Читать книгу The Last Kingdom Series Books 1–8: The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, The Lords of the North, Sword Song, The Burning Land, Death of Kings, The Pagan Lord, The Empty Throne - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 48

Ragnar embraced me. There were tears in both our eyes and for a moment neither of us could speak, though I retained enough sense to look behind me to make sure Alfred was safe. He was squatting beside the door, deep in the shadow of a bale of wool, with his cloak’s hood drawn over his face. ‘I thought you were dead!’ I said to Ragnar.

‘I hoped you would come,’ he said at the same moment, and for a time we both talked and neither listened, and then Brida walked from the back of the church and I watched her, seeing a woman instead of a girl, and she laughed to see me and gave me a decorous kiss.

‘Uhtred,’ she said my name as a caress. We had been lovers once, though we had been little more than children then. She was Saxon, but she had chosen the Danish side to be with Ragnar. The other women in the hall were hung with silver, garnet, jet, amber and gold, but Brida wore no jewellery other than an ivory comb that held her thick black hair in a pile. ‘Uhtred,’ she said again.

‘Why aren’t you dead?’ I asked Ragnar. He had been a hostage, and the hostages’ lives had been forfeit the moment Guthrum crossed the frontier.

‘Wulfhere liked us,’ Ragnar said. He put an arm around my shoulder and drew me to the central hearth where the fire blazed. ‘This is Uhtred,’ he announced to the dice players, ‘a Saxon, which makes him scum, of course, but he is also my friend and my brother. Ale,’ he pointed to jars, ‘wine. Wulfhere let us live.’

‘And you let him live?’

‘Of course we did! He’s here. Feasting with Guthrum.’

‘Wulfhere? Is he a prisoner?’

‘He’s an ally!’ Ragnar said, thrusting a pot into my hand and pulling me down beside the fire. ‘He’s with us now.’ He grinned at me, and I laughed for the sheer joy of finding him alive. He was a big man, golden-haired, open-faced, and as full of mischief, life and kindness as his father had been. ‘Wulfhere used to talk to Brida,’ Ragnar went on, ‘and through her to me. We liked each other. Hard to kill a man you like.’

‘You persuaded him to change sides?’

‘Didn’t need a great deal of persuasion,’ Ragnar said. ‘He could see we were going to win, and by changing sides he keeps his land, doesn’t he? Are you going to drink that ale or just stare at it?’

I pretended to drink, letting some of the ale drip down my beard, and I remembered Wulfhere telling me that when the Danes came we must all make what shifts we could to survive. But Wulfhere? Alfred’s cousin and the Ealdorman of Wiltunscir? He had changed sides? So how many other thegns had followed his example and now served the Danes?

‘Who’s that?’ Brida asked. She was staring at Alfred. He was in shadow, but there was something oddly mysterious about the way he squatted alone and silent.

‘A servant,’ I said.

‘He can come by the fire.’

‘He cannot,’ I said harshly. ‘I’m punishing him.’

‘What did you do?’ Brida called to him in English. His face came up and he stared at her, but the hood still shadowed him.

‘Speak, you bastard,’ I said, ‘and I’ll whip you till your bones show.’ I could just see his eyes in the hood’s shadow. ‘He insulted me,’ I spoke in Danish again, ‘and I’ve sworn him to silence, and for every word he utters he receives ten blows of the whip.’

That satisfied them. Ragnar forgot the strange hooded servant and told me how he had persuaded Wulfhere to send a messenger to Guthrum, promising to spare the hostages, and how Guthrum had warned Wulfhere when the attack would come to make sure that the ealdorman had time to remove the hostages from Alfred’s revenge. That, I thought, was why Wulfhere had left so early on the morning of the attack. He had known the Danes were coming. ‘You call him an ally,’ I said. ‘Does that make him just a friend? Or a man who will fight for Guthrum?’

‘He’s an ally,’ Ragnar said, ‘and he’s sworn to fight for us. At least he’s sworn to fight for the Saxon king.’

‘The Saxon king?’ I asked, confused, ‘Alfred?’

‘Not Alfred, no. The true king. The boy who was the other one’s son.’

Ragnar meant Æthelwold, who had been heir to Alfred’s brother, King Æthelred, and of course the Danes would want Æthelwold. Whenever they captured a Saxon kingdom they appointed a Saxon as king, and that gave their conquest a cloak of legality, though the Saxon never lasted long. Guthrum, who already called himself King of East Anglia, wanted to be King of Wessex too, but by putting Æthelwold on the throne he might attract other West Saxons who could convince themselves they were fighting for the true heir. And once the fight was over and Danish rule established Æthelwold would be quietly killed.

‘But Wulfhere will fight for you?’ I persisted.

‘Of course he will! If he wants to keep his land,’ Ragnar said, then grimaced. ‘But what fighting? We just sit here like sheep and do nothing!’

‘It’s winter.’

‘Best time to fight. Nothing else to do.’ He wanted to know where I had been since Yule and I said I had been deep inside Defnascir. He assumed I had been making sure my family was safe, and he also assumed I had now come to Cippanhamm to join him. ‘You’re not sworn to Alfred, are you?’ he asked.

‘Who knows where Alfred is?’ I evaded the question.

‘You were sworn to him,’ he said reproachfully.

‘I was sworn to him,’ I said, truthfully enough, ‘but only for a year, and that year has long ended.’ That was no lie, I just did not tell Ragnar I had sworn myself to Alfred once again.

