Kings of the North

by Kings of the North (retail) (epub)

  Down the meadow, through the silver rain, he saw a horseman come out of the woods, and then another.

  His scalp prickled up. Not Saxons. He could tell even this far away that they weren’t practiced riders. They were Knut’s advance scouts.

  He drew back from the edge. He had to get moving. His man came up with a cup, and the first of his own scouts appeared behind him, soaking wet.

  “My lord – my lord, there are Danes north of us.”

  Uhtred swore. He drank the sour ale his man had brought, stirred from riding. Now he had no choice; he had to swing toward the old road to the east.

  Even as he thought that, he had the feeling he was doing what Knut intended. Still, he could think of nothing else. He said, “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The rain let up. As the moon waxed toward full, Knut reached the old road west of the Trent. With his men he found a good place to camp on the high ground, where he could see everything, and he was putting out his sentries when Broom-Orm brought him a man on foot, at sword’s point.

  “Now, now,” this man said, hopping along ahead of the sword. “That’s not necessary.” He blinked at Knut, who did not know him, and scowled at him. “This is outrageous.”

  Knut ignored him. Ulf Thorleifsson tramped up. His Swedish cousin was fair as flax, with frizzy hair all over him, shaggy brows, a beard that grew in tufts along his jaws. He was always smiling. “Where’s the meat? We’ve got a fire going.”

  “Is there anything to drink but water?” Knut turned back to the stranger. “Who are you?”

  “I’m glad you got to that,” the stranger said, sharp. “You’re Knut Sweynsson, now? I’m talking to the right man?”

  Knut folded his arms over his chest. “That depends on what you have to say. I’m Knut Sweynsson.”

  “Well, then. I’m from Thurbrand Hold, the lord of Lindsey. He says to meet him in Gainsburgh, one week from now.” The man stood straight, his hands behind him, as if he thought that was enough to get him an act of homage.

  Knut snorted at him. “I’m not going to Gainsburgh.”

  The other man’s face altered, puzzled, and he started, “Thurbrand Hold, you know—” Knut turned away from him; Odd was handing him a sack of ale.

  “By the bones, this is awful.” He lowered the sack. “Get away from me,” he said to the man from Thurbrand. “I’m not going to Gainsburgh now.”

  He looked down toward the road. Behind the rain the air was cold and harsh, which meant the storm was over. The light was fading. Somewhere up there he hoped Uhtred was beginning to realize that, if he kept going north, the Danes would close on him from two sides. East was the Trent and Thurbrand Hold. The only way for Uhtred to go was south, along this road where Knut waited.

  Uhtred would not come within his reach for a few more days. Knut saw to his horse and made sure of his sentries. When he came back to the fire, Odd was already directing the skewering of meat.

  Knut sat down by the fire. “I get some of that.”

  Odd said, “You should get your own meat. You eat more than any two of us.”

  “When we have the kingdom, I’ll pile you with meat,” Knut said.

  Thurbrand’s man had followed him to the fire. Stood stooped a little, twisting his hands together. “My lord—”

  “I don’t want to hear this.” Knut shrugged him off. Broom-Orm gave him more ale, in a smaller sack, much better. Knut said to Thurbrand’s man, “Sit down and shut up.” Knut gulped the ale. Everything in him ached to run down Uhtred and walk on his face.

  But he made himself think over this about Thurbrand. The half Dane wanted to talk, to bargain some advantage for coming in on his side. Thurbrand had five hundred men, just the other side of the Trent. Wherever Edmund was, he was every day closer, and he had probably twice the men of Knut’s army and Thurbrand’s together.

  Farmers. Not Vikings. It wasn’t safe to reckon on that. But they were well south of him now. He wouldn’t need more than his own men to take Uhtred.

  In the growing darkness the men sat around the fire. They began to tear chunks from the roasted meat; for a while they were silent, except for the grinding and chewing. Thurbrand’s man sat among them. Ulf Thorleifsson leaned back, his hands shining with grease.

  “Now all we need are some women.” The fire made his pale eyes look colorless.

  “No women,” Thurbrand’s man said. “Plenty of sheep.” The other men all laughed.

