The Warrior Chronicles

by Bernard Cornwell

  And the Danes would probably be over the river already. There were fords to the west and they would want to surround Scrobbesburh to stop reinforcements reaching us. In truth, I thought, our best hope was that the Danes would want to keep their invasion moving and so, rather than lose men defeating us, they would ride on south. It was a thin and unconvincing hope, and in the late night, just before the grey of dawn stained the eastern sky, I felt the despair of the doomed. The three Norns had given me no choice except to plant my banner and die with Serpent-Breath in my hand. I thought of Stiorra, my daughter, and wished I could see her one more time, and then the grey light came, and with it a mist, and the clouds were low again and brought a small rain spitting from the west.

  Through the mist I could see the Danish banners. At their centre was Haesten’s symbol, the skull on its long pole. The wind was too light to flaunt the flags and so I could not see whether they showed eagles, ravens or boars. I counted the banners. I could see at least thirty, and the mist hid some, and beneath those damp flags the Danes were making a shield wall.

  We had two banners. Merewalh was showing Æthelred’s flag of a prancing white horse, which he had placed in the fort. It hung limp from its long pole. My banner of the wolf’s head was in the lower land to the north and I ordered Oswi, my servant, to cut down a sapling to make a second pole so that I could spread the flag and show the Danes who it was they faced. ‘That’s just an invitation, lord,’ Finan said. He stamped his feet in the wet ground. ‘Remember the angels said you’d die. They all want your skull nailed to their gable.’

  ‘I’m not going to hide from them,’ I said.

  Finan made the sign of the cross and stared bleakly at the enemy ranks. ‘At least it will be quick, lord,’ he said.

  The mist slowly lifted, though the small rain drizzled on. The Danes had formed a line between two copses a half-mile away. The line, thick with painted shields, filled the space between the trees and I had the impression the line continued on into the woods. That was strange, I thought, but then nothing about this sudden war had been predictable. ‘Seven hundred men?’ I guessed.

  ‘About that,’ Finan said, ‘plenty enough of them. And there’s more in the trees.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe the bastards want us to attack them?’ Finan suggested. ‘Then close on us from either side?’

  ‘They know we won’t attack,’ I said. We were fewer in number and most of our men were not trained warriors. The Danes would know that, simply because the fyrd was rarely equipped with shields. They would see my shield wall at the centre of our line, but on either side, that shield wall was flanked by men carrying no protection. Easy meat, I thought, and I did not doubt the fyrd would break like a twig when the Danes advanced.

  Except they stayed between the trees as the mist vanished and the rain thickened. At times the Danes beat swords against shields to make the war-thunder, and I half heard men shouting, though they were too far away to hear the words. ‘Why don’t they come?’ Finan asked plaintively.

  I could not answer because I had no idea what the Danes were doing. They had us at their mercy and they were standing instead of charging. They had advanced so slowly the previous day, now they were immobile, and this was their great invasion? I remember staring at them, wondering, and two swans flew overhead, wings beating the rain. A sign, but what did it mean? ‘If they kill us to the last man,’ I asked Finan, ‘how many of them will die?’

  ‘Two hundred?’ he guessed.

  ‘That’s why they’re not attacking,’ I suggested and Finan looked at me, puzzled. ‘They’re hiding men in the trees,’ I said, ‘not in hope we attack, but so we don’t know how many they are,’ I paused, sensing an idea taking shape in my mind, ‘or more accurately,’ I went on, ‘how few they are.’

  ‘Few?’ Finan asked.

  ‘This isn’t their great army,’ I said, suddenly sure of it. ‘This is a feint. Sigurd’s not there, nor is Cnut.’ I was guessing, but it was the only explanation I could find. Whoever commanded these Danes had fewer than a thousand men and did not want to lose two or three hundred in a fight that was not part of the main invasion. His job was to hold us here and draw other Saxon troops to the valley of the Sæfern, while the real invasion came. From where? From the sea?

  ‘I thought Offa told you…’ Finan began.

