‘He’s mine,’ Sven said, and his long sword whispered out of its fleece-lined scabbard.
‘He’s mine to sell, lord, and yours to buy,’ Sverri said humbly, but firmly.
‘To take him,’ Sven said, ‘I will kill you, Sverri, and all your men. So the price for this man is your life.’
Sverri knew he was beaten then. He bowed, released my neck chain and stepped back, and I seized the neck chain and whipped its loose end at Sven and it whistled close to him, driving him back, and then I ran. The leg shackles hobbled me and I had no choice but to run into the river. I stumbled through the small waves and turned, ready to use the chain as a weapon and I knew I was dead because Sven’s horsemen were coming for me and I backed deeper into the water. It was better to drown, I thought, than to suffer Sven’s tortures.
Then the horsemen stopped. Sven pushed past them and then he too checked and I was up to my chest in the river and the chain was awkward in my hand and I was readying to throw myself backwards to black death in the river when Sven himself stepped away. Then he went back another pace, turned and ran for his horse. There had been fear on his face and I risked turning to see what had frightened him.
And there, coming from the sea, driven by twin oar-banks and by the swiftly flooding tide, was the red ship.
Six
The red ship was close and was coming fast. Her bows were crowned with a black-toothed dragon’s head and filled with armed men in mail and helmets. She came in a gale of noise; the splash of oar-blades, the shouts of her warriors and the seethe of white water around the great red breast of her high prow. I had to stagger to one side to avoid her, for she did not slow as she neared the beach, but kept coming, and the oars gave one last heave and the bows grated on the shore and the dragon’s head reared up and the great ship’s keel crashed up the beach in a thunder of scattering shingle. The dark hull loomed above me, then an oar-shaft struck me in the back, throwing me under the waves and when I managed to stagger upright I saw the ship had shuddered to a halt and a dozen mail-clad men had jumped from the prow with spears, swords, axes and shields. The first men onto the beach bellowed defiance as the rowers dropped their oars, plucked up weapons, and followed. This was no trading ship, but a Viking come to her kill.
Sven fled. He scrambled into his saddle and spurred across the marsh while his six men, much braver, rode their horses at the invading Vikings, but the beasts were axed down screaming and the unsaddled riders were butchered on the strand, their blood trickling to the small waves where I stood, mouth open, hardly believing what I saw. Sverri was on his knees with his hands spread wide to show he had no weapons.
The red ship’s master, glorious in a helmet crested with eagle wings, took his men to the marsh path and led them towards the monastery buildings. He left a half-dozen warriors on the beach and one of those was a huge man, tall as a tree and broad as a barrel, who carried a great war axe that was stained with blood. He dragged off his helmet and grinned at me. He said something, but I did not hear him. I was just staring in disbelief and he grinned wider.
It was Steapa.
Steapa Snotor. Steapa the Clever, that meant, which was a joke because he was not the brightest of men, but he was a great warrior who had once been my sworn enemy and had since become my friend. Now he grinned at me from the water’s edge and I did not understand why a West Saxon warrior was travelling in a Viking ship, and then I began to cry. I cried because I was free and because Steapa’s broad, scarred, baleful face was the most beautiful thing I had seen since I had last been on this beach.
I waded out of the water and I embraced him, and he patted my back awkwardly and he could not stop grinning because he was happy. ‘They did that to you?’ he said, pointing at my leg shackles.
‘I’ve worn them for more than two years,’ I said.
‘Put your legs apart, lord,’ he said.
‘Lord?’ Sverri had heard Steapa and he understood that one Saxon word. He got up from his knees and took a faltering step towards us. ‘Is that what he called you?’ he asked me, ‘lord?’
I just stared at Sverri and he went on his knees again. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, frightened.
‘You want me to kill him?’ Steapa growled.
‘Not yet,’ I said.
‘I kept you alive,’ Sverri said, ‘I fed you.’
I pointed at him. ‘Be silent,’ I said and he was.
‘Put your legs apart, lord,’ Steapa said again. ‘Stretch that chain for me.’
I did as he ordered. ‘Be careful,’ I said.
‘Be careful!’ he mocked, then he swung the axe and the big blade whistled past my groin and crashed into the chain and my ankles were twitched inwards by the massive blow so that I staggered. ‘Be still,’ Steapa ordered me, and he swung again and this time the chain snapped. ‘You can walk now, lord,’ Steapa said, and I could, though the links of broken chain dragged behind my ankles.
