Death of Kings st-6

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘I am,’ I said, and he looked startled.

  His son, Sigebriht, had listened to the exchange and now accompanied me as I rode north to look at the Danes. ‘Will they attack, lord?’ he asked me.

  ‘I understand nothing about this war,’ I told him, ‘nothing. The bastards should have attacked us weeks ago.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re frightened of us,’ he said, then laughed, which I thought curious, but ascribed to youthful foolishness. He was indeed foolish, yet such a handsome fool. He still wore his hair long, tied at the nape of his neck with a leather strip, and around his neck was the pink silk ribbon that still had the faint bloodstain from that morning outside Sceaftesburi. His expensive mail was polished, his gold-panelled belt shone, and his crystal-pommelled sword was sheathed in a scabbard decorated with writhing dragons made from finely-twisted gold wire. His face was strong-boned, bright-eyed, and his skin reddened by the cold. ‘So they should have attacked us,’ he said, ‘but what should we have done?’

  ‘Attacked them at Cracgelad,’ I said.

  ‘Why didn’t we?’

  ‘Because Edward was frightened of losing Lundene,’ I said, ‘and he was waiting for your father.’

  ‘He needs us,’ Sigebriht said with evident satisfaction.

  ‘What he needed,’ I said, ‘was an assurance of Cent’s loyalty.’

  ‘He doesn’t trust us?’ Sigebriht asked disingenuously.

  ‘Why should he?’ I asked savagely. ‘You supported Æthelwold and sent messengers to Sigurd. Of course he didn’t trust you.’

  ‘I submitted to Edward, lord,’ Sigebriht said humbly. He glanced at me and decided he needed to say more. ‘I admit all you say, lord, but there is a madness in youth, is there not?’

  ‘Madness?’

  ‘My father says young men are bewitched to madness.’ He fell silent a moment. ‘I loved Ecgwynn,’ he said wistfully. ‘Did you ever meet her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was small, lord, like an elf, and as beautiful as the dawn. She could turn a man’s blood to fire.’

  ‘Madness,’ I said.

  ‘But she chose Edward,’ he said, ‘and it maddened me.’

  ‘And now?’ I asked.

  ‘The heart mends,’ he said feelingly, ‘it leaves a scar, but I’m not foolish-mad. Edward is king and he’s been good to me.’

  ‘And there are other women,’ I said.

  ‘Thank God, yes,’ he said and laughed again.

  I liked him at that moment. I had never trusted him, but he was surely right that there are women who drive us to madness and to foolishness, and the heart does mend, even if the scar remains, and then we ended the conversation because Finan was galloping towards us and the river was before us and the Danes were in sight.

  The Use was wide here. The clouds had slowly covered the windless sky so that the river was grey and flat. A dozen swans moved slow on the slow-moving water. It seemed to me that the world was still, even the Danes were quiet and they were there in their hundreds, their thousands, their banners bright beneath the darkening cloud. ‘How many?’ I asked Finan.

  ‘Too many, lord,’ he said, an answer I deserved because it was impossible to count the enemy who were hidden by the houses of the small town. More were spread along the river banks either side of the town. I could see Sigurd’s flying raven banner on the higher ground at the town’s centre, and Cnut’s flag of the axe and broken cross at the far side of the bridge. There were Saxons there too, because Beortsig’s symbol of the boar was displayed alongside Æthelwold’s stag. Downriver of the bridge was a fleet of Danish ships moored thick along the farther bank, but only seven had been dismasted and brought beneath the bridge, which suggested the Danes had no thought of using their boats to advance upriver to Eanulfsbirig.

  ‘So why aren’t they attacking?’ I asked.

  None had crossed the bridge, which, of course, had been made by the Romans. I sometimes think that if the Romans had never invaded Britain we would never have managed to cross a river. On the southern bank, close to where we stood our horses, was a dilapidated Roman house and a huddle of thatched cottages. It would have been a fine place for the Danish vanguard, but for some reason they seemed content to wait on the far northern bank.

