Warriors of the Storm (2015) Read online

  Ragnall had not faced us at Eads Byrig. True there were men on the fort’s ramparts, but not his full army. The spear-points had been spaced apart, not crowded together, and that told me most of Ragnall’s men were to the north. He had landed his ships on the banks of the Mærse and then fortified Eads Byrig to deceive his real enemy, to persuade the feeble king in Eoferwic that his ambitions lay in Mercia, but Northumbria was much easier prey. Dozens of Northumbrian jarls had already joined Ragnall, some no doubt believing he would lead them south, but by now he would have fired them with enthusiasm for the attack northwards. They would be lured by promises of gold, of land taken from King Ingver and his supporters, and, doubtless, of the prospect of a renewed assault on Mercia once Northumbria was secure.

  Or so I believed. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Ragnall was marching on Ceaster or waiting at the river with a shield wall. His banner had flown over Eads Byrig, but that, I thought, was a deception intended to make us think he was inside the new palisade. The prickle of instinct told me he was crossing the river. Why, then, had he left men at Eads Byrig? That was a question that must wait, and then I forgot it altogether because I suddenly saw a group of men running ahead of me. They were not in mail. We had been following a newly-made track through the trees, a track that must lead from Eads Byrig to the bridge of boats, and the men ahead were carrying sacks and barrels. I suspected they were servants, but whoever they were they scattered into the undergrowth when they saw us. We pounded on, ducking under branches, and more men were running away from us, and suddenly the green shadows under the trees lightened and I saw open land ahead, land scattered with makeshift shelters and the remnants of campfires, and I knew we had come to the place beside the river where Ragnall had made his temporary encampment.

  I spurred Tintreg out into the sunlight. The river was now a hundred paces away and a crowd was waiting to cross the bridge of boats. The far bank was already thick with men and horses, a horde, most of whom were already marching north, but on this side of the river were more men with their horses, livestock, families, and servants. My instinct had been right. Ragnall was going north.

  And then we struck.

  Ragnall would have known we were coming, but he must have assumed we would ride straight to Eads Byrig and stay there, lured by his great banner into the belief that he was inside the walls, and our sudden and fast ride northwards took his rearguard by surprise.

  It was kind to call it a rearguard. What was left on the Mærse’s southern bank was a couple of hundred warriors, their servants, some women and children, and a scattering of pigs, goats, and sheep. ‘This way!’ I shouted, swerving left. I did not want to charge straight into the panicking crowd who were now struggling to reach the bridge, instead I wanted to cut them off, and so I skirted them and then spurred Tintreg along the river bank towards the bridge. At least a dozen men stayed close behind me. A child screamed. One man tried to stop us, hurling a heavy spear that flew past my helmet. I ignored him, but one of my men must have struck because I heard the butcher’s sound of sword on bone. Tintreg snapped his teeth as he ploughed into the folk closest to the bridge. They were trying to escape, some scrambling onto the closest boat, some jumping into the river or else pushing desperately back towards the forest, and then I hauled on the reins and swung out of the saddle. ‘No!’ a woman was trying to shelter two small children, but I ignored her, instead going to where the planks of the bridge stretched down to the muddy bank, and I stood there, and one by one my men joined me and we unslung our shields and clashed the iron rims together.

  ‘Put your weapons down!’ I shouted at the panicked crowd. They had no escape now. Hundreds of my horsemen had come from the trees and I had a shield wall barring their path across the Mærse. I had hoped to trap more than this ragged handful, but Ragnall must have marched early, and we had left Ceaster too late.

  ‘They’re burning the boats!’ Finan called to me. He had joined me, but was still on horseback. Women were shrieking, children screaming, and my men bellowing at the trapped enemy to put down their weapons. I turned and saw that Ragnall’s huge fleet was either beached or moored on the Mærse’s far bank and that men were hurling firebrands into the hulls. Other men were setting fire to the ships that supported the crude plank roadway. The boats had been readied for burning, their hulls filled with tinder and soaked in pitch. A handful of vessels were upstream of the others, tied with long lines to poles driven into the shelving mud, and I guessed those were the few ships that were being saved from the flames. ‘God in His heaven,’ Finan said as he dismounted, ‘but that’s a fortune going up in flames!’

  ‘Worth losing a fleet to gain a kingdom,’ I said.