‘So you can join me?’ he asked eagerly. ‘You’ll give me your oath?’

I took the question lightly, though in truth it worried me. ‘You want my oath?’ I asked, ‘just so I can sit here like a sheep doing nothing?’

‘We make some raids,’ Ragnar said defensively, ‘and men are guarding the swamp. That’s where Alfred is. In the swamps. But Svein will dig him out.’ So Guthrum and his men had yet to hear that Svein’s fleet was ashes beside the sea.

‘So why are you just sitting here?’ I asked.

‘Because Guthrum won’t divide his army,’ Ragnar said. I half smiled at that because I remembered Ragnar’s grandfather advising Guthrum never to divide an army again. Guthrum had done that at Æsc’s Hill and that had been the first victory of the West Saxons over the Danes. He had done it again when he abandoned Werham to attack Exanceaster, and the part of his army that went by sea was virtually destroyed by the storm. ‘I’ve told him,’ Ragnar said, ‘that we should split the army into a dozen parts. Take a dozen more towns and garrison them. All those places in southern Wessex, we should capture them, but he won’t listen.’

‘Guthrum holds the north and east,’ I said, as if I was defending him.

‘And we should have the rest! But instead we’re waiting till spring in hope more men will join us. Which they will. There’s land here, good land. Better than the land up north.’ He seemed to have forgotten the matter of my oath. I knew he would want me to join him, but instead he talked of what happened in Northumbria, how our enemies, Kjartan and Sven, thrived in Dunholm, and how that father and son dared not leave the fortress for fear of Ragnar’s revenge. They had taken his sister captive and, so far as Ragnar knew, they held her still, and Ragnar, like me, was sworn to kill them. He had no news of Bebbanburg other than that my treacherous uncle still lived and held the fortress. ‘When we’ve finished with Wessex,’ Ragnar promised me, ‘we shall go north. You and I together. We’ll carry swords to Dunholm.’

‘Swords to Dunholm,’ I said and raised my pot of ale.

I did not drink much, or if I did it seemed to have little effect. I was thinking, sitting there, that with one sentence I could finish Alfred for ever. I could betray him, I could have him dragged in front of Guthrum and then watch as he died. Guthrum would even forgive me the insults to his mother if I gave him Alfred, and thus I could finish Wessex, for without Alfred there was no man about whom the fyrd would muster. I could stay with my friend, Ragnar, I could earn more arm rings, I could make a name that would be celebrated wherever Northmen sailed their long ships, and all it would take was one sentence.

And I was so tempted that night in Cippanhamm’s royal church. There is such joy in chaos. Stow all the world’s evils behind a door and tell men that they must never, ever, open the door, and it will be opened because there is pure joy in destruction. At one moment, when Ragnar was bellowing with laughter and slapping my shoulder so hard that it hurt, I felt the words form on my tongue. That is Alfred, I would have said, pointing at him, and all my world would have changed and there would have been no more England. Yet, at the last moment, when the first word was on my tongue, I choked it back. Brida was watching me, her shrewd eyes calm, and I caught her gaze and I thought of Iseult. In a year or two, I thought, Iseult would look like Brida. They had the same tense beauty, the same dark colouring and the same smouldering fire in the soul. If I spoke, I thought, Iseult would be dead, and I could not bear that. And I thought of Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, and knew she would be enslaved, and also knew that wherever the remnants of the Saxons gathered about their fires of exile my name would be cursed. I would be Uhtredærwe for ever, the man who destroyed a people.

‘What were you about to say?’ Brida asked.

‘That we have never known such a hard winter in Wessex.’

She gazed at me, not believing my answer. Then she smiled. ‘Tell me, Uhtred,’ she spoke in English, ‘if you thought Ragnar was dead then why did you come here?’

‘Because I don’t know where else to be,’ I said.

‘So you came here? To Guthrum? Whom you insulted?’

So they knew about that. I had not expected them to know and I felt a surge of fear. I said nothing.

‘Guthrum wants you dead,’ Brida said, speaking in Danish now.

‘He doesn’t mean it,’ Ragnar said.

‘He does mean it,’ Brida insisted.

‘Well I won’t let him kill Uhtred,’ Ragnar said. ‘You’re here now!’ He slapped me on the back again and glared at his men as if daring any of them to betray my presence to Guthrum. None of them moved, but they were nearly all of them drunk and some already asleep.

‘You’re here now,’ Brida said, ‘yet not so long ago you were fighting for Alfred and insulting Guthrum.’

‘I was on my way to Defnascir,’ I said, as if that explained anything.

‘Poor Uhtred,’ Brida said. Her right hand fondled the black and white fur at the back of Nihtgenga’s neck. ‘And I thought you’d be a hero to the Saxons.’

‘A hero? Why?’

‘The man who killed Ubba?’

‘Alfred doesn’t want heroes,’ I said, loudly enough for him to hear, ‘only saints.’

‘So tell us about Ubba!’ Ragnar demanded, and so I had to describe Ubba’s death, and the Danes, who love a good story of a fight, wanted every detail. I told the tale well, making Ubba into a great hero who had almost destroyed the West Saxon army, and I said he had been fighting like a god, and told how he had broken our shield wall with his great axe. I described the burning ships, their smoke drifting over the battle slaughter like a cloud from the netherworld, and I said I had found myself facing Ubba in his victory charge. That was not true, of course, and the Danes knew it was not true. I had not just found myself opposing Ubba, but had sought him out, but when a story is told it must be seasoned with modesty and the listeners, understanding that custom, murmured approval. ‘I have never known such fear,’ I said, and I told how we had fought, Serpent-Breath against Ubba’s axe, and how he had chopped my shield into firewood, and then I described, truthfully, how he had lost his footing in the spilled guts of a dead man. The Danes about the fire sighed with disappointment. ‘I cut the tendons of his arm,’ I said, chopping my left hand into the crook of my right elbow to show where I had cut him, ‘and then beat him down.’

