The Burning Land sc-5 Read online

I saw her consider escape. She was thinking of running long-legged down the slope, hoping to reach the watching horsemen before I caught her, but I touched Smoka’s flank and he moved in front of her. “You’d die with a sword in your skull,” I told her, “long before you could reach them.”

  “And you’ll die,” she said, stooping for her clothes, “without a sword in your hand.”

  I touched the talisman about my neck. “Alfred,” I said, “hangs captured pagans. You had better hope that I can keep you alive when we meet him.”

  “I shall curse you,” she said, “and those you love.”

  “And you had better hope,” I went on, “that my patience lasts, or else I’ll give you to my men before Alfred hangs you.”

  “A curse and death,” she said, and there was almost triumph in her voice.

  “Hit her if she speaks again,” I told Osferth.

  Then we rode west to find Alfred.

  THREE

  The first thing I noticed was the cart.

  It was enormous, big enough to carry the harvest from a dozen fields, but this wagon would never carry anything so mundane as sheaves of wheat. It had two thick axles and four solid wheels rimmed with iron. The wheels had been painted with a green cross on a white background. The sides of the cart were paneled, and each of the panels bore the image of a saint. There were Latin words carved into the top rails, but I never bothered to ask what they meant because I neither wanted to know nor needed to ask. They would be some Christian exhortation, and one of those is much like any other. The bed of the cart was mostly filled by woolsacks, presumably to protect the passengers from the jolting of the vehicle, while a well-cushioned chair stood with its high back against the driver’s bench. A striped sailcloth awning supported by four serpentine-carved poles had been erected over the whole gaudy contraption, and a wooden cross, like those placed on church gables, reared from one of the poles. Saints’ banners hung from the remaining three poles.

  “A church on wheels?” I asked sourly.

  “He can’t ride anymore,” Steapa told me gloomily.

  Steapa was the commander of the royal bodyguard. He was a huge man, one of the few who were taller than me, and unremittingly fierce in battle. He was also unremittingly loyal to King Alfred. Steapa and I were friends, though we had started as enemies when I had been forced to fight him. It had been like attacking a mountain. Yet the two of us had survived that meeting, and there was no man I would rather have stood beside in a shield wall. “He can’t ride at all?” I asked.

  “He does sometimes,” Steapa said, “but it hurts too much. He can hardly walk.”

  “How many oxen drag this thing?” I asked, gesturing at the wagon.

  “Six. He doesn’t like it, but he has to use it.”

  We were in Æscengum, the burh built to protect Wintanceaster from the east. It was a small burh, nothing like the size of Wintanceaster or Lundene, and it protected a ford which crossed the River Wey, though why the ford needed protection was a mystery because the river could be easily crossed both north and south of Æscengum. Indeed, the town guarded nothing of importance, which was why I had argued against its fortification. Yet Alfred had insisted on making Æscengum into a burh because, years before, some half-crazed Christian mystic had supposedly restored a raped girl’s virginity at the place, and so it was a hallowed spot. Alfred had ordered a monastery built there, and Steapa told me the king was waiting in its church. “They’re talking,” he said bleakly, “but none of them knows what to do.”

  “I thought you were waiting for Harald to attack you here?”

  “I told them he wouldn’t,” Steapa said, “but what happens if he doesn’t?”

  “We find Harald and kill the earsling, of course,” I said, gazing east to where new smoke pyres betrayed where Harald’s men were plundering new villages.

  Steapa gestured at Skade. “Who’s she?”

  “Harald’s whore,” I said, loud enough for Skade to hear, though her face showed no change from her customary haughty expression. “She tortured a man called Edwulf,” I explained, “trying to get him to reveal where he’d buried his gold.”

  “I know Edwulf,” Steapa said, “he eats and drinks his gold.”

  “He did,” I said, “but he’s dead now.” Edwulf had died before we left his estate.

  Steapa held out a hand to take my swords. The monastery was serving this day as Alfred’s hall, and no one except the king, his relatives, and his guards could carry a weapon in the royal presence. I surrendered Serpent-Breath and Wasp-Sting, then dipped my hands in a bowl of water offered by a servant. “Welcome to the king’s house, lord,” the servant said in formal greeting, then watched as I looped the rope about Skade’s neck.

