The Warrior Chronicles

by Bernard Cornwell

  Finan nodded, ‘I told him, lord, but he wants us in Lundene.’

  ‘Doesn’t he understand the opportunity?’

  ‘He’s going to Lundene, lord, and he wants us to join him there,’ Finan said flatly.

  ‘Why?’ And that was a question no one could answer.

  I could do no good on my own. I had men, true, but not nearly enough. I needed two or three thousand warriors to come from the south, and that was not going to happen. Edward, it seemed, was taking his army to Lundene, going by a route that kept him well clear of any Danish outriders. I swore, but I had sworn an oath to obey King Edward and my oath-lord had given me an order.

  So we unlocked the trap, let the Danes live and rode to Lundene.

  King Edward was already in Lundene and the streets were filled with warriors, every courtyard was being used as a stable, even the old Roman amphitheatre was crammed with horses.

  Edward was in the old Mercian royal palace. Lundene was properly in Mercia, though it had been under West Saxon rule ever since I had captured it for Alfred. I found Edward in the big Roman chamber with its pillars, dome, cracked plaster and shattered tile floor. A council was in session, and the king was flanked by Archbishop Plegmund and by Bishop Erkenwald, while facing them, in a semicircle of benches and chairs, sat more churchmen and a dozen ealdormen. The banners of Wessex were propped at the back of the chamber. A lively discussion was under way as I entered, and the voices fell silent as my feet sounded loud on the broken floor. Scraps of tile skittered away. There had been a picture made with the tiles, but it had vanished by now.

  ‘Lord Uhtred,’ Edward greeted me warmly, though I noted a slight nervousness in his voice.

  I knelt to him. ‘Lord King.’

  ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘and join us.’

  I had not cleaned my mail. There was blood in the gaps between the tight rings and men noticed it. Ealdorman Æthelhelm ordered a chair brought next to him and invited me to sit there. ‘How many men do you bring us, Lord Uhtred?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Steapa is with me,’ I said, ‘and counting his men we have five hundred and sixty-three.’ I had lost some in the fighting at Cracgelad, and others had fallen behind because of lamed horses as we rode to Lundene.

  ‘Which makes a total of?’ Edward asked a priest seated at a table to the side of the chamber.

  ‘Three thousand, four hundred and twenty-three men, lord King.’

  He obviously meant household warriors, not the fyrd, and it was a respectable army. ‘And the enemy?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Four to five thousand men, lord, as best we may judge.’

  The stilted conversation was plainly meant for my ears. Archbishop Plegmund, face as sour as a shrivelled crab apple, watched me closely. ‘So you see, Lord Uhtred,’ Edward turned back to me, ‘we did not have enough men to force an encounter on the banks of the Temes.’

  ‘The men of Mercia would have joined you, lord King,’ I said. ‘Gleawecestre is not so far away.’

  ‘Sigismund has landed from Ireland,’ Archbishop Plegmund took up the tale, ‘and has occupied Ceaster. The Lord Æthelred needs to watch over him.’

  ‘From Gleawecestre?’ I asked.

  ‘From wherever he decides,’ Plegmund said testily.

  ‘Sigismund,’ I said, ‘is a Norseman who’s been run out of Ireland by the native savages, and he’s hardly a threat to Mercia.’ I had never heard of Sigismund before and had no idea why he had chosen to occupy Ceaster, but it seemed a likely explanation.

  ‘He has brought crews of pagans,’ Plegmund said, ‘a host!’

  ‘He is not our business,’ Edward intervened, obviously unhappy at the sharp tone of the last few statements. ‘Our business is to defeat my cousin Æthelwold. Now,’ he looked at me, ‘you will agree our burhs are well defended?’

  ‘I hope so, lord.’

  ‘And it is our belief,’ Edward went on, ‘that the enemy will be frustrated by the burhs and so will withdraw soon.’

  ‘And we shall fight them as they withdraw,’ Plegmund said.

  ‘So why not fight them south of Cracgelad?’ I asked.

  ‘Because the men of Cent could not have reached that place in a timely fashion,’ Plegmund said, sounding irritated by my question, ‘and Ealdorman Sigelf has promised us seven hundred warriors. Once they have joined us,’ he went on, ‘we shall be ready to confront the enemy.’

