War of the Wolf Page 24

  “It is our joy,” Hrothweard spoke again to Sigtryggr, “and in the knowledge of your queen’s sad death, to offer you as a bride the Lady Eadgyth, the beloved daughter of Edward, Anglorum Saxonum Rex.”

  And with that, Æthelstan walked Eadgyth forward through the benches of watching men who, I think, were as surprised as I was. Eadgyth was to be a peace cow, a bride to seal a treaty, and I saw Sigtryggr’s shock as he began to understand what was happening to him, but I doubted he understood the implied insult in this offer of a West Saxon bride. Edward was giving him his eldest daughter, but she was a daughter whom most men in Wessex considered illegitimate. Hrothweard had acknowledged her as Edward’s child, he had even called her beloved, which was stretching the meaning of love, but he had deliberately not called her a princess. And she was old for marriage too, very old, at least in her middle twenties, a bastard royal, an unwanted girl, an inconvenience, and she had been fetched from whatever nunnery had presumably sheltered her, to marry a Northumbrian king whom everyone in the hall knew must eventually be slaughtered by Saxon swords. No wonder so many men smirked and even laughed as Eadgyth walked toward her doom.

  But Eadgyth would become a queen, Sigtryggr would swear fealty, the priests would baptize him before they harnessed him to his peace cow, and Northumbria was humbled.

  And all Northumbria had to show for the treaty was an unwanted woman and Grimbald’s bald head that was impaled on a spear-blade and displayed in the palace courtyard.

  And Edward had his peace treaty.

  Sigtryggr was baptized that afternoon and married two hours later. Both ceremonies took place in Tamweorthin’s high church so that as many folk as possible could see his humiliation. Æthelflaed had built the church, and I remember grousing to her that she would have been better off spending the silver on spears and shields, an argument I inevitably lost, and now, under a clear spring sky, the big church was packed to watch Sigtryggr. He was dressed in a white penitent’s robe and ordered to climb into a great barrel filled with water from the River Tame, though Archbishop Hrothweard, who insisted on conducting the baptism, added water from a small jar. “This water,” he declared, “was brought all the way from the River Jordan, the same river in which our Lord was baptized.” I wondered how much he had paid for the stoppered jar, which, I suspected, had been filled from some monastery’s scum-covered fish pond. Sigtryggr, who had taken the precaution of giving me his hammer amulet for safekeeping, looked bemused throughout the ceremony and good-naturedly allowed his head to be pushed under water as a choir chanted and as Hrothweard prayed. Afterward he was presented with a silver cross, which he dutifully hung about his neck.

  He was still wearing the cross when he married Eadgyth, though now he also wore his crown and a dark scarlet robe trimmed with fur, which was a gift from Prince Æthelstan. After the wedding, Sigtryggr and his bride were conducted to a chamber in the palace and that was the last I saw of him that day.

  Next morning I sent to the far steading where my men had waited, and by midday we were all on the road north. Sigtryggr took back his hammer and ostentatiously hung it about his neck. The silver cross was nowhere to be seen. “I trust you had a good night, lord King?” I asked him mischievously.

  “I slept badly,” he grunted.

  “Badly?”

  “The miserable bitch was in tears all night.”

  “Tears of joy, I’m sure.”

  Sigtryggr scowled at me. “She’s still a virgin.”

  “Still?”

  “Still.”

  I stopped teasing him. “I knew her when she was a child,” I said, “and she was clever then, and I’m sure she’s clever still. She’ll give you good counsel.”

  He growled at that. “Damn her counsel, I’d rather she gave me a dowry.”

  “There’s no dowry?”

  “She said I’d been given the best dowry of all, the gift of eternal life. Pious bitch.”

  The pious bitch was mounted on a white gelding, a present from her twin brother. She looked uncomfortable even though her maid had padded the saddle with a thick woolen cloth. She was flanked by two priests. One, Father Eadsig, was her confessor. He was a small, worried-looking young man who kept glancing nervously at the warriors who surrounded him, while the other, Father Amandus, was a Danish convert who had been appointed as Sigtryggr’s chaplain, a job that could have explained his scowling face.

