War Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘What is our quarrel, Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir?’ I demanded again.

  ‘You are an enemy of my king,’ he shouted.

  ‘An enemy of your king? Then you would fight half of Britain!’

  ‘You are a coward,’ he spat at me, and stepped forward only to stop when Egil edged his stallion forward and drew his sword that he called Adder. Egil was smiling. The noisy crowd behind Kolfinn went silent and that did not surprise me. There is something about a smiling Norseman holding his beloved sword that will chill most warriors.

  I pulled Egil back. ‘You have no quarrel with me, Kolfinn son of Hæfnir,’ I said, ‘but I now have a quarrel with you. And we shall settle the quarrel at a time and place of my choosing. That I promise you. Now make way for us.’

  The West Saxon stepped forward, evidently feeling he should insist on his small authority. ‘If you’re not invited,’ he said, ‘you must leave.’

  ‘But he is invited,’ another man spoke. He had just joined the growing group of men barring our way and, like the man who had challenged us, had Æthelstan’s cross and lightning bolt on his shield. ‘And you, Cenwalh,’ he went on, looking at the sour-faced man, ‘are a slug-brained, idiot unless, of course, you want to fight Lord Uhtred? I’m certain he will oblige you.’

  Cenwalh, disgruntled, muttered something under his breath, but lowered his spear and backed away as the newcomer bowed to me. ‘You’re welcome, lord. I assume you are summoned?’

  ‘I am. And you are?’

  ‘Fraomar Ceddson, lord, but most folk call me Freckles.’ I smiled at that because Fraomar Ceddson’s face was a mass of freckles slashed by a white scar and ringed by flaming red hair. He looked up at Egil. ‘I’d be grateful if you sheathed that sword,’ he said mildly, ‘the king has ordered that only guards may carry swords in the encampment.’

  ‘He’s guarding me,’ I said.

  ‘Please?’ Fraomar said to Egil, ignoring me, and Egil obligingly sheathed Adder’s long blade.

  ‘Thank you,’ Fraomar said. I reckoned he was in his mid thirties, a confident and competent-looking man, whose presence had dispelled the onlookers, though I saw how Guthfrith’s men looked back at me with something close to hatred. ‘We should find you somewhere to camp,’ Fraomar went on.

  I pointed south and west, to a space between the Saxon and Welsh encampments. ‘That will do,’ I said. I dismounted, threw the stallion’s reins to Aldwyn, and walked with Fraomar ahead of my men. ‘Are we the last to arrive?’ I asked.

  ‘Most folk came three days ago,’ he said, then paused awkwardly. ‘They took the oaths on Saint Bartholomew’s day.’

  ‘Not Saint …’ I paused, unable to remember the name of the idiot pope. ‘When was Bartholomew’s day?’

  ‘Two days ago, lord.’

  ‘And what oaths?’ I asked. ‘What oaths?’

  Another awkward pause. ‘I wouldn’t know, lord. I wasn’t there. And I’m sorry about that idiot Cenwalh.’

  ‘Why?’ I really wanted to ask about the oaths, but it was plain Fraomar did not want to talk about them and I reckoned I would learn soon enough. I also wanted to know why the nervous priest had instructed us to come late, but reckoned Fraomar would have no answer to that. ‘Is Cenwalh one of your men?’

  ‘He’s West Saxon,’ Fraomar said. His own accent betrayed him as a Mercian.

  ‘And the West Saxons are still resentful of Mercia?’ I asked. Æthelstan was also a West Saxon, but the army he had led to take the throne of Wessex was largely Mercian.

  Fraomar shook his head. ‘There’s not much trouble. The West Saxons know he was the best choice. Maybe a few still want to fight old battles, but not many.’

  I grimaced. ‘Only a fool wants a battle like Lundene again.’

  ‘You mean the fight at the city gate, lord?’

  ‘It was a horror,’ I said, and so it had been. My men against the best of the West Saxon troops, a slaughter that still sometimes woke me at night with a feeling of doom.

  ‘I saw it, lord,’ Fraomar said, ‘or the end of it.’

  ‘You were with Æthelstan?’

  ‘I rode with him, lord. Saw your men fighting.’ He walked in silence for a few paces, then turned and glanced at Egil. ‘He’s really with you, lord?’

  ‘He is,’ I said. ‘He’s a Norseman, a poet, a warrior, and my friend. So yes, he’s with me.’

  ‘It just seems strange …’ Fraomar’s voice faltered.

  ‘Being among so many pagans?’

  ‘Pagans, yes, and the damned Scots. Welsh too.’

  I thought how sensible it was of Æthelstan to order that no swords should be worn in the camp except, of course, for those men standing guard. ‘You don’t trust pagans, Scots or Welshmen?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you, lord?’

  ‘I’m one of them, Fraomar. I’m a pagan.’