  She spat in my face and I grinned. “Time to meet the king, Skade,” I said, “spit at him and he’ll hang you.”

  “I will curse you both,” she said.

  Finan alone accompanied Steapa, Skade, and me into the monastery. The rest of my men took their horses through the western gate to water them in a stream while Steapa led us to the abbey church, a fine stone building with heavy oak roof beams. The high windows lit painted leather hides, and the one above the altar showed a white-robed girl being raised to her feet by a bearded and haloed man. The girl’s apple-plump face bore a look of pure astonishment, and I assumed she was the newly restored virgin, while the man’s expression suggested she might soon need the miracle repeated. Beneath her, seated on a rug-draped chair placed in front of the silver-piled altar, was Alfred.

  A score of other men were in the church. They had been talking as we arrived, but the voices dropped to silence as I entered. On Alfred’s left was a gaggle of churchmen, among whom were my old friend Father Beocca and my old enemy Bishop Asser, a Welshman who had become the king’s most intimate adviser. In the nave of the church, seated on benches, were a half-dozen ealdormen, the leaders of those shires whose men had been summoned to join the army that faced Harald’s invasion. To Alfred’s right, seated on a slightly smaller chair, was his son-in-law, my cousin Æthelred, and behind him was his wife, Alfred’s daughter, Æthelflæd.

  Æthelred was the Lord of Mercia. Mercia, of course, was the country to the north of Wessex, and its northern and eastern parts were ruled by the Danes. It had no king, instead it had my cousin, who was the acknowledged ruler of the Saxon parts of Mercia, though in truth he was in thrall to Alfred. Alfred, though he never made the claim explicit, was the actual ruler of Mercia, and Æthelred did his father-in-law’s bidding. Though how long that bidding could continue was dubious, for Alfred looked sicker than I had ever seen him. His pale, clerkly face was thinner than ever and his eyes had a bruised look of pain, though they had lost none of their intelligence.

  He looked at me in silence, waited till I had bowed, then nodded a curt greeting. “You bring men, Lord Uhtred?”

  “Three hundred, lord.”

  “Is that all?” Alfred asked, flinching.

  “Unless you wish to lose Lundene, lord, it’s all.”

  “And you bring your woman?” Bishop Asser sneered.

  Bishop Asser was an earsling, which is anything that drops out of an arse. He had dropped out of some Welsh arse, from where he had slimed his way into Alfred’s favor. Alfred thought the world of Asser who, in turn, hated me. I smiled at him. “I bring you Harald’s whore,” I said.

  No one answered that. They all just stared at Skade, and none stared harder than the young man standing just behind Alfred’s throne. He had a thin face with prominent bones, pale skin, black hair that curled just above his embroidered collar, and eyes that were quick and bright. He seemed nervous, overawed perhaps by the presence of so many broad-shouldered warriors, while he himself was slender, almost fragile, in his build. I knew him well enough. His name was Edward, and he was the Ætheling, the king’s eldest son, and he was being groomed to take his father’s throne. Now he was gaping at Skade as though he had never seen a woman before, but when she met his gaze he blushed and pretended
to take a keen interest in the rush-covered floor.

  “You brought what?” Bishop Asser broke the surprised silence.

  “Her name is Skade,” I said, thrusting her forward. Edward raised his eyes and stared at Skade like a puppy seeing fresh meat.

  “Bow to the king,” I ordered Skade in Danish.

  “I do what I wish,” she said and, just as I supposed she would, she spat toward Alfred.

  “Strike her!” Bishop Asser yapped.

  “Do churchmen strike women?” I asked him.

  “Be quiet, Lord Uhtred,” Alfred said tiredly. I saw how his right hand was curled into a claw that clutched the arm of the chair. He gazed at Skade, who returned the stare defiantly. “A remarkable woman,” the king said mildly, “does she speak English?”

  “She pretends not to,” I said, “but she understands it well enough.”

  Skade rewarded that truth with a sidelong look of pure spite. “I’ve cursed you,” she said under her breath.

  “The easiest way to be rid of a curse,” I spoke just as softly, “is to cut out the tongue that made it. Now be silent, you rancid bitch.”

