Читать книгу War of the Wolf - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 10

‘So, you remember Sister Sunngifu?’ Æthelstan asked me. We had left the ramparts and were leaving the city through the eastern gate, going to inspect the sentries who guarded the enemy trapped in the arena. It was cold, snow made the ground treacherous, and Æthelstan must have been tempted to stay in the great hall’s warmth, but he was doing what he knew should be done; sharing his men’s discomfort.

‘Sunngifu is difficult to forget,’ I said. A dozen of Æthelstan’s guards now followed us. Within a quarter mile there were hundreds of defeated enemy, though I expected no trouble from them. They had been cowed, and now sheltered in their makeshift hovels waiting to see what the morning brought. ‘I’m surprised she became a nun,’ I added.

‘She’s not a nun,’ Æthelstan said, ‘she’s a novice when she’s not pretending to be a soldier.’

‘I always thought she’d marry again,’ I went on.

‘Not if she’s called to God’s service.’

I laughed at that. ‘Her beauty is wasted on your god.’

‘Beauty,’ he said stiffly, ‘is the devil’s snare.’

The fires we had placed around the arena lit his face. It was tight, almost angry. He had asked me about Sunngifu, but now it was plain he was uncomfortable talking of her. ‘And how,’ I asked mischievously, ‘is Frigga?’ Frigga was a young girl I had captured near Ceaster some years before and had given to Æthelstan. ‘She’s a beauty, I remember,’ I went on, ‘I almost kept her for myself.’

‘You’re married,’ he said censoriously.

‘You’re not,’ I retorted, ‘and it’s time you were.’

‘There will be a time for marriage,’ he said dismissively. ‘And Frigga married one of my men. She’s a Christian now.’

Poor girl, I thought. ‘But you should be married,’ I said. ‘You can practise with Sunngifu,’ I teased him, ‘she plainly adores you.’

He stopped and glared at me. ‘That is unseemly!’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘With Sister Sunngifu? With Bishop Leofstan’s widow? Never! She’s a most pious woman.’

God in his dull heaven, I thought as we walked on, and Æthelstan didn’t know her real story?

I will never understand Christians. I can understand their insistence that their nailed god rose from the dead, that he walked on water and cured diseases, because all gods can do those things. No, it’s their other beliefs that astonish me. Sunngifu had been married to Bishop Leofstan, a good man. I liked him. He was a fool, of course, but a holy fool, and I remember him telling me that one of his god’s prophets had married a whore called Gomer. I forget now why this prophet married a whore, it’s all explained in the Christian holy book. I do recall that it wasn’t just because he wanted to bounce her, it was something to do with his religion, and Bishop Leofstan, who at times had the brain of a mayfly, decided to do the same, and had plucked Sunngifu from some Mercian brothel and made her his wife. He solemnly assured me that his Gomer, as he insisted on calling her, had reformed, had been baptised, and was indeed a living saint, but when he wasn’t looking, Sunngifu was humping my men like a demented squirrel. I had never told Leofstan, but I had tried to expel Sunngifu from Ceaster to stop the frequent injuries caused by men fighting for her favours. I had failed, and here she still was, and, for all I knew, still merrily bouncing.

We were walking towards the firelit arena with snow whirling about us. ‘You do know that before Sunngifu married the bishop she was—’ I began.

‘Enough!’ Æthelstan interrupted me. He had stopped again and now looked at me fiercely. ‘If you’re about to tell me that Sister Sunngifu was a harlot before she married, I know! What you don’t understand is that she saw the sinfulness of her life and repented! She is living proof of redemption. A witness of the forgiveness that only Christ can offer! Are you telling me that is falsehood?’

I hesitated, then decided it was best to let him believe whatever he chose. ‘Of course not, lord Prince.’

‘I have suffered from malicious gossip my whole life,’ he said angrily, beckoning me onwards, ‘and I detest it. I have known women raised in the faith, pious women, women full of good works, who are less saintly than Sunngifu! She is a good woman, an inspiration to us all! And she deserves a heavenly reward for what she has achieved here. She tends the wounded, and comforts the afflicted.’

I almost asked how she administered that comfort, but managed to bite my tongue. There was no way to argue with Æthelstan’s piety, and I had watched him grow ever more pious over the years. I had done my best to convince him that the older gods were better, but I had failed, and now he was becoming more and more like his grandfather, King Alfred. He had inherited Alfred’s intelligence and his love of the church, but to those he added the skills of a warrior. He was, in short, formidable, and I had the sudden realisation that if I had just met him for the first time, instead of having known him since he was a child, I would probably dislike him. And if this young man became king, I thought, then Alfred’s dream of one Saxon country under the rule of one Christian king could well come true, indeed was likely to come true, which meant that this young man, whom I thought of as a son, was the enemy of Northumbria. My enemy. ‘Why do I always end up fighting for the wrong side?’ I asked.

Æthelstan laughed, then surprised me by clapping my shoulder, maybe regretting the angry tone he had used just a moment before. ‘Because at heart you’re a Saxon,’ he said, ‘and because, as we’ve already agreed, you’re a fool. But you’re a fool who’ll never be my enemy.’

‘I won’t?’ I asked threateningly.

‘Not by my choice!’ He strode ahead, making for the arena’s entrance, where a dozen of my men stood close to the great fire that burned in the archway. ‘Is Cynlæf still inside?’ He called out.

Berg was the closest of the sentries, and he glanced at me as if wondering whether he should answer. I nodded. ‘No one’s left the arena, lord,’ Berg said.

‘Are we sure Cynlæf’s here?’ I asked.

‘We saw him two days ago,’ Æthelstan said. He smiled at Berg. ‘I fear you’re suffering a cold night.’

‘I’m Norse, lord, the cold doesn’t worry me.’

Æthelstan laughed at that. ‘Nevertheless I’ll send men to relieve you. And tomorrow?’ He paused, distracted by Berg, who was gazing past him.

‘Tomorrow we kill them, lord?’ Berg asked, still staring northwards over Æthelstan’s shoulder.

