I did not want to marry her. By rights, as an Ealdorman of Northumbria, I could expect to marry a daughter of the nobility, a daughter who would bring much more land than twelve hilly hides in Defnascir. I might have expected to marry a daughter who could increase Bebbanburg’s holdings and power, but that was plainly not going to happen, so I was marrying a girl of ignoble birth who would now be known as the Lady Mildrith and she might have shown some gratitude for that, but instead she cried and even tried to pull away from Ealdorman Odda.
He probably sympathised with her, but the bride price had been paid, and so she was brought to the altar and the bishop, who had come back from Cippanhamm with a streaming cold, duly made us man and wife. ‘And may the blessing of God the Father,’ he said, ‘God the Son and God the Holy Ghost be on your union.’ He was about to say amen, but instead sneezed mightily.
‘Amen,’ Willibald said. No one else spoke.
So Mildrith was mine.
Odda the Younger watched as we left the church and he probably thought I did not see him, but I did, and I marked him down. I knew why he was watching.
For the truth of it, which surprised me, was that Mildrith was desirable. That word does not do her justice, but it is so very hard to remember a face from long ago. Sometimes, in a dream, I see her, and she is real then, but when I am awake and try to summon her face I cannot do it. I remember she had clear, pale skin, that her lower lip jutted out too much, that her eyes were very blue and her hair the same gold as mine. She was tall, which she disliked, thinking it made her unwomanly, and had a nervous expression, as though she constantly feared disaster, and that can be very attractive in a woman and I confess I found her attractive. That did surprise me, indeed it astonished me, for such a woman should have long been married. She was almost seventeen years old, and by that age most women have already given birth to three or four children or else been killed in the attempt, but as we rode to her holdings that lay to the west of the River Uisc’s mouth I heard some of her tale. She was being drawn in a cart by two oxen that Willibald had insisted garlanding with flowers. Leofric, Willibald and I rode alongside the cart, and Willibald asked her questions and she answered him readily enough for he was a priest and a kind man.
Her father, she said, had left her land and debts, and the debts were greater than the value of the land. Leofric sniggered when he heard the word debts. I said nothing, but just stared doggedly ahead.
The trouble, Mildrith said, had begun when her father had granted a tenth of his holdings as ælmesæcer, which is land devoted to the church. The church does not own it, but has the right to all that the land yields, whether in crops or cattle, and her father had made the grant, Mildrith explained, because all his children except her had died and he wanted to find favour with God. I suspected he had wanted to find favour with Alfred, for in Wessex an ambitious man was well advised to look after the church if he wanted the king to look after him.
But then the Danes had raided, cattle had been slaughtered, a harvest failed, and the church took her father to law for failing to provide the land’s promised yield. Wessex, I discovered, was very devoted to the law, and all the men of law are priests, every last one of them, which means that the law is the church, and when Mildrith’s father died the law had decreed that he owed the church a huge sum, quite beyond his ability to pay, and Alfred, who had the power to lift the debt, refused to do so. What this meant was that any man who married Mildrith married the debt, and no man had been willing to take that burden until a Northumbrian fool wandered into the trap like a drunk staggering downhill.
Leofric was laughing. Willibald looked worried.
‘So what is the debt?’ I asked.
‘Two thousand shillings, lord,’ Mildrith said in a very small voice.
Leofric almost choked laughing and I could have cheerfully killed him on the spot.
‘And it increases yearly?’ Willibald asked shrewdly.
‘Yes,’ Mildrith said, refusing to meet my eyes. A more sensible man would have explored Mildrith’s circumstances before the marriage contract was made, but I had just seen marriage as a route to the fleet. So now I had the fleet, I had the debt and I had the girl, and I also had a new enemy, Odda the Younger, who had plainly wanted Mildrith for himself, though his father, wisely, had refused to saddle his family with the crippling debt, nor, I suspected, did he want his son to marry beneath him.
