But there were things to do first. There was Kjartan’s hoard to uncover from the hall where the dogs were kenneled, and we put Kjartan’s slaves to work, digging into the shit-stinking floor, and beneath it were barrels of silver and vats of gold and crosses from churches and arm rings and leather bags of amber, jet, and garnets, and even bolts of precious imported silk that had half rotted away in the damp earth. Kjartan’s defeated warriors made a pyre for their dead, though Ragnar insisted that neither Kjartan nor what was left of Sven should be given such a funeral. Instead they were stripped of their armor and their clothes and then their naked corpses were given to those pigs which had been spared the autumn slaughter and lived in the northwest corner of the compound.
Rollo was given charge of the fortress. Guthred, in the excitement of victory, had announced that the fort was now his property and that it would become a royal fortress of Northumbria, but I took him aside and told him to give it to Ragnar. “Ragnar will be your friend,” I told him, “and you can trust him to hold Dunholm.” I could trust Ragnar, too, to raid Bebbanburg’s lands and to keep my treacherous uncle in fear.
So Guthred gave Dunholm to Ragnar, and Ragnar entrusted its keeping to Rollo and he left him just thirty men to hold the walls while we went south. Over fifty of Kjartan’s defeated men swore their loyalty to Ragnar, but only after he had determined that none of them had taken part in the hall-burning that had killed his parents. Any man who had helped with that murder was killed. The rest would ride with us, first to Cetreht, and then to confront Ivarr.
So half our job was done. Kjartan the Cruel and Sven the One-Eyed were dead, but Ivarr lived and Alfred of Wessex, though he had never said as much, wanted him dead too.
So we rode south.
ELEVEN
We left next morning. The rain had gone southward, leaving a rinsed sky ragged with small hurrying clouds beneath which we rode from Dunholm’s high gate. We left the treasure in Rollo’s keeping. We were all wealthy men for we had taken Kjartan’s fortune, and if we survived our meeting with Ivarr then we would share those riches. I had more than replaced the hoard I had left at Fifhaden and I would go back to Alfred as a rich man, one of the richest in his kingdom, and that was a cheering thought as we followed Ragnar’s eagle-wing standard toward the nearest ford across the Wiire.
Brida rode with Ragnar, Gisela was beside me, and Thyra would not leave Beocca’s side. I never did discover what Ragnar had said to her in Kjartan’s hall, but she was calm with him now. The madness was gone. Her fingernails were trimmed, her hair was tidy beneath a white bonnet and that morning she had greeted her brother with a kiss. She still looked unhappy, but Beocca had the words to comfort her and she drew on those words as if they were water and she were dying of thirst. They both rode mares and Beocca, for once, had forgotten his discomfort in the saddle as he talked with Thyra. I could see his good hand gesturing as he spoke. Behind him a servant led a packhorse which carried four big altar crosses taken from Kjartan’s hoard. Beocca had demanded they be returned to the church, and none of us could deny him for he had proved himself as great a hero as any of us, and now he leaned toward Thyra, spoke urgently, and she listened.
“She’ll be a Christian within a week,” Gisela said to me.
“Sooner,” I said.
“So what happens to her?” she asked.
I shrugged. “He’ll talk her into a nunnery, I suppose.”
“Poor woman.”
“At least she’ll learn obedience there,” I said. “She won’t make twelve into thirteen.”
Gisela punched my arm, thus hurting herself instead of me. “I swore,” she said, rubbing her knuckles where they had scraped against my mail, “that once I found you again I would not leave you. Not ever.”
“But thirteen?” I asked her. “How could you do that?”
“Because I knew the gods were with us,” she said simply. “I cast the runesticks.”
“And what do the runesticks say of Ivarr?” I asked.
“That he will die like a snake under a hoe,” she said grimly, then flinched as a gobbet of mud, thrown up by a hoof of Steapa’s horse, spattered onto her face. She wiped it off, then frowned at me. “Must we go to Wessex?”
“I swore as much to Alfred.”
“You swore?”
