‘Your enemy,’ I said.
They curbed their horses. They were too close to turn and run safely, and perhaps they were puzzled by my answer. I checked my men and went forward alone. ‘Who are you?’ the man asked again. He was in mail, had a close-fitting helmet that framed a lean, dark face, and his arms were heavy with silver.
‘I have more men than you,’ I said, ‘so you give me your name first.’
He thought about that for a few heartbeats. My men were spreading out, making a line of heavily armed horsemen who were plainly ready to attack. The man shrugged. ‘I am Torfi Ottarson.’
‘You serve Cnut?’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘I don’t.’
He glanced at the hammer at my neck. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded a third time.
‘I am called Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I said, and was rewarded with a look of sudden alarm. ‘You thought I was dead, Torfi Ottarson?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps I am. Who says the dead can’t return to take revenge on the living?’
He touched his own hammer, opened his mouth to speak, then said nothing. His men watched me.
‘So tell me, Torfi Ottarson,’ I said, ‘have you and your men come from Gleawecestre?’
‘Where there are many more men,’ he said defiantly.
‘You’re here to keep a watch on the city?’ I asked.
‘We do what we are told to do.’
‘Then I shall tell you what to do, Torfi Ottarson. Who commands your forces at Gleawecestre?’
He hesitated, then decided there was no harm in answering. ‘The Jarl Bjorgulf.’
It was not a name I knew, but presumably he was one of Cnut’s trusted men. ‘Then you will ride to the Jarl Bjorgulf now,’ I said, ‘and tell him that Uhtred of Bebbanburg is riding to Gleawecestre and that I will be allowed passage. He will let me pass.’
Torfi smiled grimly. ‘You have reputation, lord, but even you can’t defeat the men we have at Gleawecestre.’
‘We’re not going to fight,’ I said.
‘The Jarl Bjorgulf might wish otherwise?’
‘He probably will wish otherwise,’ I said, ‘but you will tell him more.’ I raised my hand and beckoned, and watched Torfi’s face as he saw Finan and three of my men bring Frigg and the twins into sight. ‘Do you know who they are?’ I asked Torfi. He just nodded. ‘So tell Jarl Bjorgulf that if he opposes me I shall kill the little girl first, then her mother, and the boy last.’ I smiled. ‘Jarl Cnut won’t be happy, will he? His wife and children slaughtered and all because the Jarl Bjorgulf wanted a fight?’
Torfi was staring at Frigg and the twins. I think he was finding it difficult to believe his eyes, but at last he found his tongue. ‘I shall tell the Jarl Bjorgulf,’ he said in a voice suffused with amazement, ‘and bring you his answer.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ I said, ‘I know his answer. You ride and tell him that Uhtred of Bebbanburg is travelling to Gleawecestre and that he will not try to stop us. And think yourself lucky, Torfi.’
‘Lucky?’
‘You met me and lived. Now go.’
They turned and went. Their horses were much fresher than ours and they were soon so far ahead that we lost sight of them. I grinned at Finan. ‘We should enjoy this,’ I said.
‘Unless they want to be heroes and rescue them?’
‘They won’t,’ I said. I put the girl Sigril on Rolla’s horse and he rode with a drawn sword, while the boy, Cnut Cnutson, was on Swithun’s saddle, and Swithun, like Rolla, carried a naked blade. Frigg rode between Eldgrim and Kettil and seemed oblivious of what happened. She just smiled. In front of Frigg and her children, and leading our column, were two standard-bearers because, for the first time since leaving Bearddan Igge, we flew our flags, the prancing horse of Mercia and the wolf’s head of Bebbanburg.
And the Danes just watched us pass.
We came in sight of Gleawecestre and I saw how the buildings outside the high walls had been burned and cleared away so the defenders could see any enemy approach. The walls bristled with spear-points that caught the late afternoon sun. To my left were shelters put up by the Bjorgulf’s Danes, the men who guarded the city to make sure the fyrd did not attempt to sally out. There were maybe four hundred Danes, it was hard to count them because once we were in sight they rode either side of us, but always keeping a respectful distance. They did not even shout insults, but just watched us.
A mile or so from the city’s northern gate a heavy-set man with a red moustache turning grey spurred his horse towards us. He was accompanied by two younger men, and none carried a shield, just scabbarded swords. ‘You must be Jarl Bjorgulf,’ I greeted him.
