War Lord Page 2

  ‘Æthelstan?’ Berg asked.

  ‘She’s not a Northumbrian ship, is she?’ I asked. Northumbrian ships had narrower prows, while southern shipwrights preferred a broad bow. Besides, this ship displayed the cross which few Northumbrian ships carried. ‘And who uses priests to carry messages?’

  ‘King Æthelstan.’

  I watched the ship turn into the entrance channel, then led Berg off the ramparts. ‘Look after his oarsmen. Send them food and ale, and bring the damn priest to the hall.’

  I climbed to the hall where two servants were attacking cobwebs with long willow switches tied with bundles of feathers. Benedetta was watching to make sure every last spider was driven from the fortress. ‘We have visitors,’ I told her, ‘so your war against spiders must wait.’

  ‘I am not at war,’ she insisted, ‘I like spiders. But not in my home. Who are the visitors?’

  ‘I’m guessing they’re messengers from Æthelstan.’

  ‘Then we must greet them properly!’ She clapped her hands and ordered benches to be brought. ‘And bring the throne from the platform,’ she commanded.

  ‘It’s not a throne,’ I said, ‘just a fancy bench.’

  ‘Ouff!’ she said. It was a noise Benedetta made whenever I exasperated her. It made me smile, which only irritated her more. ‘It is a throne,’ she insisted, ‘and you are King of Bebbanburg.’

  ‘Lord,’ I corrected her.

  ‘You are as much a king as that fool Guthfrith,’ she made the sign to ward off evil, ‘or Owain, or anyone else.’ It was an old argument and I let it drop.

  ‘And have the girls bring ale,’ I said, ‘and some food. Preferably not stale.’

  ‘And you should wear the dark robe. I fetch it.’

  Benedetta was from Italy, snatched as a child from her home by slavers, then traded across Christendom until she reached Wessex. I had freed her and now she was the Lady of Bebbanburg, though not my wife. ‘My grandmother,’ she had told me more than once, and always making the sign of the cross as she spoke, ‘told me I should never marry. I would be cursed! I have been cursed enough in life. Now I am happy! Why should I risk a grandmother’s curse? My grandmother was never wrong!’

  I grumpily allowed her to drape the costly black robe over my shoulders, refused to wear the bronze-gilt circlet that had belonged to my father, and then, with Benedetta beside me, I waited for the priest.

  And it was an old friend who came from the sunlight into the dusty shadows of Bebbanburg’s great hall. It was Father Oda, now Bishop of Rammesburi, who walked tall and elegant, his long black robe hemmed with dark red cloth. He was escorted by a pair of West Saxon warriors who politely gave my steward their swords before following Oda towards me. ‘Anyone would think,’ the bishop said as he came closer, ‘that you were a king!’

  ‘He is,’ Benedetta insisted.

  ‘And anyone would think,’ I said, ‘that you were a bishop.’

  He smiled. ‘By the grace of God, Lord Uhtred, I am.’

  ‘By the grace of Æthelstan,’ I said, then stood and greeted him with an embrace. ‘Do I congratulate you?’

  ‘If you like. I think I am the first Dane to be a bishop in Englaland.’

  ‘Is that what you call it now?’

  ‘It’s easier than saying I am the first Danish bishop in Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia.’ He bowed to Benedetta. ‘It is good to see you again, my lady.’

  ‘And to see you, my lord bishop,’ she said, offering him a curtsey.

  ‘Ah! So rumour is wrong! Courtesy does live in Bebbanburg!’ He grinned at me, pleased with his jest and I smiled back. Oda, Bishop of Rammesburi! The only surprising thing about that appointment was that Oda was a Dane, son of pagan immigrants who had invaded East Anglia in the service of Ubba, whom I had killed. And now the Danish son of pagan parents was a bishop in Saxon Englaland! Not that he did not deserve it. Oda was a subtle, clever man who, as far as I knew, was as honest as the day is long.

  There was a pause because Finan had seen Oda arrive and now came to greet him. Oda had been with us when we defended Lundene’s Crepelgate, a fight that had put Æthelstan on the throne. I might be no Christian and no lover of Christianity, but it is hard to dislike a man who has shared a desperate battle at your side. ‘Ah, wine,’ Oda greeted a servant, then turned to Benedetta, ‘no doubt blessed by the Italian sun?’

  ‘More likely pissed on by Frankish peasants,’ I said.

