War Lord Read online

  Ealdred glanced around my warriors and saw nothing but mocking faces and bloodied swords. ‘King Æthelstan will know of this,’ he said.

  ‘King Æthelstan will hear that you broke the truce and crossed the river onto my land, and that a Scottish raiding party found you.’

  ‘He won’t believe that,’ Ealdred said.

  ‘He’s believed enough other nonsense!’ I snapped. ‘He believes I’m his enemy? He believes the Scots will endure his claim of kingship over all Britain? Your king has become a fool. He’s allowed the crown to curdle his brains.’ I drew Serpent-Breath, the long blade making a small sound as she slid through the fleece at the scabbard’s throat.

  ‘No,’ Ealdred said. He understood what was about to happen. ‘No!’ he protested again.

  ‘You call yourself the Lord of Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘yet you have raided Bebbanburg’s lands, burned its steadings, and stolen its cattle. You are Bebbanburg’s enemy.’

  ‘No, lord, no!’ He was shaking.

  ‘You want Bebbanburg?’ I asked him. ‘Then I will give your head a niche on the Skull Gate where my enemies will stare at the sea till the final chaos.’

  ‘No—’ he began, then stopped, because I had slammed Serpent-Breath forward, piercing his shining mail, scraping on a rib, and bursting his heart. He fell back against the packhorse and slid to the pale turf, jerking, making a choking noise, hands scrabbling feebly at his chest before one last spasm. Then he was still, except for his hands slowly curling.

  Guthfrith had taken a step away from his companion. He watched Ealdred die, then as I put a boot on the dead man’s chest and tugged Serpent-Breath free. His eyes went from her reddened blade to my face, then back to the blade. ‘I’ll tell Æthelstan it was the Scots!’ he said.

  ‘You take me for a fool?’

  He stared at me. He was terrified, but he was brave enough at that moment. He tried to speak, failed, and cleared his throat. ‘Lord,’ he pleaded, ‘a sword, please.’

  ‘You made me kneel to you,’ I said, ‘so now you kneel.’

  ‘A sword, please!’ There were tears in his eyes. If he died without a sword he would never reach Valhalla.

  ‘Kneel!’ He knelt. I looked at my men. ‘One of you give him a seax.’

  Vidarr drew his short blade and handed it to Guthfrith who gripped the hilt with both hands. He rested the blade’s tip on the grass and looked up at me with wet eyes. He wanted to say something, but could only shiver. Then I killed him. One day I will see him in Valhalla.

  I had lied to Ealdred. I would not put his skull on Bebbanburg’s gate, though Guthfrith’s would have a place there. I had other plans for Ealdred.

  But first we pulled down the wall that Finan had made and we heaped the bodies of our enemies, all but for Ealdred’s corpse, onto the piled logs and burned them. The smoke drifted high into the windless air. We took off Ealdred’s mail, his boots, his cross, anything of value, wrapped his corpse in cloaks and took it back to Bebbanburg where the body was placed in a coffin with a cross on its breast, and I sent it to Eoferwic, a city without a king now. And with the corpse I sent a letter, which regretted Ealdred’s death at the hands of a Scottish war-band. I addressed the letter to Æthelstan, Monarchus Totius Brittaniae.

  And waited to see what the monarch of all Britain would do next.

  Constantine denied the attack on Ealdred and Guthfrith, but he also denied that he was fomenting trouble in Cumbria, which he was, and Æthelstan knew it. Constantine had even named one of his war chiefs, Eochaid, as the ruler of Cumbria. Some said Eochaid was Constantine’s son, others that he was a nephew, but he was certainly a subtle and ruthless young man who by bribery, cunning and some slaughter had obtained the loyalty of Cumbria’s Norsemen. Æthelstan had named Godric and Alfgar as his Cumbrian ealdormen, but neither dared ride the hills without at least a hundred warriors, which meant that even Burgham, where Æthelstan had tried to impose his authority on all Britain, was now effectively ruled by Constantine.

  So Constantine’s protests that he had not launched the attack fell on sceptical ears in Wessex, but still there were rumours and Æthelstan was determined to discover the truth. He sent a priest all the way from Wintanceaster, a stern, raw-faced man named Father Swithun who was accompanied by three younger priests, all carrying satchels containing ink, quills, and parchment. Father Swithun was polite enough, asking permission to enter Bebbanburg and frankly admitting his purpose. ‘I have been charged with discovering the truth of Lord Ealdred’s death,’ he told me. I think he half expected me to refuse him entrance, but instead I welcomed the priests, gave them housing, bedding, stabling, food and a promise to tell them whatever I knew.