  “There have to be some women around here,” Broom-Orm said. “One or two would be enough for all of us.”

  Odd had cracked a bone and was digging out marrow with his knife. “I’d sooner have one all to myself.”

  Knut said, “I’d rather six or seven.” He had not lain with a woman since they left Denmark. He shifted his weight, thinking of the last, her long fair hair, the fair curly hair in her crotch.

  Odd said, “The same one, all the time, is better. That way she gets to like you and wants to make you happy.” He shoveled a knife blade of blood-red mush into his mouth.

  The others hooted at him. Ulf’s voice boomed. “Do it fast, get it over with, on to the next!”

  Knut stood up, hitching his sword belt on his shoulder. They would go on talking about women all night. “We’re not looking for hole anyway. We need more meat, and we’re going to fight in a couple of days, so get ready.” He went to walk around the camp.

  * * *

  Then, two days later, there came a horseman down the road, a single rider in a green jacket, carrying a white flag. It was obvious he knew where Knut’s camp was, and he reined in his horse on the road and waited.

  Knut sent Broom-Orm down to talk to him; the tall man sauntered down the hillside on foot, in no hurry.

  Odd stood beside Knut at the top of the slope. “Uhtred wants to change sides again. Maybe he’ll give you some more hostages.”

  Knut gritted his teeth. Down there the two men talked, and then Broom-Orm came back.

  “Uhtred of Bamburgh sends his greetings. He wants to submit. There’s a hall off by the river, in a place called Weal. He’ll meet you there in two days. He’ll give you his word if you give him yours.”

  Knut lowered his eyes. His temper churned. Uhtred knew he was surrounded, knew he had no chance, and now he was following the English way of war. He wouldn’t even give them a good fight. He would submit, weasel through this, pay some ransoms, maybe even join Knut’s army. Knut would never be able to trust him. Worse: He would never get his revenge.

  He turned to Broom-Orm. “Go down, tell him he has my word: I won’t touch him.”

  He watched the lanky Dane go down the hill. Odd was watching him, frowning. Odd knew something was up, but this wasn’t a matter for him. Knut sauntered over to someone else. And sent him to find the messenger from Thurbrand.

  * * *

  Later, he leaned against the back wall of the house in Weal, his arms folded over his chest, watching Thurbrand’s men lug the last bodies out. They had dug a hole in the woods behind the privy and were throwing them all in there. It was a big hole. Knut thought, I have avenged his betrayal of my father. But he was uneasy.

  He was beginning to regret this. Seeing this broadly, he realized this was something Ethelred might do, Thorkel, or Eadric Streona, luring a man with false promises into a trap and loosing that man’s worst enemy on him. In fact, he knew those three had done this very thing. He saw himself no better than they were. At that, he pushed away from the wall and strode out, hurrying.

  * * *

  Uhtred’s army scattered. Knut moved on east, crossed the Trent north of Nottingham, and picked up the ancient road called Ermine Street that ran down straight as a bowstring to London. Thurbrand’s army had joined his, the rest of Knut’s men had caught up, and the Viking army crowded the road. They crossed another river, where they stormed a little city.

  There, he heard rumors that Edmund was marching up from the south with an army larger than his and was gaining more men every day.

&n
bsp; The open country fell behind them. The road led down into the great forest, stands of oak trees and beech on the higher ground, long stretches of fen and quaking bog, shrub and brambles. It was late, cold at night, the year dying. Only the oaks were still heavy with leaves. Knut could not shake his foul mood. Thurbrand was high hearted with his murders, but Knut spoke to nobody, not even Odd, who seemed content with that. Day on day, he sent out scouts, but they brought him no sign of Edmund.

  Deep in the forest, still well north of London, the road ran onto an old causeway across a bog, a narrow passage of split logs with berms of stone. On the far side the ground rose into a stand of trees. Knut sent Thurbrand on to scout it. The bog stretched off a good way on either side, brown in the autumn frosts, stands here and there of reeds and sedge sticking up like clumps of sword blades. A few half-dead pine trees rose like wet feathers. Along the edges black tangles of willow grew. Thurbrand went slowly on across, rode up onto the hillock beyond, and turned to signal that the way was clear.

