Lords of the North s-3

by Bernard Cornwell

  It was autumn when we reached Northumbria. Peregrine falcons patrolled the sky, stooping on the newly arrived woodcock or on the gulls that flocked in the rain-drowned furrows. It had been a fine autumn so far, but the rains arrived from the west as we traveled north through Mercia. There were ten of us; Ragnar and Brida, Steapa and myself, and Father Beocca who had charge of three servants who led the packhorses carrying our shields, armor, changes of clothing, and the gifts Alfred was sending to Guthred. Ragnar led two men who had shared his exile. All of us were mounted on fine horses that Alfred had given us and we should have made good time, but Beocca slowed us. He hated being on horseback and even though we padded his mare’s saddle with two thick fleeces he was still crippled by soreness. He had spent the journey rehearsing the speech with which he would greet Guthred, practicing and practicing the words until we were all bored by them. We had encountered no trouble in Mercia, for Ragnar’s presence ensured that we were welcome in Danish halls. There was still a Saxon king in northern Mercia, Ceolwulf was his name, but we did not meet him and it was plain that the real power lay with the great Danish lords. We crossed the border into Northumbria under a pelting rainstorm and it was still raining as we rode into Eoferwic.

  And there I learned that Gisela was married. Not only married, but gone from Eoferwic with her brother. “I solemnized the marriage,” Wulfhere, the archbishop, told us. He was spooning barley soup into his mouth and long dribbles hung in glutinous loops in his white beard. “The silly girl wept all through the ceremony, and she wouldn’t take the mass, but it makes no difference. She’s still married.”

  I was horrified. Five days, that was all. Fate is inexorable. “I thought she’d gone to a nunnery,” I said, as if that made any difference.

  “She lived in a nunnery,” Wulfhere said, “but putting a cat into a stable doesn’t make it a horse, does it? She was hiding herself away! It was a waste of a perfectly good womb! She’s been spoiled, that’s her trouble. Allowed to live in a nunnery where she never said a prayer. She needed the strap, that one. A good thrashing, that’s what I’d have given her. Still, she’s not in the nunnery now. Guthred pulled her out and married her off.”

  “To whom?” Beocca asked.

  “Lord Ælfric, of course.”

  “Ælfric came to Eoferwic?” I asked, astonished, for my uncle was as reluctant to leave Bebbanburg as Kjartan was to quit the safety of Dunholm.

  “He didn’t come,” Wulfhere said. “He sent a score of men and one of those stood in for Lord Ælfric. It was a proxy wedding. Quite legal.”

  “It is,” Beocca said.

  “So where is she?” I asked.

  “Gone north,” Wulfhere waved his horn spoon. “They’ve all gone. Her brother’s taken her to Bebbanburg. Abbot Eadred’s with them, and he’s taken Saint Cuthbert’s corpse, of course. And that awful man Hrothweard went as well. Can’t stand Hrothweard. He was the idiot who persuaded Guthred to impose the tithe on the Danes. I told Guthred it was foolishness, but Hrothweard claimed to have got his orders directly from Saint Cuthbert, so nothing I could say had the slightest effect. Now the Danes are probably gathering their forces, so it’s going to be war.”

  “War?” I asked. “Has Guthred declared war on the Danes?” It sounded unlikely.

  “Of course not! But they’ve got to stop him.” Wulfhere used the sleeve of his robe to mop up his beard.

  “Stop him from doing what?” Ragnar asked.

  “Reaching Bebbanburg, of course, what else? The day Guthred delivers his sister and Saint Cuthbert to Bebbanburg is the day Ælfric gives him two hundred spearmen. But the Danes aren’t going to stand for that! They more or less put up with Guthred, but only because he’s too weak to order them about, but if he gets a couple of hundred prime spearmen from Ælfric, the Danes will squash him like a louse. I should think Ivarr is already gathering troops to stop the nonsense.”

  “They’ve taken the blessed Saint Cuthbert with them?” Beocca asked.

  The archbishop frowned at Beocca. “You’re an odd ambassador,” he said.

  “Odd, lord?”

  “Can’t look straight, can you? Alfred must be hard up for men if he sends an ugly thing like you. There used to be a priest in Bebbanburg with a squint. That was years ago, back in old Lord Uhtred’s day.”

