“Kill the old bastard,” Ulf said.
“I am minded to be merciful,” Guthred said regally.
“You’re minded to be an idiot,” Ulf retorted. He was in a gloomy mood for Eoferwic had not yielded a quarter of the plunder he had expected, but he had found twin girls who pleased him and they kept him from making too many complaints.
When the ceremonies were over, and after Eadred had bellowed an interminable prayer, Guthred walked with me through the city. I think he wanted to show off his new armor, or perhaps he just wanted to clear his head from the smoke fumes in the palace. He drank ale in every tavern, joking with his men in English and Danish, and he kissed at least fifty girls, but then he led me on to the ramparts and we walked for a time in silence until we came to the city’s eastern side where I stopped and looked across the field to where the river lay like a sheet of beaten silver under a half-moon. “This is where my father died,” I said.
“Sword in hand?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good,” he said, forgetting for a moment that he was a Christian. “But a sad day for you.”
“It was a good day,” I said, “I met Earl Ragnar. And I never much liked my father.”
“You didn’t?” he sounded surprised. “Why not?”
“He was a grim beast,” I said. “Men wanted his approval, and it was grudging.”
“Like you, then,” he said, and it was my turn to be surprised.
“Me?”
“My grim Uhtred,” he said, “all anger and threat. So tell me what I do about Egbert?”
“What Ulf suggests,” I said, “of course.”
“Ulf would kill everyone,” Guthred said, “because then he’d have no problems. What would Alfred do?”
“It doesn’t matter what Alfred would do.”
“Yes it does,” he insisted patiently, “so tell me.”
There was something about Guthred that always made me tell the truth to him, or mostly tell the truth, and I was tempted to answer that Alfred would drag the old king out to the marketplace and lop off his head, but I knew that was not true. Alfred had spared his traitorous cousin’s life after Ethandun and he had permitted his nephew, Æthelwold, to live when that nephew had a better claim to the throne than Alfred himself. So I sighed. “He’d let him live,” I said, “but Alfred’s a pious fool.”
“No he’s not,” Guthred said.
“He’s terrified of God’s disapproval,” I said.
“That’s a sensible thing to be frightened of,” Guthred said.
“Kill Egbert, lord,” I said vehemently. “If you don’t kill him then he’ll try to get the kingdom back. He’s got estates south of here. He can raise men. You let him live and he’ll take those men to Ivarr, and Ivarr will want him back on the throne. Egbert’s an enemy!”
“He’s an old man, and he’s not well and he’s frightened,” Guthred said patiently.
“So put the bastard out of his misery,” I urged him. “I’ll do it for you. I’ve never killed a king.”
“And you’d like to?”
“I’ll kill this one for you,” I said. “He let his Saxons massacre Danes! He’s not as pathetic as you think.”
Guthred gave me a reproachful look. “I know you, Uhtred,” he said fondly. “You want to boast that you’re the man who killed Ubba beside the sea and unhorsed Svein of the White Horse and sent King Egbert of Eoferwic to his cold grave.”
“And killed Kjartan the Cruel,” I said, “and slaughtered Ælfric, usurper of Bebbanburg.”
“I’m glad I’m not your enemy,” he said lightly, then grimaced. “The ale is sour here.”
“They make it differently,” I explained. “What does Abbot Eadred tell you to do?”
“The same as you and Ulf, of course. Kill Egbert.”
“For once Eadred’s right.”
“But Alfred would not kill him,” he said firmly.
“Alfred is king of Wessex,” I said, “and he’s not facing Ivarr, and he doesn’t have a rival like Egbert.”
“But Alfred’s a good king,” Guthred insisted.
I kicked the palisade in my frustration. “Why would you let Egbert live?” I demanded, “so that folk will like you?”
“I want men to like me,” he said.
“They should fear you,” I said vehemently. “You’re a king! You have to be ruthless. You have to be feared.”
“Is Alfred feared?”
“Yes,” I said, and was surprised to realize I had spoken the truth.
“Because he’s ruthless?”
