The Warrior Chronicles

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘We have no quarrel,’ Guthred said, ‘that cannot be settled by words.’

  ‘Words!’ Ivarr spat, then shook his head. ‘Go beyond Northumbria,’ he said, ‘go far away, worm-shit. Run to your friend in Wessex, but leave your sister here as a hostage. If you do that I shall be merciful.’ He was not being merciful, but practical. The Danes were ferocious warriors, but far more cautious than their reputation suggested. Ivarr was willing to fight, but he was more willing to arrange a surrender, for then he would lose no men. He would win this fight, he knew that, but in gaining the victory he would lose sixty or seventy warriors and that was a whole ship’s crew and a high price to pay. It was better to let Guthred live and pay nothing. Ivarr moved Witnere sideways so he could look past Guthred at Ragnar. ‘You keep strange company, Lord Ragnar.’

  ‘Two days ago,’ Ragnar said, ‘I killed Kjartan the Cruel. Dunholm is mine now. I think, perhaps, I should kill you, Lord Ivarr, so that you cannot try to take it from me.’

  Ivarr looked startled, as well he might. He glanced at Guthred, then at me, as if seeking confirmation of Kjartan’s death, but our faces betrayed nothing. Ivarr shrugged. ‘You had a quarrel with Kjartan,’ he told Ragnar, ‘and that was your affair, not mine. I would welcome you as a friend. Our fathers were friends, were they not?’

  ‘They were,’ Ragnar said.

  ‘Then we should remake their friendship,’ Ivarr said.

  ‘Why should he befriend a thief?’ I asked.

  Ivarr looked at me, his serpent eyes unreadable. ‘I watched a goat vomit yesterday,’ he said, ‘and what it threw up reminded me of you.’

  ‘I watched a goat shit yesterday,’ I retorted, ‘and what it dropped reminded me of you.’

  Ivarr sneered at that, but decided not to go on trading insults. His son, though, drew his sword and Ivarr held out a warning hand to tell the youngster that the killing time had not yet come. ‘Go away,’ he said to Guthred, ‘go far away and I will forget I ever knew you.’

  ‘The goat-turd reminded me of you,’ I said, ‘but its smell reminded me of your mother. It was a rancid smell, but what would you expect of a whore who gives birth to a thief?’

  One of the warriors held Ivarr’s son back. Ivarr himself just looked at me in silence for a while. ‘I can make your death stretch through three sunsets,’ he said at last.

  ‘But if you return the stolen goods, thief,’ I said, ‘and then accept good King Guthred’s judgement on your crime, then perhaps we will show mercy.’

  Ivarr looked amused rather than offended. ‘What have I stolen?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re riding my horse,’ I said, ‘and I want it back now.’

  He patted Witnere’s neck. ‘When you are dead,’ he said to me, ‘I shall have your skin tanned and made into a saddle so I can spend the rest of my life farting on you.’ He looked at Guthred. ‘Go away,’ he said, ‘go far away. Leave your sister as hostage. I shall give you a few moments to find your senses, and if you don’t, then we shall kill you.’ He turned his horse away.

  ‘Coward,’ I called to him. He ignored me, pushing Witnere through his men to lead them back to their shield wall. ‘All the Lothbroks are cowards,’ I said. ‘They run away. What have you done, Ivarr? Pissed your breeches for fear of my sword? You ran away from the Scots and now you run away from me!’

  I think it was the mention of the Scots that did it. That huge defeat was still raw in Ivarr’s memory, and I had scraped scorn on the rawness and suddenly the Lothbrok temper, that so far he had managed to control, took over. He hurt Witnere with the savage pull he gave on the bit, but Witnere turned obediently as Ivarr drew his long sword. He spurred towards me, but I angled past him, going towards the wide space in front of his army. That was where I wanted Ivarr to die, in sight of all his men, and there I turned my stallion back. Ivarr had followed me, but had checked Witnere, who was thumping the soft turf with his front right hoof.

  I think Ivarr wished he had not lost his temper, but it was too late. Every man in both shield walls could see that he had drawn his sword and pursued me into the open meadow and he could not just ride away from that challenge. He had to kill me now, and he was not sure he could do it. He was good, but he had suffered injury, his joints were aching, and he knew my reputation.

