The Flame Bearer

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Of course we do!’ Beocca had said. ‘Because they must be punished.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For raiding our land, of course.’

  ‘But we raid their land,’ I insisted, ‘so aren’t we thieves and robbers too?’ I rather liked the idea that we were just as wild and lawless as the hated Scots.

  ‘You will understand when you are grown up,’ Beocca had said, as he always did when he did not know the answer. And now that I was grown up I still did not understand Beocca’s argument that our war against the Scots was righteous punishment. King Alfred, who was nobody’s fool, often said that the war that raged across Britain was a crusade of Christianity against the pagans, but whenever that war crossed into Welsh or Scottish territory it suddenly became something else. Then it became Christian against Christian, and it was just as savage, just as bloody, and we were told by the priests that we did the nailed god’s will, while the priests in Scotland said exactly the same thing to their warriors when they attacked us. The truth, of course, was that it was a war about land. There were four tribes in one island, the Welsh, the Scots, the Saxons, and the Northmen, and all four of us wanted the same land. The priests preached incessantly that we had to fight for the land because it had been given to us as a reward by the nailed god, but when we Saxons had first captured the land we had all been pagans. So presumably Thor or Odin gave us the land.

  ‘Isn’t that true?’ I asked Father Eadig that night. We were sheltering in one of Weallbyrig’s fine stone buildings, protected from the relentless wind and rain by Roman walls, and warmed by a great fire in the hearth.

  Eadig gave me a nervous smile. ‘It’s true, lord, that God sent us to this land, but it wasn’t the old gods, it was the one true God. He sent us.’

  ‘The Saxons? He sent the Saxons?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘But we weren’t Christians then,’ I pointed out. My men, who had heard it all before, grinned.

  ‘We weren’t Christians then,’ Eadig agreed, ‘but the Welsh who had this land before us were Christians. Except they were bad Christians, so God sent the Saxons as a punishment.’

  ‘What had they done?’ I asked. ‘The Welsh, I mean. How were they bad?’

  ‘I don’t know, lord, but God wouldn’t have sent us unless they deserved it.’

  ‘So they were bad,’ I said, ‘and God preferred to have bad pagans in Britain instead of bad Christians? That’s like killing a cow because it has a lame hoof and replacing it with a cow that has the staggers!’

  ‘Oh, but God converted us to the true faith as a reward for punishing the Welsh!’ he said brightly. ‘We’re a good cow now!’

  ‘So why did God send the Danes?’ I asked him. ‘Was he punishing us for being bad Christians?’

  ‘That is a possibility, lord,’ he said uncomfortably, as if he was not quite sure of his answer.

  ‘So where does it end?’ I asked.

  ‘End, lord?’

  ‘Some Danes are converting,’ I said, ‘so who does your god send to punish them when they become bad Christians? The Franks?’

  ‘There’s a fire,’ my son interrupted us. He had drawn aside a leather curtain and was staring north.

  ‘In this rain?’ Finan asked.

  I went to stand beside my son, and, sure enough, somewhere in the far northern hills, a great blaze made a glow in the sky. Fires mean trouble, but I could not imagine any raiding party being loose in this night of rain and wind. ‘It’s probably a steading that caught fire,’ I suggested.

  ‘And it’s a long way away,’ Finan said.

  ‘God’s punishing someone,’ I said, ‘but which god?’

  Father Eadig made the sign of the cross. We watched the distant blaze for a short while, but no more fires showed, then the rain damped the far flames and the sky darkened again.

  We changed the sentries in the high tower, then slept.

  And in the morning the enemy came.

  ‘You, Lord Uhtred,’ my enemy commanded, ‘will go south.’

  He had come with the morning rain and the first I knew of his arrival was when the sentries in the look-out tower clanged the iron bar that served as our alarm bell. It was an hour or so after dawn, though the only hint of the sun was a ghostly paleness in the eastern clouds. ‘There are people out there,’ one of the sentries told me, pointing north, ‘on foot.’

  I leaned on the tower’s parapet and stared into the patchy mist and rain as Finan climbed the ladder behind me. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe shepherds?’ I suggested. I could see nothing. The rain was less violent now, just a steady drenching.

  ‘They were running towards us, lord,’ the sentry said.

  ‘Running?’

  ‘Stumbling anyway.’

  I stared, but saw nothing.