  ‘That bastard was crying,’ I said savagely, ‘he was weeping to convince me that he spoke the truth. He told me he was repaying my kindness, but I was never kind to him. I paid him, just like everyone else. And the Danes must have paid him more to tell me a pack of lies.’ Again I did not know whether that was true, but why were these Danes not coming to slaughter us?

  Then there was movement in the centre of their line and the shields parted to let three horsemen through. One carried a leafy branch, a sign that they wanted to talk, while another wore a high, silver-crested helmet from which trailed a plume of raven feathers. I called to Merewalh, then walked with him and Finan past our feeble barrier and across the wet grassland towards the approaching Danes.

  Haesten was the man in the raven-plumed helmet. It was a magnificent piece of workmanship, decorated by the Midgard serpent that twisted around the crown, its tail protecting the nape of his neck while the mouth formed the crest that held the raven plumes. The cheek-pieces were incised with dragons, between which Haesten’s face grinned at me. ‘The Lord Uhtred,’ he said happily.

  ‘You’re wearing your wife’s bonnet,’ I said.

  ‘It was a gift from the Jarl Cnut,’ he said, ‘who will be here by nightfall.’

  ‘I wondered why you were waiting,’ I said, ‘now I know. You need help.’

  Haesten smiled as if he indulged my insults. The man with the green branch was a few paces behind him, while next to him was a warrior wearing another ornate helmet, this one with its cheek-pieces laced together so I could not see his face. His mail was expensive, his saddle and belt decorated with silver, and his arms thick with precious rings. His horse was nervous and he struck it hard on the neck, which only made it sidestep in the soft ground. Haesten leaned over and stroked the skittery stallion. ‘Jarl Cnut is bringing Ice-Spite,’ he said to me.

  ‘Ice-Spite?’

  ‘His sword,’ Haesten explained. ‘You and he, Lord Uhtred, will fight in the hazel branches. That’s my gift to him.’

  Cnut Ranulfson was reputed to be the greatest swordsman among all the sword-Danes, a magician with a blade, a man who smiled as he killed and was proud of his reputation. I confess I felt a tremor of fear at Haesten’s words. A fight contained in a space marked by hazel branches was a formal fight, and always to the death. It would be a demonstration of skill by Cnut. ‘It will be a pleasure killing him,’ I said.

  ‘But didn’t your angels say you were to die?’ Haesten asked, amused.

  ‘My angels?’

  ‘A clever idea,’ Haesten said, ‘young Sigurd here brought them back to us. Two such pretty girls! He enjoyed them! So did most of our men.’

  So the horseman with Haesten was Sigurd’s son, the puppy who had wanted to fight me at Ceaster, and the raid on Turcandene had been his doing, his initiation as a leader, though I did not doubt his father had sent older and wiser men to make sure his son made no fatal errors. I remembered the flies around Ludda’s body and the crudely drawn raven on the Roman plaster. ‘When you die, puppy,’ I told him, ‘I’ll make sure you have no sword in your hand. I’ll send you to Hel’s rotten flesh instead. See how you enjoy that, you dribble of bat shit.’

  Sigurd Sigurdson drew his sword, he drew it very slowly as if to demonstrate that he was not issuing an immediate challenge. ‘She is called Fire-Dragon,’ he said, holding the blade upright.

  ‘A puppy’s blade,’ I scoffed.

  ‘I want you to know the name of the sword that will kill you,’ he said, then wrenched his stallion’s head around as if to drive the beast into me, but the horse half reared and young Sigurd had to cling to the mane to stay in the saddle. Haest
en again leaned over and took hold of the stallion’s bridle.

  ‘Put the sword away, lord,’ he told the boy, then smiled at me. ‘You have till evening to surrender,’ he said, ‘and if you do not surrender,’ his voice was harder now, riding over the comment I had been about to make, ‘then every one of you will die. But if you yield, Lord Uhtred, we shall spare your men. Till evening!’ He turned his horse, dragging young Sigurd with him. ‘Till evening!’ he called again as he rode away.

  This was the war that passeth understanding, I thought. Why wait? Unless Haesten so feared losing a quarter or a third of his force. But if this truly was the vanguard of a great Danish army then it had no business loitering at Scrobbesburh. They should be pushing fast and hard into the soft underbelly of Saxon Mercia, then crossing the Temes to ravage Wessex. Every day that the Danes waited now was a day to assemble the fyrd and bring house-warriors from the Saxon shires, unless my suspicion was right and this Danish thrust was intended to deceive because the real attack was taking place somewhere else.