  His advantage was Witnere. I knew that horse, and knew it fought as well as most warriors. Witnere would savage my horse if he could, and he would savage me too, and my first aim was to get Ivarr out of the saddle. Ivarr watched me. I think he had decided to let me attack, for he did not release Witnere to the charge, but instead of riding at him, I turned my stallion towards Ivarr’s shield wall. ‘Ivarr is a thief!’ I shouted at his army. I let Serpent-Breath hang by my side. ‘He is a common thief,’ I shouted, ‘who ran from the Scots! He ran like a whipped puppy! He was weeping like a child when we found him!’ I laughed and kept my eyes on Ivarr’s shield wall. ‘He was crying because he was hurt,’ I said, ‘and in Scotland they call him Ivarr the Feeble.’ I saw, at the edge of my vision, that the goading had worked and that Ivarr was wheeling Witnere towards me. ‘He is a thief,’ I shouted, ‘and a coward!’ And as I screamed the last derisive insult I touched my knee to my horse so he turned and I raised my shield. Witnere was all white eyes and white teeth, big hooves flailing up sodden turf, and as he closed I shouted his name. ‘Witnere! Witnere!’ I knew that was probably not the name Ivarr had given the stallion, but perhaps Witnere remembered the name, or remembered me, for his ears pricked and his head came up and his pace faltered as I spurred my own horse straight at him.

  I used the shield as a weapon. I just thrust it hard at Ivarr and, at the same moment, pushed up on my right stirrup, and Ivarr was trying to turn Witnere away, but the big stallion was confused and off balance. My shield slammed into Ivarr’s and I threw myself at him, using my weight to force him backwards. The risk was that I would fall and he would stay saddled, but I dared not let go of shield or sword to grip him. I just had to hope that my weight would drive him to the ground. ‘Witnere!’ I shouted again, and the stallion half turned towards me and that small motion, along with my weight, was enough to topple Ivarr. He fell to his right and I collapsed between the two horses. I fell hard, and my own stallion gave me an inadvertent kick that pushed me against Witnere’s hind legs. I scrambled up, slapped Witnere’s rump with Serpent-Breath to drive him away and immediately ducked beneath my shield as Ivarr attacked. He had recovered faster than me, and his sword slammed against my shield, and he must have expected me to recoil from that blow, but I stopped it dead. My left arm, wounded by the thrown spear at Dunholm, throbbed from the force of his sword, but I was taller, heavier and stronger than Ivarr and I shoved the shield hard to push him back.

  He knew he was going to lose. He was old enough to be my father and he was slowed by old wounds, but he was still a Lothbrok and they learn fighting from the moment they are whelped. He came at me snarling, sword feinting high then thrusting low, and I kept moving, parrying him, taking his blows on my shield, and not even trying to fight back. I mocked him instead. I told him he was a pathetic old man. ‘I killed your uncle,’ I taunted him, ‘and he was not much better than you. And when you’re dead, old man, I’ll gut the rat you call a son. I’ll feed his corpse to the ravens. Is that the best you can do?’

  He had tried to turn me, but tried too hard and his foot had slipped on the wet grass and he had gone down onto one knee. He was open to death then, off balance and with his sword hand in the grass, but I walked away from him, letting him rise, and every Dane saw that I did that, and then they saw me throw away my shield. ‘I’ll give him a chance,’ I called to them. ‘He’s a miserable little thief, but I’ll give him a chance!’

  ‘You whore-born Saxon bastard,’ Ivarr snarled, and rushed me again. That was how he liked to fight. Attack, attack, attack, and he tried to use his shield to hurl me back, but I stepped away and clouted him over the back of his helmet with the flat of Serpent-Breath’s blade. The blow made him stum
ble a second time, and again I walked away. I wanted to humiliate him.

  That second stumble gave him caution, so that he circled me warily. ‘You made me a slave,’ I said, ‘and you couldn’t even do that properly. You want to give me your sword?’

  ‘Goat-turd,’ he said. He came in fast, lunging at my throat, dropping the sword to rake my left leg at the last moment, and I just moved aside and slapped Serpent-Breath across his rump to drive him away.

  ‘Give me your sword,’ I said, ‘and I’ll let you live. We’ll put you in a cage and I’ll take you around Wessex. Here is Ivarr Ivarson, a Lothbrok, I’ll tell folk. A thief who ran away from the Scots.’

  ‘Bastard,’ he rushed again, this time trying to disembowel me with a savage sweep of the sword, but I stepped back and his long blade hissed past me and he grunted as he brought the blade back, all fury and desperation now, and I rammed Serpent-Breath forward so that she went past his shield and struck his breast and the force of the lunge drove him back. He staggered as my next stroke came, a fast one that rang on the side of his helmet and again he staggered, dizzied by the blow, and my third blow cracked into his blade with such force that his sword arm flew back and Serpent-Breath’s tip was at his throat.