I walked to the dead men and selected two swords. ‘Free that man,’ I told Steapa, pointing at Finan, and Steapa chopped through more chains and Finan ran to me, grinning, and we stared at each other, eyes bright with tears of joy, and then I held a sword to him. He looked at the blade for a moment as though he did not believe what he was seeing, then he gripped the hilt and bayed like a wolf at the darkening sky. Then he threw his arms around my neck. He was weeping. ‘You’re free,’ I told him.
‘And I am a warrior again,’ he said. ‘I am Finan the Agile!’
‘And I am Uhtred,’ I said, using that name for the first time since I had last been on this beach. ‘My name is Uhtred,’ I said again, but louder this time, ‘and I am the lord of Bebbanburg.’ I turned on Sverri, my anger welling up. ‘I am Lord Uhtred,’ I told him, ‘the man who killed Ubba Lothbrokson beside the sea and sent Svein of the White Horse to the corpse-hall. I am Uhtred.’ I was in a red rage now. I stalked to Sverri and tipped his face up with the sword-blade. ‘I am Uhtred,’ I said, ‘and you call me lord.’
‘Yes, lord,’ he said.
‘And he is Finan of Ireland,’ I said, ‘and you call him lord.’
Sverri looked at Finan, could not meet his gaze and lowered his eyes. ‘Lord,’ he said to Finan.
I wanted to kill him, but I had a notion that Sverri’s usefulness on this earth was not quite finished and so I contented myself with taking Steapa’s knife and slitting open Sverri’s tunic to bare his arm. He was shaking, expecting his throat to be cut, but instead I carved the letter S into his flesh, then rubbed sand into the wound. ‘So tell me, slave,’ I said, ‘how you undo these rivets?’ I tapped my ankle chains with the knife.
‘I need a blacksmith’s tools, lord,’ Sverri said.
‘If you want to live, Sverri, pray that we find them.’
There had to be tools up at the ruined monastery, for that was where Kjartan’s men manacled their slaves, and so Steapa sent two men to search for the means to strike off our chains and Finan amused himself by butchering Hakka because I would not let him slaughter Sverri. The Scottish slaves watched in awe as the blood swilled into the sea beside the stranded Trader. Finan danced with joy afterwards and chanted one of his wild songs, then he killed the rest of Sverri’s crew.
‘Why are you here?’ I asked Steapa.
‘I was sent, lord,’ he said proudly.
‘Sent? Who sent you?’
‘The king, of course,’ he said.
‘Guthred sent you?’
‘Guthred?’ Steapa asked, puzzled by the name, then shook his head. ‘No, lord. It was King Alfred, of course.’
‘Alfred sent you?’ I asked, then gaped at him. ‘Alfred?’
‘Alfred sent us,’ he confirmed.
‘But these are Danes,’ I gestured at the crewmen who had been left on the beach with Steapa.
‘Some are Danes,’ Steapa said, ‘but we’re mostly West Saxons. Alfred sent us.’
‘Alfred sent you?’ I asked again, knowing I sounded like an incoherent fool, but I could scarcely believe what I was he
aring. ‘Alfred sent Danes?’
‘A dozen of them, lord,’ Steapa said, ‘and they’re only here because they follow him.’ He pointed to the shipmaster in his winged helmet who was striding back to the beach. ‘He’s the hostage,’ Steapa said as though that explained everything, ‘and Alfred sent me to keep him honest. I guard him.’
The hostage? Then I remembered whose badge was the eagle wing and I stumbled towards the red ship’s master, inhibited by the ragged chains dragging from my ankles, and the approaching warrior took off his winged helmet and I could scarcely see his face because of my tears. But I still shouted his name. ‘Ragnar!’ I shouted. ‘Ragnar!’
He was laughing when we met. He embraced me, whirled me about, embraced me a second time and then pushed me away. ‘You stink,’ he said, ‘you’re the ugliest, hairiest, smelliest bastard I’ve ever laid eyes on. I should throw you to the crabs, except why would a good crab want anything as revolting as you?’
I was laughing and I was crying. ‘Alfred sent you?’
‘He did, but I wouldn’t have come if I’d known what a filthy turd you’ve become,’ he said. He smiled broadly and that smile reminded me of his father, all good humour and strength. He embraced me again. ‘It is good to see you, Uhtred Ragnarson,’ he said.