“I gave him my oath.”
“Then we must go to Wessex,” she said without enthusiasm. “Do you like Wessex?”
“No.”
“Alfred?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s too pious,” I said, “and he’s too earnest. And he stinks.”
“All Saxons stink,” she said.
“He stinks worse than most. It’s his illness. It makes him shit all the time.”
She grimaced. “Doesn’t he wash?”
“At least once a month,” I said, “and probably more often. He’s very fastidious about washing, but he still stinks. Do I stink?”
“Like a boar,” she said, grinning. “Will I like Alfred?”
“No. He won’t approve of you because you’re not a Christian.”
She laughed at that. “What will he do with you?”
“He’ll give me land,” I said, “and expect me to fight for him.”
“Which means you’ll fight the Danes?”
“The Danes are Alfred’s enemies,” I said, “so yes. I’ll fight the Danes.”
“But they’re my people,” she said.
“And I’ve given Alfred my oath,” I said, “so I must do what he wants.” I leaned back as the stallion picked its way down a steep hill. “I love the Danes,” I said, “love them far more than I do the West Saxons, but it’s my fate to fight for Wessex. Wyrd biful aræd.”
“Which means?”
“That fate is fate. That it rules us.”
She thought about that. She was dressed in her mail again, but around her neck was a golden torc taken from Kjartan’s treasures. It was made from seven strands twisted into one and I had seen similar things dug from the graves of ancient British chieftains. It gave her a wild look, which suited her. Her black hair was pinned under a woolen cap and she had a faraway look on her long face, and I thought I could look at that face forever. “So how long must you be Alfred’s man?”
“Until he releases me,” I said, “or until either he or I die.”
“But you say he’s sick. So how long can he live?”
“Probably not very long.”
“So who becomes king then?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and I wished I did. Alfred’s son, Edward, was a mewling child, much too young to rule, and his nephew, Æthelwold, from whom Alfred had usurped the throne, was a drunken fool. The drunken fool had the better claim to the throne, and I suddenly found myself hoping that Alfred would live long. That did surprise me. I had told Gisela the truth, that I did not like Alfred, but I recognized that he was the true power in the island of Britain. No one else had his vision, no one else had his determination, and Kjartan’s death was not so much our doing, but Alfred’s. He had sent us north, knowing we would do what he wanted even though he had not explicitly told us what that was, and I was struck by the thought that life as his oath-man might not be as dull as I had feared. But if he died soon, I thought, then that would be the end of Wessex. The thegns would fight for his crown and the Danes would scent the weakness and come like ravens to pluck the corpse-meat.
“If you’re Alfred’s sworn man,” Gisela asked carefully, and her question revealed that she must have been thinking the same thoughts, “why did he let you come here?”
“Because he wants your brother to rule in Northumbria.”
She thought about that. “Because Guthred is a Christian of sorts?”
“That’s important to Alfred,” I said.
“Or because Guthred’s weak?” she suggested.
“Is he weak?”
“You know he is,” she said scornfully. “He’s a kind man, and folk have always liked him, b
ut he doesn’t know how to be ruthless. He should have killed Ivarr when he first met him, and he should have banished Hrothweard a long time ago, but he didn’t dare. He’s too frightened of Saint Cuthbert.”
“And why would Alfred want a weak king on Northumbria’s throne?” I asked blandly.
“So Northumbria will be weak,” she said, “when the Saxons try to take back their land.”
“Is that what your runesticks say will happen?” I asked.
“They say,” she said, “that we will have two sons and a daughter, and that one son will break your heart, the other will make you proud, and that your daughter will be the mother of kings.”
I laughed at that prophecy, not with scorn, but because of the certainty in Gisela’s voice. “And does that mean,” I asked, “that you will come to Wessex, even though I fight the Danes?”
“It means,” she said, “that I’m not leaving your side. That’s my oath.”