  ‘Coward,’ I said, ‘thief.’

  He screamed in fury and brought his sword around in a savage stroke, but I stepped backwards and let it pass. Then I slashed Serpent-Breath down hard to strike his right wrist. He gasped then, for the wrist bones were broken.

  ‘It’s hard to fight without a sword,’ I told him, and I struck again, this time hitting the sword so that the blade flew from his hand. There was terror in his eyes now. Not the terror of a man facing death, but of a warrior dying without a blade in his hand.

  ‘You made me a slave,’ I said, and I rammed Serpent-Breath forward, striking him on one knee and he tried to back away, tried to reach his sword, and I slashed the knee again, much harder, sawing through leather to cut to the bone and he went down on one knee. I slapped his helmet with Serpent-Breath, then stood behind him. ‘He made me a slave,’ I shouted at his men, ‘and he stole my horse. But he is still a Lothbrok.’ I bent, picked up his sword by the blade and held it to him. He took it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Then I killed him. I took his head half off his shoulders. He made a gurgling noise, shuddered and went down onto the grass, but he had kept hold of the sword. If I had let him die without the sword then many of the watching Danes would have thought me wantonly cruel. They understood he was my enemy, and understood I had cause to kill him, but none would think he deserved to be denied the corpse-hall. And one day, I thought, Ivarr and his uncle would welcome me there, for in the corpse-hall we feast with our enemies and remember our fights and fight them all over again.

  Then there was a scream and I turned to see Ivar, his son, galloping towards me. He came as his father had come, all fury and mindless violence, and he leaned from the saddle to cut me in half with his blade and I met the blade with Serpent-Breath and she was by far the better sword. The blow jarred up my arm, but Ivar’s blade broke. He galloped past me, holding a hand’s breadth of sword, and two of his father’s men caught up with him and forced him away before he could be killed. I called to Witnere.

  He came to me. I patted his nose, took hold of the saddle and hauled myself onto his back. Then I turned him towards Ivarr’s leaderless shield wall and gestured that Guthred and Ragnar should join me. We stopped twenty paces from the painted Danish shields. ‘Ivarr Ivarson has gone to Valhalla,’ I shouted, ‘and there was no disgrace in his death! I am Uhtred Ragnarson! I am the man who killed Ubba Lothbrokson and this is my friend, Earl Ragnar, who killed Kjartan the Cruel! We serve King Guthred.’

  ‘Are you a Christian?’ a man shouted.

  I showed him my hammer amulet. Men were passing the news of Kjartan’s death down the long line of shields, axes and swords. ‘I am no Christian!’ I shouted when they were quiet again. ‘But I have seen Christian sorcery! And the Christians worked their magic on King Guthred! Have none of you been victims of sorcerers? Have none of you known your cattle to die or your wives to be sick? You all know sorcery, and the Christian sorcerers can work great magic! They have corpses and severed heads, and they use them to make magic, and they wove their spells about our king! But the sorcerer made a mistake. He became greedy, and last night he stole a treasure from King Guthred! But Odin has swept the spells away!’ I twisted in the saddle and saw that Finan was at last coming from the fort.

  He had been delayed by a scuffle at the fort’s entrance. Some churchmen had tried to prevent Finan and Sihtric from leaving, but a score of Ragnar’s Danes intervened and now the Irishman came riding across the pastureland. He was leading Father Hrothweard. Or rather Finan had a handful of Hrothweard’s hair and so the priest had no choice but to stumble along beside the Irishman’s horse.

  ‘That is the Christian sorcerer, Hrothweard!’ I shouted. ‘He attacked King Guthred with spells, with the magic of corpses, but we have found him out and we have taken the spells away from King Guthred! So now I ask you what we should do with the sorcerer!’

  There was only one answer to that. The Danes, who knew well enough that Hrothweard had been Guthred’s adviser, wanted him dead. Hrothweard, meanwhile, was kneeling on the grass, his hands clasped, staring up at Guthred. ‘No, lord!’ He pleaded.

  ‘You’re the thief?’ Guthred asked. He sounded disbelieving.

  ‘I found the relic in his baggage, lord,’ Finan said, and held the golden pot towards Guthred. ‘It was wrapped in one of his shirts, lord.’

  ‘He lies!’ Hrothweard protested.

  ‘He’s your thief, lord,’ Finan said respectfully, then made the sign of the cross, ‘I swear it on Christ’s holy body.’