  Knut galloped his horse out onto the causeway. It was too narrow here, and he saw the dangers in it, so he wanted the army across as quickly as it could go. He lashed the horse into a flat run, his men and the rest of the army hurtling along after him, and then from either side a storm of arrows tore into them.

  Knut’s horse slammed headfirst into the ground. Knut flew forward and tumbled over and over until he came up against a stone post. Dazed, he uncoiled himself, looked down the long, narrow passage, and saw his men screaming, helpless, dying, falling, arrows jutting from them. Some leaped out into the bog, wobbled a few strides, and then sank down through the mosses as the bog ate them. More horses galloped past him, some riderless. Another wave of arrows stabbed down into the crush of bodies on the causeway.

  Then, behind him, on the hill, he heard shouts and the clash of weapons. They were attacking Thurbrand too. The main army was still fighting its way across the causeway, but from the bog the Saxon bowmen were cutting them down.

  He turned his eyes on the bog. Now he saw that every sharp-bladed clump of reeds held an archer, a darker mass in the heavy dark spikes. He got up and, stooping, ran back to his dead horse. His sword lay under it, but he pulled a bow and some arrows out of the pack on the saddle. Lying by the horse for cover, he picked out the man in the nearest clump, only fifty feet away, and shot.

  This wasn’t Raef’s great Welsh bow, so he needed two arrows to figure the drift, but then the third knocked the Saxon sprawling on the bog. From the other end of the causeway somebody else began shooting back at the Saxons. The army kept on. Some others stopped, took shelter among the dead, and started shooting the Saxons. In a constant stream his men pounded past him, stumbling and staggering over the bodies, trying to hide between dead horses and men, hauling each other along by the arms, carrying wounded on their backs.

  They staggered up onto the hill, and now from the hilltop there was a sudden dansker roar of triumph.

  Knut crawled up to the milepost. Two arrows struck it as he crouched behind it. Knowing what to look for now, he found the Saxons easily, kept the bow low, and took out two more. A horn blew.

  Odd rode up, lying low over his horse’s neck, and slid down next to him. Knut waved a hand at him.

  “Go on – Thurbrand’s attacked – on the hill—” He stared at Odd. “Are you all right?”

  Odd pawed at the side of his head. Something had hit him, maybe an arrow, tearing close to his eye. Half of his head was slick with blood, and the white of his eye was red. “I’m all right.” He waved his men on and vaulted back into his saddle.

  The Saxon bowmen had stopped shooting. They had faded away. Even in the meadow now he heard no signs of fighting, only the yells of dansker men. Knut stood up, daring a shot, but none came. They were gone. He went wearily up the road onto the hillock.

  An open grove of trees crowned it, deep in mast, their high canopies like a roof. The road arched up across it and down the other side; near the top somebody had put some posts in the ground, but they were rotting out and falling over. He saw only Danes around the hilltop. Bodies lay along the road. Thurbrand, on the far side, was shouting as if he had won a great victory.

  Knut’s belly hurt. He turned back to the causeway. The long track was covered with the dead, horses, men, arrows sticking out of them like thorns. He had lost. This was how it felt to be beaten, this dank black grief. The tail end of his army was streaming off past him. The last was his cousin Ulf, on foot again, a bow in his hand.

  “Good work,” Knut said. He knew Ulf had managed things at the far end of the causeway.

  Ulf shrugged, smiling. “Glad you’re still upright, anyway. Quite a dive you took. You making a camp here?”

  “Yes,” Knut said. “Up on the hill.” He felt leaden, cold and thick and stupid. “Get out the sentries.” His shoulder was aching where he had hit the ground. He wiped his face, exhausted.

  * * *

  In under the tall trees they made a strong camp. Knut sent Odd and Ulf and their men out to find any wounded men among the bodies on the causeway and to start burying the dead. He himself went to find Thurbrand, who had built his own camp at the far side of the hill. Thurbrand saw him coming, moved in among his Lindsey men, turned to face him, and swelled out his chest, his wooly red hair standing on end.

  Knut walked up to him. “What happened?”