  ‘Northumbria,’ Finan said.

  ‘Northumbria, Eoferwic, Cumbraland, he’ll take it all,’ I said, ‘he’ll take the whole north country between here and Scotland! All of it, under a strong king.’

  The smoke was churning now as the strong flames leaped from ship to ship. I had thought to try to rescue one of the vessels, but the roadway was firmly lashed to the ships, which, in turn, were lashed to each other. There was no time to cut the lashings and prise the nailed planks apart. The bridge would soon be ash, but as I stared at it I saw a single horseman come through the smoke. He was a bare-chested, long-haired, tall rider on a great black stallion. It was Ragnall who rode the burning road. He came within thirty paces of us, the smoke whipping around horse and man. He drew his sword, and the long blade reflected the flames that surrounded him. ‘I will be back, Lord Uhtred!’ he shouted. He paused, as if waiting for an answer. A ship’s mast collapsed behind him, spewing sparks and a burst of darker smoke. Still he waited, but when I said nothing he turned the horse and vanished into the fire.

  ‘I hope you burn,’ I growled.

  ‘But why did he leave men at Eads Byrig?’ Finan asked.

  The sorry rearguard at the river put up no fight. They were hugely outnumbered and the women screamed at their men to drop their weapons. Behind me the bridge broke and burning ships drifted downstream. I slid Serpent-Breath back into her scabbard, remounted, and forced Tintreg into the mass of frightened enemy. Most of my men were now on foot, collecting swords, spears, and shields, though young Æthelstan was still on horseback and like me was pushing his way through the defeated crowd. ‘What do we do with them, lord?’ he called to me.

  ‘You’re a prince,’ I said, ‘so you tell me.’

  He shrugged and looked about him at the frightened women, crying children, and sullen men, and I thought as I watched him how he had grown from a mischievous child into a strong and handsome youth. He should be king, I thought. He was his father’s eldest child, son of Wessex’s king, a man who should be king himself. ‘Kill the men,’ he suggested, ‘enslave the children, put the women to work?’

  ‘That’s the usual,’ I said, ‘but this is your aunt’s land. She decides.’ I could see Æthelstan was staring at a girl and I moved my horse to get a better view. She was a pretty little thing with a mass of unruly fair hair, very blue eyes, and a clear unblemished skin. She was clutching an older woman’s skirts, presumably her mother. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked the girl in Danish.

  Her mother began screaming and begging, then went to her knees and turned a tear-stained face to me. ‘She’s all I have, lord, all I have!’

  ‘Quiet, woman,’ I snarled, ‘you don’t know how lucky your daughter is. What’s her name?’

  ‘Frigga, lord.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  The mother hesitated, perhaps tempted to lie, but I snarled and she blurted out her answer. ‘She’ll be fourteen at Baldur’s Day, lord.’

  Baldur’s Feast was the midsummer so the girl was more than old enough to wed. ‘Bring her here,’ I commanded.

  Æthelstan frowned, thinking I was taking Frigga for myself, and I confess I was tempted, but I called to Æthelstan’s servant instead. ‘Tie the girl to your horse’s tail,’ I ordered him, ‘she’s not to be touched! She’s not to be hurt! You pro
tect her, understand?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘And you,’ I looked back to the mother, ‘can you cook?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Sew?’

  ‘Of course, lord.’

  ‘Then stay with your daughter.’ I turned to Æthelstan. ‘Your household just increased by two,’ I told him, and, as I glanced back at Frigga, thought what a lucky bastard he was, except he was not a bastard, but the true-born son of a king.

  A cheer sounded from the horsemen watching from the south. I thrust Tintreg through the prisoners and saw that Father Fraomar, Æthelflaed’s confessor, had made some announcement. He was mounted on a grey mare, the horse’s colour matching Father Fraomar’s white hair. He was close to Æthelflaed, who smiled as I drew near. ‘Good news,’ she called.

  ‘What news?’

  ‘God be praised,’ Father Fraomar said happily, ‘but the men at Eads Byrig have surrendered!’

  I felt disappointment. I had been looking forward to a fight. Ragnall seemed to have left a substantial part of his army behind the walls of Eads Byrig, presumably because he wanted to hold onto the newly constructed fort, and I had wanted that garrison’s death to be a warning to the rest of his followers. ‘They surrendered?’