  ‘His charms don’t grow less, do they, my lady?’ Oda said, sitting. Then he looked at me and touched the heavy gold cross hanging at his breast. ‘I bring news, Lord Uhtred.’ His tone was suddenly wary.

  ‘I supposed as much.’

  ‘Which you won’t like.’ Oda kept his eyes on me.

  ‘Which I won’t like,’ I echoed, and waited.

  ‘King Æthelstan,’ he said calmly, still looking at me, ‘is in Northumbria. He entered Eoferwic three days ago.’ He paused, as if expecting me to protest, but I said nothing. ‘And King Guthfrith,’ Oda went on, ‘misunderstood our coming and has fled.’

  ‘Misunderstood,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And he fled from you and Æthelstan? Just the two of you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Oda said, still calm, ‘we were escorted by over two thousand men.’

  I had fought enough, I wanted to stay at Bebbanburg, I wanted to hear the long sea break on the beach and the wind sigh around the hall’s gable. I knew I had few years left, but the gods had been kind. My son was a man and would inherit wide lands, I could still ride and hunt, and I had Benedetta. True she had a temper like a weasel on heat, but she was loving and loyal, had a brightness that lit Bebbanburg’s grey skies, and I loved her. ‘Two thousand men,’ I said flatly, ‘yet still he needs me?’

  ‘He requests your help, lord, yes.’

  ‘He can’t manage the invasion on his own?’ I was getting angrier.

  ‘It’s not an invasion, lord,’ Oda said calmly, ‘just a royal visitation. A courtesy between kings.’

  He could call it what he liked, but it was still an invasion.

  And I was angry.

  I was furious because Æthelstan had once sworn an oath that he would never invade Northumbria while I lived. Yet now he was in Eoferwic with an army, and I had eighty-three men waiting behind the crest of a hill not far south of Bebbanburg to do his bidding. I had wanted to refuse Oda, I had wanted to tell him to take his damned ship back to Eoferwic and spit in Æthelstan’s face. I felt betrayed. I gave Æthelstan his throne, yet since that far-off day when I had fought at the Crepelgate he had ignored me, and that did not upset me. I am a Northumbrian and live far from Æthelstan’s land, and all I wanted was to be left in peace. Yet deep inside I knew there could not be peace. When I was born, Saxon Britain was divided into four countries; Wessex, Mercia, East Anglia and my own Northumbria. King Alfred, Æthelstan’s grandfather, had dreamed of uniting them into one country he called Englaland, and that dream was coming true. King Æthelstan ruled over Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia, and only Northumbria remained, and Æthelstan had sworn to me that he would not snatch that land while I lived, yet now he was in my country with an army, and he was pleading for my help. Again. And deep down I knew that Northumbria was doomed, that either Æthelstan would take my country or Constantine would add it to his lands, and my loyalty was to those who spoke my language, the Saxon tongue we call Ænglisc, and that was why I had led eighty-three warriors from Bebbanburg to ambush King Guthfrith of Northumbria who had fled from Æthelstan’s invasion. The sun burned high and bright, the day was still.

  Oswi, on a sweat-whitened horse, brought news of Guthfrith’s approach. ‘Soon, lord,’ he said.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘A hundred and fourteen. Some prisoners too.’

  ‘Prisoners?’ Bishop Oda, who had insisted on accompanying us, asked sharply. ‘We were only expecting one captive.’

  ‘They’ve got some women, lord,’ Oswi still spoke to me. ‘They’re dr
iving them like sheep.’

  ‘The women are on foot?’ I asked.

  ‘Some of the men too, lord. And a lot of the horses are limping. They’ve ridden fast!’ He took a leather flask from Roric, swilled out his mouth with ale, spat into the grass, and took another swig. ‘They look as if they’ve been travelling all night.’

  ‘And so they might have,’ I said, ‘to have got this far so quickly.’

  ‘They’re worn out now,’ Oswi said happily.

  Bishop Oda had brought me his news from Eoferwic and his ship had made the journey in two days despite the fitful winds, but the men approaching on the long straight road had fled the city on horseback. I reckoned to take a week to ride from Bebbanburg to Eoferwic, though admittedly that was slow and allowed me long nights in friendly halls. I had once ridden it in four days, but never in heat like this early summer. The fugitives from Eoferwic had fled fast and they had ridden fast, but Bishop Oda’s oarsmen had easily overtaken them and now the weary horses were bringing them into our ambush.

