War of the Wolf Read online

  “He would, I know.”

  “And you keep his hopes alive?”

  “Do I?” he asked. He seemed amused by my questions. “Perhaps his god is more powerful than ours? Do you care which god I worship, Lord Uhtred?”

  “I like to know my enemies,” I said.

  He smiled at that. “I am not your enemy, Lord Uhtred.”

  “Then what are you? A loyal oath-follower of Prince Æthelstan? A settler pretending to be interested in the Saxon god?”

  “We are humble farmers now,” he said, “farmers and shepherds and fishermen.”

  “And I’m a humble goatherd,” I said.

  He laughed again. “A goatherd who wins his battles.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Then let us make sure we are always on the same side,” he said quietly. He looked at the cross that crowned the prow of the nearest ship. “I was not the only man driven out of Ireland,” he said, and something in his tone made me pay attention. “Anluf is still there, but for how long?”

  “Anluf?”

  “He is the greatest chieftain of the Irish Norse and he has strong fortresses. Even fiends find those walls deadly. Anluf saw my father as a rival, and refused to help us, but that is not why we lost. My father lost the battle,” he gazed across the placid Mærse as he spoke, “because his brother and his men retreated before the fight. I suspect he was bribed with Irish gold.”

  “Your uncle.”

  “He is called Sköll,” he went on, “Sköll Grimmarson. Have you heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “You will. He is ambitious. And he has a feared sorcerer,” he paused to touch the bone-hammer, “and he and his magician are in your country.”

  “In Northumbria?”

  “Northumbria, yes. He landed north of here, far north. Beyond the next river, what is it called?”

  “The Ribbel.”

  “Beyond the Ribbel where he has gathered men. Sköll, you see, craves to be called King Sköll.”

  “King of what?” I asked scornfully.

  “Northumbria, of course. And that would be fitting, would it not? Northumbria, a northern kingdom for a Norse king.” He looked at me with his ice-blue eyes and I remember thinking that Ingilmundr was one of the most dangerous men I had ever met. “To become king, of course,” he went on in a conversational tone, “he must first defeat Sigtryggr, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he knows, who does not, that King Sigtryggr’s father-in-law is the renowned Lord Uhtred. If I were Sköll Grimmarson I would want Lord Uhtred far from his home if I planned to cross the hills.”

  So this was why he had sought me out. He knew I had been lured across Britain, and he was telling me that his uncle, whom he plainly hated, had arranged the deception. “And how,” I asked, “would Sköll do that?”

  He turned to stare again at the river. “My uncle has recruited men who settled south of the Ribbel, and that, I am told, is Mercian land.”

  “It is.”

  “And my friend Æthelstan insists that all such settlers must pay tribute and must accept his missionaries.”

  I realized he was talking about the monk. Brother Osric. The man who had led me on a wild dance across the hills. The man who had lied to me. And Ingilmundr was telling me that his uncle, Sköll Grimmarson, had sent the monk on his treacherous errand. “How do you know all this?” I asked.

  “Even we simple farmers like to know what is happening in the world.”

  “And even a simple farmer would like me to take revenge for his father’s betrayal?”

  “My Christian teachers tell me revenge is an unworthy thing.”

  “Your Christian teachers are full of shit,” I said savagely.

  He just smiled. “I almost forgot to tell you,” he went on calmly, “that Prince Æthelstan asked that you should join him. I offered to carry the message. Shall we stroll back, lord?”

  That was the first time I saw Ingilmundr. In time I would meet him again, though in those later encounters he shone in mail, was hung with gold, and carried a sword called Bone-Carver that was feared through all northern Britain. But on that day by the Mærse he did me a favor. The favor, of course, was in his interest. He wanted revenge on his uncle and was not yet strong enough to take that revenge himself, but the day would come when he would be strong. Strong, deadly, and clever. Æthelstan had said I would like him, and I did, but I also feared him.