  “The curse of death,” she said, just above a whisper.

  “What is she saying?” Alfred asked.

  “She is reputed to be a sorceress, lord,” I said, “and claims to have cursed me.”

  Alfred and most of the churchmen touched the crosses hanging about their necks. It is a strange thing I have noticed about Christians, that they claim our gods have no power yet they fear the curses made in the names of those gods. “How did you capture her?” Alfred asked.

  I gave a brief account of what had happened at Edwulf’s hall and when I was done Alfred looked at her coldly. “Did she kill Edwulf’s priest?” he asked.

  “Did you kill Edwulf’s priest, bitch?” I asked her in Danish.

  She smiled at me. “Of course I did,” she said, “I kill all priests.”

  “She killed the priest, lord,” I told Alfred.

  He shuddered. “Take her outside,” he ordered Steapa, “and guard her well.” He held up a hand. “She is not to be molested!” He waited till Skade was gone before looking at me. “You’re welcome, Lord Uhtred,” he said, “you and your men. But I had hoped you would bring more.”

  “I brought enough, lord King,” I said.

  “Enough for what?” Bishop Asser asked.

  I looked at the runt. He was a bishop, but still wore his monkish robes cinched tight around his scrawny waist. He had a face like a starved stoat, with pale green eyes and thin lips. He spent half his time in the wastelands of his native Wales, and half whispering pious poison into Alfred’s ears, and together the two men had made a law code for Wessex, and it was my amusement and ambition to break every one of those laws before either the king or the Welsh runt died. “Enough,” I said, “to tear Harald and his men into bloody ruin.”

  Æthelflæd smiled at that. She alone of Alfred’s family was my friend. I had not seen her in four years and she looked much thinner now. She was only a year or two above twenty, but appeared older and sadder, yet her hair was still lustrous gold and her eyes as blue as the summer sky. I winked at her, as much as anything to annoy her husband, my cousin, who immediately rose to the bait and snorted. “If Harald were that easy to destroy,” Æthelred said, “we would have done it already.”

  “How?” I asked, “by watching him from the hills?” Æthelred grimaced. Normally he would have argued with me, because he was a belligerent and proud man, but he looked pale. He had an illness, no one knew what, and it left him tired and weak for long stretches. He was perhaps forty in that year, and his red hair had strands of white at his temples. This, I guessed, was one of his bad days. “Harald should have been killed weeks ago,” I taunted him scornfully.

  “Enough!” Alfred slapped the arm of his chair, startling a leather-hooded falcon that was perched on a lectern beside the altar. The bird flapped his wings, but the jesses held him firm. Alfred grimaced. His face told me what I well knew, that he needed me and did not want to need me. “We could not attack Harald,” he explained patiently, “so long as Haesten threatened our northern flank.”

  “Haesten couldn’t threaten a wet puppy,” I said, “he’s too frightened of defeat.”

  I was arrogant that day, arrogant and confident, because there are times when men need to see arrogance. These men had spent days arguing about what to do, and in the end they had done nothing, and all that time they had been multiplying Harald’s forces in their minds until they were convinced he was invincible. Alfred, meanwhile, had deliberately refrained from seeking my help be cause he wanted to hand the reins of Wessex and Mercia to his son and to his son-in-law, which meant giving them reputations as leaders, but their leadership had failed, and so Alfred had sent for me. And now, because they needed it, I countered their fears with an arrogant assurance.

  “Harald has five thousand men,” Ealdorman Æthelhelm of Wiltunscir said softly. Æthelhelm was a good man, but he too seemed infected by the timidity that had overtaken Alfred’s entourage. “He brought two hundred ships!” he added.

  “If he has two thousand men, I’d be astonished,” I said. “How many horses does he have?” No one knew, or at least no one answered. Harald might well have brought as many as five thousand men, but his army consisted only of those who had horses.

  “However many men he has,” Alfred said pointedly, “he must attack this burh to advance further into Wessex.”

  That was nonsense, of course. Harald could go north or south of Æscengum, but there was no future in arguing that with Alfred, who had a peculiar affection for the burh. “So you plan to defeat him here, lord?” I asked instead.