  Edward looked at me expectantly, plainly wanting my agreement. ‘It’s surely sensible,’ he finally spoke after I had made no comment, ‘to wait until we have the men of Cent? Their numbers will make our army truly formidable.’

  ‘I have a suggestion, lord King,’ I said respectfully.

  ‘All your suggestions are welcome, Lord Uhtred,’ he said.

  ‘I think that instead of bread and wine the church should serve ale and old cheese,’ I said, ‘and I propose that the sermon should be at the beginning of the service instead of at the end, and I think priests should be naked during the ceremonies, and…’

  ‘Silence!’ Plegmund shouted.

  ‘If your priests are going to conduct your wars, lord King,’ I said, ‘then why shouldn’t your warriors run the church?’ There was some nervous laughter at that, but as the council went on it was clear that we were as leaderless as the Danes. The Christians talk about the blind leading the blind, and now the blind were fighting the blind. Alfred would have dominated such a council, but Edward deferred to his advisers, and men like Æthelhelm were cautious. They preferred to wait until Sigelf’s Centish troops had joined us.

  ‘Why aren’t the men of Cent here now?’ I asked. Cent was close to Lundene and in the time it had taken my men to cross and recross half of Saxon Britain the men of Cent had failed to complete a two-day march.

  ‘They will be here,’ Edward said, ‘I have Ealdorman Sigelf’s word.’

  ‘But why has he delayed?’ I insisted.

  ‘The enemy went to East Anglia in ships,’ Archbishop Plegmund supplied the answer, ‘and we feared they might use those ships to descend on the coast of Cent. Ealdorman Sigelf preferred to wait until he was sure that the threat was not real.’

  ‘And who commands our army?’ I asked, and that question caused embarrassment.

  There was silence for a few heartbeats, then Archbishop Plegmund scowled. ‘Our lord King commands the army, of course,’ he said.

  And who commands the king, I wondered, but said nothing. That evening Edward sent for me. It was dark when I joined him. He dismissed his servants so we were alone. ‘Archbishop Plegmund is not in charge,’ he chided me, obviously remembering my final question in the council, ‘but I find his advice is good.’

  ‘To do nothing, lord King?’

  ‘To gather all our forces before we fight. And the council agrees.’ We were in the large upper room where a great bed stood between two candle-lanterns. Edward was standing in the large window that overlooked the old city, the window where Æthelflaed and I had stood so often. It looked west towards the new city where soft firelight glimmered. Farther west it was dark, a black land. ‘The twins are safe?’ Edward asked me.

  ‘They’re in Cirrenceastre, lord King,’ I said, ‘so yes, they’re safe.’ The twins, Æthelstan and Eadgyth, were with my daughter and younger son, all in good hands inside Cirrenceastre, a burh that was as well defended as Cracgelad. Fagranforda had been burned as I had expected, but my people were all safe inside Cirrenceastre.

  ‘And the boy is in good health?’ Edward asked anxiously.

  ‘Æthelstan’s a lusty baby,’ I said.

  ‘I wish I could see them,’ he said.

  ‘Father Cuthbert and his wife are looking after them,’ I said.

  ‘Cuthbert’s married?’ Edward asked, surprised.

  ‘To a very pretty girl,’ I said.

  ‘Poor woman,’ Edward said, ‘she’ll be riddled to death by him.’ He smiled, and looked unhappy when I did not return the smile. ‘And my sister’s here?’

  ‘Yes, lord King.�
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  ‘She should be looking after the children,’ he said sternly.

  ‘You tell her, lord King,’ I said, ‘and she’s brought you almost a hundred and fifty Mercian warriors,’ I went on. ‘Why hasn’t Æthelred sent any?’

  ‘He’s worried about the Irish Norsemen,’ he said, then shrugged when I made a dismissive noise. ‘Why didn’t Æthelwold go deeper into Wessex?’ he asked me.

  ‘Because they’re leaderless,’ I said, ‘and because no one came to his banner.’ Edward looked puzzled. ‘I think their plan was to reach Wessex, proclaim Æthelwold king, and wait for men to join them, but no one did.’

  ‘So what will they do?’

  ‘If they can’t take a burh,’ I said, ‘they’ll go back where they came from.’

  Edward turned to the window. Bats flitted in the darkness, sometimes showing briefly in the light of the lanterns that lit the high room. ‘There are too many of them, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, talking of the Danes, ‘just too many. We must be sure before we attack.’