  I let Tintreg slow, then spurred him between Eadgyth and her confessor. “My lady,” I greeted her.

  She offered me a sad smile. “Lord Uhtred.”

  “It’s been many years, my lady,” I said, ignoring Father Amandus’s disapproving look. “You used to play on my estate in Fagranforda.” Fagranforda had been my largest Mercian estate, now in the hands of the leprous Bishop Wulfheard who was said to be close to death, which was bad news for the brothels of Hereford.

  “I remember Fagranforda,” Eadgyth said, “you were always kind to us there. Does Father Cuthbert still live?”

  “He does, my lady, though he’s blind and old now. But still hale. He’ll be glad to meet you again if you should come to Bebbanburg.”

  “Who is Father Cuthbert?” the Danish priest asked suspiciously.

  “He is the priest at Bebbanburg,” I answered levelly. “Half my men are Christians, and they need a priest.” I saw the surprise on Father Amandus’s face, but he said nothing. “He’s also the man who married Queen Eadgyth’s parents,” I went on, “and has been forced to shelter from his enemies ever since.”

  Father Amandus gave me a sharp look. He plainly knew the rumor that Æthelstan and Eadgyth were bastards. “Enemies?” he asked.

  “Enemies, lord,” I corrected him and waited.

  “Lord,” he said reluctantly.

  “If Æthelstan is the eldest legitimate son,” I said, “then he has the best claim to succeed his father. Other men would prefer Ælfweard, and those men would also prefer it if Father Cuthbert were dead. They want no living witnesses to Prince Æthelstan’s legitimacy.”

  “And who would you prefer?” Father Amandus asked, then remembered to add, “lord.”

  “Ælfweard,” I said.

  “You want Ælfweard?” He sounded surprised.

  “Ælfweard,” I said, “is a miserable earsling. His name ought to be Ælfturd, but if it comes to war between Wessex and Northumbria, which it will, I would rather face an army led by the earsling than an army led by Prince Æthelstan.”

  Eadgyth frowned. She was wearing a close-fitting hood, which gave her the appearance of a nun. “You would fight against my brother?” she asked sternly.

  “Only if he invades my country,” I said, “and your country too now, my lady.”

  She stared ahead at Sigtryggr. “I suppose it is,” she said distantly.

  We rode in silence for a while. Two swans beat overhead, going west, and I wondered what that omen meant. Eadgyth’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “He’s a good man, my lady,” I said quietly.

  “Is he?”

  “I doubt he wanted to marry any more than you did. He’s confused and angry.”

  “Angry?” she asked. “Why—” then she stopped abruptly and made the sign of the cross. “Of course. Forgive me. I am sorry about Stiorra, Lord Uhtred,” she looked at me and a tear ran down her cheek. “I should have spoken earlier. She was always kind to me as a child.”

  I did not want to talk about Stiorra, so changed the subject. “When did you learn you were to marry Sigtryggr?”

  She seemed startled by the sudden question, then looked indignant. “It was just last week!” she said and, for the first time since I had greeted her, she showed some animation. “I had no warning! They came to the convent, summoned me from prayers, took me to Lundene, gave me clothes, and hurried me north.” She told me more of that week, and I half listened and half tried to comprehend why Edward had been in such haste. “They never asked whether it was what I wanted,” Eadgyth finished bitterly.

  “You’re a woman,” I s
aid drily, “why would they ask you?”

  She gave me a look that might have stunned an ox, then gave a mirthless laugh. “You would have asked, wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably, but I’ve never known how to handle women,” I answered her, still drily. “Did your father say why he wanted you to marry King Sigtryggr?”

  “To make peace,” she said bleakly.

  “And there will be peace,” I said, “of sorts. Sigtryggr will not break the treaty, he won’t attack south, but the Saxons will come north.”

  “King Edward will not break his word,” Father Amandus said sternly, and again remembered to add, “lord.”

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but do you think his successor will be bound by the treaty?” Neither had an answer to that. “The ambition of Wessex, my lady, is to make one kingdom of all the folk who speak English.”

  “Amen,” Father Eadsig said. I ignored him.

  “And you, my lady, are now queen of the last country that speaks English and is not ruled by your father.”