Ragnar’s men had driven Sven’s remaining troops away. Sven himself had escaped on horseback, fleeing towards Dunholm. We burned the slave pens, freed the slaves, and that night, by the light of the burning wattle hurdles, my shackles were struck off and for the next few days I raised my feet ludicrously high when I walked for I had grown so accustomed to the weight of the iron bonds.
I washed. The red-haired Scottish slave cut my hair, watched by Finan. ‘Her name’s Ethne,’ he told me. He spoke her language, or at least they could understand one another, though I guessed, from the way they looked at each other, that different languages would not have been a barrier. Ethne had found two of the men who had raped her among Sven’s dead and she had borrowed Finan’s sword to mutilate their corpses and Finan had watched her proudly. Now she used shears to cut my hair and trim my beard, and afterwards I dressed in a leather jerkin and in clean hose and proper shoes. And then we ate in the ruined monastery church and I sat with Ragnar, my friend, and heard the tale of my rescue.
‘We’ve been following you all summer,’ he said.
‘We saw you.’
‘Couldn’t miss us, could you, not with that hull? Isn’t she a horror? I hate pine-built hulls. She’s called Dragon-Fire, but I call her Worm-Breath. It took me a month to get her ready for sea. She belonged to a man who was killed at Ethandun and she was just rotting away on the Temes when Alfred gave her to us.’
‘Why would Alfred do that?’
‘Because he said you won him his throne at Ethandun,’ Ragnar said and grinned. ‘Alfred was exaggerating,’ he went on, ‘I’m sure he was. I imagine you just stumbled about the battlefield and made a bit of noise, but you did enough to fool Alfred.’
‘I did enough,’ I said softly, remembering the long green hill. ‘But I thought Alfred didn’t notice.’
‘He noticed,’ Ragnar said, ‘but he didn’t do this just for you. He gained a nunnery as well.’
‘He did what?’
‘Got himself a nunnery. God knows why he’d want one. Me, I might have exchanged you for a whorehouse, but Alfred got a nunnery and he seemed well enough pleased with that bargain.’
And that was when the story emerged. I did not hear the whole tale that night, but later I pieced it all together and I shall tell it here. It had all started with Hild.
Guthred kept his last promise to me and treated her honourably. He gave her my sword and my helmet, he let her keep my mail and my arm rings, and he asked her to be the companion of his new wife, Queen Osburh, the Saxon niece of the dethroned king in Eoferwic. But Hild blamed herself for my betrayal. She decided that she had offended her god by resisting her calling as a nun and so she begged Guthred to give her leave to go back to Wessex and rejoin her order. He had wanted her to stay in Northumbria, but she pleaded with him to let her go and she told him that God and Saint Cuthbert demanded it of her, and Guthred was ever open to Cuthbert’s persuasion. And so he allowed her to accompany messengers he was sending to Alfred and thus Hild returned to Wessex and once there she found Steapa, who had always been fond of her.
‘She took me to Fifhaden,’ Steapa told me that night when the hurdles burned beneath the ruined walls of Gyruum’s monastery.
‘To Fifhaden?’
‘And we dug up your hoard,’ Steapa said. ‘Hild showed me where it was and I dug it up. Then we carried it to Alfred. All of it. We poured it on the floor and he just stared at it.’
That hoard was Hild’s weapon. She told Alfred the story of Guthred and how he had betrayed me, and she promised Alfred that if he sent men to find me then she would use all that gold and silver on his hall’s floor to build a house of God and that she would repent of her sins and live the rest of her life as a bride of Christ. She would wear the church’s manacles so that my iron chains could be struck off.
‘She became a nun again?’ I asked.
‘She said she wanted that,’ Steapa said. ‘She said God wanted it. And Alfred did. He said yes to her.’
‘So Alfred released you?’ I asked Ragnar.
‘I hope he will,’ Ragnar said, ‘when I take you back home. I’m still a hostage, but Alfred said I could search for you if I promised to return to him. And we’ll all be released soon enough. Guthrum’s making no trouble. King Æthelstan, he’s called now.’
‘He’s in East Anglia?’
‘He’s in East Anglia,’ Ragnar confirmed, ‘and he’s building churches and monasteries.’
‘So he really did become a Christian?’