  ‘If you wait for certainty in war, lord King,’ I said, ‘you’ll die waiting.’

  ‘My father advised me to hold on to Lundene,’ he said. ‘He told me we should never relinquish the city.’

  ‘And let Æthelwold have the rest?’ I asked sourly.

  ‘He will die, but we need Ealdorman Sigelf’s men.’

  ‘He’s bringing seven hundred?’

  ‘So he promised,’ Edward said, ‘which will give us over four thousand men.’ He took comfort in that number. ‘And, of course,’ he went on, ‘we now have your men and the Mercians too. We should be strong enough.’

  ‘And who commands us?’ I asked in a gruff voice.

  Edward looked surprised at the question. ‘I do, of course.’

  ‘Not Archbishop Plegmund?’

  Edward stiffened. ‘I have advisers, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘and it’s a foolish king who doesn’t listen to his advisers.’

  ‘It’s a foolish king,’ I retorted, ‘who doesn’t know which advisers to trust. And the archbishop has advised you to mistrust me. He thinks I’m sympathetic to the Danes.’

  Edward hesitated, then nodded. ‘He worries about that, yes.’

  ‘Yet so far, lord King, I’m the only one of your men who has killed any of the bastards. For a man who can’t be trusted that’s strange behaviour, is it not?’

  Edward just looked at me, then flinched as a large moth fluttered close to his face. He called for servants to close the big shutters. Somewhere in the dark I could hear men singing. A servant took the robe from Edward’s shoulders, then lifted the gold chain from around his neck. Beyond the arch, where the door stood open, I could see a girl waiting in the dark shadows. It was not Edward’s wife. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, dismissing me.

  I bowed to him, then went.

  And next day Sigelf arrived.

  Twelve

  The fight began in the street below the big church next to the old Mercian palace where Edward and his entourage were quartered. The men of Cent had arrived that morning, streaming across the Roman bridge and beneath the broken arch that led through Lundene’s river wall. Six hundred and eighty-six men, led by their ealdorman, Sigelf, and his son, Sigebriht, rode beneath banners showing Sigelf’s crossed swords and Sigebriht’s bloody-horned bull’s head. They had dozens of other flags, most with crosses or saints, and the horsemen were accompanied by monks, priests and wagons loaded with supplies. Not all Sigelf’s warriors were mounted, at least one hundred came without horses, and those men straggled into the city for a long while after the horsemen had arrived.

  Edward ordered the Centishmen to find quarters in the eastern part of the city, but of course the newcomers wanted to explore Lundene and the fight started when a dozen of Sigelf’s men demanded ale in a tavern called the Red Pig, which was popular with Ealdorman Æthelhelm’s men. The fight began over a whore and soon spilled from the tavern door and spread down the hill. Mercians, West Saxons and Centishmen were brawling in the street and within minutes swords and knives were drawn.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Edward, his council interrupted, stared aghast from a palace window. He could hear shouts, blades clashing and see dead and wounded men on the stone-paved hill. ‘Is it the Danes?’ he asked, appalled.

  I ignored the king. ‘Steapa!’ I called, then ran down the steps and shouted at the steward to bring me Serpent-Breath. Steapa was calling his men together. ‘You!’ I grabbed one of the king’s bodyguard. ‘Find a rope. A long one.’

  ‘A rope, lord?’

  ‘There are masons repairing the palace roof. They have rope! Fetch it! Now! And find someone who can blow a horn!’

  A dozen of us strode into the street, but there were at least a hundred men fighting there, and twice that many watching and calling encouragement. I slammed a man across the head with the flat of Serpent-Breath, kicked another one down, bellowed for men to stop, but they were oblivious. One man even ran at me, screaming, his sword lifted, then seemed to realise his mistake and curved away.

  The man I had sent to find a rope brought one with a heavy wooden bucket attached, and I used the pail as a weight to hurl the rope over the projecting inn sign of the Red Pig. ‘Find me a man, any man, one who’s fighting,’ I told Steapa.

  He stomped off while I made a noose. A wounded man, guts hanging, crawled down the hill. A woman was screaming. The gutter was running with ale-diluted blood. One of the king’s men arrived with a horn. ‘Sound it,’ I said, ‘and keep blowing it.’