  Æthelstan had requested that I accompany him to Brunanburh and I had thought it was simply an opportunity for him to tell me about his hopes for Mercia and Englaland, or perhaps to meet Ingilmundr, but it seemed there was another reason. He was waiting for me at the fort’s gate, and, when we joined him, he beckoned for me to walk a small way eastward. Ingilmundr left us alone. Four guards followed us, but stayed well out of earshot. I sensed that Æthelstan was nervous. He commented on the weather, on his plans to rebuild Ceaster’s bridge, on his hopes for a good spring planting, on anything, it seemed, rather than the purpose of our meeting. “What did you think of Ingilmundr?” he asked when we had exhausted the prospects of harvest.

  “He’s clever,” I said.

  “Just clever?”

  “Vain,” I said, “untrustworthy and dangerous.”

  Æthelstan seemed shocked by that answer. “I count him as a friend,” he said stiffly, “and I hoped you would too.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s proof we can live together in peace.”

  “He still wears Thor’s hammer.”

  “So do you! But he is learning better! He’s eager for the truth. And he has enemies among the other Norse, and that could make him a friend to us, a good friend.”

  “You sent him missionaries?” I asked.

  “Two priests, yes. They tell me he is earnest in his search for truth.”

  “I want to know about your other missionaries,” I went on, “those you sent to the Norse who settled south of the Ribbel.”

  He shrugged. “We sent six, I believe. They are brothers.”

  “You mean monks? Black monks?”

  “They are Benedictines, yes.”

  “And did one of them have a scar across his tonsure?”

  “Yes!” Æthelstan stopped and looked at me, puzzled, but I offered him no explanation for my question. “Brother Beadwulf has that scar,” he told me. “He tells me he had an argument with his sister when he was a child and he likes to say she gave him his first tonsure.”

  “She should have slit his throat,” I said, “because I’m going to tear his belly open from his crotch to his breastbone.”

  “God forgive you!” Æthelstan sounded horrified. “They already call you the priest-killer!”

  “Then they can call me monk-killer too,” I said, “because your Brother Beadwulf is my Brother Osric.”

  Æthelstan flinched. “You can’t be sure,” he said uncertainly.

  I ignored his words. “Where did you send Brother Beadwulf or whatever he’s called?”

  “To a man called Arnborg.”

  “Arnborg?”

  “A Norse chieftain who once held land on Monez. He was driven out by the Welsh, and settled on the coast north of here. He leads maybe a hundred men? I doubt he has more than a hundred.”

  “How far north?”

  “He came to the Ribbel with three ships and found land on the southern bank of the river. He swore to keep the peace and pay us tribute.” Æthelstan looked troubled. “The monk is a tall man, yes? Dark hair?”

  “And with a scar that looked as if someone had opened up his head from one ear to the other. I wish they had.”

  “It sounds like Brother Beadwulf,” Æthelstan admitted unhappily.

  “And I’m going to find him,” I said.

  “If it is Brother Beadwulf,” Æthelstan said, recovering his poise, “then perhaps he just wanted to help? Wanted the siege lifted?”

  “So he lies to me about his name? Lies about where he’s from?”

  Æthelstan fro
wned. “If Brother Beadwulf has transgressed then he must suffer Mercian justice.”

  “Transgressed!” I mocked the word.

  “He is a Mercian,” Æthelstan insisted, “and while he is on Mercian soil I forbid you to harm him. He may be in error, but he is a man of God, and therefore under my protection.”

  “Then protect him,” I said savagely, “from me.”

  Æthelstan bridled at that, but held his temper. “You may deliver him to me for judgment,” he said.

  “I am capable, lord Prince,” I said, still savage, “of dispensing my own justice.”

  “Not,” he said sharply, “inside Mercia! Here you are under my father’s authority.” He hesitated, then added, “and mine.”

  “My authority,” I snarled, “is this!” I slapped Serpent-Breath’s hilt. “And on that authority, lord Prince, I am riding to find Jarl Arnborg.”

  “And Brother Beadwulf?”

  “Of course.”

  He stood straighter, confronting me. “And if you kill another man of God,” he said, “you become my enemy.”