I shook my head. “Men fear his displeasure.” I had never realized that before, but it was suddenly clear to me. Alfred was not ruthless. He was given to mercy, but he was still feared. I think men recognized that Alfred was under discipline, just as they were under his rule. Alfred’s discipline was fear of his god’s displeasure. He could never escape that. He could never be as good as he wanted, but he never stopped trying. Me, I had long accepted that I was fallible, but Alfred would never accept that of himself.
“I would like men to fear my displeasure,” Guthred said mildly.
“Then let me kill Egbert,” I said, and could have saved my breath.
Guthred, inspired by his reverence for Alfred, spared Egbert’s life, and in the end he was proved right. He made the old king go to live in a monastery south of the river and he charged the monks to keep Egbert confined to the monastery’s walls, which they did, and within a year Egbert died of some disease that wasted him away to a pain-racked scrap of bone and sinew. He was buried in the big church at Eoferwic, though I saw none of that.
It was high summer by now and every day I feared to see Ivarr’s men coming south, but instead there came a rumor of a great battle between Ivarr and the Scots. There were always such rumors, and most are untrue, so I gave it no credence, but Guthred decided to believe the story and he gave his permission for most of his army to go back to Cumbraland to gather their harvest. That left us very few troops to garrison Eoferwic. Guthred’s household troops stayed and every morning I made them practice with swords, shields and spears, and every afternoon made them work to repair Eoferwic’s wall that was falling down in too many places. I thought Guthred a fool to let most of his men go, but he said that without a harvest his people would starve, and he was quite certain they would return. And again he was right. They did return. Ulf led them back from Cumbraland and demanded to know how the gathering army would be employed.
“We march north to settle Kjartan,” Guthred said.
“And Ælfric,” I insisted.
“Of course,” Guthred said.
“How much plunder does Kjartan have?” Ulf wanted to know.
“Vast plunder,” I said, remembering Tekil’s tales. I said nothing of the feral dogs that guarded the silver and gold. “Kjartan is rich beyond dreams.”
“Time to sharpen our swords,” Ulf said.
“And Ælfric has an even bigger hoard,” I added, though I had no idea whether I spoke the truth.
But I truly believed we could capture Bebbanburg. It had never been taken by an enemy, but that did not mean it could not be taken. It all depended on Ivarr. If he could be defeated then Guthred would be the most powerful man in Northumbria and Guthred was my friend and he, I believed, would not only help me kill Kjartan and so revenge Ragnar the Elder, but then return me to my lands and to my fortress beside the sea. Those were my dreams that summer. I thought the future was golden if only I could secure the kingdom for Guthred, but I had forgotten the malevolence of the three spinners at the world’s root.
Father Willibald wanted to return to Wessex, for which I did not blame him. He was a West Saxon and he disliked Northumbria. I remember one night when we ate a dish of elder, which is cow’s udder pressed and cooked, and I was devouring it and saying that I had not eaten so well since I was a child, and poor Willibald could not finish a mouthful. He looked as though he wanted to be sick, and I mocked him for being a weak-spined southerner. Sihtric,
who was my servant now, brought him bread and cheese instead and Hild and I divided his elder between us. She was a southerner too, but not so choosy as Willibald. It was that night, as he grimaced at the food, that he told us he wanted to go back to Alfred.
We had heard little news of Wessex, except that it was at peace. Guthrum, of course, had been defeated and had accepted baptism as part of the peace treaty he made with Alfred. He had taken the baptismal name of Æthelstan, which meant “noble stone’, and Alfred was his godfather, and reports from the south said that Guthrum or whatever he was now called was keeping the peace. Alfred lived, and that was about all we knew.
Guthred decided he would send an embassy to Alfred. He chose four Danes and four Saxons to ride south, reckoning that such a group could ride safely through Danish or Saxon territory, and he chose Willibald to carry his message. Willibald wrote it down, his quill scratching on a piece of newly scraped parchment. “By God’s help,” Guthred dictated, “I have taken the kingdom of Northumbria…”
“Which is called Haliwerfolkland,” Eadred interrupted.