‘I am.’
‘It’s good to see the sun, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I can’t remember such a wet summer. I was beginning to think it would never stop raining.’
‘You would be wise,’ he said, ‘to give me the Jarl Cnut’s family.’
‘And whole fields of rye rotted by rain,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen so many ruined crops.’
‘The Jarl Cnut will be merciful,’ Bjorgulf said.
‘You should be worried about my mercy, not his.’
‘If they’re hurt …’ he began.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ I said harshly, ‘of course they’ll be hurt. Unless you do exactly what I tell you to do.’
‘I …’ he began again.
‘Tomorrow morning, Bjorgulf,’ I said as if he had not tried to speak, ‘you will take your men away from here. You’ll ride east, up into the hills, and by midday you’ll all be gone.’
‘We …’
‘All of you, and your horses, up into the hills. And you’ll stay there, out of sight of the city, and if I see one single Dane anywhere close to Gleawecestre after midday I’ll rip the guts out of Cnut’s daughter and send them to you as a present.’ I smiled at him. ‘It was a pleasure talking to you, Bjorgulf. When you send a messenger to the jarl give him my greetings and tell him I have done the favour he asked of me.’
Bjorgulf frowned. ‘The jarl asked a favour of you?’
‘He did. He asked me to discover who hates him, and to find out who took his woman and children. The answer to both questions, Bjorgulf, is Uhtred of Bebbanburg. You can tell him that. Now go: you smell like a goat’s turd soaked in cat’s piss.’
And so we came to Gleawecestre, and the great northern gates were dragged open and the barricades inside were pulled away, and men cheered from the ramparts as my twin flags dipped to pass beneath the Roman arch. Horses’ hooves clattered loud on ancient stone and in the street beyond, waiting for us, was Osferth, who looked happier than I had ever seen him, and, next to him, was Bishop Wulfheard who had burned my home, and, towering above both men on a horse caparisoned in silver, was my woman of gold. Æthelflaed of Mercia.
‘I said I’d find you,’ I told her happily.
And so I had.
Whenever I had visited my cousin Æthelred, which I did rarely and reluctantly, it had been at his hall outside Gleawecestre, a hall I presumed was now turned to ash. I had rarely been inside the city, which was even more impressive than Ceaster. The palace was a towering building made of thin Roman bricks that had once been clad in marble sheets, though almost all of those had been burned for lime, leaving only a few rusted iron brackets that had once held the marble in place. The bricks were now hung with leather panels depicting various saints, among them Saint Oswald being hacked down by a vicious-looking brute who snarled with bloodstained teeth while Oswald displayed a vacuous smile as if he welcomed death. What was ironic about the picture was that the vicious-looking brute was Penda, a Mercian, and the stupid-looking victim was a Northumbrian who had been an enemy of Mercia, but there is no point in looking for sense among Christians. Oswald was now venerated by his enemies and a Mercian army had crossed Britain to find his bones.
The floor of the hall was one of the intricate Roman tiled floors, this one depicting warriors hailing a chieftain who stood in a chariot being pulled by t
wo swans and a fish. Maybe life was different in those days. Great pillars held up an arched roof on which the remnants of plaster still showed, those remnants covered with paintings that could just be discerned among the water-stains, while the far end of the hall had a timber dais on which my cousin had placed a throne draped in scarlet cloth. A second lower throne was presumably for his new woman who so desperately wanted to be a queen. I kicked that seat off the dais and sat in the scarlet chair and looked down on the city’s leaders. Those men, both church and laymen, stood on the picture of the chariot and looked sheepish. ‘You’re fools,’ I snarled. ‘You are all arse-licking, piss-dribbling, nose-picking fools.’
I was determined to enjoy myself.
There must have been two score of Mercians in the hall, all ealdormen, priests or thegns, the men left to guard Gleawecestre while Æthelred sought glory in East Anglia. Æthelflaed was there too, but my men surrounded her, separating her from the other Mercians. She was not the only woman in the hall. My daughter Stiorra, who lived in Æthelflaed’s household, was standing by one of the pillars, and the sight of her long, serious and beautiful face brought a sudden sharp memory of her mother. Next to her was another girl, as tall as Stiorra, but fair where my daughter was dark, and she seemed familiar, but I could not place her. I gave her a long hard look, more on account of her undeniable prettiness than to try to provoke my memory, but I still could not identify her, and so turned to the body of the hall. ‘And which of you,’ I demanded, ‘has command of the city’s garrison?’