  For a moment I had no idea what to say, and for the same moment I was tempted to tell him to stop being a pompous little earsling. I had known him and protected him since he was a child, he had been like a son to me, but in the last few years the priests had got to him. Yet the boy I had nurtured was still there, I thought, and so I suppressed my anger. “You forget,” I said, “that I swore an oath to the Lady Æthelflaed to protect you, and I will keep that oath.”

  “What else did you swear to her?” he asked.

  “To serve her, and I did.”

  “You did,” he agreed. “You served her well, and she loved you.” He turned away, staring at the bare low branches of bog myrtle that grew in a damp patch beside a ditch. “You remember how the Lady Æthelflaed liked bog myrtle? She believed the leaves kept fleas away.” He smiled at the memory. “And you remember this ditch, lord?”

  “I remember it. You killed Eardwulf here.”

  “I did. I was just a boy. I had bad dreams for weeks afterward. So much blood! To this day when I smell bog myrtle I think of blood in a ditch. Why did you make me kill him?”

  “Because a king must learn the cost of life and death.”

  “And you want me to be king after my father?”

  “No, lord Prince,” I said, surprising him. “I want Ælfweard to be king because he’s a useless piece of weasel shit, and if he invades Northumbria I’ll gut him. But if you ask me who ought to be king? You, of course.”

  “And you once took an oath to protect me,” he said quietly.

  “I did, to the Lady Æthelflaed, and I kept that oath.”

  “You did keep it,” he agreed. He was staring into the ditch where some skims of ice still lingered. “I want your oath, Lord Uhtred,” he said.

  So that was why he had summoned me! No wonder he had been nervous. He turned his head to look at me, and I saw the determination in his face. He had grown up. He was no longer a boy or even a youth. He had become as stern and unbending as Alfred, his grandfather. “My oath?” I asked, because I was not sure what else to say.

  “I want the same oath you gave to the Lady Æthelflaed,” he said calmly.

  “I swore to serve her,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I owed Æthelstan. He had been beside me when we recaptured Bebbanburg, and he had fought well there even though he had had no need to be in that fight. So yes, I owed him, but did he know he was asking the impossible? We live by oaths and we can die by them. To give an oath is to harness a life to a promise, and to break an oath is to tempt the punishment of the gods. “I swore loyalty to King Sigtryggr,” I said, “and I cannot break that oath. How can I serve both you and him?”

  “You can swear an oath,” he said, “that you will never oppose me, never thwart me.”

  “And if you invade Northumbria?”

  “Then you will not fight me.”

  “And my oath to my son-in-law?” I asked. “If,” I paused, “when you invade Northumbria my oath to Sigtryggr means I must oppose you. You would want me to break that oath?”

  “It is a pagan oath,” he said, “and therefore meaningless.”

  “Like the oath you took from Ingilmundr?” I asked, and he had no reply to that. “My oath to Sigtryggr rules my life, lord Prince,” I spoke his title with condescension. “I swore to the Lady Æthelflaed that I would protect you, and I will. And if you fight Sigtryggr I will keep that oath by doing my best to capture you in battle and not kill you.” I shook my head. “No, lord Prince, I will not swear to serve you.”

  “I am sorry,” he said.

  “And now, lord Prince,” I went on, “I am riding to find Brother Osric. Unless, of course, you choose to stop me.”

  He shook his head. “I will not stop you.”

  I watched him walk away. I was angry that he had asked for my oath. He should have known me better, but then I told myself he was growing into his authority, that he was testing it.

  And I was pursuing Arnborg. Ingilmundr had told me that his uncle, Sköll Grimmarson, had received the allegiance of Norsemen settled south of the Ribbel, and I assumed Arnborg was one of those men. And Arnborg had sheltered Brother Osric, Brother Beadwulf, who had lied to me. I wanted to know why, and I suspected that Brother Beadwulf, after leaving us at Mameceaster, would have gone back to Arnborg’s steading. So to find the monk I needed to go north.

  I needed to go into the wild lands.