  “I have nine hundred men here,” he said, “and we have the burh’s garrison, and now your three hundred. Harald will break himself on these walls.” I saw Æthelred, Æthelhelm, and Ealdorman Æthelnoth of Sumorsæte all nod their agreement.

  “And I have five hundred men at Silcestre,” Æthelred said, as though that made all the difference.

  “And what are they doing there?” I asked, “pissing in the Temes while we fight?”

  Æthelflæd grinned, while her brother Edward looked affronted. Dear Father Beocca, who had been my childhood tutor, gave me a long-suffering look of reproof. Alfred just sighed. “Lord Æthelred’s men can harry the enemy while they besiege us,” he explained.

  “So our victory, lord,” I said, “depends on Harald attacking us here? On Harald allowing us to kill his men while they try to cross the wall?” Alfred did not answer. A pair of sparrows squabbled among the rafters. A thick beeswax candle on the altar behind Alfred guttered and smoked and a monk hurried to trim the wick. The flame grew again, its light reflected from a high golden reliquary that seemed to contain a withered hand.

  “Harald will want to defeat us.” Edward made his first tentative contribution to the discussion.

  “Why?” I asked, “when we’re doing our best to defeat ourselves?” There was an aggrieved murmur from the courtiers, but I overrode it. “Let me tell you what Harald will do, lord,” I said, speaking to Alfred. “He’ll take his army north of us and advance on Wintanceaster. There’s a lot of silver there, all conveniently piled in your new cathedral, and you’ve brought your army here so he won’t have much trouble breaking through Wintanceaster’s walls. And even if he does besiege us here,” I spoke even louder to drown Bishop Asser’s angry protest, “all he needs do is surround us and let us starve. How much food do we have here?”

  The king gestured to Asser, requesting that he stop spluttering. “So what would you do, Lord Uhtred?” Alfred asked, and there was a plaintive note in his voice. He was old and he was tired and he was ill, and Harald’s invasion seemed to threaten all that he had achieved.

  “I would suggest, lord,” I said, “that Lord Æthelred order his five hundred men to cross the Temes and march to Fearnhamme.”

  A hound whined in a corner of the church, but otherwise there was no sound. The
y all stared at me, but I saw some faces brighten. They had been wallowing with indecision and had needed the sword stroke of certainty.

  Alfred broke the silence. “Fearnhamme?” he asked cautiously.

  “Fearnhamme,” I repeated, watching Æthelred, but his pale face displayed no reaction, and no one else in the church made any comment.

  I had been thinking about the country to the north of Æscengum. War is not just about men, nor even about supplies, it is also about the hills and valleys, the rivers and marshes, the places where land and water will help defeat an enemy. I had traveled through Fearnhamme often enough on my journeys from Lundene to Wintanceaster, and wherever I traveled I noted how the land lay and how it might be used if an enemy was near. “There’s a hill just north of the river at Fearnhamme,” I said.

  “There is! I know it well,” one of the monks standing to Alfred’s right said, “it has an earthwork.”

  I looked at him, seeing a red-faced, hook-nosed man. “And who are you?” I asked coldly.

  “Oslac, lord,” he said, “the abbot here.”

  “The earthwork,” I asked him, “is it in good repair?”

  “It was dug by the ancient folk,” Abbot Oslac said, “and it’s much overgrown with grass, but the ditch is deep and the bank is still firm.”

  There were many such earthworks in Britain, mute witnesses to the warfare that had rolled across the land before we Saxons came to bring still more. “The bank’s high enough to make defense easy?” I asked the abbot.

  “You could hold it forever, given enough men,” Oslac said confidently. I gazed at him, noting the scar across the bridge of his nose. Abbot Oslac, I decided, had been a warrior before he became a monk.

  “But why invite Harald to besiege us there?” Alfred asked, “when we have Æscengum and its walls and its storehouses?”

  “And how long will those storehouses last, lord?” I asked him. “We have enough men inside these walls to hold the enemy till Judgment Day, but not enough food to reach Christmas.” The burhs were not provisioned for a large army. The intent of the walled towns was to hold the enemy in check and allow the army of household warriors, the trained men, to attack the besiegers in the open country outside.