  There were more Danes nearby. Late in the morning, as the rain at last ended and a watery sun showed weak through the clouds, we saw more smoke in the eastern sky. The smoke was thin at first, but thickened fast, and within an hour two more plumes appeared. So the Danes were harrying the nearby villages, and another band had crossed the river and were patrolling the great loop that trapped us. Osferth had found two boats, just skins stretched over willow frames, and had wanted to make a big raft like the one we had found to cross the Use, but the presence of the Danish horsemen ended that idea. I ordered my men to stiffen the barricade across the neck, raising it with beams and rafters to protect the men of the fyrd and channel any attack into my shield wall. I had small hope of surviving a determined assault, but men must be kept busy and so they pulled down six of the cottages and carried the timbers to the neck where the barrier slowly became more formidable. A priest who had taken refuge in Scrobbesburh walked along my defensive line giving men small scraps of bread. They knelt before him, he placed the crumbs on their lips, then added a pinch of soil. ‘Why’s he doing that?’ I asked Osferth.

  ‘We come from the earth, lord, and that’s where we’ll go.’

  ‘We’ll go nowhere unless Haesten attacks,’ I said.

  ‘He fears us?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s a trap,’ I said, and there had been so many traps, from the moment the men tried to kill me on Saint Alnoth’s day and the summons to seal a treaty with Eohric, and my burning of Sigurd’s ships, and the creation of the angels, but now I suspected the Danes had sprung the largest trap and it had worked because in the afternoon there was a sudden flurry of panic on the river’s far bank as the patrolling Danes spurred their horses westwards. Something had frightened them, and a few moments later a much larger band of horsemen appeared and these men were flaunting two banners, one with a cross and the other a dragon. They were West Saxons. Haesten was drawing men to Scrobbesburh, and I was convinced we were all needed in some place far away where the real Danish attack must be unfolding.

  Steapa led the newcomers. He dismounted and clambered down the river bank to a small shelf of mud where he cupped his hands. ‘Where can we cross?’

  ‘To the west,’ I shouted back, ‘how many are you?’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty!’

  ‘We’ve got seven hundred Danes here,’ I called, ‘but I don’t think this is their great army!’

  ‘More of our people are coming!’ he called, ignoring my last words and I watched him clamber back up the bank.

  He went west, vanishing in the trees as he sought a ford or bridge. I went back to the neck and saw the Danes still sitting in their line. They had to be bored, but they made no effort to provoke us, even when evening came and went. Haesten must have known I would not meekly surrender, yet he made no move to enforce his morning threat. We watched the Danish campfires spring up again, we watched westwards for the arrival of Steapa, we watched and we waited. Night fell.

  And in the dawn the Danes were gone.

  Æthelflaed arrived an hour after the sun rose, bringing almost one hundred and fifty warriors. Like Steapa she had to ride west to find a ford and it was midday before we were all together. ‘I thought you were going south,’ I greeted her.

  ‘Someone has to fight them,’ she retorted.

  ‘Except they’ve gone,’ I said. The land to the north of the neck was still dotted with smouldering campfires, but there were no Danes, only hoof tracks going eastwards. We now had an army, but no one to fight. ‘Haesten never meant to fight me,’ I said, ‘he just wanted to draw men here.’

  Steapa looked at me with a puzzled expression, but Æthelflaed understood what I was saying. ‘So where are they?’

  ‘We’re in the west,’ I said, ‘so they must be in the east.’

  ‘And Haesten’s gone to join them?’

  ‘I’d think so,’ I said. We knew nothing for certain, of course, except that Haesten’s men had attacked south from Ceaster and then, mysteriously, ridden eastwards. Edward, like Æthelflaed, had responded to my very first warnings, sending men north to discover whether there was an invasion or not. Steapa was supposed to confirm or deny my first message, then ride back to Wintanceaster. Æthelflaed had ignored my orders to shelter in Cirrenceastre and instead brought her own house-warriors north. Other Mercian troops, she said, had been summoned to Gleawecestre. ‘That’s a surprise,’ I said sarcastically. Æthelred, just as he had the last time Haesten invaded Mercia, would protect his own lands and let the rest of the country fend for itself.