  Steapa dragged a man to me, we had no idea whether he was from Wessex or Mercia, but it did not matter. I tightened the noose around his neck, slapped him when he begged for mercy, and hauled him into the air where he hanged, legs kicking. The horn blew on, insistent, unignorable. I handed the rope’s end to Oswi, my servant. ‘Tie it to something,’ I said, then turned and bellowed at the street. ‘Anyone else want to die?’

  The sight of a man dancing on a rope while he chokes to death has a calming influence on a crowd. The street went quiet. The king and a dozen men had appeared at the palace door and men bowed or knelt in homage.

  ‘One more fight,’ I shouted, ‘and you’ll all die!’ I looked for one of my men. ‘Pull on the bastard’s ankles,’ I said, pointing at the hanged man.

  ‘You just killed one of my men,’ a voice said, and I turned to see a slight man with a sharp fox-like face and long red plaited moustaches. He was an older man, perhaps close to fifty, and his red hair was greying at the temples. ‘You killed him without trial!’ he accused me.

  I towered over him, but he faced me pugnaciously. ‘I’ll hang a dozen more of your men if they fight in the street,’ I said, ‘and who are you?’

  ‘Ealdorman Sigelf,’ he said, ‘and you call me lord.’

  ‘I’m Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I said and was rewarded by a blink of surprise, ‘and you can call me lord.’

  Sigelf evidently decided he did not want to fight me. ‘They shouldn’t have been fighting,’ he acknowledged grudgingly. He frowned. ‘You met my son, I believe?’

  ‘I met your son,’ I said.

  ‘He was a fool,’ Sigelf said in a voice as sharp as his face, ‘a young fool. He’s learned his lesson.’

  ‘The lesson of loyalty?’ I asked, looking across the street to where Sigebriht was bowing low to the king.

  ‘So they both liked the same bitch,’ Sigelf said, ‘but Edward was a prince and princes get what they want.’

  ‘So do kings,’ I said mildly.

  Sigelf caught my meaning and gave me a very hard glance. ‘Cent doesn’t need a king,’ he said, clearly trying to scotch the rumour that he wanted the throne for himself.

  ‘Cent has a king,’ I said.

  ‘So we hear,’ he spoke sarcastically, ‘but Wessex needs to take more care of us. Every damned Northman who gets his arse kicked in Frankia comes to our shores, and what does Wessex do? It scratches its own arse then sniffs its fingers while we suffer.’ He watched his s
on bow a second time and spat, though whether that was because of his son’s obeisance or because of Wessex it was hard to tell. ‘Look what happened when Harald and Haesten came!’ he demanded.

  ‘I defeated both of them,’ I said.

  ‘But not before they’d raped half of Cent and burned fifty or more villages. We need more defences.’ He glared at me. ‘We need some help!’

  ‘At least you’re here,’ I said emolliently.

  ‘We’ll help Wessex,’ Sigelf said, ‘even if Wessex doesn’t help us.’

  I had thought that the arrival of the Centishmen would provoke some action from Edward, but instead he waited. There was a council of war every day, but it decided nothing except to wait and see what the enemy would do. Scouts were watching the Danes and sent reports back every day and those reports said the Danes were still not moving. I urged the king to attack them, but I might as well have begged him to fly to the moon. I begged him to let me lead my own men to scout the enemy, but he refused.

  ‘He thinks you’ll attack them,’ Æthelflaed told me.

  ‘Why doesn’t he attack?’ I asked, frustrated.

  ‘Because he’s frightened,’ she said, ‘because there are too many men giving him advice, because he’s scared of doing the wrong thing, because he only has to lose one battle and he’s no longer king.’

  We were on the top floor of a Roman house, one of those astonishing buildings that had stairs climbing to floor after floor. The moon shone through a window, and through the holes in the roof where the slates had fallen. It was cold and we were wrapped in fleeces. ‘A king shouldn’t be frightened,’ I said.

  ‘Edward knows men compare him to his father. He wonders what Father would have done now.’

  ‘Alfred would have called for me,’ I said, ‘preached to me for ten minutes, then given me the army.’

  She lay silent in my arms. She was gazing at the moon-speckled roof. ‘Do you think,’ she asked, ‘that we’ll ever have peace?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I dream of a day when we can live in a great hall, go hunting, listen to songs, walk by the river and never fear an enemy.’