  “That was me,” Beocca said eagerly.

  “Don’t be a fool, of course it wasn’t. The fellow I’m talking about was young and red-haired. Take all the chairs, you brainless idiot!” he turned on a servant, “all six of them. And bring me more bread.” Wulfhere was planning to escape before war broke out between Guthred and the Danes and his courtyard was busy with wagons, oxen, and packhorses because the treasures of his big church were being packed up so they could be taken to someplace that offered safety. “King Guthred took Saint Cuthbert,” the archbishop said, “because that’s Ælfric’s price. He wants the corpse as well as the womb. I just hope he remembers which one to poke.”

  My uncle, I realized, was making his bid for power. Guthred was weak, but he did possess the great treasure of Cuthbert’s corpse and if Ælfric could gain possession of the saint then he would become the guardian of all Northumbria’s Christians. He would also make a small fortune from the pennies of pilgrims. “What he’s doing,” I said, “is remaking Bernicia. He’ll call himself king before too long.”

  Wulfhere looked at me as though I was not a complete fool. “You’re right,” he said, “and his two hundred spearmen will stay with Guthred for a month, that’s all. Then they’ll go home and the Danes will roast Guthred over a fire. I warned him! I told him a dead saint was worth more than two hundred spearmen, but he’s desperate. And if you want to see him, you’d best go north.” Wulfhere had received us because we were Alfred’s ambassadors, but he had offered us neither food nor shelter and he plainly wanted to see the back of us as soon as decently possible. “Go north,” he reiterated, “and you might find the silly man alive.”

  We went back to the tavern where Steapa and Brida waited and I cursed the three spinners who had let me come so close, and then denied me. Gisela had been gone four days, which was more than enough time to reach Bebbanburg, and her brother’s desperate bid for Ælfric’s support had probably stirred the Danes to revolt. Not that I cared about the anger of the Danes. I was only thinking of Gisela.

  “We have to go north,” Beocca said, “and find the king.”

  “You step inside Bebbanburg,” I told him, “and Ælfric will kill you.” Beocca, when he fled Bebbanburg, had taken all the parchments that proved I was the rightful lord, and Ælfric knew and resented that.

  “Ælfric won’t kill a priest,” Beocca said, “not if he cares for his soul. And I’m an ambassador! He can’t kill an ambassador.”

  “So long as he’s safe inside Bebbanburg,” Ragnar put in, “he can do whatever he likes.”

  “Maybe Guthred didn’t reach Bebbanburg,” Steapa said, and I was so surprised that he had spoken at all that I did not really pay attention. Nor, it seemed, did anyone else, for none of us responded. “If they don’t want the girl married,” Steapa went on, “they’ll stop him.”

  “They?” Ragnar asked.

  “The Danes, lord,” Steapa said.

  “And Guthred will be traveling slowly,” Brida added.

  “He will?” I asked.

  “You said he’s taken Cuthbert’s corpse with him.”

  Hope stirred in me. Steapa and Brida were right. Guthred might be intent on reaching Bebbanburg, but he could travel no faster than the corpse could be carried, and the Danes would want to stop him. “He could be dead by now,” I said.

  “Only one way to find out,” Ragnar said.

  We rode next dawn, taking the Roman road north, and we rode as fast we could. So far we had coddled Alfred’s horses, but now we drove them hard, though we were still slowed by Beocca. Then, as the morning wore on, the rains came again. Gentle at first, but soon hard enough to make the ground treacherous. The wind rose, and it was
in our faces. Thunder sounded far off and the rain fell with a new intensity and we were all spattered by mud, we were all cold and all soaked. The trees thrashed, shedding their last leaves into the bitter wind. It was a day to be inside a hall, beside a vast fire.

  We found the first bodies beside the road. They were two men who lay naked with their wounds washed bloodless by the rain. One of the dead men had a broken sickle beside him. Another three corpses were a half-mile to the north, and two of them had wooden crosses about their necks which meant they were Saxons. Beocca made the sign of the cross over their bodies. Lightning whipped the hills to the west, then Ragnar pointed ahead and I saw, through the hammering rain, a settlement beside the road. There were a few low houses, what might have been a church, and a high-ridged hall within a wooden palisade.