There is a hierarchy among men. Beocca liked to tell me it reflected the hierarchy of heaven, and perhaps it does, but I know nothing of that, but I do know how men are ranked. At the top is the king, and beneath him are his sons, and then come the Ealdormen who are the chief nobles of the land and without land a man cannot be noble, though I was, because I have never abandoned my claim to Bebbanburg. The king and his Ealdormen are the power of a kingdom, the men who hold great lands and raise the armies, and beneath them are the lesser nobles, usually called reeves, and they are responsible for law in a lord’s land, though a man can cease to be a reeve if he displeases his lord. The reeves are drawn from the ranks of thegns, who are wealthy men who can lead followers to war, but who lack the wide holdings of noblemen like Odda or my father. Beneath the thegns are the ceorls, who are all free men, but if a ceorl loses his livelihood then he could well become a slave, which is the bottom of the dungheap. Slaves can be, and often are, freed, though unless a slave’s lord gives him land or money he will soon be a slave again. Mildrith’s father had been a thegn, and Odda had made him a reeve, responsible for keeping the peace in a wide swathe of southern Defnascir, but he had also been a thegn of insufficient land, whose foolishness had diminished the little he possessed, and so he had left Mildrith impoverished which made her unsuitable as a wife for an Ealdorman’s son, though she was reckoned good enough for an exiled lord from Northumbria. In truth she was just another pawn on Alfred’s chessboard and he had only given her to me so that I became responsible for paying the church a vast sum.
He was a spider, I thought sourly, a priestly-black spider spinning sticky webs, and I thought I had been so clever when I talked to him in the hall at Cippanhamm. In truth I could have prayed openly to Thor before pissing on the relics of Alfred’s altar and he would still have given me the fleet because he knew the fleet would have little to do in the coming war, and he had only wanted to trap me for his future ambitions in the north of England. So now I was trapped, and the bastard Ealdorman Odda had carefully let me walk into the trap.
The thought of Defnascir’s Ealdorman prompted a question from me. ‘What bride price did Odda give you?’ I asked Mildrith.
‘Fifteen shillings, lord.’
‘Fifteen shillings?’ I asked, shocked.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘The cheap bastard,’ I said.
‘Cut the rest out of him,’ Leofric snarled. A pair of very blue eyes looked at him, then at me, then vanished under the cloak again.
Her twelve hides of land, that were now mine, lay in the hills above the River Uisc’s sea-reach, in a place called Oxton which simply means a farm where oxen are kept. It was a shieling, as the Danes would say, a farmstead, and the house had a thatch so overgrown with moss and grass that it looked like an earth mound. There was no hall, and a nobleman needs a hall in which to feed his followers, but it did have a cattle shed and a pig shed and land enough to support sixteen slaves and five families of tenants, all of whom were summoned to greet me, as well as half a dozen household servants, most of whom were also slaves, and they welcomed Mildrith fondly for, since her father’s death, she had been living in the household of Ealdorman Odda’s wife while the farmstead was managed by a man called Oswald who looked about as trustworthy as a stoat.
That night we made a meal of peas, leeks, stale bread and sour ale, and that was my first marriage feast in my own house which was also a house under threat of debt. Next morning it had stopped raining and I breakfasted on more stale bread and sour ale, and then walked with Mildrith to a hilltop from where I could stare down at the wi
de sea-reach that lay across the land like the flattened grey blade of an axe. ‘Where do these folk go,’ I asked, meaning her slaves and tenants, ‘when the Danes come?’
‘Into the hills, lord.’
‘My name is Uhtred.’
‘Into the hills, Uhtred.’
‘You won’t go into the hills,’ I said firmly.
‘I won’t?’ Her eyes widened in alarm.
‘You will come with me to Hamtun,’ I said, ‘and we shall have a house there so long as I command the fleet.’
She nodded, plainly nervous, and then I took her hand, opened it, and poured in thirty-three shillings, so many coins that they spilt onto her lap. ‘Yours, wife,’ I said.
And so she was. My wife. And that same day we left, going eastwards, man and wife.
The story hurries now. It quickens like a stream coming to a fall in the hills and, like a cascade foaming down jumbled rocks, it gets angry and violent, confused even. For it was in that year, 876, that the Danes made their greatest effort yet to rid England of its last kingdom, and the onslaught was huge, savage and sudden.