  Thurbrand stuck his thumbs in his belt. His eyes went back and forth. “I rode over, looked clear, the hill looked clear, so I told you to come on. Then they came barreling up the road.”

  “How many?”

  “A lot more than me. But the road’s narrow; they couldn’t get at me all at once. I held them until your men caught up there, then they left.”

  “Why didn’t you see the archers out on the bog?”

  Thurbrand’s jaw fell. “You know, I can’t do everything—”

  Knut roared at him, “You could do as I tell you, which was to scout.” Thurbrand backed away from him, and Knut stalked after. The Lindsey men gathered behind Thurbrand. He remembered unwillingly how Thurbrand had helped him with Uhtred. Knut bit his lips. He thought suddenly, I have killed the wrong man. Thurbrand was hunching away from him, his hands like claws, looking at him through the corner of his eye.

  Knut said, “Keep watch. They’ll be back.” He turned and tramped across the meadow again. Dark was falling. He felt the evil of the night, a dank mist seeping from the ground.

  * * *

  Above the murky glitter of the battlefield, newly freed in their numbers, the souls rose in wisps and tendrils of light, dazed and dismayed, many struggling still to be alive. While they floated lost, waiting for the light to come to show them the way home, the Lady devoured them, one at a time and severally.

  She rolled and stretched around them, luxuriating in her appetite. They realized she was there, and they tried to escape, poor blind, dumb sparks. She hunted them in the trees when they tried to flee back to the mundane world, in the stinking swamps, along the causeway, in the air as they rose, mistaking the stars for the true light. But the light did not break for them; night went on forever for them. Raef did not come. She turned and spread herself thin, fearless, and sucked in soul upon soul, each a snap of pure sweet light, and gloried in her triumph that Raef did not come to disturb her.

  * * *

  Odd’s eye hurt, and he daubed at the blood leaking down his cheek. Knut’s army filled the meadow, their fires pushing back the dark. Knut himself sat with his back to a log by the campfire, Ulf beside him, across the fire ring from Odd.

  Ulf said, “You look pretty bad, Odd.”

  “I can see,” Odd said. “It’ll mend.”

  They were all banged up. Odd glanced toward his left, where Knut sat. Knut’s face was scraped down to meat along one side from falling on the road. He said nothing, brooding, staring into the fire while he chewed. They were eating the last of the beef they had picked up in the North, which Odd was glad of, since the meat was turning.

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nbsp; He thought over the ambush on the causeway. Any way he looked at it, that was a loss. A lot more Danes had died than Saxons. They were lucky it hadn’t been worse. If not for Knut with a bow at one end and Ulf at the other, it might well have been much worse. Odd was glad he was alive; the arrow had flicked into the corner of his eye, torn along the side of his head, and clipped his ear. Now they had nothing left to eat, and they were in the middle of the hostile forest.

  Even so, he knew Knut would lead them out of this. He had seen Knut now beat everybody he came against, and he thought Knut would eventually take Edmund too. He tossed a piece of gristle into the fire, which burst in a flare of sparks. Ulf, beside him, had the ale sack upended, the firelight glinting in his shaggy, pale hair; Knut was still staring into the flames.

  Odd leaned back against the log, looking up at the sky, depthless black behind the wispy light of the fires. From nowhere, an old wonder came to him, and he said, “Do you ever think if there’s someplace else?”

  Ulf goggled at him. “What?” Knut lifted his head. His black mood was all over him like a haunting.

  Odd folded his arms behind his head, leaning back against the log. “The Christians say there’s a whole world out there, behind the stars. That’s where their God lives.”

  Ulf said, “Oh. Asgard. That’s at the top of the Tree.”

  Knut said, “How would they know?”

  “Well—” Odd shrugged. “They have this book.”

  Knut lowered his gaze to the fire again. His voice rasped. “I don’t think anybody knows much of anything. And the worst thing is what you don’t know until it’s too late.”

  He got up and walked off. Ulf said, under his breath, “What’s got its hooks in him?”

  Odd shrugged. He had a guess, but he would not venture it. Knut had gone off to the next campfire, talked a little to those men, and moved on. He would do this for hours, going around the camp. Odd said, “Get some sleep, Ulf.” Rising, he went after his chief.