  ‘It is not an ambush,’ Bishop Oda insisted when I used the word. ‘We are merely here to persuade King Guthfrith to return to Eoferwic. And King Æthelstan requests your presence in Eoferwic too.’

  ‘Mine?’ I said curtly.

  ‘Indeed. And he also requires you to gain the release of Guthfrith’s captive.’

  ‘Captives,’ I corrected him.

  ‘Indeed,’ Oda said dismissively. ‘But Guthfrith must be returned to Eoferwic. He simply needs reassurance that King Æthelstan comes in friendship.’

  ‘With over two thousand men? All in mail, all armed?’

  ‘King Æthelstan likes to travel in style,’ Oda responded loftily.

  Æthelstan might describe his visit to Eoferwic as a friendly visitation, but there had still been fighting in the city because in truth it had been a conquest, a lightning fast invasion and, reluctant as I was to give Æthelstan any credit, I had to admire what he had achieved. Oda had told me how Æthelstan had brought an army of over two thousand men across the Mercian border, then led them at a relentless pace northwards, abandoning any man or horse that faltered or weakened. They pounded the road, reaching Eoferwic while their presence in Northumbria was still an unconfirmed rumour. The city’s southern gate was opened by West Saxon warriors who had infiltrated Eoferwic pretending to be merchants, and Æthelstan’s army had flooded into the streets. ‘There was some fighting on the bridge,’ Oda had told me, ‘but by the grace of God the pagans were defeated and the survivors fled.’

  Those survivors were led by Guthfrith, and Æthelstan had sent Bishop Oda with a demand that I bar the northern roads and so keep Guthfrith from escaping into Scotland. Which is why I waited on the hillside under the burning sun. Finan, my son and I were prone on the crest, staring southwards, while Bishop Oda was crouched behind us. ‘And why,’ I asked him sourly, ‘shouldn’t Guthfrith escape to Scotland?’

  Oda sighed at my stupidity. ‘Because it gives Constantine a reason to invade Northumbria. He’ll simply claim he’s restoring the rightful king to his throne.’

  ‘Constantine is Christian,’ I said, ‘why would he fight for a pagan king?’

  Oda sighed again, his eyes on the far distance where the road vanished in the heat. ‘King Constantine,’ he said, ‘would sacrifice his own daughters to Baal if it increased the size of his realm.’

  ‘Who’s Baal?’ Finan asked.

  ‘A heathen god,’ Oda said dismissively, ‘and how long do you think Constantine would tolerate Guthfrith? He’ll put him back on his throne, marry him to one of his daughters, then have him quietly strangled, and the Scots will own Northumbria. So no, Guthfrith must not reach Scotland.’

  ‘There,’ Finan said, and in the far distance a group of horsemen appeared on the road. I could just see them, a blur of horses and men in the summer haze. ‘They’re tired right enough,’ Finan said.

  ‘We want Guthfrith alive,’ Oda warned me, ‘and back in Eoferwic.’

  ‘You told me,’ I grumbled, ‘and I still don’t know why.’

  ‘Because King Æthelstan demands it, that’s why.’

  ‘Guthfrith is a piece of raddled shit,’ I said. ‘It would be better to kill him.’

  ‘King Æthelstan demands that you keep him alive. Pray do so.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to obey his orders? He’s not my king.’

  Oda gave me a stern look. ‘He is Monarchus Totius Brittaniae.’ I just stared at him until he offered a translation. ‘He is the monarch of all Britain.’

  ‘Is that what he calls himself now?’ I asked.

  ‘It is,’ Oda said.

  I snorted at that. Æthelstan had been calling himself the King of the Saxons and Angles ever since he had been crowned, and he did have some claim to that title, but ruler of all Britain? ‘I imagine King Constantine and King Hywel might disagree?’ I suggested sourly.

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ Oda said calmly, ‘but nevertheless King Æthelstan wishes you to prevent Guthfrith from reaching Scotland, and to release his captive unharmed.’

  ‘Captives.’

  ‘Captive.’

  ‘You don’t care about the women?’ I asked.

  ‘I pray for them, of course. But I pray for peace even more.’

  ‘Peace?’ I asked angrily. ‘Invading Northumbria brings peace?’

  Oda looked pained. ‘Britain is unsettled, lord. The Norsemen threaten, the Scots are restless, and King Æthelstan fears a war is coming. And he fears it will be a war more terrible than any we have known. He yearns to avert that slaughter and to that end, lord, he begs you to rescue the captive and send Guthfrith safely home.’