‘He died well?’ a man asked anxiously.

‘As a hero,’ I said, and I told how I had put the axe back into his dying hand so that he would go to Valhalla. ‘He died very well,’ I finished.

‘He was a warrior,’ Ragnar said. He was drunk now. Not badly drunk, but tired drunk. The fire was dying, thickening the shadows at the western end of the church where Alfred sat. More stories were told, the fire died and the few candles guttered. Men were sleeping, and still I sat until Ragnar lay back and began to snore. I waited longer, letting the room go to sleep, and only then did I go back to Alfred. ‘We go now,’ I said. He did not argue.

No one appeared to notice as we went into the night, closing the door quietly behind us. ‘Who were you talking with?’ Alfred asked me.

‘Earl Ragnar.’

He stopped, puzzled. ‘Wasn’t he one of the hostages?’

‘Wulfhere let them live,’ I said.

‘He let them live?’ he asked, astonished.

‘And Wulfhere is now on Guthrum’s side.’ I gave him the bad news. ‘He’s here, in the hall. He’s agreed to fight for Guthrum.’

‘Here?’ Alfred could scarce believe what I said. Wulfhere was his cousin, he had married Alfred’s niece, he was family. ‘He’s here?’

‘He’s on Guthrum’s side,’ I said harshly.

He just stared at me. ‘No,’ he mouthed the word, rather than said it. ‘And Æthelwold?’ he asked.

‘He’s a prisoner,’ I said.

‘A prisoner!’ he asked the question sharply, and no wonder, for Æthelwold had no value to the Danes as a prisoner unless he had agreed to become their token king on the West Saxon throne.

‘A prisoner,’ I said. It was not true, of course, but I liked Æthelwold and I owed him a favour. ‘He’s a prisoner,’ I went on, ‘and there’s nothing we can do about it, so let’s get away from here.’ I pulled him towards the town, but too late, for the church door opened and Brida came out with Nihtgenga.

She told the dog to stay at her heels as she walked towards me. Like me she was not drunk, though she must have been very cold for she wore no cloak over her plain blue woollen dress. The night was brittle with frost, but she did not shiver. ‘You’re going?’ She spoke in English. ‘You’re not staying with us?’

‘I have a wife and child,’ I said.

She smiled at that. ‘Whose names you have not mentioned all evening, Uhtred. So what happened?’ I gave no answer and she just stared at me, and there was something very unsettling in her gaze. ‘So what woman is with you now?’ she asked.

‘Someone who looks like you,’ I admitted.

She laughed at that. ‘And she would have you fight for Alfred?’

‘She sees the future,’ I said, evading the question. ‘She dreams it.’

Brida stared at me. Nihtgenga whined softly and she put down a hand to calm him. ‘And she sees Alfred surviving?’

‘More than surviving,’ I said. ‘She sees him winning.’ Beside me Alfred stirred and I hoped he had the sense to keep his head lowered.

‘Winning?’

‘She sees a green hill of dead men,’ I said, ‘a white horse, and Wessex living again.’

‘Your woman has strange dreams,’ Brida said, ‘but you never answered my first question, Uhtred. If you thought Ragnar was dead, why did you come here?’

I had no ready answer so made none.

‘Who did you expect to find here?’ she asked.

‘You?’ I suggested glibly.

She shook her head, knowing I lied. ‘Why did you come?’ I still had no answer and Brida smiled sadly. ‘If I were Alfred,’ she said, ‘I would send a man who spoke Danish to Cippanhamm, and that man would go back to the swamp and tell all he had seen.’

‘If you think that,’ I said, ‘then why don’t you tell them?’ I nodded towards Guthrum’s black-cloaked men guarding the hall door.

‘Because Guthrum is a nervous fool,’ she said savagely. ‘Why help Guthrum? And when Guthrum fails, Ragnar will take command.’

‘Why doesn’t he command now?’

‘Because he is like his father. He’s decent. He gave his word to Guthrum and he won’t break his word. And tonight he wanted you to give him an oath, but you didn’t.’

‘I do not want Bebbanburg to be a gift of the Danes,’ I answered.

She thought about that, and understood it. ‘But do you think,’ she asked scornfully, ‘that the West Saxons will give you Bebbanburg? It’s at the other end of Britain, Uhtred, and the last Saxon king is rotting in a swamp.’

‘This will give it to me,’ I said, pulling back my cloak to show Serpent-Breath’s hilt.

‘You and Ragnar can rule the north,’ she said.

‘Maybe we will,’ I said. ‘So tell Ragnar that when this is all finished, when all is decided, I shall go north with him. I shall fight Kjartan. But in my own time.’

‘I hope you live to keep that promise,’ she said, then leaned forward and kissed my cheek. Then, without another word, she turned and walked back to the church.

Alfred let out a breath. ‘Who is Kjartan?’

‘An enemy,’ I said shortly. I tried to lead him away, but he stopped me.