  ‘He’s a sorcerer!’ I shouted at Ivarr’s Danes. ‘He will give your cattle the staggers, he will put a blight on your crops, he will make your women barren and your children sickly! Do you want him?’

  They roared their need of Hrothweard, who was weeping uncontrollably.

  ‘You may have him,’ I said, ‘if you acknowledge Guthred as your king.’

  They shouted their allegiance. They were beating swords and spears against their shields again, but this time in acclamation of Guthred, and so I leaned over and took his reins. ‘Time to greet them, lord,’ I told him. ‘Time to be generous with them.’

  ‘But,’ he looked down at Hrothweard.

  ‘He is a thief, lord,’ I said, ‘and thieves must die. It is the law. It is what Alfred would do.’

  ‘Yes,’ Guthred said, and we left Father Hrothweard to the pagan Danes and we listened to his dying for a long time. I do not know what they did to him, for there was little left of his corpse, though his blood darkened the grass for yards around the place he died.

  That night there was a poor feast. Poor because we had little enough food, though there was plenty of ale. The Danish thegns swore their allegiance to Guthred while the priests and monks huddled in the church, expecting murder. Hrothweard was dead and Jænberht had been murdered, and they all expected to become martyrs themselves, but a dozen sober men from Guthred’s household troops were enough to keep them safe. ‘I shall let them build their shrine for Saint Cuthbert,’ Guthred told me.

  ‘Alfred would approve of that,’ I said.

  He stared across the fire that burned in Cetreht’s street. Ragnar, despite his crippled hand, was wrestling with a huge Dane who had served Ivarr. Both men were drunk and more and drunk men cheered them on and made wagers on who would win. Guthred stared, but did not see the contest. He was thinking. ‘I would never have believed,’ he said at last, puzzled, ‘that Father Hrothweard was a thief.’

  Gisela, sheltering under my cloak and leaning on my shoulder, giggled. ‘No man would ever believe that you and I were slaves, lord,’ I answered, ‘but so we were.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said in wonderment, ‘we were.’

  It is the three spinners who make our lives. The
y sit at the foot of Yggdrasil and there they have their jests. It pleased them to make Guthred the slave into King Guthred, just as it pleased them to send me south again to Wessex.

  While at Bebbanburg, where the grey sea never ceases to beat upon the long pale sands and the cold wind frets the wolf’s head flag above the hall, they dreaded my return.

  Because fate cannot be cheated, it governs us, and we are all its slaves.

  Historical Note

  Lords of the North opens a month or so after Alfred’s astonishing victory over the Danes at Ethandun, a tale told in The Pale Horseman. Guthrum, the leader of the defeated army, retreated to Chippenham where Alfred laid siege to him, but hostilities came to a swift end when Alfred and Guthrum agreed to a peace. The Danes withdrew from Wessex and Guthrum and his leading earls all became Christians. Alfred, in turn, recognised Guthrum as the king of East Anglia.

  Readers of the two previous novels in this series will know that Guthrum hardly had a sterling record for keeping peace agreements. He had broken the truce made at Wareham, and the subsequent truce negotiated at Exeter, but this last peace treaty held. Guthrum accepted Alfred as his godfather and took the baptismal name of Æthelstan. One tradition says he was baptised in the font still to be seen in the church at Aller, Somerset, and it seems that his conversion was genuine for, once back in East Anglia, he ruled as a Christian monarch. Negotiations between Guthrum and Alfred continued, for in 886 they signed the Treaty of Wedmore which divided England into two spheres of influence. Wessex and southern Mercia were to be Saxon, while East Anglia, northern Mercia and Northumbria were to fall under Danish law. Thus the Danelaw was established, that north-eastern half of England which, for a time, was to be ruled by Danish kings and which still bears, in place-names and dialects, the imprint of that era.

  The treaty was a recognition by Alfred that he lacked the forces to drive the Danes out of England altogether, and it bought him time in which he could fortify his heartland of Wessex. The problem was that Guthrum was not the king of all the Danes, let alone the Norsemen, and he could not prevent further attacks on Wessex. Those would come in time, and will be described in future novels, but in large part the victory at Ethandun and the subsequent settlement with Guthrum secured the independence of Wessex and enabled Alfred and his successors to reconquer the Danelaw. One of Alfred’s first steps in that long process was to marry his eldest daughter, Æthelflaed, to Æthelred of Mercia, an alliance intended to bind the Saxons of Mercia to those of Wessex. Æthelflaed, in time, was to prove a great heroine in the struggle against the Danes.