  ‘There were horsemen too,’ Godric, who was the second sentry, said. He was young and not too clever. Until a year before he had been my servant and he was liable to see enemies in any shadow.

  ‘I didn’t see horsemen, lord,’ the first sentry, a reliable man called Cenwulf, said.

  Our horses were being saddled ready for the day’s journey. I wondered if it was worth taking scouts north to discover if there really were men out there and who they were and what they wanted. ‘How many men did you see?’ I asked.

  ‘Three,’ Cenwulf said.

  ‘Five,’ Godric said at the same time, ‘and two horsemen.’

  I gazed north and saw nothing except the rain falling on bracken. Drifts of ragged mist hid some of the further swells in the land. ‘Probably shepherds,’ I said.

  ‘There were horsemen, lord,’ Godric said uncertainly, ‘I saw them.’

  No shepherd would ride a horse. I gazed into the rain and mist. Godric’s eyes were younger than Cenwulf’s, but his imagination was also a lot more fanciful.

  ‘Who in Christ’s name would be out there at this time of morning?’ Finan grumbled.

  ‘No one,’ I said, straightening up, ‘Godric’s imagining things again.’

  ‘I’m not, lord!’ he said earnestly.

  ‘Dairymaids,’ I said, ‘he thinks of nothing else.’

  ‘No, lord!’ he blushed.

  ‘How old are you now?’ I asked him. ‘Fourteen? Fifteen? That’s all I ever thought about at your age. Tits.’

  ‘You haven’t changed much,’ Finan muttered.

  ‘I did see them, lord,’ Godric protested.

  ‘You were dreaming of tits again,’ I said, then stopped. Because there were men on the rain-soaked hills.

  Four men appeared from a fold in the ground. They were running towards us, running desperately, and a moment later I saw why, because six horsemen came out of the mist, galloping to cut the fugitives off. ‘Open the gate!’ I shouted to the men at the tower’s foot. ‘Get out there! Bring those men here!’

  I scrambled down the ladder, arriving just as Rorik brought Tintreg. I had to wait as the girth was tightened, then I hauled myself into the saddle and followed a dozen mounted men out onto the hillside. Finan was not far behind me. ‘Lord!’ Rorik was shouting at me as he ran from the fort. ‘Lord!’ He was holding my heavy sword belt with the scabbarded Serpent-Breath.

  I turned, leaned from the saddle and just drew the sword, leaving belt and scabbard in Rorik’s hands. ‘Go back to the fort, boy.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Go back!’

  The dozen men who had been already mounted ready to leave the fort were well ahead of me, all riding to cut off the horsemen who pursued the four men. Those horsemen, seeing they were outnumbered, sheered away and just then a fifth fugitive appeared. He must have been hiding in the bracken beyond the skyline and now ran into view, leaping down the slope. The horsemen saw him and turned again, this time towards the fifth man, who, hearing their hooves, twisted away, but the leading rider slowed, calmly levelled a spear, then thrust its blade into the fugitive’s spine. For a heartbeat the man arched his back, staying on his feet, then the
second rider overtook him, back-swung an axe and I saw the bright sudden mist of blood. The man collapsed instantly, but his death had distracted and delayed his pursuers and so saved his four companions, who were now guarded by my men.

  ‘Why didn’t that stupid fool stay hidden?’ I asked, nodding to where the six horsemen had surrounded the fallen man.

  ‘That’s why,’ Finan answered, and pointed towards the northern skyline where a crowd of horsemen was appearing from the mist. ‘God save us,’ he said, making the sign of the cross, ‘but it’s a god-damned army.’

  Behind me the sentries on the tower were clanging the iron bar to bring the rest of my men to the fort’s ramparts. A gust of rain blew heavy and sudden, lifting the cloaks of the horsemen who lined the skyline. There were dozens of them. ‘No banner,’ I said.

  ‘Your cousin?’

  I shook my head. In the grey and rain-smeared light it was hard to see the distant men, but I doubted my cousin would have had the courage to bring his garrison this far south through a dark night. ‘Einar, perhaps?’ I asked, but in that case who had they been chasing? I spurred Tintreg towards my men, who guarded the four fugitives.

  ‘They’re Norsemen, lord!’ Gerbruht shouted as I approached.