‘The poor bastard’s as pious as Alfred,’ Ragnar said gloomily. ‘Guthrum always was a credulous fool. But Alfred sent for me. Told me I could search for you. He let me take the men who served me in exile and the rest are crewmen that Steapa found. They’re Saxons, of course, but the bastards can row well enough.’
‘Steapa said he was here to guard you,’ I said.
‘Steapa!’ Ragnar looked across the fire we had lit in the nave of the monastery’s ruined church, ‘you foul scrap of stinking stoat-shit. Did you say you were here to guard me?’
‘But I am, lord,’ Steapa said.
‘You’re a piece of shit. But you fight well.’ Ragnar grinned and looked back to me. ‘And I’m to take you back to Alfred.’
I stared into the fire where strips of burning wattle glowed a brilliant red. ‘Thyra is at Dunholm,’ I said, ‘and Kjartan still lives.’
‘And I go to Dunholm when Alfred releases me,’ Ragnar said, ‘but first I have to take you to Wessex. I swore an oath on it. I swore I would not break Northumbria’s peace, but only fetch you. And Alfred kept Brida, of course.’ Brida was his woman.
‘He kept her?’
‘As a hostage for me, I suppose. But he’ll release her and I shall raise money and I shall assemble men and then I shall scrape Dunholm off the face of the earth.’
‘You have no money?’
‘Not enough.’
So I told him about Sverri’s home in Jutland and how there was money there, or at least we believed there was money there, and Ragnar thought about that and I thought about Alfred.
Alfred did not like me. He had never liked me. At times he hated me, but I had done him service. I had done him great service, and he had been less than generous in rewarding that service. Five hides, he had given me, while I had given him a kingdom. Yet now I owed my freedom to him, and I did not understand why he had done it. Except, of course, that Hild had given him a house of prayer, and he would have wanted that, and he would have welcomed her repentance, and both those things made a twisted kind of sense. Yet he had still rescued me. He had reached out and plucked me from slavery and I decided he was generous after all. But I also knew there would be a price to pay. Alfred would want more tha
n Hild’s soul and a new convent. He would want me. ‘I hoped I’d never see Wessex again,’ I said.
‘Well you’re going to see it,’ Ragnar said, ‘because I swore to take you back. Besides, we can’t stay here.’
‘No,’ I agreed.
‘Kjartan will have a hundred men here in the morning,’ Ragnar said.
‘Two hundred,’ I said.
‘So we must go,’ he said, then looked wistful. ‘There’s a hoard in Jutland?’
‘A great hoard,’ Finan said.
‘We think it’s buried in a reed hut,’ I added, ‘and guarded by a woman and three children.’
Ragnar stared through the door to where a few sparks of fire showed among the hovels built by the old Roman fort. ‘I can’t go to Jutland,’ he said softly. ‘I swore an oath that I would take you back as soon as I found you.’
‘So someone else can go,’ I suggested. ‘You have two ships now. And Sverri will reveal where his hoard is if he’s frightened enough.’
So next morning Ragnar ordered his twelve Danes to take Trader across the sea. The command of the ship was given to Rollo, Ragnar’s best steersman, and Finan begged to go with Rollo’s crew, and the Scottish girl Ethne went with Finan who now wore mail and a helmet and had a long sword buckled at his waist. Sverri was chained to one of Trader’s oar-benches and, as she left the shore, I saw Finan whipping him with the lash that had scarred our backs for so many months.
Trader left and we then carried the Scottish slaves across the river in the red ship and released them on the northern bank. They were frightened and did not know what to do, so we gave them a handful of the coins we had taken from Sverri’s strongbox and told them to keep walking with the sea always on their right hand and, with a little luck, they might reach home. They would more likely be captured by Bebbanburg’s garrison and sold back into slavery, but we could not help that. We left them, pushed the red ship away from the shore and turned for the sea.
Behind us, where Gyruum’s hilltop smoked from the remnants of our fires, horsemen in mail and helmets appeared. They lined the crest, and a column of them galloped across the salt-marsh to clatter onto the shingle bank, but they were much too late. We were riding the ebb-tide towards the open sea and I looked behind and saw Kjartan’s men and I knew I would see them again and then the Dragon-Fire rounded the river’s bend and the oars bit the water and the sun glittered like sharpened spear-points on the small waves and an osprey flew overhead and I raised my eyes to the wind and wept.
The Warrior Chronicles Page 91