‘Oh, we kill them,’ Æthelstan said softly, ‘we certainly kill them.’ Then he turned to see what had attracted Berg’s attention. ‘And perhaps we begin the killing now,’ he added in a sharp tone.

I also turned to see a dozen men approaching. Eleven were warriors, all in mail, all cloaked, all bearded, all wearing helmets, and three carrying shields painted with creatures I supposed to be dragons. Their swords were sheathed. The firelight reflected from gold at one man’s neck and shone silver from a cross that was worn by the one priest who accompanied them. The warriors stopped some twenty yards away, but the priest kept walking until he was a couple of paces from Æthelstan, where he dropped to his knees. ‘Lord Prince,’ he said.

‘Stand, stand! I don’t expect priests to kneel to me! You represent God. I should kneel to you.’

‘Earsling,’ I said, but too softly for Æthelstan to hear.

The priest stood. Two crusts of snow clung to his black robe where he had knelt. He was shivering, and, to my surprise, and even more to the priest’s astonishment, Æthelstan strode forward and draped his own thick cloak about the man’s shoulders. ‘What brings you here, father?’ he asked. ‘And who are you?’

‘Father Bledod,’ the priest answered. He was a skinny man with lank black hair, no hat, a straggly beard, and frightened eyes. He fidgeted with the silver cross. ‘Thank you for the cloak, lord.’

‘You’re Welsh?’

‘Yes, lord.’ Father Bledod gave an awkward gesture towards his companions. ‘That is Gruffudd of Gwent. He would speak with you, lord.’

‘With me?’

‘You are the Prince Æthelstan, lord?’

Æthelstan smiled. ‘I am.’

‘Gruffudd of Gwent, lord, would return to his home,’ the priest said.

‘I am surprised,’ Æthelstan said mildly, ‘that Gruffudd of Gwent thought to leave his home in the first place. Or did he come to Mercia to enjoy the weather?’

The priest, who seemed to be the only Welshman capable of speaking the Saxon tongue, had no reply. He just frowned, while the eleven warriors stared at us in mute belligerence.

‘Why did he come?’ Æthelstan asked.

The priest made a helpless gesture with his left hand, then looked embarrassed. ‘We were paid to come, lord Prince,’ he admitted.

I could see that answer made Æthelstan angry. To the Welshmen he doubtless looked calm, but I could sense his fury that Cynlæf’s rebellion had hired Welsh troops. There had ever been enmity between Mercia and the Welsh. Each raided the other, but Mercia, with its rich fields and plump orchards, had more to lose. Indeed the first warrior I ever killed in a shield wall was a Welshman who had come to Mercia to steal cattle or women. I killed four men that day. I had no mail, no helmet, just a borrowed shield and my two swords, and that was the day I first experienced the battle-joy. Our small force of Mercians had been led by Tatwine, a monstrous beast of a warrior, and when the battle was done, when the bridge where we had fought was slippery with blood, he had complimented me. ‘God love me,’ I remembered him saying in awe, ‘but you’re a savage one.’ I was a youngster, raw and half-trained, and thought that was praise.

Æthelstan controlled his anger. ‘You tell me that Gruffudd comes from Gwent,’ he said, looking at the man who showed the glint of gold at his neck. ‘But tell me, father, is not Arthfael King of Gwent?’

‘He is, lord Prince.’

‘And King Arthfael thought it good to send men to fight against my father, King Edward?’

Father Bledod still looked embarrassed. ‘The gold, lord, was paid to Gruffudd.’

That answer was evasive and Æthelstan knew it. He paused, looking at the warriors standing in the snow. ‘And who,’ he asked, ‘is Gruffudd of Gwent?’

‘He is kin to Arthfael,’ the priest admitted.

‘Kin?’

‘His mother’s brother, lord Prince.’

Æthelstan thought for a moment. It could hardly have been a surprise that Welsh troops were at the siege. The Welsh and the Mercians were enemies and had always been enemies. King Offa, who had ruled Mercia in the days of its greatness, had built a wall and ditch to mark the frontier and had sworn to kill any Welshman who dared cross the wall, but of course they dared, indeed they seemed to regard the barrier as a challenge. The Mercian rebellion was an opportunity for the Welsh to weaken their traditional enemy. They would have been fools not to take advantage of the Saxon troubles, and the kingdom of Gwent, which lay on the other side of Offa’s ditch, must have hoped to gain land if Cynlæf’s rebellion had succeeded. A few dead warriors was a small price to pay if the Welsh gained some prime Saxon farmland, and it was plain that King Arthfael had made that bargain with Cynlæf. Father Bledod had done his best to absolve the Gwentish king of blame, and Æthelstan did not press him. ‘Tell me,’ he said instead, ‘how many men did Gruffudd of Gwent bring to Ceaster?’

‘Seventy-four, lord.’

‘Then tell Gruffudd of Gwent,’ Æthelstan said, and each time he repeated the name he invested it with more scorn, ‘that he and his seventy-four men are free to cross the river and go home. I will not stop them.’ And that, I thought, was the right decision. There was no point in picking a quarrel with a defeated force. If Æthelstan had chosen to kill Gruffudd and his Welshmen, which he was surely entitled to do, the news of the massacre would spread through the Welsh kingdoms and provoke retaliation. It was better to provoke gratitude by allowing Gruffudd and his men to crawl back to their hovels. ‘But they may travel with nothing more than they brought with them,’ Æthelstan added. ‘If they steal so much as one goat I will slaughter all of them!’

Father Bledod showed no concern at the threat. He must have expected it, and he knew as well as Æthelstan that the threat was a formality. Æthelstan just wanted the foreigners gone from Mercia. ‘Your goats are safe, lord,’ the priest said with sly humour, ‘but Gruffudd’s son is not.’

‘What of his son?’

The priest gestured towards the arena. ‘He is in there, lord.’

Æthelstan turned and stared at the arena, its blood red walls lit by fire and half obscured by snow. ‘It is my intention,’ he said, ‘to kill every man inside.’

The priest made the sign of the cross. ‘Cadwallon ap Gruffudd is a hostage, lord.’