There was a pause. Finally Bishop Wulfheard took a pace forward and cleared his throat. ‘I do,’ he said.
‘You!’ I said, sounding shocked.
‘The Lord Æthelred entrusted the city’s safety to me,’ he said defensively.
I stared at him. Let the silence stretch. ‘Is there a church here?’ I asked at last.
‘Of course.’
‘Then tomorrow I’ll celebrate mass,’ I said, ‘and I’ll preach a sermon. I can hand out stale bread and bad advice as well as anyone, can’t I?’ There was silence, except for a girlish giggle. Æthelflaed turned sharply to silence the sound, which came from the tall, fair, pretty girl standing next to my daughter. I recognised her then because she had ever been a light-headed, flippant creature. She was Æthelflaed’s daughter, Ælfwynn, whom I still thought of as a child, but she was a child no longer. I winked at her, which only made her giggle again.
‘Why would Æthelred put a bishop in charge of a garrison?’ I asked, turning my attention back to Bishop Wulfheard. ‘Have you ever fought in a battle? I know you burned down my barns, but that isn’t a battle, you stinking piece of rat-gristle. A battle is the shield wall. It’s smelling your enemy’s breath while he tries to disembowel you with an axe, it’s blood and shit and screams and pain and terror. It’s trampling in your friends’ guts as enemies butcher them. It’s men clenching their teeth so hard they shatter them. Have you ever been in a battle?’ He said nothing, just looked indignant. ‘I asked you a question!’ I shouted at him.
‘No,’ he admitted.
‘Then you’re not fit to be in charge of the garrison,’ I said.
‘The Lord Æthelred …’ he began.
‘Is pissing his breeches in East Anglia,’ I said, ‘and wondering how he’ll ever get home again. And he only put you in charge because you’re a grovelling lickspittle arsehole whom he trusted, just as he trusted Haesten. It was Haesten who assured you he’d captured Cnut’s family, yes?’
A few men muttered assent. The bishop said nothing.
‘Haesten,’ I said, ‘is a treacherous piece of slime, and he deceived you. He always served Cnut, but you all believed him because your shit-brained priests assured you that God was on your side. Well, he is now. He sent me, and I brought you Cnut’s wife and children, and I am also angry.’
I stood on those last four words, stepped off the dais and stalked towards Wulfheard. ‘I am angry,’ I said again, ‘because you burned my buildings. You tried to get that mob to kill me. You said any man who killed me would earn the grace of God. Do you remember that, you rancid piece of rat-dropping?’
Wulfheard said nothing.
‘You called me an abomination,’ I said. ‘Do you remember?’ I pulled Serpent-Breath from her sheath. She made a rasping noise, surprisingly loud, as her long blade scraped through the scabbard’s throat. Wulfheard made a small scared noise and stepped back towards the protection of four priests who were evidently his followers, but I did not threaten him, I just reversed the sword and thrust the hilt towards him. ‘There, you toad-fart,’ I said, ‘earn the grace of God by killing a pagan abomination.’ He stared at me puzzled. ‘Kill me, you bile-brained slug,’ I said.
‘I …’ he began, then faltered and took another backwards step.
I followed him, and one of the priests, a young man, moved to stop me. ‘Touch me,’ I warned him, ‘and I’ll spill your guts across the floor. I’m the priest-killer, remember? I’m an outcast of God. I’m an abomination. I’m the man you hate. I kill priests the way other men swat wasps. I am Uhtred.’ I looked back to Wulfheard and held the sword to him again. ‘So, you spavined weasel,’ I challenged him, ‘do you have the belly to kill me?’ He shook his head and still said nothing. ‘I’m the man who killed the Abbot Wihtred,’ I said to him, ‘and you cursed me for that. So why don’t you kill me?’ I waited, watching the fear on the bishop’s face, and that was the moment I remembered the twins’ strange reaction when Father Wissian had come into the great chamber at Ceaster. I turned towards Æthelflaed. ‘You told me the Abbot Wihtred came from Northumbria?’