  There was a score of horses tied to the hall’s palisade and, as we appeared from the storm, a dozen men ran from the gate with swords and spears. They mounted and galloped down the road toward us, but slowed when they saw the arm rings Ragnar and I wore. “Are you Danes?” Ragnar shouted.

  “We’re Danes!” They lowered their swords and turned their horses to escort us. “Have you seen any Saxons?” one of them asked Ragnar.

  “Only dead ones.”

  We stabled the horses in one of the houses, pulling down part of the roof to enlarge the door so the horses could be taken inside. There was a Saxon family there and they shrank from us. The woman whimpered and held her hands toward us in mute prayer. “My daughter’s ill,” she said.

  The girl lay in a dark corner, shivering. She did not look ill so much as terrified. “How old is she?” I asked.

  “Eleven years, lord, I think,” the girl’s mother answered.

  “She was raped?” I asked.

  “By four men, lord,” she said.

  “She’s safe now,” I said, and I gave them coins to pay for the damage to the roof and we left Alfred’s servants and Ragnar’s two men to guard the horses, then joined the Danes in the big hall where a fire burned fierce in the central hearth. The men about the flames made room for us, though they were confused that we traveled with a Christian priest. They looked at the bedraggled Beocca suspiciously, but Ragnar was so obviously a Dane that they said nothing, and his arm rings, like mine, indicated that he was a Dane of the highest rank. The men’s leader must have been impressed by Ragnar for he half bowed. “I am Hakon,” he said, “of Onhripum.”

  “Ragnar Ragnarson,” Ragnar introduced himself. He introduced neither Steapa nor myself, though he did nod toward Brida. “And this is my woman.”

  Hakon knew of Ragnar, which was not surprising for Ragnar’s name was famous in the hills to the west of Onhripum. “You were a hostage in Wessex, lord?” he asked.

  “No longer,” Ragnar said shortly.

  “Welcome home, lord,” Hakon said.

  Ale was brought to us, and bread and cheese and apples. “The dead we saw on the road,” Ragnar asked, “that was your work?”

  “Saxons, lord. We’re to stop them gathering.”

  “You certainly stopped those men gathering,” Ragnar said, provoking a smile from Hakon. “Whose orders?” Ragnar asked.

  “The Earl Ivarr, lord. He’s summoned us. And if we find Saxons with weapons we’re to kill them.”

  Ragnar mischievously jerked his head at Steapa. “He’s a Saxon, he’s armed.”

  Hakon and his men looked at the huge, baleful Steapa. “He’s with you, lord.”

  “So why has Ivarr summoned you?” Ragnar demanded.

  And so the story emerged, or as much as Hakon knew. Guthred had traveled this same road north, but Kjartan had sent men to block his path. “Guthred has no more than a hundred and fifty spearmen,” Hakon told us, “and Kjartan opposed him with two hundred or more. Guthred did not try to fight.”

  “So where is Guthred?”

  “He ran away, lord.”

  “Where?” Ragnar asked sharply.

  “We think west, lord, toward Cumbraland.”

  “Kjartan didn’t follow?”

  “Kjartan, lord, doesn’t go far from Dunholm. He fears Ælfric of Bebbanburg will attack Dunholm if he goes far away, so he stays close.”

  “And you’re summoned where?” Ragnar demanded.

  “We’re to meet the Lord Ivarr at Thresk,” Hakon said.

  “Thresk?” Ragnar was puzzled. Thresk was a settlement beside a lake some miles to the east. Guthred, it appeared, had gone west, but Ivarr was raising his banner to the east. Then Ragnar understood. “Ivarr will attack Eoferwic?”

  Hakon nodded. “Take Guthred’s home, lord,” he said, “and where can he go?”

  “Bebbanburg?” I suggested.

  “There are horsemen shadowing Guthred,” Hakon said, “and if he tries to go north Kjartan will march again.” He touched his sword’s hilt. “We shall finish the Saxons forever, lord. The Lord Ivarr will be glad of your return.”

  “My family,” Ragnar said harshly, “does not fight alongside Kjartan.”

  “Not even for plunder?” Hakon asked. “I hear Eoferwic is full of plunder.”

  “It’s been plundered before,” I said, “how much can be left?”

  “Enough,” Hakon said flatly.

