Lords of the North s-3

by Bernard Cornwell

“Much money?”

  “More than you can dream of!” he said exultantly. “And we burned his house. Left his woman and children weeping.”

  “You let them live?”

  He looked embarrassed. “Ethne felt sorry for them. But killing him was pleasure enough.” He grinned up at me again. “So are we going to war?”

  “We’re going to war.”

  “We’re to fight that bastard Guthred, eh?” Finan said.

  “You want to do that?”

  “He sent a priest to say we had to pay the church money! We chased him away.”

  “I thought you were a Christian,” I said.

  “I am,” Finan said defensively, “but I’ll be damned before I give a priest a tenth of my money.”

  The men of Synningthwait expected to fight for Ivarr. They were Danes, and they saw the imminent war as one between Danes and upstart Saxons, though none had much enthusiasm for the fight because Ivarr was not liked. Ivarr’s summons had reached Synningthwait five days before and Rollo, who commanded in Ragnar’s absence, had deliberately dallied. Now the decision belonged to Ragnar and that night, in front of his hall where a great fire burned beneath the clouds, he invited his men to speak their minds. Ragnar could have ordered them to do whatever he wanted, but he had not seen most of them in three years and he wanted to know their temper. “I’ll let them speak,” he told me, “then I’ll tell them what we’ll do.”

  “What will we do?” I asked.

  Ragnar grinned. “I don’t know yet.”

  Rollo spoke first. He did not dislike Guthred, he said, but he wondered if Guthred was the best king for Northumbria. “A land needs a king,” he said, “and that king should be fair and just and generous and strong. Guthred is neither just nor strong. He favors the Christians.” Men murmured support.

  Beocca was sitting beside me and understood enough of what was being said to become upset. “Alfred supports Guthred!” he hissed to me.

  “Be quiet,” I warned him.

  “Guthred,” Rollo went on, “demanded that we pay a tax to the Christian priests.”

  “Did you?” Ragnar asked.

  “No.”

  “If Guthred is not king,” Ragnar demanded, “who should be?” No one spoke. “Ivarr?” Ragnar suggested, and a shudder went through the crowd. No one liked Ivarr, and no one spoke except Beocca and he only managed one word before I choked off his protest with a sharp dig into his bony ribs. “What about Earl Ulf?” Ragnar asked.

  “Too old now,” Rollo said. “Besides he’s gone back to Cair Ligualid and wants to stay there.”

  “Is there a Saxon who would leave us Danes alone?” Ragnar asked, and again no one answered. “Another Dane, then?” Ragnar suggested.

  “It must be Guthred!” Beocca snapped like a dog.

  Rollo took a pace forward as if what he was about to say was important. “We would follow you, lord,” he said to Ragnar, “for you are fair and just and generous and strong.” That provoked wild applause from the crowd gathered about the fire.

  “This is treason!” Beocca hissed.

  “Be quiet,” I told him.

  “But Alfred told us…”

  “Alfred is not here,” I said, “and we are, so be quiet.”

  Ragnar gazed into the fire. He was such a good-looking man, so strong-faced, so open-faced and cheerful, yet at that moment he was troubled. He looked at me. “You could be king,” he said.

  “I could,” I agreed.

  “We are here to support Guthred!” Beocca yapped.

  “Finan,” I said, “beside me is a squint-eyed, club-footed, palsied priest who is irritating me. If he speaks again, cut his throat.”

  “Uhtred!” Beocca squeaked.

  “I shall allow him that one utterance,” I told Finan, “but the next time he speaks you will send him to his forefathers.”

  Finan grinned and drew his sword. Beocca went silent.

  “You could be king,” Ragnar said to me again, and I was aware of Brida’s dark eyes resting on me.

  “My ancestors were kings,” I said, “and their blood is in me. It is the blood of Odin.” My father, though a Christian, had always been proud that our family was descended from the god Odin.

  “And you would be a good king,” Ragnar said. “It is better that a Saxon rules, and you are a Saxon who loves the Danes. You could be King Uhtred of Northumbria, and why not?” Brida still watched me. I knew she was remembering the night when Ragnar’s father had died, and when Kjartan and his yelling crew had cut down the men and women stumbling from the burning hall. “Well?” Ragnar prompted me.