‘He did.’
‘And he suddenly appeared preaching about Saint Oswald?’ I asked.
‘The blessed Saint Oswald was a Northumbrian,’ the bishop put in as if that might placate me.
‘I know who he was!’ I snarled. ‘And did it occur to any of you that Cnut persuaded Abbot Wihtred to come south? Cnut rules in Northumbria, he wanted the Mercian army lured to East Anglia, and so he drew them there with promises of a dead saint’s miraculous corpse. Wihtred was his man! His children called him uncle.’ I did not know if all that was true, of course, but it seemed very likely. Cnut had been clever. ‘You’re fools, all of you!’ I thrust the sword at Wulfheard again. ‘Kill me, you slug-turd,’ I said, but he just shook his head. ‘Then you will pay me,’ I said, ‘for the damage you did at Fagranforda. You will pay me in gold and silver and I shall rebuild my halls and my barns and my cowsheds at your expense. You are going to repay me, aren’t you?’
He nodded. He had little choice.
‘Good!’ I said cheerfully. I slammed Serpent-Breath back into her scabbard, and strode back to the dais. ‘My Lady Æthelflaed,’ I said very formally.
‘My Lord Uhtred,’ she answered just as formally.
‘Who should command here?’
She hesitated, looking at the Mercians. ‘Merewalh is as good as anyone,’ she said.
‘What about you?’ I asked her. ‘Why don’t you command?’
‘Because I go where you go,’ she said firmly. The men in the room stirred uncomfortably, but none spoke. I thought about contradicting her, then decided it was best not to waste my breath.
‘Merewalh,’ I said instead, ‘you’re in charge of the garrison. I doubt Cnut will attack you because I intend to lure him northwards, but I could be wrong. How many trained warriors are in the city?’
‘A hundred and forty-six,’ Æthelflaed answered, ‘most of them mine. Some used to be yours.’
‘They’ll all be riding with me,’ I said. ‘Merewalh, you can keep ten of your men, the rest go with me. And I might send for you when I know the city is safe because I’d hate for you to miss the battle. It’s going to be a vicious one. Bishop! Would you like to fight the pagans?’
Wulfheard just stared at me. He was doubtless praying that his nailed god would send a lightning strike to shrivel me, but the nailed god did not oblige.
‘So let me tell yo
u what is happening,’ I said, pacing the dais as I spoke. ‘The Jarl Cnut has brought over four thousand men to Mercia. He’s destroying Mercia, burning and killing, and Æthelred,’ I deliberately did not call him Lord Æthelred, ‘has to come back to stop the destruction. How many men does Æthelred have?’
‘Fifteen hundred,’ someone muttered.
‘And if he doesn’t come back,’ I went on, ‘Cnut will hunt him down in East Anglia. That’s probably what Cnut is doing now. He’s hunting Æthelred and hopes to destroy him before the West Saxons come north. So our job is to pull Cnut away from Æthelred and keep him busy while the West Saxons muster their army and march to join Æthelred. How many men can Edward bring?’ I asked Osferth.
‘Between three and four thousand,’ he said.
‘Good!’ I smiled. ‘We’ll outnumber Cnut and we’ll rip his guts out and feed them to the dogs.’
Ealdorman Deogol, a slow-witted man who held land just north of Gleawecestre, frowned at me. ‘You’ll lead men north?’
‘I will.’
‘And take almost all the trained warriors with you,’ he said accusingly.
‘I will,’ I said.
‘But there are Danes ringing the city,’ he said plaintively.
‘I got into the city,’ I said, ‘and I can get out.’
‘And if they see the trained warriors leave,’ his voice was rising, ‘what’s to stop them attacking?’
‘Oh, they’re leaving tomorrow,’ I said, ‘didn’t I tell you that? They’re leaving, and we’re going to burn their ships.’
‘They’re leaving?’ Deogol asked incredulously.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘they’re leaving.’
And I hoped I was right.
‘You were hard on Bishop Wulfheard,’ Æthelflaed said to me that night. We were in bed. I assumed it was her husband’s bed and I did not care. ‘You were very hard on him,’ she said.
‘Not hard enough.’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘He’s an earsling,’ I said. She sighed. ‘Ælfwynn’s grown into a pretty girl,’ I went on.