  It began to rain. It was a thin, sharp rain, and it brought a gust of wind that rippled the river about the swans. The sun was low in the west, the sky there still free of cloud, so that it seemed to me that the land across the river and the bright-shielded Danes glowed in a world of grey shadow. I could see a smoke plume much farther north, and that was strange because whatever burned was in Eohric’s territory and we had no men that far north. Perhaps, I thought, it was just a trick of the clouds or an accidental fire. ‘Does your father listen to you?’ I asked Sigebriht.

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Tell him we’ll send a messenger when he can begin to withdraw.’

  ‘Till then we stay?’

  ‘Unless the Danes attack, yes,’ I said, ‘and one other thing. Watch those bastards.’ I pointed to the Danes who were furthest west. ‘There’s a road that goes outside the river bend and if you see the enemy using that road, send us a message.’

  He frowned in thought. ‘Because they might try to block our retreat?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, pleased he had understood, ‘and if they manage to cut the road to Bedanford then we’ll have to fight them back and front.’

  ‘And that’s where we’re going?’ he asked. ‘To Bedanford?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s to the west?’ he asked.

  ‘To the west,’ I told Sigebriht, ‘but you won’t have to find your own way there. You’ll be back with the army this evening.’ What I did not tell him was that I was leaving most of my men not far behind the Centish troops. Sigebriht’s father Sigelf was such a proud man and so difficult to deal with that he would have immediately accused me of not trusting him if he had known my men were close. In truth I wanted my own eyes close to Huntandon, and Finan had the keenest eyes of anyone I knew.

  I left Finan on the road a half-mile south of Sigelf, then took a dozen men back to Eanulfsbirig. It was dusk as I arrived and the chaos was at last subsiding. Bishop Erkenwald had ridden back up the road and ordered the slowest, heaviest wagons abandoned, and Edward’s army was now gathering in the fields across the river. If the Danes did attack they would be forced to cross the bridge into an army, or else march around by the bad road that skirted the outside of the river bend. ‘Is Merewalh still guarding that road, lord King?’ I asked Edward.

  ‘He is, he says there’s no sign of the enemy.’

  ‘Good. Where’s your sister?’

  ‘I sent her back to Bedanford.’

  ‘And she went?’

  He smiled, ‘She did!’

  It was now plain that the whole army, except for my men and Sigelf’s rearguard, would be safe across the Use before nightfall and so I sent Sihtric back up the road with a message for both forces to retire as fast as possible. ‘Tell them to come to the bridge and cross it.’ Once that was done, and so long as no Danes tried to outflank us, then we would have escaped the Danish choice of battlefield. ‘And tell Finan to let Sigelf’s men go first,’ I told Sihtric. I wanted Finan as the real rearguard, because no other warrior in the army was so reliable.

  ‘You look tired, lord,’ Edward said sympathetically.

  ‘I am tired, lord King.’

  ‘It’ll be at least an hour before Ealdorman Sigelf reaches us,’ Edward said, ‘so rest.’

  I made sure my dozen men and horses were resting, then ate a poor meal of hard bread and pounded beans. The rain was falling harder now, and an east wind made the evening cruelly cold. The king had his quarters in one of the cottages we had half destroyed to burn the bridge, but somehow his servants had found a piece of sailcloth with which to make a roof. A fire burned in the hearth, swirling smoke under the makeshift canopy. Two priests were arguing quietly as I settled close to the fire. Against
the far wall was a pile of precious boxes, silver, gold and crystal, which held the relics that the king would take on campaign to ensure his god’s favour. The priests were disagreeing over whether one of the reliquaries contained a splinter from Noah’s ark or a toenail of Saint Patrick, and I ignored them.

  I half dozed, and I was thinking how strange it was that all the people who had affected my life over the last three years were suddenly in one place, or close to one place. Sigurd, Beortsig, Edward, Cnut, Æthelwold, Æthelflaed, Sigebriht, all of them gathered in this cold, wet corner of East Anglia and surely, I thought, that was significant. The three Norns were weaving the threads close together, and that had to be for a purpose. I looked for a pattern in the weave, but saw none, and my thoughts drifted as I half fell asleep. I woke when Edward stooped through the low door. It was dark outside now, black dark. ‘Sigelf isn’t retreating,’ he spoke to the two priests, his tone querulous.