  ‘Yet, lord, you will not swear that truth on this?’ Father Swithun asked when we met in the great hall. He had drawn a small, finely carved ivory box from his own satchel.

  ‘And what is that?’ I asked.

  Swithun opened the small box reverently. ‘It is the toenail of Lazarus, whom our Lord rose from the dead.’

  ‘I’ll swear it on your toenails,’ I said, ‘but you won’t believe a pagan’s oath so I wonder why you bothered coming at all?’

  ‘Because I was instructed to come,’ Swithun said primly. He was a dry, clever man and I knew his kind well. King Alfred had loved such churchmen, prizing their mastery of detail, their honesty and their dedication to truth. Such men had written Alfred’s code of laws, but Father Swithun was now in Northumbria where the prevailing law was the sword. ‘Did you kill Lord Ealdred?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘No.’

  Quills scratched on parchment.

  ‘Yet it is known you disliked him?’

  ‘No.’

  Swithun frowned. The quills scratched. ‘You’re denying that dislike, lord?’

  ‘I didn’t dislike him,’ I said, ‘I hated him. He was a pompous, privileged, impertinent piece of shit.’

  Scratch, scratch. One of the younger priests was smiling secretly.

  ‘The Scots deny sending warriors, lord,’ Swithun pressed on.

  ‘Of course they do.’

  ‘And point out that the death of Lord Ealdred occurred many miles from any Scottish lands. At least a three-day ride?’

  ‘Probably five,’ I said helpfully.

  ‘And King Constantine remarks that he has never raided that far into King Æthelstan’s kingdom.’

  ‘How old are you?’ I asked.

  Swithun paused, slightly unsettled by the question, then shrugged. ‘I am thirty-nine, lord.’

  ‘You’re too young! Constantine must have come to the throne when you were what? Eleven? Twelve? And the year after that he had three hundred Scottish warriors burning the barns around Snotengaham! There were other raids too. I watched his men from the walls of Ceaster, you remember that, Finan?’

  ‘Like it was yesterday,’ Finan said.

  ‘And those places were far south of,’ I paused, frowning, ‘where was it that Ealdred died? The valley of the Tesa?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You should look in the chronicles, Father,’ I said, ‘and discover how often the Scots raid deep into Northumbria. Even northern Mercia!’ I was lying through my teeth, as was Finan, and I very much doubted that Father Swithun would want to visit all the monasteries of Northumbria and Mercia that might have monks keeping a chronicle, because if he did he would only have to plough through page after page of ill-informed nonsense. I shook my head sadly. ‘Besides,’ I said, as if the thought had only just struck me, ‘I don’t believe those men came from Constantine’s land.’

  ‘You don’t?’ Swithun sounded surprised.

  ‘My belief is they came from Cumbria. Much closer. And the Scots are stirring up trouble there.’

  ‘True,’ Swithun said, ‘but King Constantine has sent assurances that they were not his men.’

  ‘Of course not! They were Strath Clotans. They’re his ally now so he used them so he could deny that his own men came south.’

  ‘He denied that t
oo,’ Swithun said primly.

  ‘If you were a Northumbrian, father, you would know that the Scots can never be trusted.’

  ‘And King Constantine has sworn the truth of his assertions on the girdle of Saint Andrew, lord.’

  ‘Oh!’ I looked convinced. ‘Then he must be telling the truth!’ The young priest smiled again.

  Father Swithun frowned, then found a new page of the notes that he had on the table. ‘I have been in Eoferwic, lord, and spoken with some of King Guthfrith’s men who survived the fight. One of them was certain he recognised your horse.’

  ‘No he did not,’ I said firmly.

  ‘No?’ Swithun raised a delicate eyebrow.

  ‘Because my horse was in the stables here. I was on board my ship.’

  ‘We heard that too,’ Swithun allowed, ‘yet the man was quite certain. He says your horse,’ he paused to look at his notes, ‘displayed a stark white blaze.’