‘A hostage!’ Æthelstan could not hide his surprise. ‘Are you telling me that Cynlæf doesn’t trust Gruffudd of Gwent?’ Æthelstan asked, but the priest did not answer, nor did he need to. Gruffudd’s son had clearly been taken hostage as a surety that the Welsh warriors would not desert Cynlæf’s cause. And that, I thought, meant that Gruffudd must have given Cynlæf cause to doubt the Welshmen’s loyalty.

‘How many of your seventy-four men still live, priest?’ I asked.

Æthelstan looked annoyed at my intervention, but said nothing. ‘Sixty-three, lord,’ the priest answered.

‘You lost eleven men assaulting the walls?’ I asked.

‘Yes, lord.’ Father Bledod paused for a heartbeat. ‘We put ladders against the northern gate, lord, we took the tower.’ He meant one of the two bastions that flanked the Roman gate. ‘We drove the sais from the rampart, lord.’ He was proud of what Gruffudd’s men had achieved, and he had every right to be proud.

‘And you were driven from the gate,’ Æthelstan remarked quietly.

‘By you, lord Prince,’ the priest said. ‘We took the tower, but could not keep it.’

‘And how many sais,’ I used Bledod’s word for the Saxons, ‘died with you on the gate?’

‘We counted ten bodies, lord.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I want to know how many of Cynlæf’s men died with you.’

‘None, lord,’ Father Bledod could not hide his scorn, ‘not one.’

Æthelstan understood my questions now. Cynlæf had let the Welshmen lead the assault and had done nothing to support them. The Welsh had done the fighting and the Saxons had let them die, and that experience had soured Gruffudd and his men. They could have resisted our arrival the previous day, but had chosen not to fight because they had lost faith in Cynlæf and his cause. Æthelstan looked at the warriors lined behind the priest. ‘What can Gruffudd,’ he asked, ‘give me in return for his son’s life?’

The priest turned and spoke with the short, broad-chested man who wore the gold chain about his neck. Gruffudd of Gwent had a scowling face, a grey tangled beard, and one blind eye, his right eye, which was white as the falling snow. A scar on his cheek showed where a blade had taken the sight from that eye. He spoke in his own language, of course, but I could hear the bitterness in the words. Father Bledod finally turned back to Æthelstan. ‘What does the lord Prince wish from Gruffudd?’

‘I want to hear what he will offer,’ Æthelstan said. ‘What is his son worth? Silver? Gold? Horses?’

There was another brief exchange in the Welsh language. ‘He will not offer gold, lord,’ the priest said, ‘but he will pay you with the name of the man who hired him.’

Æthelstan laughed. ‘Cynlæf hired him!’ he said. ‘I already know that! You waste my time, father.’

‘It is not Cynlæf,’ it was Gruffudd himself who spoke in halting English.

‘Of course it was not Cynlæf,’ Æthelstan said scornfully, ‘he would have sent someone else to bribe you. The devil has evil men to do his work.’

‘It is not Cynlæf,’ Gruffudd said again, then added something in his own language.

‘It was not Cynlæf,’ Father Bledod translated. ‘Cynlæf knew nothing of our coming till we arrived here.’

Æthelstan said nothing for a few heartbeats, then reached out and gently took his cloak from Father Bledod’s shoulders. ‘Tell Gruffudd of Gwent that I will spare his son’s life and he may leave at midday tomorrow. In exchange for his son he will give me the name of my enemy and he will also give me the gold chain about his neck.’

Father Bledod translated the demand, and Gruffudd gave a reluctant nod. ‘It is agreed, lord Prince,’ Bledod said.

‘And the chain,’ Æthelstan said, ‘will be given to the church.’

‘Earsling,’ I said again, still too low for Æthelstan’s ears.

‘And Gruffudd of Gwent,’ Æthelstan went on, ‘will agree to keep his men from raiding Mercia for one whole year.’ That too was agreed, though I suspected it was a meaningless demand. Æthelstan might as well have demanded that it did not rain for a whole year as expect that the Welsh would end their thieving. ‘We will meet again tomorrow,’ Æthelstan finished.

‘Tomorrow, edling,’ Gruffudd said, ‘tomorrow.’ He walked away, followed by his men and by Father Bledod. The snow was falling harder, the flakes whirling in the light of the campfires.

‘I sometimes find it difficult,’ Æthelstan said as he watched them walk away, ‘to remember that the Welsh are Christians.’

I smiled at that. ‘There’s a king in Dyfed called Hywel. You’d like him.’

‘I’ve heard of him.’

‘He’s a good man,’ I said warmly, and rather surprised myself by saying it.

‘And a Christian!’ Æthelstan was mocking me.

‘I said he was good, not perfect.’

Æthelstan crossed himself. ‘Tomorrow we must all be good,’ he said, ‘and spare the life of a Welshman.’

And discover the name of an enemy. I was fairly sure I already knew that name, though I could not be certain of it, though I was certain that one day I would have to kill the man. So a Welshman must live so that a Saxon could die.

Edling, a Welsh title, the same as our ætheling, meaning the son of the king who would be the next king. Gruffudd of Gwent, who I assumed was a chieftain of some kind, even maybe a minor king himself, had used the title to flatter Æthelstan, because no one knew who would succeed King Edward. Æthelstan was the oldest son, but malicious rumour, spread by the church, insisted he was a bastard, and almost all the ealdormen of Wessex supported Ælfweard, Edward’s second son, who was indubitably legitimate. ‘They should make me King of Wessex,’ I told Æthelstan next morning.

He looked shocked. Perhaps he was not fully awake and thought he had misheard. ‘You!’

‘Me.’

‘For God’s sake, why?’

‘I just think the best-looking man in the kingdom should be king.’

He understood I was joking then, but he was in no mood for laughter. He just grunted and urged his horse on. He led sixty of his warriors, while I led all of mine who were not already guarding the arena where Father Bledod was waiting for us. I had told the Welsh priest to join us. ‘How else will we know who Gruffudd’s boy is?’ I had explained. Away to our left, many of Cynlæf’s defeated men were already walking eastwards with their wives and children. I had sent Finan with twenty men to spread the news that they should leave or else face my warriors, and Finan’s small force had met no opposition. The rebellion, at least in this part of Mercia, had collapsed without a fight.