Ragnar had sent scouts ahead and as the long day passed some of those men came back on tired horses. Ivarr, they had heard, had taken Eoferwic. It had been easy for him. Guthred’s diminished garrison had surrendered the city rather than be slaughtered in its streets. Ivarr had taken what plunder he could find, placed a new garrison on the walls, and was already marching back north. He would not have heard of the fall of Dunholm yet, so he was plainly hoping to catch Guthred who, he must assume, either lingered at Cetreht or was wandering disconsolately toward the wastes of Cumbraland. Ivarr’s army, the scouts had heard, was a horde. Some men said Ivarr led two thousand spears, a figure that Ragnar and I dismissed. It was certain, though, that Ivarr’s men far outnumbered ours and probable that he was marching north on the same Roman road down which we traveled south. “Can we fight him?” Guthred asked me.
“We can fight him,” Ragnar answered for me, “but we can’t beat his army.”
“So why are we marching south?”
“To rescue Cuthbert,” I said, “and to kill Ivarr.”
“But if we can’t beat him?” Guthred was puzzled.
“We fight him,” I said, adding to his confusion, “and if we can’t beat him then we retreat to Dunholm. That’s why we captured it, as a refuge.”
“We’re letting the gods decide what happens,” Ragnar explained and, because we were confident, Guthred pressed us no further.
We reached Cetreht that evening. Our journey had been fast because we had no need to leave the Roman road, and we splashed through the Swale’s ford as the sun reddened the western hills. The churchmen, rather than take refuge in those hills, had preferred to stay with Cetreht’s meager comforts and no one had disturbed them while we had gone to Dunholm. They had seen mounted Danes on the southern hills, but none of those riders had approached the fort. The horsemen had watched, counted heads, and ridden away, and I assumed those men were Ivarr’s scouts.
Father Hrothweard and Abbot Eadred seemed unimpressed that we had captured Dunholm. All they cared about was the corpse of the saint and the other precious relics which they dug up from the graveyard that same evening and carried in solemn procession to the church. It was there that I confronted Aidan, the steward of Bebbanburg, and his score of men who had stayed in the village. “It’s safe for you to ride home now,” I told them, “because Kjartan is dead.”
I do not think Aidan believed me at first. Then he understood what we had achieved and he must have feared that the men who had captured Dunholm would march on Bebbanburg next. I wanted to do that, but I was sworn to return to Alfred before Christmas and that left me no time to confront my uncle.
“We shall leave in the morning,” Aidan said.
“You will,” I agreed, “and when you reach Bebbanburg you will tell my uncle that he is never far from my thoughts. You will tell him I have taken his bride. You will promise him that one day I shall slit his belly, and if he dies before I can fulfill that oath then promise him I shall slice the guts out of his sons instead, and if his sons have sons I shall kill them too. Tell him those things, and tell him that folk thought Dunholm was like Bebbanburg, impregnable, and that Dunholm fell to my sword.”
“Ivarr will kill you,” Aidan said defiantly.
“You had better pray as much,” I said.
All the Christians prayed that night. They gathered in the church and I thought they might be asking their god to give us victory over the approaching forces of Ivarr, but instead they were giving thanks that the precious relics had survived. They placed Saint Cuthbert’s body before the altar on which they put Saint Oswald’s head, the gospel book, and the reliquary with the hairs of Saint Augustine’s beard and they chanted, they prayed, they chanted again, and I thought they would never stop praying, but at last, in the night’s dark heart, they fell silent.
I walked the fort’s low wall, watching the Roman road stretch south through the fields beneath the waning moon. It was from there that Ivarr would come and I could not be sure he would not send a band of picked horsemen to attack in the night and so I had a hundred men waiting in the village street. But no attack came, and in the darkness a small mist rose to blur the fields as Ragnar came to relieve me. “There’ll be a frost by morning,” he greeted me.
“There will,” I agreed.
He stamped his feet to make them warm. “My sister,” he said, “tells me she’s going to Wessex. She says she’ll be baptized.”
“Are you surprised?”
“No,” he said. He gazed down the long straight road. “It’s for the best,” he spoke bleakly, “and she likes your Father Beocca. So what will happen to her?”