  Ivarr, I thought, had devised a clever strategy. Guthred, accompanied by too few spearmen and cumbered with priests, monks, and a dead saint, was wandering in the wild Northumbrian weather, and meanwhile his enemies would capture his palace and his city, and with them the city’s garrison that formed the heart of Guthred’s forces. Kjartan, meanwhile, was keeping Guthred from reaching the safety of Bebbanburg.

  “Whose hall is this?” Ragnar asked.

  “It belonged to a Saxon, lord,” Hakon said.

  “Belonged?”

  “He drew his sword,” Hakon explained, “so he and all his folk are dead. Except two daughters.” He jerked his head toward the back of the hall. “They’re in a cattle byre if you want them.”

  More Danes arrived as evening fell. They were all going to Thresk and the hall was a good place to shelter from the weather that was now blowing a full storm. There was ale in the hall and inevitably men got drunk, but they were happily drunk because Guthred had made a terrible mistake. He had marched north with too few men in the belief that the Danes would not interfere with him, and now these Danes had the promise of an easy war and much plunder.

  We took one of the sleeping platforms at the side of the hall for our own use. “What we have to do,” Ragnar said, “is go to Synningthwait.”

  “At dawn,” I agreed.

  “Why Synningthwait?” Beocca wanted to know.

  “Because that’s where my men are,” Ragnar said, “and that’s what we need now. Men.”

  “We need to find Guthred!” Beocca insisted.

  “We need men to find him,” I said, “and we need swords.” Northumbria was falling into chaos and the best way to endure chaos was to be surrounded by swords and spears.

  Three drunken Danes had watched us talking and they were intrigued, perhaps offended, that we included a Christian priest in our conversation. They crossed to the platform and demanded to know who Beocca was and why we were keeping him company.

  “We’re keeping him,” I said, “in case we get hungry.” That satisfied them, and the joke was passed about the hall to more laughter.

  The storm passed in the night. Thunder growled ever more faintly, and the intensity of the rain on the wind-tossed thatch slowly diminished so that by dawn there was only a light drizzle and water dripping from the moss-covered roof. We dressed in mail and helmets and, as Hakon and the other Danes went east toward Thresk, we rode west into the hills.

  I was thinking of Gisela, lost somewhere in the hills and a victim of her brother’s desperation. Guthred must have thought that it was too late in the year for armies to assemble, and that he could slip past Dunholm to Bebbanburg without the Danes trying to oppose him. Now he was on the edge of losing everything. “If we find him,” Beocca asked me as we rode
, “can we take him south to Alfred?”

  “Take him south to Alfred?” I asked. “Why would we do that?”

  “To keep him alive. If he’s a Christian then he’ll be welcome in Wessex.”

  “Alfred wants him to be king here,” I said.

  “It’s too late,” Beocca said gloomily.

  “No,” I said, “it’s not too late.” Beocca stared at me as though I were mad, and perhaps I was, but in the chaos that darkened Northumbria there was one thing Ivarr had not thought of. He must have believed he had already won. His forces were assembling and Kjartan was driving Guthred into the wild center of the country where no army could survive for long in cold and wind and rain. But Ivarr had forgotten Ragnar. Ragnar had been away so long, yet he held a stretch of land in the hills and that land supported men, and those men were sworn to Ragnar’s service.

  And so we rode to Synningthwait and I had a lump in my throat as we cantered into the valley for it had been near Synningthwait that I had lived as a child, where I had been raised by Ragnar’s father, where I had learned to fight, where I had been loved, where I had been happy, and where I had watched Kjartan burn Ragnar’s hall and murder its inhabitants. This was the first time I had returned since that foul night.

  Ragnar’s men lived in the settlement or in the nearby hills, though the first person I saw was Ethne, the Scottish slave we had freed at Gyruum. She was carrying two pails of water and she did not recognize me till I called her name. Then she dropped the pails and ran toward the houses, shouting, and Finan emerged from a low doorway. He shouted with delight, and more folk appeared, and suddenly there was a crowd cheering because Ragnar had come back to his people.

  Finan could not wait for me to dismount. He walked beside my horse, grinning. “You want to know how Sverri died?” he asked me.

  “Slowly?” I guessed.

  “And loudly.” He grinned. “And we took his money.”