He was staring at Brida who was nearing the church. ‘That is the girl who was with you at Wintanceaster?’

‘Yes.’ He was talking of the time when I had first come to Wessex and Brida had been with me.

‘And does Iseult truly see the future?’

‘She has not been wrong yet.’

He made the sign of the cross, then let me lead him back through the town. It was quieter now, but he would not go with me to the western gate, insisting we return to the nunnery where, for a moment, we both crouched near one of the dying fires in the courtyard to get what warmth we could from the embers. Men slept in the nunnery church, but the courtyard was now deserted and quiet, and Alfred took a piece of half-burning wood and, using it as a torch, went to the row of small doors that led to the nuns’ sleeping cells. One door had been fastened with two hasps and a short length of thick chain and Alfred paused there.

‘Draw your sword,’ he ordered me.

When Serpent-Breath was naked he unwound the chain from the hasps and pushed the door inwards. He entered cautiously, pushing the hood back from his face. He held the torch high, and in its light I saw the big man huddled on the floor.

‘Steapa!’ Alfred hissed.

Steapa was only pretending to be asleep and he uncoiled from the floor with wolf-like speed, lashing out at Alfred, and I rammed the sword towards his breast, but then he saw Alfred’s bruised face and he froze, oblivious of the blade. ‘Lord?’

‘You’re coming with us,’ Alfred said.

‘Lord!’ Steapa fell to his knees in front of his king.

‘It’s cold out there,’ Alfred said. It was freezing inside the cell as well. ‘You can sheath your sword, Uhtred.’ Steapa looked at me and seemed vaguely surprised to find I was the man he had been fighting when the Danes came. ‘The two of you will be friends,’ Alfred said sternly, and the big man nodded. ‘And we have one other person to fetch,’ Alfred said, ‘so come.’

‘One other person?’ I asked.

‘You spoke of a nun,’ Alfred said.

So I had to find the nun’s cell, and she was still there, lying crushed against the wall by a Dane who was snoring flabbily. The flame-light showed a small, frightened face half-hidden by the Dane’s beard. His beard was black and her hair was gold, pale gold, and she was awake and, seeing us, gasped, and that woke the Dane who blinked in the flame-light and then snarled at us as he tried to throw off the thick cloaks serving as blankets. Steapa hit him and it was like the sound of a bullock being clubbed, wet and hard at the same time. The man’s head snapped back and Alfred pulled the cloaks away and the nun tried to hide her nakedness. Alfred hurriedly put the cloaks back. He had been embarrassed and I had been impressed, for she was young and very beautiful and I wondered why such a woman would waste her sweetness on religion. ‘You know who I am?’ Alfred asked her. She shook her head. ‘I am your king,’ he said softly, ‘and you will come with us, sister.’

Her clothes were long gone, so we swathed her in the heavy cloaks. The Dane was dead by now, his throat cut by Wasp-Sting, and I had found a pouch of coins strung around his neck on a leather thong. ‘That money goes to the church,’ Alfred said.

‘I found it,’ I said, ‘and I killed him.’

‘It is the money of sin,’ he said patiently, ‘and must be redeemed.’ He smiled at the nun. ‘Are there any other sisters here?’ he asked.

‘Only me,’ she said in a small voice.

‘And now you are safe, sister.’ He straightened. ‘We can go.’

Steapa carried the nun who was called Hild. She clung to him, whimpering, either from the cold or, more likely, from the memory of her ordeal.

We could have captured Cippanhamm that night with a hundred men. It was so bitterly cold that no guards stood on the ramparts. The gate sentries were in a house by the wall, crouched by the fire, and all the notice they took of the bar being lifted was to shout a bad-tempered question wanting to know who we were. ‘Guthrum’s men,’ I called back, and they did not bother us further. A half-hour later we were in the watermill, reunited with Father Adelbert, Egwine and the three soldiers.

‘We should give thanks to God for our deliverance,’ Alfred said to Father Adelbert, who had been aghast to see the blood and bruises on the king’s face. ‘Say a prayer, father,’ Alfred ordered.

Adelbert prayed, but I did not listen. I just crouched by the fire, thought I would never be warm again, and then slept.

It snowed all next day. Thick snow. We made a fire, careless that the Danes might see the smoke, for no Dane was going to struggle through the bitter cold and deepening snow to investigate one small, far-off trickle of grey against a grey sky.

Alfred brooded. He spoke little that day, though once he frowned and asked me if it could really be true about Wulfhere. ‘We didn’t see him with Guthrum,’ he added plaintively, desperately hoping that the ealdorman had not betrayed him.

‘The hostages lived,’ I said.

‘Dear God,’ he said, convinced by that argument, and leaned his head against the wall. He watched the snow through one of the small windows. ‘He’s family!’ he said after a while, then fell silent again.

I fed the horses the last of the hay we had brought with us, then sharpened my swords for lack of anything else to do. Hild wept. Alfred tried to comfort her, but he was awkward and had no words, and oddly it was Steapa who calmed her. He talked to her softly, his voice a deep grumble, and when Serpent-Breath and Wasp-Sting were as sharp as I could make them, and as the snow sifted endlessly onto a silent world, I brooded like Alfred.

I thought of Ragnar wanting my oath. I thought of him wanting my allegiance.

The world began in chaos and it will end in chaos. The gods brought the world into existence, and they will end it when they fight among themselves, but in between the chaos of the world’s birth and the chaos of the world’s death is order, and order is made by oaths, and oaths bind us like the buckles of a harness.