  ‘And my stallion is the only horse in Britain that has a white blaze?’ I laughed. ‘Let’s go to the stables, father. You’ll find twenty horses like that!’ He would also discover Ealdred’s fine white stallion that I had named Snawgebland, snowstorm, but I doubted Swithun wanted to explore our stables.

  Nor did he, because he ignored the invitation. ‘And the gold?’ he asked.

  I scoffed at that. ‘There was no gold! No dragon either.’

  ‘No dragon?’ Swithun enquired delicately.

  ‘Guarding the hoard of gold,’ I explained. ‘Do you believe in dragons, father?’

  ‘They must exist,’ he said cautiously, ‘because they are mentioned in the scriptures.’ He looked pained for a moment as he collected his notes. ‘You do realise the consequences of King Guthfrith’s death, lord?’

  ‘Women are safer in Eoferwic.’

  ‘And Anlaf of Dyflin will claim the throne of Northumbria. He’s probably claiming it already! That is not a desirable consequence.’ He looked at me almost accusingly.

  ‘I thought Æthelstan claims Northumbria,’ I answered.

  ‘He does, but Anlaf might contest it.’

  ‘Then Anlaf will have to be beaten,’ I said, and that was probably the truest thing I spoke in that long meeting. I had lied happily, as had my men, even the Christians among them had sworn ignorance of Ealdred’s death. It helped that they had been promised absolution by Father Cuthbert who, that evening at dinner, I introduced to Father Swithun.

  ‘He was properly married, you know!’ Father Cuthbert said as soon as I named Father Swithun.

  ‘He was …’ Swithun was totally confused.

  ‘Married in church!’ Cuthbert said happily, his empty eyes appearing to look past Swithun’s right ear.

  ‘Who was married in church?’ Swithun, still astonished, asked.

  ‘King Edward, of course! He was Prince Edward then, but I assure you he was properly married to King Æthelstan’s mother! By me!’ Father Cuthbert spoke proudly. ‘And all those tales of his mother being a shepherd’s daughter are simply nonsense! She was Bishop Swithwulf’s daughter, Ecgwynn. I still had my sight then and she was a pretty little creature,’ he sighed wistfully, ‘so very pretty.’

  ‘I never believed the king was born out of wedlock,’ Swithun said stiffly.

  ‘Enough folk did!’ I said forcefully.

  He frowned at that, but nodded reluctantly, and once the meal was served I regaled him with tales of Æthelstan’s youth and how I had protected him from his many enemies who had wanted to keep him from the throne. I told him how I had rescued Father Cuthbert from the men who would have killed him to prevent him telling his story of Edward and Ecgwynn’s marriage, and I let others tell of the fight at Lundene’s Crepelgate that had finally defeated those enemies.

  The priests left Bebbanburg next morning, their satchels filled with lies and their heads ringing with tales of how I had raised, protected and fought for the king they served.

  ‘You think he believed you?’ Benedetta asked me as we watched the priests take the road south.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘That kind of man has a nose for truth. But he’s confused. He thinks I lied, but he can’t be sure.’

  She put her arm through mine and leaned her head on my shoulder. ‘So what will he tell Æthelstan?’

  ‘That I probably killed Ealdred,’ I shrugged, ‘and that Northumbria is in chaos.’

  Æthelstan claimed to be King of Northumbria, Constantine wanted to be King of Northumbria, and Anlaf believed he was King of Northumbria.

  I strengthened Bebbanburg’s ramparts.

  There had been a grim satisfaction In Ealdred’s death, but as the summer passed I began to suspect it was a mistake. The idea had been to throw all the blame onto the Scots, to divert Æthelstan’s anger from me to Constantine, but reports from Wessex, sent by friends, suggested that Æthelstan had not been fooled. He sent me no messages, but men reported that he spoke angrily of me and of Bebbanburg. All I had really achieved was to throw Northumbria into chaos.

  And Constantine took advantage of that chaos. He was a king, he wanted land because land was a gift he could give to his lords. Lords had tenants, and tenants carried spears, they tilled crops and raised livestock, and crops and livestock were money. And money paid for the spears. Cumbria was not the best land, but it had river valleys where grain grew tall, and hills where sheep could graze, and it was as fertile as most of Constantine’s harsh kingdom. He wanted it.