  ‘Lord King?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Sigelf is being stubborn,’ the king said, holding his hands to the fire. ‘He’s staying where he is! I’ve told him to retreat, but he won’t.’

  ‘He’s what?’ I asked, suddenly fully awake.

  Edward seemed startled to see me. ‘It’s Sigelf,’ he said, ‘he’s ignoring my messengers! You sent a man to him, didn’t you? And I’ve sent five more! Five! But they come back telling me he’s refusing to retreat! He says it’s too dark and he’s waiting for the dawn, but God knows he’s risking his men. The Danes will be awake at first light.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve just sent another man with orders that they must retreat.’ He paused, frowning. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ he asked me, needing reassurance.

  I did not answer. I stayed silent because at last I saw what the Norns were doing. I saw the pattern in the weave of all our lives and I understood, finally, the war that passed all understanding. My face must have looked shocked because Edward was staring at me. ‘Lord King,’ I said, ‘order the army to march back across the bridge, then join Sigelf. Do you understand?’

  ‘You want me to…’ he began, confused.

  ‘The whole army!’ I shouted. ‘Every man! March them to Sigelf now!’ I shouted at him as though he were my underling and not my king, because if he disobeyed me now he would not be a king much longer. Maybe it was already too late, but there was no time to explain it to him. There was a kingdom to be saved. ‘March them now,’ I snarled at him, ‘back the way we came, back to Sigelf, and hurry!’

  And I ran for my horse.

  I took my twelve men. We led the horses over the bridge, then mounted and followed the road towards Huntandon. It was a black night, black and cold, rain spitting into our faces and we could not ride fast. I remember being assailed by doubt. Suppose I was wrong? If I was wrong then I was leading Edward’s army back into the battleground the Danes had chosen. I was stranding them in the river loop, perhaps with Danes on every side, but I resisted the doubt. Nothing had made sense, and now it all made sense, all except for the fires that burned far to the north. There had been one smoke plume in the afternoon, now I could see three huge blazes, betrayed by their reflected glow on the low clouds. Why would the Danes be burning halls or villages in King Eohric’s land? It was another mystery, but not one I worried about because the fires were far off, a long way beyond Huntandon.

  It was an hour before a sentry challenged us. It was one of my men and he led us to where Finan had the remainder in a patch of woodland. ‘I didn’t retreat,’ Finan explained, ‘because Sigelf isn’t moving. God knows why.’

  ‘You remember when we were in Hrofeceastre,’ I asked him, ‘talking to Bishop Swithwulf?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘What were they loading onto the ships?’

  There was a moment’s pause as Finan realised what I was saying. ‘Horses,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Horses for Frankia,’ I said, ‘and Sigelf comes to Lundene and claims he doesn’t have enough horses for his men.’

  ‘So now a hundred of his men are part of Lundene’s garrison,’ Finan said.

  ‘And ready to open the gates when the Danes arrive,’ I continued, ‘because Sigelf is sworn to Æthelwold or to Sigurd or to whoever has promised him the throne of Cent.’

  ‘Jesus and Joseph,’ Finan said.

  ‘And the Danes haven’t been indecisive,’ I said, ‘they were waiting for Sigelf to declare his loyalty. Now they have it, and the Centish bastard isn’t retreating because he expects the Danes to join him, and maybe they already have, and they think we’re going west and they’ll march fast southwards and Sigelf’s men in Lundene will open the gates and the city will fall while we’re still waiting for the earslings in Bedanford.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Finan asked.

  ‘Stop them, of course.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By changing sides, of course,’ I said.

  How else?

  Thirteen

  Doubt weakens the will. Suppose I was wrong? Suppose Sigelf was simply a stubborn and stupid old man who really did think it was too dark to retreat? But though the doubts assailed me I kept on, leading my men east around the marshland that anchored the right of Sigelf’s line.

  The wind was sharp, the night was freezing, the rain malevolent and the darkness absolute, and if it had not been for the Centish campfires we would surely have been lost. A slew of fires marked Sigelf’s position, and there were still more just to the north, which told me that at least some Danes had now crossed the river and were sheltering from the weather in the hovels around the old Roman house. Those mysterious great fires, the big glow of burning halls, also showed much farther north, and those three I could not explain.