‘Father Swithred,’ Æthelstan said as he watched the beaten men walk away, ‘thought we should kill one man in ten. He said it was the Roman way.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘You think I should?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘I think you should let them go. Most of them aren’t warriors. They’re the folk who tend the fields, raise the cattle, dig ditches, and plant the orchards. They’re carpenters and fullers, leather-workers and ploughmen. They came here because they were ordered to come, but once home they’ll go back to work. Your father needs them. Mercia is no use to him if it’s hungry and poor.’

‘It’s little use to him if it’s rebellious.’

‘You’ve won,’ I said, ‘and most of those men wouldn’t know a rebellion from a wet fart. They were led here. So let them go home.’

‘My father might disagree.’

I scoffed at that statement. ‘So why didn’t your father send a relief force?’

‘He’s ill,’ Æthelstan said, and made the sign of the cross.

I let Tintreg walk around an unburied corpse, one of Cynlæf’s house-warriors we had killed the previous day. Snow had settled on the body to make a soft shroud. ‘What’s wrong with the king?’ I asked.

‘Tribulations,’ Æthelstan said curtly.

‘And how do you cure that?’

He rode in silence for a few paces. ‘No one knows what ails him,’ he finally said, ‘he’s grown fat, and short of breath. But he has days when he seems to recover, thank God. He can still ride, he likes to hunt, he can still rule.’

‘The problem,’ I said, ‘sounds like an old sword in a new scabbard.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It sounds as if his new bride is wearing him out.’

Æthelstan bridled at that, but did not argue. Instead he looked up at the sky that had cleared overnight. A bright sun glinted from the snow. It would melt quickly, I thought, as quickly as the siege had ended. ‘I suppose he’s waiting for the weather to improve,’ Æthelstan went on, ‘which means he might be coming soon. And he won’t be happy that the rebels are leaving unpunished.’

‘So punish their leaders,’ I said. The leaders of the rebellion, at least in northern Mercia, had trapped themselves in the arena.

‘I intend to.’

‘Then your father will be happy,’ I said, and urged Tintreg on to the arena entrance where Finan waited. ‘Any trouble?’ I called out to him. Finan had relieved Berg in the middle of the night, taking fresh troops to guard the arena. Æthelstan had also sent a score of men, and, like Finan, they all looked cold and tired.

Finan spat, evidently a gesture of scorn for the men trapped in the arena. ‘They made one feeble effort to get out. Didn’t even get past their own barricade. Now they want to surrender.’

‘On what terms?’ Æthelstan asked. He had heard Finan, and had spurred his horse forward.

‘Exile,’ Finan said laconically.

‘Exile?’ Æthelstan asked sharply.

Finan shrugged, knowing what Æthelstan’s answer would be. ‘They’re willing to surrender their lands and go into exile, lord Prince.’

‘Exile!’ Æthelstan exclaimed. ‘Tell them my answer is no. They can surrender to my justice, or else they fight.’

‘Exile them to Northumbria,’ I said mischievously. ‘We need warriors.’ I meant we needed warriors to resist the inevitable invasion that would engulf Northumbria when the Mercian troubles were over.

Æthelstan ignored me. ‘How are you talking to them?’ he asked Finan. ‘Are you just shouting through the entrance?’

‘No, you can go inside, lord Prince,’ Finan said, pointing to the closest staircase leading up to the tiered seating. It seemed that at first light Finan had ordered the barricade removed from that entrance and had led a score of men up to the arena’s seats from where they could look down on the trapped enemy.

‘How many are there?’ Æthelstan asked.

‘I counted eighty-two, lord Prince,’ Finan said, stepping forward to hold Æthelstan’s bridle. ‘There may be some we haven’t seen inside the building. And some of those we saw are servants, of course. Some women too.’

‘They’re all rebels,’ Æthelstan snarled. He dismounted and strode towards the staircase, followed by his men.

Finan looked up at me. ‘What does he want to do?’

‘Kill the lot.’

‘But he’s letting the Welsh live?’

‘One enemy at a time.’

Finan turned to watch as Æthelstan and all his warriors filed into the nearest staircase. ‘He’s changed, hasn’t he?’

‘Changed?’

‘Become stern. He used to laugh a lot, remember?’

‘He was a boy then,’ I said, ‘and I tried to teach him how to be a king.’

‘You taught him well, lord.’

‘Too well,’ I said softly, because Æthelstan had come to resemble his grandfather, and Alfred had never been my friend. I thought of Æthelstan as a son. I had protected him through boyhood, I had trained him in the skills of a warrior, but he had hardened in the last few years, and now believed his destiny led to a throne despite all the obstacles that ambitious men would place in his way. And when he was king, I thought, he would lead swords and spears into Northumbria, he would be our conqueror, he would demand my homage and he would require my obedience. ‘If I had any sense,’ I said to Finan as I dismounted, ‘I would side with Cynlæf.’

He laughed. ‘It’s not too late.’

‘Wyrd bið ful a¯ræd,’ I said, and that is true. Fate is inexorable. Destiny is all. We make oaths, we make choices, but fate makes our decisions.

Æthelstan was my enemy, but I had sworn to protect him.

So I told Finan that he should stay outside the arena, told him what he was to do there, then followed my enemy up the stairs.

‘You will throw down your weapons,’ Æthelstan called to the men in the arena, ‘and you will kneel!’ He had taken off his helmet so that the trapped men would have no trouble recognising him. He usually wore his dark hair cropped very short, but it had grown during the siege and the cold morning wind lifted it and swirled his dark blue cloak around his mailed figure. He stood in the centre of a line of warriors, all implacable in mail and helmets, all with shields painted with Æthelstan’s symbol of a dragon holding a lightning bolt. Behind them, standing on one of the snow-covered stone tiers, Father Swithred was holding a wooden cross high above his head.

‘What is our fate?’ a man called up from the arena floor.

Æthelstan made no answer. He just stared at the man.