  ‘God be praised, they did.’

  ‘So Merewalh is inside the fort?’

  ‘Not yet!’

  ‘What do you mean, not yet? They’ve surrendered!’

  Fraomar smiled. ‘They’re Christians, Lord Uhtred! The garrison is Christian!’

  I frowned. ‘I don’t care if they worship weevils,’ I said, ‘but if they’ve surrendered then our forces should be inside the fort. Are they?’

  ‘They will be,’ Father Fraomar said. ‘It’s all agreed.’

  ‘What’s agreed?’ I demanded.

  Æthelflaed looked troubled. ‘They’ve agreed to surrender,’ she said, looking to her confessor for confirmation. Fraomar nodded. ‘And we don’t fight Christians,’ Æthelflaed finished.

  ‘I do,’ I said savagely, then called for my servant. ‘Godric! Sound the horn!’ Godric glanced at Æthelflaed as if seeking her approval, and I lashed out and struck his left arm. ‘The horn! Sound it!’

  He blew it hurriedly, and my men, who had been disarming the enemy, ran to mount their horses.

  ‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed protested.

  ‘If they’ve surrendered,’ I said, ‘then the fort is ours. If the fort is not ours then they haven’t surrendered.’ I looked from her to Fraomar. ‘So which is it?’

  Neither answered.

  ‘Finan! Bring the men!’ I shouted, and, ignoring Æthelflaed and Fraomar, spurred back southwards.

  Back to Eads Byrig.

  Five

  I should have guessed. It was Haesten. He had a tongue that could turn turds into gold and he was using it on Merewalh.

  I found the two men, each attended by a dozen companions, a hundred paces outside the fort on the western side where the slope was gentler. The two sides stood a few paces apart beneath their respective banners. Merewalh, of course, had Æthelflaed’s flag showing the goose of Saint Werburgh, while Haesten, instead of his usual skull on a pole, was flaunting a new standard, this one a grey flag on which was sewn a white cross. ‘He’s shameless!’ I called to Finan as I spurred Tintreg up the slope.

  Finan laughed. ‘He’s a slippery bastard, lord.’

  The slippery bastard had been talking animatedly as we came from the trees, but as soon as he saw me he fell silent and stepped back into the protective company of his men. He greeted me by name as I arrived, but I ignored him, turning Tintreg in the space between the two sides and then sliding from the saddle. ‘Why haven’t you occupied the fort?’ I demanded of Merewalh as I threw the stallion’s reins to Godric.

  ‘I …’ he began, then looked past me. Æthelflaed and her entourage were approaching fast and he plainly preferred to await their arrival before answering.

  ‘Has the bastard surrendered?’ I asked.

  ‘The Jarl Haesten …’ Merewalh began again, then shrugged as if he neither knew what to say nor understood what was happening.

  ‘It’s an easy question!’ I said threateningly. Merewalh was a good man and a stalwart fighter, but he looked desperately uncomfortable, his eyes flicking towards the half-dozen priests who stood around him. Father Ceolnoth and his toothless twin Ceolberht were there, as was Leofstan, all of them looking extremely discomfited by my sudden arrival. ‘Has he surrendered?’ I asked again, slowly and loudly.

  Merewalh was saved from the question by Æthelflaed’s arrival. She pushed her mare through the priests. ‘If you have things to say, Lord Uhtred,’ she spoke icily from her saddle, ‘then say them to me.’

  ‘I just want to know whether this piece of shit has surrendered,’ I said, pointing at Haesten.

  It was Father Ceolnoth who answered. ‘My lady,’ the priest said, pointedly ignoring me, ‘the Jarl Haesten has agreed to swear loyalty to you.’

  ‘He has done what?’ I asked.

  ‘Quiet!’ Æthelflaed snapped. She was still in her saddle, dominating us. Her men, at least a hundred and fifty, had followed her from the river bank and now stood their horses lower down the slope. ‘Tell me what you have agreed,’ she demanded of Father Ceolnoth.

  Ceolnoth gave me a nervous glance, then looked back to Æthelflaed. ‘The Jarl Haesten is a Christian, my lady, and he seeks your protection.’

  At least three of us all began to speak at once, but Æthelflaed clapped her hands for silence. ‘Is this true?’ she demanded of Haesten.