  “Then why marry me to Sigtryggr?”

  “To lull us, to make us feel safe. You fatten the goose before you kill it.”

  The Danish priest growled at that, but had the sense to say nothing, and just then Rorik rode up from the rear of our long column, bringing Beadwulf and Wynflæd with him. I had told him to fetch the squirrel, but Brother Beadwulf had evidently decided to come too. I stretched back and caught hold of Wynflæd’s bridle and drew her mare up between me and Eadgyth. “This, my lady, is Wynflæd. She is a Christian, a Saxon, and I would urge you to take her into your service. She’s a good girl.”

  Eadgyth half smiled at the squirrel. “Of course.”

  I let go of Wynflæd’s horse so that she fell behind again. “Thank you, my lady,” I said to Eadgyth. “You’re going to discover, my lady, that Eoferwic is mostly a Christian city.”

  “Mostly,” Father Amandus said snidely.

  Eadgyth nodded. “Archbishop Hrothweard told me the same. He seems a good man.”

  “A very good man,” I said, “and so is your husband. He looks formidable, I know, but he’s a kind man.”

  “I pray so, Lord Uhtred.”

  “Kindness,” Father Amandus said, “is no substitute for godliness. King Sigtryggr must learn to love the faith.” A pause. “Lord.”

  “King Sigtryggr,” I told him sternly, “has no time to learn anything. He’s going to war.”

  “War!” He sounded shocked.

  “There is a man we have to kill.”

  Eadgyth was a peace cow, and she was discovering that the rivalry of nations is difficult. Religion, because of the hatreds it engenders, is difficult. Families, because of the spite they encourage, are difficult. Eadgyth, Edward, Eadgifu, Æthelstan, Ælfweard, and Æthelhelm made a tangle of love, loyalties, and hate, mostly hate, and that was difficult. The only thing that was simple was war.

  And Sigtryggr and I were going to war.

  War is not easy. Simple, usually, but never easy. Dealing with Edward’s ambitions was like groping for eels in the dark, and I wondered if even he knew who he really wanted to succeed him. Or perhaps he did not care, because to think of the succession was to contemplate his own death, and none of us enjoy that prospect. As a young man Edward had shown promise, but wine, ale, and women had proved more appealing than the dull business of government, and he had grown fat, lazy, and sickly. In some ways, though, he had been a success, achieving what his more celebrated father had failed to. Edward had waged a campaign that had brought all of East Anglia under West Saxon rule, while his sister’s death had given him the chance to include Mercia in his kingdom, though Mercia was still unsure whether that was a blessing or a curse. During Edward’s reign much of his father’s dream had come true; the dream of a united Englaland, and that dream told me that the treaty we had just agreed was not worth a sparrow’s fart. The West Saxons, for it was the West Saxons who were creating Englaland, would never abandon their ambition to swallow Northumbria. That was simple, and being simple, it would mean war.

  “Not necessarily,” Æthelstan had told me on the night after his sister’s wedding.

  I scoffed at that. “You think we’ll just surrender Northumbria?”

  “You have a Saxon queen now.”

  “And my grandson,” I had pointed out, “is Sigtryggr’s heir.”

  He had frowned at that truth. We had met in the palace, in a small room adjoining the royal chapel. He had asked me to come, even sending men to escort me through Tamweorthin’s streets in case Æthelhelm made another attempt on my life. I had gone reluctantly. Eadgifu had already tried to recruit my support for her infant sons, and I suspected Æthelstan also wanted my loyalty, so I had greeted him with surly words. “If you wanted me at the Witan so you could receive my oath,” I had told him, “you won’t get it.”

  “Sit, lord,” he had said patiently. “There’s wine.”

  I had sat, and he had then stood and paced the small room. We were alone. He fingered the cross about his neck, gazed at a leather wall-hanging that showed sinners tumbling to hell’s fires, and finally turned to me. “Should I be King of Wessex?”

  “Of course,” I had answered without hesitation.

  “So you’ll support me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d rather fight Ælfweard.”

  He had grimaced at that, then paced the room again. “My father will leave me in Ceaster.”

  “Good.”