“I suppose she’ll become a nun,” I said, for I could not think what other fate would wait for her in Alfred’s Wessex.
“I let her down,” he said, and I said nothing because it was true. “Must you go back to Wessex?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m sworn.”
“Oaths can be broken,” he said quietly, and that was true, but in a world where different gods ruled and fate is known only to the three spinners, oaths are our one certainty. If I broke an oath then I could not expect men to keep their oaths to me. That I had learned.
“I won’t break my oath to Alfred,” I said, “but I will make another oath to you. That I will never fight you, that what I have is yours to share, and that if you need help I will do all I can to bring it.”
Ragnar said nothing for a while. He kicked at the turf on the wall’s top and looked into the mist. “I swear the same,” he said quietly and he, like me, was embarrassed and so he kicked at the turf again. “How many men will Ivarr bring?”
“Eight hundred?”
He nodded. “And we have fewer than three hundred.”
“There won’t be a fight,” I said.
“No?”
“Ivarr will die,” I said, “and that will be the end of it.” I touched Serpent-Breath’s hilt for luck and felt the slightly raised edges of Hild’s cross. “He will die,” I said, still touching the cross, “and Guthred will rule, and he will do what you tell him to do.”
“You want me to tell him to attack Ælfric?” he asked.
I thought about it. “No,” I said.
“No?”
“Bebbanburg’s too strong,” I said, “and there’s no back gate as there was at Dunholm. Besides, I want to kill Ælfric myself.”
“Will Alfred let you do that?”
“He will,” I said, though in truth I doubted Alfred ever would allow me such a luxury, but I was certain that my fate was to go back to Bebbanburg and I had faith in that destiny. I turned and stared at the village. “All quiet there?”
“All quiet,” he said. “They’ve given up praying and are sleeping instead. You should sleep too.”
I walked back up the street, but before joining Gisela I quietly opened the church door and saw priests and monks sleeping in the small light of the few candles guttering on the altar. One of them snored and I closed the door as silently as I had opened it.
I was woken in the dawn by Sihtric who banged on t
he door lintel. “They’re here, lord!” he shouted. “They’re here!”
“Who’s here?”
“Ivarr’s men, lord.”
“Where?”
“Horsemen, lord, across the river!”
There were only a hundred or so riders, and they made no attempt to cross the ford and I guessed they had only been sent to the Swale’s northern bank to cut off our escape. Ivarr’s main force would appear to the south, though that prospect was not the chief excitement in that misted dawn. Men were shouting in the village. “What is it?” I asked Sihtric.
“Christians are upset, lord,” he said.
I walked to the church to discover that the golden reliquary of Saint Augustine’s beard, the precious gift from Alfred to Guthred, had been stolen. It had been on the altar with the other relics, but during the night it had vanished, and Father Hrothweard was wailing beside a hole scratched and torn into the wall of wattle and daub behind the altar. Guthred was there, listening to Abbot Eadred who was declaring the theft a sign of God’s disapproval.
“Disapproval of what?” Guthred asked.
“The pagans, of course,” Eadred spat.
Father Hrothweard was rocking back and forth, wringing his hands and shouting at his god to bring vengeance on the heathens who had desecrated the church and stolen the holy treasure. “Reveal the culprits, lord!” he shouted, then he saw me and evidently decided the revelation had come, for he pointed at me. “It was him!” he spat.
“Was it you?” Guthred asked.
“No, lord,” I said.
“It was him!” Hrothweard said again.
“You must search all the pagans,” Eadred told Guthred, “for if the relic isn’t found, lord, then our defeat is certain. Ivarr will crush us for this sin. It will be God’s chastisement on us.”
It seemed a strange punishment, to allow a pagan Dane to defeat a Christian king because a relic had been stolen, but as a prophecy it seemed safe enough, for in the mid-morning, while the church was still being searched in a vain attempt to find the reliquary, one of Ragnar’s men brought word that Ivarr’s army had appeared. They were marching from the south and already forming their shield wall a half-mile from Ragnar’s small force.
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