  The four were soaked through, shaking with cold, and terrified. They were all young, fair-haired, and had inked faces. When they saw my drawn sword they dropped to their knees. ‘Lord, please!’ one of them said.

  I looked north and saw that the army of horsemen had not moved. They just watched us. ‘Three hundred men?’ I guessed.

  ‘Three hundred and forty,’ Finan said.

  ‘My name,’ I said to the men who knelt in the wet heather, ‘is Uhtred of Bebbanburg.’ I saw the fear on their faces and let them feel it for a few heartbeats. ‘And who are you?’

  They muttered their names. They were Einar’s men, sent to scout for us. They had ridden for much of the previous afternoon, and, not finding our trail, had camped in a shepherd’s hut in the western hills, but just before dawn the horsemen to the north had disturbed their sleep and they had run, abandoning their own horses in their panic. ‘So who are they?’ I nodded at the horsemen to the north.

  ‘We thought they were your men, lord!’

  ‘You don’t know who’s chasing you?’ I asked.

  ‘Enemies, lord,’ one of them said miserably and unhelpfully.

  ‘So tell me what happened.’

  The five men had been sent by Einar to look for us, but three of the mysterious mounted scouts had discovered them in the wolf-light just before the sun rose behind the thick eastern clouds. The shepherd’s shelter had been in a hollow and they had managed to drag one of the surprised scouts from his saddle and drive off the remaining two. They had killed the one man, but, while they did that, the surviving two scouts had driven off their horses.

  ‘So you killed the man,’ I asked them, ‘but did you ask him who he was?’

  ‘No, lord,’ the oldest of the four survivors confessed. ‘We didn’t understand his language. And he struggled, lord. He drew a knife.’

  ‘Who did you think he was?’

  The man hesitated, then muttered that he thought their victim was my follower.

  ‘So you just killed him?’

  The man shrugged, ‘Well, yes, lord!’ They had then hurried south, only to discover they were being pursued by a whole army of horsemen.

  ‘You killed a man,’ I said, ‘because you thought he served me. So why shouldn’t I kill you?’

  ‘He was shouting, lord. We needed to silence him.’

  That was reason enough and I supposed I would have done the same. ‘So what do I do with you?’ I asked. ‘Give you to those men?’ I nodded at the waiting horsemen. ‘Or just kill you?’ They had no answer to that, but nor did I expect one.

  ‘Be kindest just to kill the bastards,’ Finan said.

  ‘Lord, please!’ one of them whispered.

  I ignored him because a half-dozen horsemen had left the far hilltop and were now riding towards us. They came slowly as if to assure us they meant no harm. ‘Take those four bastards back to the fort,’ I ordered Gerbruht, ‘and don’t kill them.’

  ‘No, lord?’ the big Frisian sounded disappointed.

  ‘Not yet,’ I said.

  My son had come from the fort and he and Finan rode with me to meet the six men. ‘Who are they?’ my son asked.

  ‘It’s not my cousin,’ I said. If my cousin had pursued us he would be flaunting his banner of the wolf’s head, ‘and it’s not Einar.’

  ‘So who?’ my son asked.

  A moment later I knew who it was. As the six horsemen drew closer I recognised the man who led them. He was mounted on a fine, tall, black stallion, and wore a long blue cloak that was spread across the horse’s rump. He had a golden cross hanging from his neck. He rode straight-backed, his head high. He knew who I was, we had met, and he smiled when he saw me staring at him. ‘It’s trouble,’ I told my companions, ‘it’s damned trouble.’

  And so it was.

  The man in the blue cloak was still smiling as he curbed his horse a few paces away. ‘A drawn sword, Lord Uhtred?’ he chided me. ‘Is that how you greet an old friend?’

  ‘I’m a poor man,’ I said, ‘I can’t afford a scabbard,’ I pushed Serpent-Breath into my left boot, sliding her carefully till the blade was safely lodged beside my calf and the hilt was up in the air.

  ‘An elegant solution,’ he said, mocking me. He himself was elegant. His dark blue cloak was astonishingly clean, his mail polished, his boots scoured of mud, and his beard close-trimmed like his raven-dark hair that was ringed with a golden circlet. His bridle was decorated with gold, a gold chain circled his neck, and the pommel of his sword was bright gold. He was Causantín mac Áeda, King of Alba, known to me as Constantin, and beside him, on a slightly smaller stallion, was his son, Cellach mac Causantín. Four men waited behind the father and son, two warriors and two priests, and all four glowered at me, presumably because I had not addressed Constantin as ‘lord King’.