  I was tempted. I confess I was very tempted. In their day my family had been kings of Bernicia and now the throne of Northumbria was there for the taking. With Ragnar beside me I could be sure of Danish support, and the Saxons would do what they were told. Ivarr would resist, of course, as would Kjartan and my uncle, but that was nothing new and I was certain I was a better soldier than Guthred.

  And yet I knew it was not my fate to be king. I have known many kings and their lives are not all silver, feasting, and women. Alfred looked worn out by his duties, though part of that was his constant sickness and another part an inability to take his duties lightly. Yet Alfred was right in that dedication to duty. A king has to rule, he has to keep a balance between the great thegns of his kingdom, he has to fend off rivals, he has to keep the treasury full, he has to maintain roads and fortresses and armies. I thought of all that while Ragnar and Brida stared at me and while Beocca held his breath beside me, and I knew I did not want the responsibility. I wanted the silver, the feasting, and the women, but those I could have without a throne. “It is not my fate,” I said.

  “Maybe you don’t know your fate,” Ragnar suggested.

  The smoke whirled into the cold sky that was bright with sparks. “My fate,” I said, “is to be the ruler of Bebbanburg. I know that. And I know Northumbria cannot be ruled from Bebbanburg. But perhaps it is your fate,” I said to Ragnar.

  He shook his head. “My father,” he said, “and his father, and his father before him, were all Vikings. We sailed to where we could take wealth. We grew rich. We had laughter, ale, silver, and battle. If I were to be king then I would have to protect what I have from the men who would take it from me. Instead of being a Viking I would be a shepherd. I want to be free. I have been a hostage too long, and I want my freedom. I want my sails in the wind and my swords in the sun. I do not wish to be heaped with duties.” He had been thinking what I had been thinking, though he had said it far more eloquently. He grinned suddenly, as if released from a burden. “I wish to be richer than any king,” he declared to his men, “and I will make you all rich with me.”

  “So who is to be king?” Rollo asked.

  “Guthred,” Ragnar said.

  “Praise God,” Beocca said.

  “Quiet,” I hissed.

  Ragnar’s men were not happy with his choice. Rollo, gaunt and bearded and loyal, spoke for them. “Guthred favors the Christians,” he said. “He is more Saxon than Dane. He would make us all worship their nailed god.”

  “He will do what he’s told to do,” I said firmly, “and the first thing we tell him is that no Dane will pay a tithe to their church. He will be a king like Egbert was king, obedient to Danish wishes.” Beocca was spluttering, but I ignored him. “What matters,” I went on, “is which Dane gives him his orders. Is it to be Ivarr? Kjartan? Or Ragnar?”

  “Ragnar!” men shouted.

  “And my wish,” Ragnar had moved closer to the fire so that the flames illuminated him and made him look bigger and stronger, “my wish,” he said again, “is to see Kjartan defeated. If Ivarr beats Guthred then Kjartan will grow stronger, and Kjartan is my enemy. He is our enemy. There is a bloodfeud between his family and mine, and I would end that feud now. We march to help Guthred, but if Guthred does not assist us in taking Dunholm then I swear to you that I shall kill Guthred and all his folk and take the throne. But I would rather stand in Kjartan’s b
lood than be king of all the Danes. I would rather be the slayer of Kjartan than be king of all the earth. My quarrel is not with Guthred. It is not with the Saxons. It is not with the Christians. My quarrel is with Kjartan the Cruel.”

  “And in Dunholm,” I said, “there is a hoard of silver worthy of the gods.”

  “So we will find Guthred,” Ragnar announced, “and we shall fight for him!”

  A moment before, the crowd had wanted Ragnar to lead them against Guthred, but now they cheered the news that they were to fight for the king. There were seventy warriors there, not many, but they were among the best in Northumbria and they thumped swords against shields and shouted Ragnar’s name.

  “You can speak now,” I told Beocca.

  But he had nothing to say.

  And next dawn, under a clear sky, we rode to find Guthred.

  And Gisela.