A second man stepped forward and knelt. ‘What is our fate, lord Prince?’ he asked.

‘My justice.’ That answer was said in a voice as cold as the snow-shrouded corpses we had passed on our way to the arena.

Silence. There had to be a hundred horses in the arena. A score of them had been saddled, perhaps readied for a desperate dash through the entrance tunnel, and in front of them, huddled like the horses, were Cynlæf’s men. I looked for Cynlæf himself and finally saw him at the back of the crowd, close to the saddled stallions. He was a tall, good-looking man. Æthelflaed had been fond of him and had chosen him as her daughter’s husband, but if there was such a place as the Christian heaven and she was looking down now she would approve of Æthelstan’s grim resolve to kill Cynlæf.

‘Your justice, lord Prince?’ the kneeling man, who had the sense to use Æthelstan’s title, asked humbly.

‘Which is the same as my father’s justice,’ Æthelstan said harshly.

‘Lord Prince,’ I said softly. I was standing barely two paces behind him, but he ignored me. ‘Lord Prince,’ I said again, louder.

‘Silence, Lord Uhtred,’ Æthelstan said without turning. He also spoke softly, but with a trace of anger that I had dared to intervene.

I wanted to tell him that he should offer mercy. Not to all of them, of course, and certainly not to Cynlæf. They were, after all, rebels, but tell close to a hundred men that they will face grim justice and you have close to a hundred desperate men who would rather fight than surrender. But if some thought they would live, then those men would subdue the others, and none of our men need die. Yet it seemed Æthelstan had no use for mercy. This was a rebellion, and rebellions destroy kingdoms, so rebellions must be utterly destroyed.

Father Bledod had joined me and now tugged nervously at my mail sleeve. ‘Gruffudd’s son, Cadwallon, lord,’ he said, ‘he’s the tall beardless boy. The one in the dun cloak.’ He pointed.

‘Quiet!’ Æthelstan growled.

I took the Welsh priest away from Æthelstan, leading him around the lowest tier until we were out of earshot. ‘Half of them have dun cloaks,’ I said.

‘The boy with reddish hair, lord.’

He pointed, and I saw a tall young man with long dark red hair tied at the nape of his neck. He wore mail, but had no sword, suggesting that he was indeed a hostage, though any value he possessed as a hostage had long since vanished.

Only one man in Cynlæf’s band had knelt, and he only because he had understood that Æthelstan would not talk unless he was shown respect. That man glanced around uncertainly and, seeing his companions still standing, began to rise.

‘I said kneel!’ Æthelstan called sharply.

The answer came from a tall man standing close to Cynlæf. He pushed men aside, bellowed a challenge, and hurled a spear at Æthelstan. It was a good throw. The spear flew straight and fast, but Æthelstan had time to judge its flight and he simply stepped one pace to his left and the spear crashed harmlessly into the stones at Father Swithred’s feet. And then Cynlæf and his immediate companions were hauling themselves into saddles. More spears were thrown, but now Æthelstan and his men were crouching behind their shields. I had brought just two men with me, Oswi and Folcbald, the first a Saxon, lithe and serpent-quick, the second a Frisian built like an ox. They put up their shields, and Father Bledod and I crouched with them. I heard a blade thump into a willow board, another spear flew over my head, then I peered between the shields to see Cynlæf and a dozen men spurring into the entrance tunnel. The makeshift barricade had been pulled aside, and the way out looked clear because I had told Finan to hide his men at either side of the outer entrance to let Cynlæf believe he had a way to escape.

The rest of Cynlæf’s men started to follow their leader into the tunnel, but suddenly stopped, and I knew that Finan had made his shield wall across the arena’s entrance the moment he heard the commotion. It would be two shields high, bristling with spears, and no horse would charge it. Some of Cynlæf’s men were retreating back into the arena’s open space, where a few knelt in surrender while a handful of stubborn men threw their last spears at Æthelstan and his men. ‘Down!’ Æthelstan shouted to his warriors, and he and his men jumped into the arena.

‘Fetch the Welshman,’ I told Oswi and Folcbald, and they also leaped down. Folcbald landed awkwardly and limped as he followed Oswi. It was a good long way down, and I was content to stay high and watch the fight that promised to be as brief as it would be brutal. The floor of the arena had once been fine sand, now it was a slushy mix of sand, horse dung, mud, and snow, and I wondered how much blood had soaked it over the years. There was more blood now. Æthelstan’s sixty men had made a shield wall, two ranks deep, that advanced on the panicking rebels. Æthelstan himself, still without a helmet, was in the front rank that kicked the kneeling men out of their way, sparing their lives for the moment, then hammered into the panicked mass crowding at the entrance. Those rebels had no time to make a shield wall of their own and there are few slaughters as one-sided as a combat between a shield wall and a rabble. I saw the spears lunge forward, heard men screaming, saw men fall. There were women among the mob, and two of them were crouching by the wall, covering their heads with their arms. Another woman clutched a child to her breast. Riderless horses panicked and galloped into the arena’s empty space where Oswi was darting forward. He had thrown his shield aside and carried a drawn sword in his right hand. He used his left to snatch Cadwallon’s arm to tug him backwards. A man tried to stop him, lunging a sword at Oswi’s belly, but there were few men as quick as Oswi. He let go of the Welshman, leaned to one side so that the sword slid a finger’s breadth from his waist, then struck up with his own sword. He hit the man’s wrist and sawed the blade back. The enemy’s sword dropped, Oswi stooped, picked up the fallen blade and held it to Cadwallon, then lunged his own sword to tear open his opponent’s cheek. That man reeled away, hand half severed and face pulsing blood as Oswi again tugged Cadwallon backwards. Folcbald was with them now, his huge size and the threat of his heavy war axe sufficient to deter any other foe.