  ‘Lord Prince,’ I spoke to Cellach, ‘it’s good to see you again.’

  Cellach glanced at his father as if seeking permission to answer.

  ‘You can talk to him!’ King Constantin said, ‘but speak slowly and simply. He’s a Saxon so he doesn’t understand long words.’

  ‘Lord Uhtred,’ Cellach said politely, ‘it’s good to see you again too.’ Years before, when he was just a boy, Cellach had been a hostage in my household. I had liked him then and I still liked him, though I supposed one day I would have to kill him. He was about twenty now, just as handsome as his father, with the same dark hair and very bright blue eyes, but not surprisingly he lacked his father’s calm confidence.

  ‘Are you well, boy?’ I asked and his eyes widened slightly when I called him ‘boy’, but he managed a nod in reply. ‘So, lord King,’ I looked back to Constantin, ‘what brings you to my land?’

  ‘Your land?’ Constantin was amused by that. ‘This is Scotland!’

  ‘You must speak slowly and simply, lord,’ I told him, ‘because I don’t understand nonsense words.’

  Constantin laughed at that. ‘I wish I didn’t like you, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘life would be so much simpler if I detested you.’

  ‘Most Christians do,’ I said, looking at his dour priests.

  ‘I could learn to detest you,’ Constantin said, ‘but only if you choose to be my enemy.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Why indeed!’ The bastard smiled, and he seemed to have all his teeth, and I wondered how he had managed to keep them. Witchcraft? ‘But you won’t be my enemy, Lord Uhtred.’

  ‘I won’t?’

  ‘Of course not! I’ve come to make peace.’

  I believed that. I also believed that eagles laid golden eggs, fairies danced in our shoes at midnight, and that the moon was carved from good Sumorsæte cheese. ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘peace would be better discussed by a hearth with
some pots of ale?’

  ‘You see?’ Constantin turned to his scowling priests, ‘I assured you Lord Uhtred would be hospitable!’

  I allowed Constantin and his five companions to enter the fort, but insisted the rest of his men waited a half-mile away where they were watched by my warriors who lined Weallbyrig’s northern rampart. Constantin, feigning innocence, had asked that all his men be allowed through the gate, and I had just smiled at him for answer and he had the grace to smile back. The Scottish army could wait in the rain. There would be no fighting, not so long as Constantin was my guest, but still they were Scots, and no one but a fool would invite over three hundred Scottish warriors into a fort. A man might as well open a sheepfold to a pack of wolves.

  ‘Peace?’ I said to Constantin after the ale had been served, bread broken, and a flitch of cold bacon carved into slices.

  ‘It is my Christian duty to make peace,’ Constantin said piously. If King Alfred had said the same thing I would have known he was in earnest, but Constantin managed to mock the words subtly. He knew I did not believe him, any more than he believed himself.

  I had ordered tables and benches fetched into the large chamber, but the Scottish king did not sit. Instead he wandered around the room, which was lit by five windows. It was still gloomy outside. Constantin seemed fascinated by the room. He traced a finger up the small remaining patches of plaster, then felt the almost imperceptible gap between the stone jambs and lintel of the door. ‘The Romans built well,’ he said almost wistfully.

  ‘Better than us,’ I said.

  ‘They were a great people,’ he said. I nodded. ‘Their legions marched across the world,’ he went on, ‘but they were repelled from Scotland.’

  ‘From or by?’ I asked.

  He smiled. ‘They tried! They failed! And so they built these forts and this wall to keep us from ravaging their province.’ He stroked a hand along a row of narrow bricks. ‘I would like to visit Rome.’

  ‘I’m told it’s in ruins,’ I said, ‘and haunted by wolves, beggars, and thieves. You’d think yourself at home, lord King.’

  The two Scottish priests evidently spoke the English tongue because each of them muttered a reproof at me, while Cellach, the king’s son, looked as if he was about to protest, but Constantin was quite unmoved by my insult. ‘But what ruins!’ he said, gesturing his son to silence. ‘What marvellous ruins! Their ruins are greater than our greatest halls!’ He turned towards me with his irritating smile. ‘This morning,’ he said, ‘my men cleared Einar the White from Bebbanburg.’