  So much, and not just those distant fires, defied understanding. Some Danes had crossed the river, but the glow of fires on the northern bank told me that most still remained in Huntandon, which was strange if they intended to move southwards. Sigelf’s men had not moved from where I had left them, which meant there was a gap between his men and the nearest Danes, and that gap was my opportunity.

  I had left our horses behind, all of them tethered in woodland, and my men were on foot and carrying shields and weapons. The fires guided us, but for a long time we were so far from the nearest blaze that we could not see the ground and so we stumbled, fell, struggled, waded, and forced our way through the marsh. At least once I was up to my waist in water, the mud was clinging to my boots and the tussocks were tripping me, while startled birds screamed as they flew into the night, and that noise, I thought, must surely warn our enemies that we were on their flank, yet they seemed oblivious.

  I sometimes lie awake in the long nights of old age and I think of the mad things I have done, the risks, the dice throws that challenged the gods. I remember assaulting the fort at Beamfleot, or facing Ubba, or creeping up the hill at Dunholm, yet almost none of those lunacies rivalled that cold, wet night in East Anglia. I led one hundred and thirty-four men through the winter darkness, and we were attacking between two enemy forces that together numbered at least four thousand. If we were caught, if we were challenged, if we were defeated then we would have nowhere to run and no place to hide except in our graves.

  I had ordered all my Danes to be the vanguard. Men like Sihtric and Rollo, whose native tongue was Danish, men who had come to serve me after losing their lords, men who were sworn to me even though we fought against other Danes. I had seventeen such men, and to them I added my dozen Frisians. ‘When we attack,’ I had told them, ‘you shout Sigurd.’

  ‘Sigurd,’ one of them said.

  ‘Sigurd!’ I repeated. ‘Sigelf’s men must think we’re Danes.’ I gave the same instruction to my Saxons. ‘You shout Sigurd! That’s your war cry till the horn sounds. You shout and you kill, but be ready to pull back when the horn sounds.’

  This was going to be a dance with death. For some reason I thought of poor Ludda, slaughtered in my service, and how he had told me that all magic is making someone think one thing while, in truth, another is h
appening. ‘You make them watch your right hand, lord,’ he told me once, ‘while your left is picking their purse.’

  So now I would make the men of Cent believe they had been betrayed by their allies, and if the trick worked I hoped to turn them back into good men of Wessex. And if it failed then Ælfadell’s prophecy would come true and Uhtred of Bebbanburg would die in this miserable winter swamp and I would kill most of my men alongside me. And how I loved those men! On that miserable cold night as we advanced to a desperate fight they were full of enthusiasm. They trusted me as I trusted them. Together we would make reputation, we would have men in halls across Britain telling the story of our exploit. Or of our deaths. They were friends, they were oath-men, they were young, they were warriors, and with such men it might be possible to storm the gates of Asgard itself.

  It seemed to take for ever to make that short journey through the marshland. I kept glancing anxiously eastwards, hoping the dawn would not break, then looking northwards, hoping the Danes would not join Sigelf’s men. As we drew closer I saw two horsemen on the road, and that took away my doubts. Messengers were travelling between the two forces. The Danes, I supposed, were waiting for the first light before they left the shelter of Huntandon’s houses and moved south, but once they did move they would march swiftly on Lundene unless we stopped them.

  And then, at last, we were close to Sigelf’s fires. His men were sleeping or just sitting close to the flames. I had forgotten the ditch that protected them and slid into it, my shield clattering as I fell. Ice cracked as I slithered into the water. A dog barked from the Centish lines, and a man glanced in our direction, but saw nothing to worry him. Another man hit the dog and someone laughed.

  I hissed at four of my men to join me in the ditch. They stood there, making a line across it, and those four guided the rest down the treacherously slippery bank, through the water and up the farther side. My boots squelched as I climbed the far bank. I crouched there as my men came over the ditch and as they spread into a battle line. ‘Shield wall!’ I hissed the order at my vanguard of Danes and Frisians. ‘Osferth?’