew just sheeting it home as we came abreast of him. I cupped my hands and shouted across the churning water. ‘I’m aiming for the second one!’ I pointed to the ship nearest the snake-sailed vessel. Egil nodded to show he had heard. ‘But I’m going to attack the snake one!’ I pointed again. ‘You too!’
‘Me too!’ he called back. He was grinning, his fair hair streaming from beneath his helmet’s rim.
The enemy had spread into a line so that any two of their ships could close on one of ours. If that notion had worked they could board us from both sides at once and the sword-work would be brief, bitter, and bloody. I let them think that plan would succeed by heading slightly off the wind towards the second ship from the west and saw the other two larger ships slightly change their direction so that they were headed towards the place where they thought we would meet their line. They were still spread out, at least four or five ships’ lengths between each, but their line was shrinking. The smaller ship, slower than the others, lagged further behind.
Sword of Kings (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 12) Page 2