I was bound to Alfred by an oath, and before I gave that oath I had wanted to bind myself to Ragnar, but now I felt affronted that he had even asked me. That was pride growing in me and changing me. I was Uhtred of Bebbanburg, slayer of Ubba, and while I would give an oath to a king I was reluctant to make an oath to an equal. The oath-giver is subservient to the man who accepts the oath. Ragnar would have said I was a friend, he would treat me like a brother, but his assumption that I would give him an oath demonstrated that he still believed I was his follower. I was a lord of Northumbria, but he was a Dane, and to a Dane all Saxons are lesser men, and so he had demanded an oath. If I gave him an oath then he would be generous, but I would be expected to show gratitude, and I could only ever hold Bebbanburg because he allowed me to hold it. I had never thought it all through before, but suddenly, on that cold day, I understood that among the Danes I was as important as my friends, and without friends I was just another landless, masterless warrior. But among the Saxons I was another Saxon, and among the Saxons I did not need another man’s generosity.

‘You look thoughtful, Uhtred,’ Alfred interrupted my reverie.

‘I was thinking, lord,’ I said, ‘that we need warm food.’ I fed the fire, then went outside to the stream where I knocked away the skim of ice and scooped water into a pot. Steapa had followed me outside, not to talk, but to piss, and I stood behind him. ‘At the witanegemot,’ I said, ‘you lied about Cynuit.’

He tied the scrap of rope that served as a belt and turned to look at me. ‘If the Danes had not come,’ he said in his growling voice, ‘I would have killed you.’

I did not argue with that, for he was probably right. ‘At Cynuit,’ I said instead, ‘when Ubba died, where were you?’

‘There.’

‘I didn’t see you,’ I said. ‘I was in the thick of the battle, but I didn’t see you.’

‘You think I wasn’t there?’ he was angry.

‘You were with Odda the Younger?’ I asked, and he nodded. ‘You were with him,’ I guessed, ‘because his father told you to protect him?’ He nodded again. ‘And Odda the Younger,’ I said, ‘stayed a long way from any danger. Isn’t that right?’

He did not answer, but his silence told me I was right. He decided he had nothing more to say to me so started back towards the mill, but I pulled on his arm to stop him. He was surprised by that. Steapa was so big and so strong and so feared that he was unused to men using force on him, and I could see the slow anger burning in him. I fed it. ‘You were Odda’s nursemaid,’ I sneered. ‘The great Steapa Snotor was a nursemaid. Other men faced and fought the Danes and you just held Odda’s hand.’

He just stared at me. His face, so tight-skinned and expressionless, was like an animal’s gaze, nothing there but hunger and anger and violence. He wanted to kill me, especially after I used his nickname, but I understood something more about Steapa Snotor. He was truly stupid. He would kill me if he was ordered to kill me, but without someone to instruct him he did not know what to do, so I thrust the pot of water at him. ‘Carry that inside,’ I told him. He hesitated. ‘Don’t stand there like a dumb ox!’ I snapped. ‘Take it! And don’t spill it.’ He took the pot. ‘It has to go on the fire,’ I told him, ‘and next time we fight the Danes you’ll be with me.’

‘You?’

‘Because we are warriors,’ I said, ‘and our job is to kill our enemies, not be nursemaids to weaklings.’

I collected firewood, then went inside to find Alfred staring at nothing and Steapa sitting beside Hild who now seemed to be consoling him rather than being consoled. I crumbled oatcakes and dried fish into the water and stirred the mess with a stick. It was a gruel of sorts and tasted horrible, but it was hot.

That night it stopped snowing and next morning we went home.

Alfred need not have gone to Cippanhamm. Anything he learned there he could have discovered by sending spies, but he had insisted on going himself and he came back more worried than before. He had learned some good things, that Guthrum did not have the men to subjugate all Wessex and so was waiting for reinforcements, but he had also learned that Guthrum was trying to turn the nobility of Wessex to his side. Wulfhere was sworn to the Danes, who else?

‘Will the fyrd of Wiltunscir fight for Wulfhere?’ he asked us.

Of course they would fight for Wulfhere. Most of the men in Wiltunscir were loyal to their lord, and if their lord ordered them to follow his banner to war then they would march. Those men who were in the parts of the shire not occupied by the Danes might go to Alfred, but the rest would do what they always did, follow their lord. And other ealdormen, seeing that Wulfhere had not lost his estates, would reckon that their own future, and their family’s safety, lay with the Danes. The Danes had ever worked that way. Their armies were too small and too disorganised to defeat a great kingdom so they recruited lords of the kingdom, flattered them, even made them into kings, and only when they were secure did they turn on those Saxons and kill them.

So back in Æthelingæg Alfred did what he did best. He wrote letters. He wrote letters to all his nobility, and messengers were sent into every corner of Wessex to find ealdormen, thegns and bishops, and deliver the letters. I am alive, the scraps of parchment said, and after Easter I shall take Wessex from the pagans, and you will help me. We waited for the replies.

‘You must teach me to read,’ Iseult said when I told her about the letters.

‘Why?’

‘It is a magic,’ she said.

‘What magic? So you can read psalms?’

‘Words are like breath,’ she said, ‘you say them and they’re gone. But writing traps them. You could write down stories, poems.’

‘Hild will teach you,’ I said, and the nun did, scratching letters in the mud. I watched them sometimes and thought they could have been taken for sisters except one had hair black as a raven’s wing and the other had hair of pale gold.