  We did not leave at once. We could not. Our horses needed more rest, a half-dozen of the beasts were lame, and even more required reshoeing. So we waited three days, then left to go north, though the first part of our journey took us east toward the brine pits that soured the land around the River Wevere. Great fires burned where men boiled the brine in iron vats and where salt made heaps like snowdrifts. The Romans, of course, had made the saltworks, or at least had expanded them so they could supply all Britain with salt, and to make that easy they had embanked a road across the water meadows, raising it on a great causeway of gravel.

  I had scouts ranging ahead, though there was small need of them on the wide flat plain across which the road ran like a spear. I expected no trouble, though only a fool traveled Britain’s roads without taking precautions. In places we passed through thick woodland and it was possible that stragglers from Cynlæf’s forces might be looking for unarmed travelers, but no hungry or desperate men would dare attack my men, who wore mail and helmets and were armed with swords.

  But hungry, desperate men might have attacked our companions, who were eighteen women on their way to establish the convent that Æthelstan wanted in Mameceaster and a dozen merchants who had been stranded in Ceaster by the siege. The merchants, in turn, had servants who led packhorses laden with valuable goods; tanned hides, silverware from Gleawecestre, and fine spearheads forged in Lundene. One packhorse carried the corpse of a man who had followed Cynlæf. The head was separately wrapped in canvas, and both head and body would be nailed to Mameceaster’s main gate as a warning to others tempted to rebel against King Edward’s rule. Æthelstan, his manner cold and distant after I had refused to give him my oath, had asked me to protect the merchants, packhorses, nuns, and corpse all the way to Mameceaster. “I’m not going that far,” I told him.

  “You’re going to the Ribbel,” he had pointed out, “going by Mameceaster is your easiest route.”

  “I don’t want the settlers on the Ribbel to know I’m coming,” I said, “which means I can’t use the roads.” Roman roads would lead us to Mameceaster and another road left that fortress and went north to Ribelcastre, a Roman fort on the Ribbel. Following such roads made travel easy; there was little chance of getting lost in endless tracts of wooded hills, and, at least in the larger settlements, there were barns to sleep in, smithies to shoe horses, and taverns accustomed to feeding travelers. But Arnborg, who I suspected might have occupied the old Roman fort at Ribelcastre, would have men watching the road. So I planned to
approach him from the west, through land settled by Norsemen.

  “The nuns need protection,” Æthelstan had protested.

  “So protect them,” I had said, and so twenty-two of Æthelstan’s spearmen rode to guard the travelers on the last part of their journey.

  Sunngifu was one of the women. “What I don’t understand,” I said to her, “is why you need a convent in Mameceaster.”

  “Nuns are needed everywhere, Lord Uhtred,” she said.

  “Mameceaster,” I said, “is a frontier burh. All the land around it is pagan, nasty and dangerous.”

  “Like you?”

  I looked down at her. I had offered her one of my spare horses, but she had refused, claiming that Jesus’s disciples had walked everywhere, so she and the sisters should do the same. “I’m nasty?” I asked. She just smiled. She was so breathtakingly beautiful even in a dark gray habit with a cowl covering her startling fair hair. “You’d better hope I am nasty,” I told her, “because that will keep you safe.”

  “Jesus keeps me safe, lord.”

  “Jesus will be no damned use to you if a Danish war-band comes out of that wood.” I nodded toward a stretch of leafless trees to the east, and thought of Abbess Hild, my friend now in far-off Wintanceaster, who had been raped repeatedly by Guthrum’s Danes. “It’s a cruel world, Mus,” I said, using her old nickname, “and you have to hope the warriors defending you are just as cruel as your enemies.”

  “Are you cruel, lord?”

  “I’m good at war,” I told her, “and war is cruel.”

  She looked ahead to where Æthelstan’s horsemen rode. “Will they be enough to protect us?”

  “How many other travelers have you seen on this road?” I asked. We were going north, entering low hills and leaving the wide flat plain with its lazy rivers behind us.

  “Not many,” she said.

  “Just three today,” I said, “and why? Because this is dangerous country. It’s mostly Danish with just a few Saxons. Until Edward made his burh at Mameceaster it was ruled by a Dane, and that was only two years ago. Now that country is being settled by Norsemen. I think it’s madness sending you to Mameceaster.”