That enemy was beaten. They were being driven back out of the entrance tunnel, which meant Finan and his men were advancing. More and more of Cynlæf’s men were kneeling, or else being kicked aside and told to wait, weaponless, in the arena’s centre. There were enough corpses heaped on the arena floor to check Æthelstan’s advance, and his shield wall had stopped by the tangled bodies, and one of the horsemen, coming from the entrance, turned his stallion and spurred it at Æthelstan himself. The horse stumbled on a body, slewed sideways, and the rider struck down with a long-handled axe that crashed onto a shield, then two spears were savaged into the stallion’s chest and the beast screamed, reared, and the rider fell backwards to be slaughtered by swords and spears. The horse fell and went on screaming, hooves thrashing until a man stepped forward and silenced it with a quick axe blow to the head.

‘You must be happy, father,’ I said to the priest, Bledod, who had stayed with me.

‘That Cadwallon is safe, lord? Yes.’

‘No, that Saxons are killing Saxons.’

He looked at me in surprise, then gave a sly grin. ‘I’m grateful for that too, lord,’ he said.

‘The first man I killed in battle was a Welshman,’ I told him, taking the grin off his face. ‘And the second. And the third. And the fourth.’

‘Yet you’ve killed more Saxons than Welshmen, lord,’ he said, ‘or so I hear?’

‘You hear right.’ I sat on the stone seats. Cadwallon, safe with Oswi and Folcbald, was beneath us, sheltering beside the arena’s inner wall, while Cynlæf’s men were surrendering meekly, letting Æthelstan’s warriors take their weapons. Cynlæf himself was still mounted and still carrying a sword and shield. His horse stood in the entrance, trapped between Finan’s shield wall and Æthelstan’s men. The sun broke through the leaden clouds, casting a long shadow on the bloodied ground. ‘I’m told Christians died here,’ I said to Bledod.

‘Killed by the Romans, lord?’

‘That’s what I was told.’

‘But in the end the Romans became Christians, lord, God be thanked.’

I grunted at that. I was trying to imagine the arena as it had been before Ceaster’s masons broke down the high stone seating for useful building blocks. The upper rim of the arena was jagged, like a mountain range. ‘We destroy, don’t we?’ I said.

‘Destroy, lord?’ Bledod asked nervously.

‘I burned half this city once,’ I said. I remembered the flames leaping from roof to roof, the smoke thick. To this day the masonry walls of the streets were streaked with black. ‘Imagine what this city was like when the Romans were here.’

Father Bledod said nothing. He was watching Cynlæf, who had been driven to the arena’s centre, where he was now surrounded by a ring of spearmen, some of them Finan’s men and some Æthelstan’s. He turned his horse as if seeking a way out. The horse’s rump showed a brand, a C and an H. Cynlæf Haraldson.

‘White-walled buildings,’ I said, ‘with red roofs. Statues and marble. I wish I could have seen it.’

‘Rome must have been a wonder too,’ Bledod said.

‘I hear it’s in ruins now.’

‘Everything passes, lord.’

Cynlæf spurred his horse towards one side of the ring, but the long spears came up, the shields clashed as they were braced together, and Cynlæf swerved away. He carried a drawn sword. The scabbard at his left hip was bound in red leather and studded with small gold plaques. The scabbard and sword had been a gift from Æthelflaed, last ruler of independent Mercia, and soon, I thought, they would belong to Æthelstan, who would doubtless give them to the church.

‘Everything passes,’ I agreed. ‘Look at the city now. Nothing but thatch and wattle, dirt and dung. I doubt it stank like a cesspit when the Romans were here.’

A word of command from Æthelstan caused the ring of men to take a pace forward. The ring shrank. Cynlæf still turned his horse, still looking for an escape that did not exist.

‘The Romans, lord …’ Bledod began, then faltered.

‘The Romans what?’ I asked.

Another word of command and the ring shrank again. Spears were levelled at the man and his branded horse. A score of Æthelstan’s warriors were now guarding the prisoners, herding them to one side of the arena while the dead made a tideline of bloody corpses by the entrance.

‘The Romans should have stayed in Britain, lord,’ Father Bledod said.

‘Because?’ I asked.

He hesitated, then gave me his sly grin again. ‘Because when they left, lord, the sais came.’

‘We did,’ I said, ‘we did.’ We were the sais, we Saxons. Britain had never been our home any more than it was home to the Romans. They took it, they left, and we came and we took it. ‘And you hate us,’ I said.

‘We do indeed, lord,’ Bledod was still smiling and I decided I liked him.

‘But you fought against the Romans, didn’t you? Didn’t you hate them?’

‘We hate everyone who steals our land, lord, but the Romans gave us Christianity.’

‘And that was a good exchange?’

He laughed. ‘They left! They gave us back our land, so thanks to the Romans we had our land and we had the true faith.’

‘Then we came.’

‘Then you came,’ he agreed. ‘But maybe you’ll leave too?’

It was my turn to laugh. ‘I think not, father. Sorry.’

Cynlæf was turning his horse continually, plainly fearing an assault from behind. His shield was limewashed white without any symbol. His helmet was chased with silver that glinted in the wintry sun. He wore his hair long like the Danes so that it flowed down his back. Æthelstan called out again, and once again the ring of spearmen contracted, men leaving the front rank as the weapons and shields tightened on Cynlæf.

‘So what will happen now, lord?’ Bledod asked.

‘Happen?’

‘To us, lord. To King Gruffudd’s men.’

‘King Gruffudd?’ I asked, amused. His kingdom was probably the size of a village, a patch of scrubby land with goats, sheep, and dung heaps. There were as many kings in Wales as fleas on a dog, though Hywel of Dyfed, whom I had met and liked, was swallowing those petty kingdoms to make one great one. Just as Wessex was swallowing Mercia, and, one day, would swallow Northumbria. ‘So he’s a king?’

‘His father was before him,’ Bledod said, as if that justified the title.

‘I thought Arthfael was King of Gwent?’

‘So he is, lord. Gruffudd is king beneath Arthfael.’

‘How many kings does Gwent have?’ I asked, amused.

‘It’s a mystery, lord, like the trinity.’