  “Why is that good?”

  “It’s harder for Æthelhelm to kill you there.”

  “I can’t shelter behind walls forever.”

  “You won’t,” I said.

  “No?”

  “When your father dies,” I had suggested, “you ride south with the men of Mercia and you claim the West Saxon throne.”

  “And fight Æthelhelm’s forces?”

  “If you need to, yes.”

  “I will,” he had said forcefully, “and you won’t help me?”

  “I’m a Northumbrian. I’m your enemy.”

  He half smiled. “How can you be my enemy? Your queen is my sister.”

  “True,” I conceded the point.

  “Besides, you’re my friend.” He had stopped by a table on which stood a plain wooden cross flanked by candles. He reached out and touched the cross. “I do want an oath from you,” he said. He had not looked at me as he spoke, but gazed at the cross. He had waited for my response, but I said nothing, and my obstinate silence made him turn to me. “Swear on whatever god you believe in,” he had said, “that you will do all that you can to kill Ealdorman Æthelhelm. Do that, and I will swear you an oath.”

  I had stared at him in surprise. His face, so strong and hard, was shadowed, but his eyes glittered with a trace of reflected candlelight. “You would give me an oath?” I asked.

  He was clutching his cross, perhaps to convince me of his earnestness. “I asked you to come here so I could swear you an oath. An oath that promises that I will never fight against you, and that I will never invade Northumbria.”

  I hesitated, looking for whatever trap that promised oath concealed. Oaths bind us and are not to be taken lightly. “You can kill Æthelhelm yourself,” I said.

  “If I can,” he said, “I will, but he’s your enemy too.”

  “And by taking your oath,” I had said, “you promise not to invade Northumbria?”

  “Not while you live.”

  “But you’d fight my son?” I asked. “Or my grandson?”

  “They must make their own agreements with me,” he had said stiffly, meaning that Northumbria would be invaded when I died, and that, I thought ruefully, could not be many years away. On the other hand, if Æthelstan did become king, then the oath he promised would give Sigtryggr and me time to build up Northumbria’s strength.

  “What happens if your father orders you to invade Northumbria while I’m alive?” I had asked him.

  “Then I will r
efuse. I will become a lay brother in a monastery if I need to. If I swear the oath to you then I shall keep it.”

  He would too, I thought. I had watched the nearest candle gutter, its smoke curling toward the ceiling. “I can’t kill Æthelhelm while your father’s alive,” I said, “that would be cause for war.” Then another thought occurred to me, and I looked at him sharply. “Are you asking me to kill him just to keep your conscience clear?”

  He had shaken his head. “I’m offering you what you want, lord. Æthelhelm has tried to kill both of us, so let’s be allies in his death.”

  “I thought you Christians prefer to settle your arguments without killing.”

  That had made him frown. “Do you think I pursue his death lightly? So long as he lives there cannot be peace in Wessex. If I succeed to the throne he will rebel against me. He wants his nephew on the throne, and he will stop at nothing to achieve that.”

  “Or he wants the throne for himself,” I said.

  “There are some who believe that, yes,” he had answered guardedly.

  “And by killing him,” I said, “I make you king.”

  He had bridled at that, suspecting I was accusing him of an unworthy ambition. “Do you think I haven’t prayed about that fate?” he asked sternly. “That I haven’t struggled with my conscience? That I haven’t spoken with Archbishop Athelm?” And that was interesting, I had thought. It suggested that the new Archbishop of Contwaraburg was opposed to Æthelhelm, or was at least a supporter of Æthelstan. “Kingship is a burden,” Æthelstan had continued, and I had seen he was entirely serious, “and I am convinced I am best capable of bearing that burden. God burdens me! You may not believe it, lord, but I constantly pray Christ’s prayer from Gethsemane; to let the cup pass from me! But Christ has not seen fit to spare me, so I must drain the cup, however bitter.”

  “When your grandfather was dying,” I said, “he told me the crown of Wessex was a crown of thorns.”

  “If it’s worth anything,” Æthelstan had said forcibly, “it must be a crown of thorns.”

  “You’d be a good king,” I said grudgingly.

  “And I will be a king who will not fight against you.”