So Iseult learned her letters and I practised the men with their weapons and shields until they were too tired to curse me, and we also made a new fortress. We restored one of the beamwegs that led south to the hills at the edge of the swamp, and where that log road met dry land we made a strong fort of earth and tree-trunks. None of Guthrum’s men tried to stop the work, though we saw Danes watching us from the higher hills, and by the time Guthrum understood what we were doing the fort was finished. In late February a hundred Danes came to challenge it, but they saw the thorn palisade protecting the ditch, saw the strength of the log wall behind the ditch, saw our spears thick against the sky and rode away.

Next day I took sixty men to the farm where we had seen the Danish horses. They were gone, and the farm was burned out. We rode inland, seeing no enemy. We found newborn lambs slaughtered by foxes, but no Danes, and from that day on we rode ever deeper into Wessex, carrying the message that the king lived and fought, and some days we met Danish bands, but we only fought if we outnumbered them for we could not afford to lose men.

Ælswith gave birth to a daughter whom she and Alfred called Æthelgifu. Ælswith wanted to leave the swamp. She knew that Huppa of Thornsæta was holding Dornwaraceaster for the ealdorman had replied to Alfred’s letter saying that the town was secure and, as soon as Alfred demanded it, the fyrd of Thornsæta would march to his aid. Dornwaraceaster was not so large as Cippanhamm, but it had Roman walls and Ælswith was tired of living in the marshes, tired of the endless damp, of the chill mists, and she said her newborn baby would die of the cold, and that Edward’s sickness would come back, and Bishop Alewold supported her. He had a vision of a large house in Dornwaraceaster, of warm fires and priestly comfort, but Alfred refused. If he moved to Dornwaraceaster then the Danes would immediately abandon Cippanhamm and besiege Alfred and starvation would soon threaten the garrison, but in the swamp there was food. In Dornwaraceaster Alfred would be a prisoner of the Danes, but in the swamp he was free, and he wrote more letters, telling Wessex he lived, that he grew stronger and that after Easter, but before Pentecost, he would strike the pagans.

It rained that late winter. Rain and more rain. I remember standing on the muddy parapet of the new fort and watching the rain just falling and falling. Mail coats rusted, fabrics rotted and food went mouldy. Our boots fell apart and we had no men skilled in making new ones. We slid and splashed through greasy mud, our clothes were never dry, and still grey swathes of rain marched from the west. Thatch dripped, huts flooded, the world was sullen. We ate well enough, though as more men came to Æthelingæg, the food became scarcer, but no one starved and no one complained except Bishop Alewold who grimaced whenever he saw another fish stew. There were no deer left in the swamp, all had been netted and eaten, but at least we had fish, eels and wildfowl, while outside the swamp, in those areas the Danes had plundered, folk starved. We practised with our weapons, fought mock battles with staves, watched the hills, and welcomed the messengers who brought news. Burgweard, the fleet commander, wrote from Hamtun saying that the town was garrisoned by Saxons, but that Danish ships were off the coast. ‘I don’t suppose he’s fighting them,’ Leofric remarked glumly when he heard that news.

‘He doesn’t say so,’ I said.

‘Doesn’t want to get his nice ships dirty,’ Leofric guessed.

‘At least he still has the ships.’

A letter came from a priest in distant Kent saying that Vikings from Lundene had occupied Contwaraburg and others had settled on the Isle of Sceapig, and that the ealdorman had made his peace with the invaders. News came from Suth Seaxa of more Danish raids, but also a reassurance from Arnulf, Ealdorman of Suth Seaxa, that his fyrd would gather in the spring. He sent a gospel book to Alfred as a token of his loyalty, and for days Alfred carried the book until the rain soaked into the pages and made the ink run. Wiglaf, Ealdorman of Sumorsæte, appeared in early March and brought seventy men. He claimed to have been hiding in the hills south of Baðum and Alfred ignored the rumours which said Wiglaf had been negotiating with Guthrum. All that mattered was that the ealdorman had come to Æthelingæg and Alfred gave him command of the troops that continually rode inland to shadow the Danes and to ambush their forage parties. Not all the news was so encouraging. Wilfrith of Hamptonscir had fled across the water to Frankia, as had a score of other ealdormen and thegns.

But Odda the Younger, Ealdorman of Defnascir, was still in Wessex. He sent a priest who brought a letter reporting that the ealdorman was holding Exanceaster. ‘God be praised,’ the letter read, ‘but there are no pagans in the town’.

‘So where are they?’ Alfred asked the priest. We knew that Svein, despite losing his ships, had not marched to join Guthrum, which suggested he was still skulking in Defnascir.

The priest, a young man who seemed terrified of the king, shrugged, hesitated, then stammered that Svein was close to Exanceaster.

‘Close?’ the king asked.

‘Nearby,’ the priest managed to say.

‘They besiege the town?’ Alfred asked.

‘No, lord.’

Alfred read the letter a second time. He always had great faith in the written word and he was trying to find some hint of the truth that had escaped him in the first reading. ‘They are not in Exanceaster,’ he concluded, ‘but the letter does not say where they are. Nor how many they are. Nor what they’re doing.’

‘They are nearby, lord,’ the priest said hopelessly. ‘To the west, I think.’

‘The west?’

‘I think they’re to the west.’

‘What’s to the west?’ Alfred asked me.

‘The high moor,’ I said.