Cynlæf suddenly spurred his horse forward and slashed down with his sword. He had little room to move, but doubtless he hoped he could cut his way through the circle of men, though he must have known the hope was desperate, and so it was. The sword crashed into a shield and suddenly men were all around him, reaching for him. Cynlæf tried to draw the sword back, but one of Æthelstan’s warriors leaped up and seized his sword arm. Another snatched the horse’s bridle, while a third seized Cynlæf’s long hair and dragged him backwards. He fell, the horse reared and neighed, then the men backed away, and I saw Cynlæf being pulled to his feet. He was alive. For now.

‘Your King Gruffudd can leave with his son,’ I told Bledod, ‘but only after he tells us who bribed you. Not that he needs to tell us. I already know.’

‘You still think it was Cynlæf?’ he asked.

‘It was Æthelhelm the Younger,’ I said, ‘Ealdorman Æthelhelm.’

Who hated me and hated Æthelstan.

Æthelhelm the Elder was dead. He had died a prisoner in Bebbanburg. That had been inconvenient because his release had depended on his family paying me a ransom. The first part of that ransom, all in gold coins, had arrived, but Æthelhelm contracted a fever and died before the second payment was delivered.

His family had accused me of killing him, which was a nonsense. Why kill a man who would bring me gold? I would have been happy to kill him after the ransom was paid, but not before.

Æthelhelm had been the richest man in the kingdom of Wessex, richer even than King Edward to whom Æthelhelm had married his daughter. That marriage had made Æthelhelm as influential as he was wealthy, and it also meant that his grandson, Ælfweard, might become king after Edward. Ælfweard’s rival, of course, was Æthelstan, so it was no surprise that Æthelhelm had done all he could to destroy his grandson’s rival. And because I was Æthelstan’s protector I had also become Æthelhelm’s enemy. He had fought against me, he had lost, he had become my prisoner, and then he had died. We had sent his body home in a coffin, and I was told that by the time it reached Wiltunscir the corpse had swollen with gas, was leaking filthy liquid, and smelled vile.

I had liked Æthelhelm once. He had been genial and even generous, and we had been friends until his oldest daughter married a king and whelped a son. Now Æthelhelm’s eldest son, also called Æthelhelm, was also my enemy. He had succeeded his father as Ealdorman of Wiltunscir, and believed, wrongly, that I had murdered his father. I had taken gold from his family, and that was cause enough to hate me. I also protected Æthelstan. Even though King Edward had put aside his second wife and taken a younger woman, Æthelhelm the Younger still supported Edward because he hoped to see his nephew become the next king, but that support was given only so long as Ælfweard, Æthelhelm’s nephew, remained the crown prince. If Ælfweard became king, then Æthelhelm the Younger would remain the most powerful noble in Wessex, but if Æthelstan became king, then Æthelhelm and his family could look forward to royal revenge, to a loss of their estates, and even to enforced exile. And that prospect was more than enough reason to bribe a Welsh chieftain to take his famously savage warriors to Ceaster. If Æthelstan were to die, then Ælfweard would have no rival, and Æthelhelm’s family would rule in Wessex.

So Æthelhelm the Younger had cause to want Æthelstan dead, but, if it were possible, he hated me even more than he detested Æthelstan, and I did not doubt he sought my death just as eagerly as he wished for Æthelstan’s. And it was not just the death of his father that had prompted his hatred, but the fate of his youngest sister, Ælswyth.

Ælswyth had been captured alongside her father, and, after his death, she chose to stay at Bebbanburg rather than return to her family in Wessex. ‘You can’t,’ I had told her.

‘Why not, lord?’ she had asked. I had summoned her and she had stood in front of me, so young, so pale, so vulnerable, so enchantingly beautiful.

‘You can’t stay,’ I had spoken harshly, ‘because I have an agreement with your family. You will be returned to them when the ransom is paid.’

‘But the ransom isn’t paid, lord.’

‘Your father is dead,’ I had insisted, and wondered why she showed so little grief, ‘so there can be no more ransom. You must go home, as agreed.’

‘And your grandchild must go too, lord?’ she had asked innocently.

I had frowned, not understanding. My only grandchildren, my daughter’s two children, were in Eoferwic. Then I did understand, and I had just stared at her. ‘You’re pregnant?’ I finally said.

And Ælswyth had smiled so very sweetly. ‘Yes, lord.’

‘Tell my son I’ll kill him.’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘But marry him first.’

‘Yes, lord.’

So they did marry, and in time a child was born, a boy, and as is the custom in our family he was named Uhtred. Æthelhelm the Younger immediately spread a new rumour, that we had raped Ælswyth and then forced her into the marriage. He called me Uhtred the Abductor, and no doubt he was believed in Wessex where men were ever ready to believe lies about Uhtred the Pagan. It was my belief that the summons from Edward that had required me to travel to Gleawecestre to pay homage for my Mercian lands had been an attempt to bring me within sword’s length of Æthelhelm’s revenge, but why lure me across Britain to Ceaster? He would have known I would bring warriors, and all he would have achieved was to combine my forces with Æthelstan’s men, making the task of slaughtering either of us that much harder.

I had no doubt that Æthelhelm the Younger had committed treason by hiring Welsh troops to kill his nephew’s rival. But it made no sense that he would have persuaded the monk to tell me the lies that had brought me across Britain to Ceaster.

Beneath us, on the arena’s floor, the first prisoner died. A stroke of a sword, a severed head and blood. So much blood. Æthelstan’s revenge had started.

Not every prisoner died, Æthelstan showed more sense than that. He killed those men he judged to be close to Cynlæf, but spared the youngest. Thirty-three men died, all put to the sword, and I remembered a day when I had handed Æthelstan my sword and told him to kill a man.

Æthelstan had been a boy with an unbroken voice, but I was training him to be a king. I had captured Eardwulf, also a rebel. It had happened not far from Ceaster, beside a ditch, and I had beaten Eardwulf down so that he lay half stunned in the scummy water. ‘Make it quick, boy,’ I had told Æthelstan. He had not killed before, but a boy must learn these skills, and a boy who would be king must learn to take life.