Guthrum the Unlucky led the assault. He had been living in Grantaceaster, calling himself King of East Anglia, and Alfred, I think, assumed he would have good warning if Guthrum’s army left that place, but the West Saxon spies failed and the warnings did not come, and the Danish army was all mounted on horses, and Alfred’s troops were in the wrong place and Guthrum led his men south across the Temes and clear across all Wessex to capture a great fortress on the south coast. That fortress was called Werham and it lay not very far west of Hamtun, though between us and it lay a vast stretch of inland sea called the Poole. Guthrum’s army assaulted Werham, captured it, raped the nuns in Werham’s nunnery, and did it all before Alfred could react. Once inside the fortress Guthrum was protected by two rivers, one to the north of the town and the other to the south. To the east was the wide placid Poole and a massive wall and ditch guarded the only approach from the west.
There was nothing the fleet could do. As soon as we heard that the Danes were in Werham we readied ourselves for sea, but no sooner had we reached the open water than we saw their fleet and that ended our ambitions.
I have never seen so many ships. Guthrum had marched across Wessex with close to a thousand horsemen, but now the rest of his army came by sea and their ships darkened the water. There were hundreds of boats. Men later said three hundred and fifty, though I think there were fewer, but certainly there were more than two hundred. Ship after ship, dragon prow after serpent head, oars churning the dark sea white, a fleet going to battle, and all we could do was slink back into Hamtun and pray that the Danes did not sail up Hamtun Water to slaughter us.
They did not. The fleet sailed on to join Guthrum in Werham, so now a huge Danish army was lodged in southern Wessex, and I remembered Ragnar’s advice to Guthrum. Split their forces, Ragnar had said, and that surely meant another Danish army lay somewhere to the north, just waiting to attack, and when Alfred went to meet that second army, Guthrum would erupt from behind Werham’s walls to attack him in the rear.
‘It’s the end of England,’ Leofric said darkly. He was not much given to gloom, but that day he was downcast. Mildrith and I had taken a house in Hamtun, one close to the water, and he ate with us most nights we were in the town. We were still taking the ships out, now in a flotilla of twelve, always in hope of catching some Danish ships unawares, but their raiders only sallied out of the Poole in large numbers, never fewer than thirty ships, and I dared not lose Alfred’s navy in a suicidal attack on such large forces. In the height of the summer a Danish force came to Hamtun’s water, rowing almost to our anchorage, and we lashed our ships together, donned armour, sharpened weapons and waited for their attack. But they were no more minded for battle than we were. To reach us they would have to negotiate a mud-bordered channel and they could only put two ships abreast in that place and so they were content to jeer at us from the open water and then leave.
Guthrum waited in Werham and what he waited for, we later learned, was for Halfdan to lead a mixed force of Northmen and Britons out of Wales. Halfdan had been in Ireland, avenging Ivar’s death, and now he was supposed to bring his fleet and army to Wales, assemble a great army there and lead it across the Sæfern sea and attack Wessex. But, according to Beocca, God intervened. God or the three spinners. Fate is everything, for news came that Halfdan had died in Ireland, and of the three brothers only Ubba now lived, though he was still in the far wild north. Halfdan had been killed by the Irish, slaughtered along with scores of his men in a vicious battle, and so the Irish saved Wessex that year.
We knew none of that in Hamtun. We made our impotent forays and waited for news of the second blow that must fall on Wessex, and still it did not come, and then, as the first autumn gales fretted the coast, a messenger came from Alfred, whose army was camped to the west of Werham, demanding that I go to the king. The messenger was Beocca and I was surprisingly pleased to see him, though annoyed that he gave me the command verbally. ‘Why did I learn to read?’ I demanded of him, ‘if you don’t bring written orders?’
‘You learned to read, Uhtred,’ he said happily, ‘to improve your mind, of course,’ then he saw Mildrith and his mouth began to open and close like a landed fish. ‘Is this?’ he began, and was struck dumb as a stick.