  I did not understand why sending Guthfrith home would make peace, but I remembered the dragon flying above Bebbanburg’s ramparts and its grim message of war. I looked at Finan, who shrugged as if to say he no more understood than I did, but we had best try to do Æthelstan’s bidding. Down in the valley I could see the approaching men more clearly, and see the women captives walking at the rear of the long column of horses. ‘So what do we do?’ Finan asked.

  ‘We ride down there,’ I said, easing my way back from the crest, ‘we smile politely, and tell the stupid bastard that he’s our prisoner.’

  ‘Guest,’ Bishop Oda said.

  Roric helped me into the saddle and Aldwyn gave me the silver-crested helmet. The leather liner was uncomfortably hot. I buckled it under my chin, but left the cheek-pieces unlaced, then took my wolf’s-head shield from Aldwyn. ‘No spear yet,’ I told him, ‘and if there’s any fighting, you stay out of trouble.’

  ‘He used to say that to me,’ Roric said, grinning.

  ‘Which is why you’re alive,’ I growled. Roric had been my servant before Aldwyn, but was now old enough to stand in the shield wall.

  ‘There’ll be no fighting,’ Bishop Oda said sternly.

  ‘It’s Guthfrith,’ I said, ‘he’s a fool, and he fights before he thinks, but I’ll do my best to keep the beef-witted idiot alive. Let’s go!’

  I led my men westwards, always staying out of Guthfrith’s sight. When I had last seen him he had been perhaps a half mile from the bend in the road and travelling painfully slowly. We went fast, our horses fresher than his, then turned down the hill and threaded through the pine trees, splashed through the hurrying stream and so reached the road. There we formed a line of two ranks so that when the approaching fugitives appeared they would see two rows of mailed horsemen with bright shields and sun-glinting spearheads. We waited.

  I did not like Guthfrith and he did not like me. He had spent three years trying to make me swear an oath of loyalty, and for three years I had refused. Twice he had sent warriors to Bebbanburg, and twice I had kept the Skull Gate barred, daring Guthfrith’s spearmen to assault the fortress, and twice they had ridden away.

  Now, in the hot sun, his spearmen were on my land again, only this time they were led by Guthfrith himself, and Guthfrith had to be bitter. He believed his kingdom was being stolen, and
in a moment he would see my men, see my wolf’s head badge on their shields, and he not only disliked me, but would realise he outnumbered me. Bishop Oda might piously hope there would be no fighting, but a cornered Guthfrith would be like a polecat in a sack; maddened and vicious.

  And he had hostages.

  Not just the women, though they had to be rescued, but Guthfrith, cunning as he was, had snatched Archbishop Hrothweard from his cathedral in Eoferwic. ‘During the Mass!’ Oda had told me in horrified tones. ‘During the Mass! Armed men in the cathedral!’

  I wondered whether Guthfrith would dare harm the archbishop. Doing so would make him the enemy of every Christian ruler in Britain, though perhaps Constantine would swallow his anger long enough to put Guthfrith back on Northumbria’s throne. A dead archbishop would be a small price to pay for a larger Scotland.

  Then they appeared. The first horsemen turning towards us at the bend in the road. They saw us and stopped, and gradually the following warriors joined them. ‘We’ll go to them,’ Oda said.

  ‘We won’t,’ I said.

  ‘But—’

  ‘You want a slaughter?’ I snarled.

  ‘But—’ the bishop tried again.

  ‘I go,’ I said impulsively.

  ‘You—’

  ‘I go alone.’ I gave my shield back to Aldwyn and swung down from the saddle.

  ‘I should come with you,’ Oda said.

  ‘And give him two priests as hostages? A bishop as well as an archbishop? He’d like that.’

  Oda looked towards Guthfrith’s men who were slowly arranging themselves into a line that overlapped ours. At least a score of them were on foot, their horses too lamed to be mounted. All were pulling on helmets and hefting shields that showed Guthfrith’s symbol of a long-tusked boar. ‘Invite him to come and talk to me,’ Oda said, ‘promise him he’ll be safe.’

  I ignored that, looking at Finan instead. ‘I’ll try to meet Guthfrith halfway,’ I told him. ‘If he brings men, send me the same number.’

  ‘I’ll come,’ Finan said, grinning.