  PART THREE

  SHADOW-WALKER

  EIGHT

  We were seventy-six warriors, including Steapa and myself. All of us were on horseback and all had weapons, mail or good leather, and helmets. Two score of servants on smaller horses carried the shields and led our spare stallions, but those servants were not fighting men and were not counted among the seventy-six. There had been a time when Ragnar could raise over two hundred warriors, but many had died at Ethandun and others had found new lords in the long months while Ragnar was a hostage, but seventy-six was still a good number. “And they’re formidable men,” he told me proudly.

  He rode under his banner of an eagle’s wing. It was a real eagle’s wing nailed to the top of a high pole, and his helmet was decorated with two more such wings. “I dreamed of this,” he told me as we rode eastward, “I dreamed of riding to war. All that time I was a hostage I wanted to be riding to war. There’s nothing in life like it, Uhtred, nothing!”

  “Women?” I asked.

  “Women and war!” he said, “women and war!” He whooped for joy and his stallion pricked back its ears and took a few short, high steps as if it shared its master’s happiness. We rode at the front of the column, though Ragnar had a dozen men mounted on light ponies ranging far ahead of us. The dozen men signaled to each other and back to Ragnar, and they spoke to shepherds and listened to rumor and smelt the wind. They were like hounds seeking scent, and they looked for Guthred’s trail, which we expected to find leading west toward Cumbraland, but as the morning wore on the scouts kept tending eastward. Our progress was slow, which frustrated Father Beocca, but before we could ride fast we had to know where we were going. Then, at last, the scouts seemed confident that the trail led east and spurred their ponies across the hills and we followed. “Guthred’s trying to go back to Eoferwic,” Ragnar guessed.

  “He’s too late for that,” I said.

  “Or else he’s panicking,” Ragnar suggested cheerfully, “and doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “That sounds more likely,” I said.

  Brida and some twenty other women rode with us. Brida was in leather armor and had a black cloak held at her neck with a fine brooch of silver and jet. Her hair was twisted high and held in place with a black ribbon, and at her side was a long sword. She had grown into an elegant woman who possessed an air of authority and that, I think, offended Father Beocca who had known her since she was a child. She had been raised a Christian, but had escaped the faith and Beocca was upset by that, though I think he found her beauty more disturbing. “She’s a sorceress,” Beocca hissed at me.

  “If she’s a sorceress,” I said, “then she’s a good person to have on your side.”

  “God will punish us,” he warned.

  “This isn’t your god’s country,” I told him. “This is Thor’s land.”

  He made the sign of the cross to protect himself from the evil of my words. “And what were you doing last night?” he asked indignantly. “How could you even think of being king here?”

  “Easily,” I said. “I am descended from kings. Unlike you, father. You’re descended from swineherds, aren’t you?”

  He ignored that. “The king is the Lord’s anointed,” he insisted. “The king is chosen by God and by all the throng of holy saints. Saint Cuthbert led Northumbria to Guthred, so how could you even think of replacing him? How could you?”

  “We can turn around and go home then,” I said.

  “Turn around and go home?” Beocca was appalled. “Why?”

  “Because if Cuthbert chose him,” I said, “then Cuthbert can defend him. Guthred doesn’t need us. He can go into battle with his dead saint. Or maybe he already has,” I said, “have you thought of that?”

  “Thought of what?”

  “That Guthred might already be defeated. He could be dead. Or he could be wearing Kjartan’s chains.”

  “God preserve us,” Beocca said, making the sign of the cross again.

  “It hasn’t happened,” I assured him.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we’d have met his fugitives by now,” I said, though I could not be certain of that. Perhaps Guthred was fighting even as we spoke, but I had a feeling he was alive and not too far away. It is hard to describe that feeling. It is an instinct, as hard to read as a god’s message in the fall of a wren’s feather, but I had learned to trust the feeling.

  And my instinct was right, for late in the morning one of the scouts came racing back across the moorland with his pony’s mane tossing in the wind. He slewed around in a burst of turf and bracken to tell Ragnar that there was a large band of men and horses in the valley of the River Swale. “They’re at Cetreht, lord,” he said.

  “On our side of the river?” Ragnar asked.

  “On our side, lord,” the scout said, “in the old fort. Trapped there.”

  “Trapped?”