Alfred threw the letter down in disgust. ‘Maybe you should go to Defnascir,’ he told me, ‘and find out what the pagans are doing.’

‘Yes, lord,’ I said.

‘It will be a chance to discover your wife and child,’ Alfred said.

There was a sting there. As the winter rains fell the priests hissed their poison into Alfred’s ears and he was willing enough to hear their message, which was that the Saxons would only defeat the Danes if God willed it. And God, the priests said, wanted us to be virtuous. And Iseult was a pagan, as was I, and she and I were not married, while I had a wife, and so the accusation was whispered about the swamp that it was Iseult who stood between Alfred and victory. No one said it openly, not then, yet Iseult sensed it. Hild was her protector in those days, because Hild was a nun, a Christian, and a victim of the Danes, but many thought Iseult was corrupting Hild. I pretended to be deaf to the whispers until Alfred’s daughter told me of them.

Æthelflæd was almost seven and her father’s favourite child. Ælswith was fonder of Edward, and in those wet winter days she worried about her son’s health and the health of her newborn child, which gave Æthelflæd a deal of freedom. She would stay at her father’s side much of the time, but she also wandered about Æthelingæg where she was spoiled by soldiers and villagers. She was a bright ripple of sunlight in those rain-sodden days. She had golden hair, a sweet face, blue eyes and no fear. One day I found her at the southern fort, watching a dozen Danes who had come to watch us. I told her to go back to Æthelingæg and she pretended to obey me, but an hour later, when the Danes had gone, I found her hiding in one of the turf-roofed shelters behind the wall. ‘I hoped the Danes would come,’ she told me.

‘So they could take you away?’

‘So I could watch you kill them.’

It was one of the rare days when it was not raining. There was sunshine on the green hills and I sat on the wall, took Serpent-Breath from her fleece-lined scabbard and began sharpening her two edges with a whetstone. Æthelflaed insisted on trying the whetstone and she laid the long blade on her lap and frowned in concentration as she drew the stone down the sword. ‘How many Danes have you killed?’ she asked.

‘Enough.’

‘Mama says you don’t love Jesus.’

‘We all love Jesus,’ I said evasively.

‘If you loved Jesus,’ she said seriously, ‘then you could kill more Danes. What’s this?’ She had found the deep nick in one of Serpent-Breath’s edges.

‘It’s where she hit another sword,’ I said. It had happened at Cippanhamm during my fight with Steapa and his huge sword had bitten deep into Serpent-Breath.

‘I’ll make her better,’ she said, and worked obsessively with the whetstone, trying to smooth the nick’s edges. ‘Mama says Iseult is an aglæcwif.’ She stumbled over the word, then grinned in triumph because she had managed to say it. I said nothing. An aglæcwif was a fiend, a monster. ‘The bishop says it too,’ Æthelflaed said earnestly. ‘I don’t like the bishop.’

‘You don’t?’

‘He dribbles.’ She tried to demonstrate and managed to spit onto Serpent-Breath. She rubbed the blade. ‘Is Iseult an aglæcwif?’

‘Of course not. She made Edward better.’

‘Jesus did that, and Jesus sent me a baby sister.’ She scowled because all her efforts had made no impression on the nick in Serpent-Breath.

‘Iseult is a good woman,’ I said.

‘She’s learning to read. I can read.’

‘You can?’

‘Almost. If she reads then she can be a Christian. I’d like to be an aglæcwif.’

‘You would?’ I asked, surprised.

For answer she growled at me and crooked a small hand so that her fingers looked like claws. Then she laughed. ‘Are those Danes?’ She had seen some horsemen coming from the south.

‘That’s Wiglaf,’ I said.

‘He’s nice.’

I sent her back to Æthelingæg on Wiglaf’s horse and I thought of what she had said and wondered, for the thousandth time, why I was among Christians who believed I was an offence to their god. They called my gods dwolgods, which meant false gods, so that made me Uhtredærwe, living with an aglæcwif and worshipping dwolgods. I flaunted it, though, always wearing my hammer amulet openly, and that night Alfred, as ever, flinched when he saw it. He had summoned me to his hall where I found him bent over a tafl board. He was playing against Beocca, who had the larger set of pieces. It seems a simple game, tafl, where one player has a king and a dozen other pieces, and the other has double the pieces, but no king, and then you move the pieces about the chequered board until one or other player has all his wooden pieces surrounded. I had no patience for it, but Alfred was fond of the game, though when I arrived he seemed to be losing and so was relieved to see me. ‘I want you to go to Defnascir,’ he said.

‘Of course, lord.’

‘I fear your king is threatened, lord,’ Beocca said happily.

‘Never mind,’ Alfred said irritably. ‘You’re to go to Defnascir,’ he said, turning back to me, ‘but Iseult must stay here.’

I bridled at that. ‘She’s to be a hostage again?’ I asked.

‘I need her medicines,’ Alfred said.

‘Even though they’re made by an aglæcwif?’

He gave me a sharp look. ‘She is a healer,’ he said, ‘and that means she is God’s instrument, and with God’s help she will come to the truth. Besides, you must travel fast and don’t need a woman for company. You will go to Defnascir and find Svein, and once you’ve found him you will instruct Odda the Younger to raise the fyrd. Tell him Svein must be driven from the shire, and once Odda has achieved that, he is to come here with his household troops. He commands my bodyguard, he should be here.’

‘You want me to give Odda orders?’ I asked, partly in surprise, partly with scorn.