Guthred waved courteously, as if to suggest that Willibald could decide for himself whether to add that phrase. “And I am determined,” Guthred went on, “by God’s grace to rule this land in peace and justice…”
“Not so fast, lord,” Willibald said.
“And to teach them how to brew proper ale,” Guthred continued.
“And to teach them…” Willibald said under his breath.
Guthred laughed. “No, no, father! You don’t write that!”
Poor Willibald. That letter was so long that another lambskin had to be stretched, scraped, and trimmed. The message went on and on about the holy Saint Cuthbert and how he had brought the army of the holy folk to Eoferwic, and how Guthred would make a shrine to the saint. The letter did mention that there were still enemies who might spoil that ambition, but it made light of them, as though Ivarr and Kjartan and Ælfric were minor obstacles. It asked for King Alfred’s prayers and assured the king of Wessex that prayers were being said for him each day by the Christians of Haliwerfolkland. “I should send Alfred a present,” Guthred said, “what would he like?”
“A relic,” I suggested sourly.
That was a good suggestion for there was nothing Alfred loved so dearly as a holy relic, but there was nothing much to be had in Eoferwic. The archbishop’s church possessed many treasures, including the sponge on which Jesus had been given wine to drink as he died and it also had the halter from Balaam’s ass, though who Balaam was I did not know, and why his ass was holy was even more of a mystery. The church possessed a dozen such things, but the archbishop had carried them away with him and no one was certain where Wulfhere was. I assumed he had joined Ivarr. Hrothweard said he had a seed from a sycamore tree mentioned in the gospel book, but when we opened the silver box in which the seed was kept there was nothing but dust. In the end I suggested that we drew two of Saint Oswald’s three teeth. Eadred bridled at that, then decided that the idea was not so bad after all, so pliers were fetched and the small chest opened and one of the monks tugged out two of the dead king’s yellow peg-like teeth and they were placed in a beautiful silver pot that Egbert had used to store smoked oysters.
The embassy left on a late August morning. Guthred took Willibald aside and gave him a last message for Alfred, assuring Alfred that though he, Guthred, was a Dane he was also a Christian, and begging that should Northumbria be threatened by enemies that Alfred should send warriors to fight for God’s land. That was pissing into the wind, I thought, for Wessex had enemies enough without worrying about Northumbria’s fate.
I also took Willibald aside. I was sorry he was going, for I liked him, and he was a good man, but I could see he was impatient to see Wessex again. “You will do something for me, father,” I said.
“If it is possible,” he said cautiously.
“Give the king my greetings,” I said.
Willibald looked relieved as if he had expected my favor to be a great deal more burdensome, which it was, as he would find out. “The king will want to know when you will return, lord,” he said.
“In good time,” I answered, though the only reason I now had for visiting Wessex was to retrieve the hoard I had hidden at Fifhaden. I regretted burying that treasure now, for in truth I never wanted to see Wessex again. “I want you to find Earl Ragnar,” I told Willibald.
His eyes widened. “The hostage?” he asked.
“Find him,” I said, “and give him a message from me.”
“If I can,” he said, still cautious.
I gripped his shoulders to make him pay attention and he grimaced from the strength of my hands. “You will find him,” I said threateningly, “and you will give him a message. Tell him I am going north to kill Kjartan. And tell him his sister lives. Tell him I will do all I can to find her and keep her safe. Tell him I swear that on my life. And tell him to come here as soon as he is freed.” I made him repeat it, and I made him swear on his crucifix that he would deliver the message and he was reluctant to make such an oath, but he was frightened of my anger and so he gripped the little cross and made the solemn promise.
And then he went.
And we had an army again, for the harvest was gathered, and it was time to strike north.
Guthred went north for three reasons. The first was Ivarr who had to be defeated, and the second was Kjartan whose presence in Northumbria was like a foul wound and the third was Ælfric who had to submit to Guthred’s authority. Ivarr was the most dangerous and he would surely defeat us if he brought his army south. Kjartan was less dangerous, but he had to be destroyed for there could be no peace in Northumbria while he lived. Ælfric was the least dangerous. “Your uncle is king in Bebbanburg,” Guthred told me as we marched north.