I thought about that day as I watched Cynlæf’s men die. All had been stripped of their mail, stripped of anything of value. They shivered as, one by one, they were led to their deaths. Æthelstan must have remembered that distant day too because he used his youngest warriors as his executioners, doubtless wanting them to learn the lesson he had learned beside that ditch, that killing a man is hard. Killing a helpless man with a sword takes resolve. You look into their eyes, see their fear, smell it too. And a man’s neck is tough. Few of the thirty-three died cleanly. Some were hacked to death, and the old arena smelled as it must have smelled when the Romans filled the tiered seats and cheered the men fighting on the sand below; a stink of blood, shit, and piss.

Æthelstan had killed Eardwulf quickly enough. He had not tried to hack off the rebel’s head, but had instead used Serpent-Breath to cut Eardwulf’s throat, and I had watched the ditch turn red. And Eardwulf had been Eadith’s brother, and Eadith was now my wife.

Cynlæf died last. I thought Æthelstan might kill the rebel leader himself, but instead he summoned his servant, a boy who would grow to be a warrior, and gave him the sword. Cynlæf’s hands were bound, and he had been forced to his knees. ‘Do it, boy,’ Æthelstan ordered, and I saw the youngster close his eyes as he swung the sword. He slammed the edge into Cynlæf’s skull, knocking him sideways and drawing blood, but Cynlæf had hardly been hurt. His left ear was sliced open, but the boy’s blow had lacked force. A priest, there were always priests with Æthelstan, raised his voice as he chanted a prayer. ‘Swing again, lad,’ Æthelstan said.

‘And keep your eyes open!’ I shouted.

It took seven blows to kill Cynlæf. Those of his men whom Æthelstan had spared would swear new oaths to a new lord, they would be Æthelstan’s men.

So the rebellion was defeated, at least in this part of Mercia. The fyrd, dragged from their fields and flocks, had gone to their homes leaving only melting snow, the ashes of campfires and Gruffudd’s Welshmen who waited beside Cynlæf’s tents.

‘He calls himself a king,’ I told Æthelstan as we walked towards the tents.

‘Kingship comes from God,’ Æthelstan said. I was surprised by that response. I had merely been trying to amuse him, but Æthelstan was in a grim mood after the killings. ‘He should have told us he was a king last night,’ he said disapprovingly.

‘He was in a humble mood,’ I said, ‘and wanted a favour. Besides, he’s probably king of three dung heaps, a ditch, and a midden. Nothing more.’

‘I still owe him respect. He’s a Christian king.’

‘He’s a mucky Welsh chieftain,’ I said, ‘who calls himself a king until someone who owns two more dung heaps than he does comes and slices his head off. And he’d slice your head off too if he could. You can’t trust the Welsh.’

‘I didn’t say I trusted him, merely that I respect him. God endows men with kingship, even in Wales.’ And, to my horror, Æthelstan stopped a few paces from Gruffudd and bowed his head. ‘Lord King,’ he said.

Gruffudd liked the gesture and grinned. He also saw his son who was still guarded by Folcbald and Oswi. He said something in Welsh that none of us understood.

‘Gruffudd of Gwent begs you to release his son, lord Prince,’ Father Bledod translated.

‘He agreed to give us a name first,’ Æthelstan said, ‘and his chain, and a pledge that he will keep the peace for a year.’

Gruffudd must have understood Æthelstan’s words because he immediately took the gold links from around his neck, handed them to Bledod, who, in turn, gave them to Æthelstan, who immediately handed the chain to Father Swithred. Then Gruffudd began telling a tale that Father Bledod did his best to interpret even as it was being told. It was a long tale, but the gist of it was that a priest had come from Mercia to talk with King Arthfael of Gwent, and an agreement had been made, gold had been given, and Arthfael had summoned his kinsman, Gruffudd, and ordered him to take his best warriors north to Ceaster.

‘The king,’ Æthelstan interrupted at one point, ‘says the priest came from Mercia?’

That provoked a hurried discussion in Welsh. ‘The priest offered us gold,’ Father Bledod told Æthelstan, ‘good gold! Enough gold to fill a helmet, lord Prince, and to earn it we simply had to come here to fight.’

‘I asked if the priest was from Mercia,’ Æthelstan insisted.

‘He was from the sais,’ Bledod said.

‘So he could have been a West Saxon?’ I asked.

‘He could, lord,’ Bledod said unhelpfully.

‘And the name of the priest?’ Æthelstan demanded.

‘Stigand, lord.’

Æthelstan turned and looked at me, but I shook my head. I had never heard of a priest named Stigand. ‘But I doubt the priest used his own name,’ I said.

‘So, we’ll never know,’ Æthelstan said bleakly.

Gruffudd was still speaking, indignant now. Father Bledod listened, then looked embarrassed. ‘Father Stigand is dead, lord Prince.’

‘Dead!’ Æthelstan exclaimed.

‘On his way home from Gwent, lord Prince, he was waylaid. King Gruffudd says he is not to blame. Why would he kill a man who might bring him more sais gold?’

‘Why indeed?’ Æthelstan asked. Had he expected to hear his enemy’s name? That was naive. He knew as well as I did that Æthelhelm the Younger was the likely culprit, but Æthelhelm was no fool, and would have taken care to conceal the treachery of hiring men to fight against his own king. So the man who had negotiated with Arthfael of Gwent was dead, and the dead take their secrets to the grave.

‘Lord Prince,’ Bledod asked nervously, ‘the king’s son?’

‘Tell King Gruffudd of Gwent,’ Æthelstan said, ‘that he may have his son.’

‘Thank you—’ Bledod began.

‘And tell him,’ Æthelstan interrupted, ‘that if he fights again for men who rebel against my father’s throne then I will lead an army into Gwent and I will lay Gwent waste and turn it into a land of death.’

‘I will tell him, lord Prince,’ Bledod said, though none of us who were listening believed for one heartbeat that the threat would be translated.

‘Then go,’ Æthelstan commanded.

The Welshmen left. The sun was higher now, melting the snow, though it was still cold. A blustery wind came from the east to lift the banners hanging from Ceaster’s walls. I had crossed Britain to rescue a man who did not need rescuing. I had been tricked. But by whom? And why?

I had another enemy, a secret enemy, and I had danced to his drumbeat. Wyrd bið ful a¯ræd.