  Haesten bowed to her, then fingered the silver cross he wore over his mail. ‘Thank God, lady, it is true.’ He spoke quietly, humbly, with convincing sincerity.

  ‘Lying bastard,’ I growled.

  He ignored me. ‘I have found redemption, lady, and I come to you as a supplicant.’

  ‘He is redeemed, my lady,’ a tall man standing next to Haesten spoke firmly. ‘We are prepared, my lady, nay, we are eager to swear our loyalty,’ the tall man said, ‘and as fellow Christians we beseech you for protection.’ He used the English tongue and spoke respectfully, bowing slightly to Æthelflaed as he finished. She looked surprised, and no wonder because the tall man appeared to be a Christian priest, or at least he was wearing a long black robe belted with rope and had a wooden cross hanging at his breast.

  ‘Who are you?’ Æthelflaed asked.

  ‘Father Haruld, my lady.’

  ‘Danish?’

  ‘I was born here in Britain,’ he said, ‘but my parents came across the sea.’

  ‘And you’re a Christian?’

  ‘By the grace of God, yes.’ Haruld was stern, dark-faced, with flecks of grey at his temples. He was not the first Dane I had met who had converted, nor was he the first to become a Christian priest. ‘I have been a Christian since I was a child,’ he told Æthelflaed. He sounded grave and confident, but I noticed his fingers were compulsively clasping and unclasping. He was nervous.

  ‘And you’re telling me that piece of rancid lizard shit is a Christian too?’ I jerked my head at Haesten.

  ‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed said warningly.

  ‘I baptised him myself,’ Haruld answered me with dignity, ‘thank God.’

  ‘Amen,’ Ceolnoth put in loudly.

  I stared into Haesten’s eyes. I had known him all his adult life, indeed he owed me that life because I had saved it. He had sworn loyalty to me back then and I had believed him because he had a trustworthy face and an earnest manner, but he had broken every oath he ever swore. He was a weasel of a man, cunning and deadly. His ambitions far outreached his achievements, and for that he blamed me because fate had decreed that I would thwart him time after time. The last time had been at Beamfleot where I had destroyed his army and burned his fleet, but Haesten’s fate was to escape from every disaster. And here he was again, apparently trapped at Eads Byrig, but smiling at me as though we were the oldest of friends. ‘He’s no more a Christian
than I am,’ I snarled.

  ‘My lady,’ Haesten looked at Æthelflaed and then, astonishingly, dropped to his knees, ‘I swear by our Saviour’s sacrifice that I am a true Christian.’ He spoke humbly, shaking with intense feeling. There were even tears in his eyes. He suddenly spread his arms wide and turned his face to the sky. ‘May God strike me dead this very moment if I lie!’

  I drew Serpent-Breath, her blade scraping loud and fast on her scabbard’s throat.

  ‘Lord Uhtred!’ Æthelflaed called in alarm. ‘No!’

  ‘I was about to do your god’s work,’ I said, ‘and strike him dead. You’d stop me?’

  ‘God can do his own work,’ Æthelflaed said tartly, then looked back to the Danish priest. ‘Father Haruld, are you convinced of Jarl Haesten’s conversion?’

  ‘I am, my lady. He shed tears of contrition and tears of joy at his baptism.’

  ‘Praise God,’ Father Ceolnoth whispered.

  ‘Enough!’ I said. I still held Serpent-Breath. ‘Why aren’t our men inside the fort?’

  ‘They will be!’ Ceolnoth said waspishly. ‘It is agreed!’

  ‘Agreed?’ Æthelflaed’s voice was very guarded, and it was clear she suspected the priests had overstepped their authority in making any agreement without her approval. ‘What has been agreed?’ she asked.

  ‘The Jarl Haesten,’ Ceolnoth spoke very carefully, ‘begged that he might swear his loyalty to you, my lady, at the Easter mass. He desires this so that the joy of our Lord’s resurrection will consecrate this act of reconciliation.’

  ‘I don’t give a rat’s turd if he waits till Eostre’s feast,’ I said, ‘so long as we occupy the fort now!’

  ‘It will be handed over on Easter Sunday,’ Ceolnoth said. ‘That was agreed!’

  ‘Easter day?’ Æthelflaed asked, and any man who knew her well could have detected the unhappiness in her voice. She was no fool, but nor was she ready to discard the hope that Haesten truly was a Christian.