  “There’s another war-band outside the fort, lord,” the scout said. He had not ridden close enough to see any banners, but two other scouts had ridden down into the valley while this first galloped back to bring us the news that Guthred was probably very near.

  We quickened our pace. Clouds raced in the wind and at midday a sharp rain fell briefly, and just after it ended we met the two scouts who had ridden down to the fields outside the fort and spoken to the war-band. “Guthred’s in the fort,” one of them reported.

  “So who’s outside?”

  “Kjartan’s men, lord,” the man said. He grinned, knowing that if any of Kjartan’s men were close then there would be a fight. “There are sixty of them, lord. Only sixty.”

  “Is Kjartan there? Or Sven?”

  “No, lord. They’re led by a man called Rolf.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  “Spoke to him and drank his ale, lord. They’re watching Guthred. Making sure he doesn’t run away. They’re keeping him there until Ivarr comes north.”

  “Till Ivarr comes?” Ragnar asked. “Not Kjartan?”

  “Kjartan stays at Dunholm, lord,” the man said, “that’s what they said, and that Ivarr will come north once he’s garrisoned Eoferwic.”

  “There are sixty of Kjartan’s men in the valley,” Ragnar shouted back to his warriors, and his hand instinctively went to the hilt of Heart-Breaker. That was his sword, given the same name as his father’s blade as a reminder of his duty to revenge Ragnar the Elder’s death. “There are sixty men to kill!” he added, then called for a servant to bring his shield. He looked back to the scouts. “Who did they think you were?”

  “We claimed to serve Hakon, lord. We said we were looking for him.”

  Ragnar gave the men silver coins. “You did well,” he said. “So how many men does Guthred have in the fort?”

  “Rolf says he’s got at least a hundred, lord.”

  “A hundred? And he hasn’t tried to drive off sixty men?”

  “No, lord.”

  “Some king,” Ragnar said scornfully.

  “If he fights them,” I said, “then at the end of the day he’ll have fewer than fifty men.”

  “So what’s he doing instead?�
�� Ragnar wanted to know.

  “Praying, probably.”

  Guthred, as we later learned, had panicked. Thwarted in his efforts to reach Bebbanburg he had turned west toward Cumbraland, thinking that in that familiar country he would find friends, but the weather had slowed him, and there were enemy horsemen always in sight and he feared ambush in the steep hills ahead. So he had changed his mind and decided to return to Eoferwic, but had got no farther than the Roman fort that had once guarded the crossings of the Swale at Cetreht. He was desperate by then. Some of his spearmen had deserted, reckoning that only death waited for them if they stayed with the king, so Guthred had sent messengers to summon help from Northumbria’s Christian thegns, but we had already seen the corpses and knew no help would come. Now he was trapped. The sixty men would hold him in Cetreht until Ivarr came to kill him.

  “If Guthred is praying,” Beocca said sternly, “then those prayers are being answered.”

  “You mean the Christian god sent us?” I asked.

  “Who else?” he responded indignantly as he brushed down his black robe. “When we meet Guthred,” he told me, “you will let me speak first.”

  “You think this is a time for ceremony?”

  “I’m an ambassador!” he protested, “you forget that.” His indignation suddenly burst like a rain-sodden stream overflowing its banks. “You have no conception of dignity! I am an ambassador! Last night, Uhtred, when you told that Irish savage to cut my throat, what were you thinking of?”

  “I was thinking of keeping you quiet, father.”

  “I shall tell Alfred of your insolence. You can be sure of that. I shall tell him!”

  He went on complaining, but I was not listening for we had ridden across the skyline and there was Cetreht and the curving River Swale beneath us. The Roman fort was a short distance from the Swale’s southern bank and the old earth walls made a wide square which enclosed a village which had a church at its center. Beyond the fort was the stone bridge the Romans had made to carry their great road which led from Eoferwic to the wild north, and half of the old arch still stood.

  As we rode closer I could see that the fort was full of horses and people. A standard flew from the church’s gable and I assumed that must be Guthred’s flag showing Saint Cuthbert. A few horsemen were north of the river, blocking Guthred’s escape across the ford, while Rolf’s sixty riders were in the fields south of the fort. They were like hounds stopping up a fox’s earth.