‘I do,’ Alfred said, ‘and I order you to make your peace with him.’

‘Yes, lord,’ I replied.

He heard the sarcasm in my voice. ‘We are all Saxons, Uhtred, and now, more than ever, is the time to heal our wounds.’

Beocca, realising that defeating Alfred at tafl would not help the king’s mood, was taking the pieces from the board. ‘A house divided against itself,’ he interjected, ‘will be destroyed. Saint Matthew said that.’

‘Praise God for that truth,’ Alfred said, ‘and we must be rid of Svein.’ That was a greater truth. Alfred wanted to march against Guthrum after Easter, but he could scarcely do that if Svein’s forces were behind him. ‘You find Svein,’ the king told me, ‘and Steapa will accompany you.’

‘Steapa!’

‘He knows the country,’ Alfred said, ‘and I have told him he is to obey you.’

‘It’s best that two of you go,’ Beocca said earnestly. ‘Remember that Joshua sent two spies against Jericho.’

‘You’re delivering me to my enemies,’ I said bitterly, though when I thought about it I decided that using me as a spy made sense. The Danes in Defnascir would be looking out for Alfred’s scouts, but I could speak the enemy’s language and could pass for one of them and so I was safer than anyone else in Alfred’s force. As for Steapa, he was from Defnascir, he knew the country and he was Odda’s sworn man, so he was best suited for carrying a message to the ealdorman.

And so the two of us rode south from Æthelingæg on a day of driving rain.

Steapa did not like me and I did not like him and so we had nothing to say to each other except when I suggested what path we take, and he never disagreed. We kept close to the large road, the road the Romans had made, though I went cautiously for such roads were much used by Danish bands seeking forage or plunder. This was also the route Svein must take if he marched to join Guthrum, but we saw no Danes. We saw no Saxons either. Every village and farm on the road had been pillaged and burned so that we journeyed through a land of the dead.

On the second day Steapa headed westwards. He did not explain the sudden change of direction, but doggedly pushed up into the hills and I followed him because he knew the countryside and I supposed he was taking the small paths that would lead to the high bleakness of Dærentmora. He rode urgently, his hard face grim, and I called to him once that we should take more care in case there were Danish forage parties in the small valleys, but he ignored me. Instead, almost at a gallop, he rode down into one of those small valleys until he came in sight of a farmstead.

Or what had been a farmstead. Now it was wet ashes in a green place. A deep green place where narrow pastures were shadowed by tall trees on which the very first haze of spring was just showing. Flowers were thick along the pasture edges, but there were none where the few small buildings had stood. There were only embers and the black smear of ash in mud, and Steapa, abandoning his horse, walked among the ashes. He had lost his great sword when the Danes captured him at Cippanhamm, so now he carried a huge war axe and he prodded the wide blade into the dark piles.

I rescued his horse, tied both beasts to the scorched trunk of an ash that had once grown by the farmyard, and watched him. I said nothing, for I sensed that one word would release all his fury. He crouched by the skeleton of a dog and just stared at the fire-darkened bones for a few minutes, then reached out and stroked the bared skull. There were tears on Steapa’s face, or perhaps it was the rain that fell softly from low cloud.

A score of people had once lived there. A larger house had stood at the southern end of the settlement and I explored its charred remains, seeing where the Danes had dug down by the old posts to find hidden coins. Steapa watched me. He was by one of the smaller patches of charred timbers and I guessed he had grown up there, in a slave hovel. He did not want me near him, and I pointedly stayed away, wondering if I dared suggest to him that we rode on. But he began digging instead, hacking the damp red soil with his huge war axe and scooping the earth out with bare hands until he had made a shallow grave for the dog. It was a skeleton now. There were still patches of fur on the old bones, but the flesh had been eaten away so that the ribs were scattered, so this had all happened weeks before. Steapa gathered the bones and laid them tenderly in the grave.

That was when the people came. You can ride through a landscape of the dead and see no one, but they will see you. Folk hide when enemies come. They go up into the woods and they wait there, and now three men came from the trees.

‘Steapa,’ I said. He turned on me, furious that I had interrupted him, then saw I was pointing westwards.

He gave a roar of recognition and the three men, who were holding spears, ran towards him. They dropped their weapons and they hugged the huge man, and for a time they all spoke together, but then they calmed down and I took one aside and questioned him. The Danes had come soon after Yule, he told me. They had come suddenly, before anyone was even aware that there were pagans in Defnascir. These men had escaped because they had been felling a beech tree in a nearby wood, and they had heard the slaughter. Since then they had been living in the forests, scared of the Danes who still rode about Defnascir in search of food. They had seen no Saxons.

They had buried the folk of the farm in a pasture to the south, and Steapa went there and knelt in the wet grass. ‘His mother died,’ the man told me. He spoke English with such a strange accent that I continually had to ask him to repeat himself, but I understood those three words. ‘Steapa was good to his mother,’ the man said. ‘He brought her money. She was no slave any more.’

‘His father?’

‘He died long time back. Long time.’

I thought Steapa was going to dig up his mother, so I crossed and stood in front of him. ‘We have a job to do,’ I said.

He looked up at me, his harsh face expressionless.

‘There are Danes to kill,’ I said. ‘The Danes who killed folk here must be killed themselves.’

He nodded abruptly, then stood, towering over me again. He cleaned the blade of his axe and climbed into his saddle. ‘There are Danes to kill,’ he said and, leaving his mother in her cold grave, we went to find them.