“Does he call himself that?” I asked, angry.
“No, no! He’s got too much sense. But in effect that’s what he is. Kjartan’s land is a barrier, isn’t it? So Eoferwic’s rule doesn’t stretch past Dunholm.”
“We used to be kings in Bebbanburg,” I said.
“You did?” Guthred was surprised. “Kings of Northumbria?”
“Of Bernicia,” I said. Guthred had never heard the name. “It was all of northern Northumbria,” I said, “and everything around Eoferwic was the kingdom of Deira.”
“They joined together?” Guthred asked.
“We killed their last king,” I said, “but that was years ago. Back before Christianity came.”
“So you have a claim to the kingship here?” he asked and, to my astonishment, there was suspicion in his voice. I stared at him and he blushed. “But you do?” he said, trying to sound as if he did not care what I answered.
I laughed at him. “Lord King,” I said, “if you restore me to Bebbanburg I shall kneel to you and swear you and your heirs lifelong fealty.”
“Heirs!” he said brightly. “Have you seen Osburh?”
“I’ve seen Osburh,” I said. She was Egbert’s niece, a Saxon girl, and she had been living in the palace when we took Eoferwic. She was fourteen, dark-haired and had a plump, pretty face.
“If I marry her,” Guthred asked me, “will Hild be her companion?”
“Ask her,” I said, jerking my head to where Hild followed us. I had thought Hild might return to Wessex with Father Willibald, but she had said she was not ready to face Alfred yet and I could not blame her for that and so I had not pressed her. “I think she’d be honored to be your wife’s companion,” I told Guthred.
We camped that first night at Onhripum where a small monastery gave Guthred, Eadred, and the host of clergymen shelter. Our army was close to six hundred men now, and almost half of them were mounted, and our campfires lit the fields all about the monastery. As commander of the household troops I camped closest to the buildings and my young men, who now numbered forty, and most of whom possessed mail coats plundered from Eoferwic, slept close to the monastery’s gate.
I stood guard with Clapa and two
Saxons for the first part of the night. Sihtric was with me. I called him my servant, but he was learning to use a sword and shield and I reckoned he would make a useful soldier in a year or two. “You have the heads safe?” I asked him.
“You can smell them!” Clapa protested.
“No worse than you smell, Clapa,” I retorted.
“They’re safe, lord,” Sihtric said.
“I should have eight heads,” I said, and put my fingers around Sihtric’s throat. “Pretty skinny neck, Sihtric.”
“But it’s a tough neck, lord,” he said.
Just then the monastery door opened and Gisela, cloaked in black, slipped through. “You should be asleep, lady,” I chided her.
“I can’t sleep. I want to walk.” She stared defiantly at me. Her lips were slightly apart and the firelight glinted off her teeth and reflected from her wide eyes.
“Where do you want to walk?” I asked.
She shrugged, still looking at me, and I thought of Hild sleeping in the monastery.
“I’ll leave you in charge, Clapa,” I said, “and if Ivarr comes, kill the bastard.”
“Yes, lord.”
I heard the guards sniggering as we walked away. I quietened them with a growl, then led Gisela toward the trees east of the monastery for it was dark there. She reached out and took my hand. She said nothing, content to walk close beside me. “Aren’t you frightened of the night?” I asked her.
“Not with you.”
“When I was a child,” I said, “I made myself into a sceadugengan.”
“What’s a sceadugengan?” The word was Saxon and unfamiliar to her.
“A shadow-walker,” I told her. “A creature that stalks the dark.” An owl hooted quite close by and her fingers instinctively tightened on mine.
We stopped under some wind-rustled beech trees. Some small light came through the leaves, cast by the campfires, and I tilted her face up and looked down at her. She was tall, but still a head shorter than me. She let herself be examined, then closed her eyes as I drew a gentle finger down her long nose. “I…” I said, then stopped.