‘The Lady Mildrith,’ I said.
‘Dear lady,’ Beocca said, then gulped for air and twitched like a puppy wanting a pat. ‘I have known Uhtred,’ he managed to say to her, ‘since he was a little child! Since he was just a little child.’
‘He’s a big one now,’ Mildrith said, which Beocca thought was a wonderful jest for he giggled immoderately.
‘Why,’ I managed to stem his mirth, ‘am I going to Alfred?’
‘Because Halfdan is dead, God be praised, and no army will come from the north, God be praised, and so Guthrum seeks terms! The discussions have already started, and God be praised for that too.’ He beamed at me as though he was responsible for this rush of good news, and perhaps he was because he went on to say that Halfdan’s death was the result of prayers. ‘So many prayers, Uhtred. You see the power of prayer?’
‘God be praised indeed,’ Mildrith answered instead of me. She was indeed very pious, but no one is perfect. She was also pregnant, but Beocca did not notice and I did not tell him.
I left Mildrith in Hamtun, and rode with Beocca to the West Saxon army. A dozen of the king’s household troops served as our escort, for the route took us close to the northern shore of the Poole and Danish boats had been raiding that shore before the truce talks opened. ‘What does Alfred want of me?’ I asked Beocca constantly, insisting, despite his denials, that he must have some idea, but he claimed ignorance and in the end I stopped asking.
We arrived outside Werham on a chill autumn evening. Alfred was at his prayers in a tent that was serving as his royal chapel and Ealdorman Odda and his son waited outside and the Ealdorman gave me a guarded nod while his son ignored me. Beocca went into the tent to join the prayers while I squatted, drew Serpent-Breath and sharpened her with the whetstone I carried in my pouch.
‘Expecting to fight?’ Ealdorman Odda asked me sourly.
I looked at his son. ‘Maybe,’ I said, then looked back to the father. ‘You owe my wife money,’ I said, ‘eighteen shillings.’ He reddened, said nothing, though the son put a hand to his sword hilt and that made me smile and stand, Serpent-Breath’s naked blade already in my grip. Ealdorman Odda pulled his son angrily away. ‘Eighteen shillings!’ I called after them, then squatted again and ran the stone down the sword’s long edge.
Women. Men fight for them, and that was another lesson to learn. As a child I thought men struggled for land or for mastery, but they fight for women just as much. Mildrith and I were unexpectedly content together, but it was clear that Odda the Younger hated me because I had married her, and I wondered if he would dare do anything about that hatred. Beocca once told me the tale of a prince from a
far away land who stole a king’s daughter and the king led his army to the prince’s land and thousands of great warriors died in the struggle to get her back. Thousands! And all for a woman. Indeed the argument that began this tale, the rivalry between King Osbert of Northumbria and Ælla, the man who wanted to be king, all began because Ælla stole Osbert’s wife. I have heard some women complain that they have no power and that men control the world, and so they do, but women still have the power to drive men to battle and to the grave beyond.
I was thinking of these things as Alfred came from the tent. He had the look of beatific pleasure he usually wore when he had just said his prayers, but he was also walking stiffly, which probably meant the ficus was troubling him again, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable when we sat down to supper that night. The meal was an unspeakable gruel I would hesitate to serve to pigs, but there was bread and cheese enough so I did not starve. I did note that Alfred was distant with me, hardly acknowledging my presence, and I put that down to the fleet’s failure to achieve any real victory during that summer, yet he had still summoned me and I wondered why if all he intended to do was ignore me.
Yet, next morning, he summoned me after prayers and we walked up and down outside the royal tent where the dragon banner flew in the autumn sun. ‘The fleet,’ Alfred said, frowning, ‘can it prevent the Danes leaving the Poole?’
‘No, lord.’
‘No?’ That was said sharply. ‘Why not?’
‘Because, lord,’ I said, ‘we have twelve ships and they have over two hundred. We could kill a few of them, but in the end they’ll overwhelm us and you won’t have any fleet left and they’ll still have more than two hundred ships.’
The Warrior Chronicles Page 29