  And in the chaos that followed Guthfrith’s death, when no king was crowned in Eoferwic to claim lordship of all the land, Constantine grew brazen. Eochaid, who had been named ‘ruler’ of Cumbria, held court in Cair Ligualid. Silver was given to the church there and the monks received a precious casket, studded with blood-red carnelians, that contained a chip of the boulder on which Saint Conval had sailed from Ireland to Scotland. The walls of Cair Ligualid were manned by Eochaid’s men, most bearing a cross on their shields, though some carried Owain of Strath Clota’s black shields. At least Anlaf, who claimed to be Guthfrith’s successor, made no move to claim Northumbria. News said he was too distracted by his Norse enemies, that his armies were striking deep into Ireland.

  But those Scottish shields meant that Constantine’s troops were now deep inside Cumbria. They were south of the great wall the Romans had built, and Eochaid sent war-bands further south, into the land of the lakes, to demand rent or tribute from the Norse settlers. Most paid, those who refused had their steadings destroyed and their women and children taken as slaves. Constantine denied it, he even denied naming Eochaid as the ruler of Cumbria, claiming that the young man was acting on his own and was doing no more than the Norse did when they sailed from Ireland to take a patch of rough Cumbrian pasture as their own. If Æthelstan could not rule his own territory then what did he expect? Men would come and take what they wanted, and Eochaid was just another such settler.

  The summer was waning when Egil came to Bebbanburg in his sleek ship Banamaðr. He brought news. ‘A man named Troels Knudson came to me three days ago,’ he said when he was seated in the hall with a pot of ale.

  ‘A Norseman,’ I grunted.

  ‘A Norseman, yes,’ he paused, ‘from Eochaid.’

  That surprised me, though there was no reason that it should. Half the men on the land Eochaid claimed to rule were Norse settlers and those who accepted him were treated well. There were no missionaries trying to persuade them to worship the nailed god, the rents were low, and if war came, which it must, then those Norsemen would likely fight in Eochaid’s shield wall. ‘If Eochaid sent him,’ I said, ‘he must have known you would tell me?’

  Egil nodded. ‘Troels said as much.’

  ‘So whatever news he brought is for my ears too.’

  ‘And comes from Constantine, probably,’ Egil said. He paused to pull Alaina onto his lap. She was fond of him, as all women were. ‘I made you a ship,’ he told her.

  ‘A real one?’

  ‘A little one, carved from b
eechwood.’ He pulled the model from his pouch. It was a beautiful thing, maybe the length of his hand. It had no mast, but there were tiny rowing benches and a fine prow carved with a wolf’s head. ‘You can call it Hunnulv,’ Egil said.

  ‘Hunnulv?’

  ‘A she-wolf. She will be the terror of the ocean!’

  Alaina was delighted. ‘I’ll have a real ship one day,’ she said, ‘and it will be called Hunnulv.’

  ‘And how are you going to buy a ship?’ I asked her.

  ‘I won’t. You will.’ She gave me her most impudent grin.

  ‘I’m thinking of sending her to one of the hill farms,’ I told Egil, ‘one of the poorest ones where she’ll have to work from daybreak to sundown.’

  Alaina looked up at Egil. ‘He won’t!’ she said confidently.

  ‘I know he won’t,’ Egil said, smiling.

  ‘So Troels Knudson?’ I suggested.

  ‘Sees war coming.’

  I grunted again. ‘We can all see that.’

  ‘If there’s a war,’ Alaina asked, ‘can I come?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ll be too busy fetching water and washing sheep-shit from your clothes.’

  ‘War is no place for small girls,’ Egil said gently.

  ‘So Eochaid sends a Norseman to tell us what we already know?’ I asked.

  ‘He tells us,’ Egil went on, ‘that the smithies of Wessex and Mercia are hammering out spear-blades, that Æthelstan has purchased three hundred horses from Frankia, and that the willows in Hamptonscir have been felled to make shields.’

  ‘We knew that,’ I said, though in truth I had not heard that Æthelstan had purchased horses.

  ‘And almost all of those spears and shields,’ Egil went on, ‘are being sent to Lindcolne.’

  I frowned, not sure I believed what Egil had said. ‘I heard they were going to Mameceaster.’

  ‘Some, yes. Most? Lindcolne.’

  ‘How can they know that?’

  Egil gave me a pitying look. ‘If you were Constantine how much silver would you pay to get reliable news from Æthelstan’s court?’

  ‘More than I pay.’