  ‘I should go back to the king,’ Steapa said.

  ‘What are your orders?’ I asked him. ‘To find the Danish invasion?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Have you found it?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then you and your men come with me,’ I said, ‘and you,’ I pointed to Æthelflaed, ‘should go to Cirrenceastre or else join your brother.’

  ‘And you,’ she said, pointing back at me, ‘do not command me, so I’ll do what I wish.’ She stared at me challengingly, but I said nothing. ‘Why don’t we destroy Haesten?’ she asked.

  ‘Because we don’t have enough men,’ I said patiently, ‘and because we don’t know where the rest of the Danes are. You want to start a battle with Haesten and then discover three thousand mead-crazed Danes are in your rear?’

  ‘Then what do we do?’ she asked.

  ‘What I tell you to do,’ I said, and so we went eastwards, following Haesten’s hoof-prints, and it was noticeable that no more steadings had been burned and no villages sacked. That meant Haesten had been travelling fast, ignoring the chances for enrichment because, I assumed, he was under orders to join the Danish great army, wherever that was.

  We hurried too, but on the second day we were close to Liccelfeld and I had business there. We rode into the small town that had no walls, but boasted a great church, two mills, a monastery and an imposing hall, which was the bishop’s house. Many of the folk had fled southwards, seeking the shelter of a burh, and our arrival caused panic. We saw folk running towards the nearest woods, assuming we were Danes.

  We watered the horses in the two streams that ran through the town and I sent Osferth and Finan to buy food while Æthelflaed and I took thirty men to the town’s second largest hall, a magnificent and new building that stood at Liccelfeld’s northern edge. The widow who lived there had not fled from our arrival. Instead she waited in her hall, accompanied by a dozen servants.

  Her name was Edith. She was young, she was pretty and she was hard, though she looked soft. Her face was round, her curly red hair was springy and her figure plump. She wore a gown of linen dyed gold and around her neck was a looped golden chain. ‘You’re Offa’s widow,’ I said, and she nodded without speaking. ‘Where are his dogs?’

  ‘I drowned them,’ she said.

  ‘How much did Jarl Sigurd pay your husband to lie to us?’ I asked.

  ‘I don�
�t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.

  I turned to Sihtric. ‘Search the place,’ I told him, ‘take all the food you need.’

  ‘You can’t…’ Edith began.

  ‘I can do what I want!’ I snarled at her. ‘Your husband sold Wessex and Mercia to the Danes.’

  She was stubborn, admitting nothing, yet there was too much evident wealth in the newly built hall. She screamed at us, clawed at me when I took the gold from around her neck, and spat curses when we left. I did not leave the town straightaway, instead I went to the graveyard by the cathedral where my men dug Offa’s body from its grave. He had paid silver to the priests so that he could be buried close to the relics of Saint Chad, believing that proximity would hasten his ascent into heaven on the day of Christ’s return to earth, but I did my best to consign his filthy soul to the Christian hell. We carried his rotting body, still in its discoloured winding sheet, to the edge of town and there threw it into a stream.

  Then we rode on eastwards to discover whether his treachery had doomed Wessex.

  PART FOUR

  Death in Winter

  Eleven

  The village was no more. The houses were smouldering piles of charred timbers and ash, the corpses of four hacked dogs lay in the muddy street, and the stink of roasted flesh was mingling with the sullen smoke. A woman’s body, naked and swollen, floated in a pond. Ravens were perched on her shoulders, tearing at the bloated flesh. Blood had dried black in the grooves of the flat washing-stone beside the water. A great elm tree towered above the village, but its southern side had been set alight by flames from the church roof and had burned so that the tree appeared lightning-blasted, one half in full green leaf, the other half black, shrivelled and brittle. The ruins of the church still burned and there was not one person alive to tell us the name of the place, though a dozen smears of smoke told us that this was not the only village to be reduced to charred ruin.