  He looked embarrassed. He must have known I was not a Christian, the hammer at my chest told him that, if my reputation was not enough. ‘Yet my father said you were the best friend King Alfred ever had, lord.’

  I laughed at that. ‘Alfred was never a friend,’ I said. ‘I admired him and he endured me.’

  ‘And King Æthelstan must know what you did for him, lord,’ he said, though to my ears he sounded dubious.

  ‘I’m sure he appreciates what we all did for him.’

  ‘It was a rare fight in Lundene!’ Fraomar said, plainly relieved I seemed not to have noticed the tone of his previous remark.

  ‘It was,’ I said and then, as casually as I could, ‘I haven’t seen him since that day.’

  The lure worked. ‘He’s changed, lord!’ Fraomar hesitated, then realised he had to qualify that comment. ‘He’s become,’ he paused again, ‘very grand.’

  ‘He’s a king.’

  ‘True.’ He sounded rueful. ‘I suppose I’d be grand if I was a king.’

  ‘King Freckles?’ I suggested, he laughed and the moment passed. ‘Is he here?’ I asked, gesturing at the huge tent erected in the large circle.

  ‘He’s lodging in the monastery at Dacore,’ Fraomar said. ‘It’s not far away. You can camp here,’ he had stopped in a wide swathe of meadow. ‘Water from the river, firewood from the copse, you’ll be comfortable enough. There’s a church service at sundown, but I suppose …’ his voice tailed off.

  ‘You suppose right,’ I said.

  ‘Shall I tell the king you’re here, lord?’ Fraomar asked, and again there was a slight awkwardness in his voice.

  I smiled. ‘He’ll know I’m here. But if it’s your job to tell him? Do it.’

  Fraomar left us and we set about making our shelters, though I took the precaution of sending Egil with a dozen men to scout our surroundings. I did not expect trouble, there were too many of Æthelstan’s warriors for any Scotsman or Welshman to start a war, but I did not know this part of Cumbria and if trouble came I wanted to know how best to escape it. And so, while we made ourselves comfortable, Egil scouted.

  I had brought no tents. Benedetta had wanted to fashion one from sailcloth, but I had assured her we were well used to making shelters and that our packhorses already had enough to carry with their heavy tubs of ale, barrels of bread, and sacks of smoked meat, cheese and fish. Instead of tents my men chopped down branches with war axes to make simple gable-shaped shelters lashed together by withies, cut turf with their knives to roof them, then lined the floors with bracken. They competed, of course, not to be the first finished, but for who could make the most elaborate shelter, and the winner, an impressive turf hut almost the size of a small hall, was given to me to share with Finan, Egil, and his brother Thorolf. Naturally we were expected to pay the builders with hacksilver, ale and praise, which we did, then watched as two men cut and stripped a towering larch trunk on which they hoisted Egil’s eagle banner. By then the sun was setting and we lit our campfires. A dozen of my Christians wandered over to where hundreds of men were sitting listening to a sermon from a priest, while I sat with Finan, Egil, and Thorolf and ga
zed moodily into the crackling fire.

  I was thinking about oaths, about the tense atmosphere in the sprawling encampment where squads of heavily armed spearmen were needed to keep the peace, about the things Fraomar had not wanted to say, and about being instructed to arrive at Burgham days after other men had been summoned. I was thinking about Æthelstan. The last time I had seen him he had thanked me for giving him Lundene, he had praised me in the hall and roused the cheers of men, and with Lundene had come his emerald crown, but since that far-off day he had sent me no messages nor offered me any favours. I had given men hacksilver for building me a shelter, yet my reward for giving a man a kingdom was to be ignored.

  Wyrd bið ful ãræd.

  Fate is inexorable.

  The sermon had ended, the men were dispersing to their huts, while a band of monks, dark-robed and hooded, walked through the encampments chanting. The leading monk carried a lantern and a dozen men followed him, their voices low and haunting. ‘Christian magic?’ Thorolf asked sourly.

  ‘They’re just praying for a peaceful night,’ Finan said, making the sign of the cross.

  The monks did not come close to our shelters, but turned back towards the fires that had lit the evening sermon. Their voices grew fainter, then a peal of women’s laughter sounded from the Welsh encampment. Egil sighed. ‘Why didn’t we bring our own women?’

  ‘Because we didn’t need to,’ Finan said, ‘every whore between Cair Ligualid and Mameceaster is here.’

  ‘Ah!’ Egil grinned. ‘Then why am I sharing a shelter with you three?’

  ‘You can use that spinney instead,’ I said, nodding south towards a dark group of trees that lay between us and the Welsh encampment.

  And saw the arrow.

  It was a flicker in the night’s flame-lit dark, a sudden spark as fire glittered quick from a steel head and from pale feathers, and it was coming towards us. I thrust left at Finan, right at Egil and threw myself flat, and the arrow seared across my left shoulder, catching my cloak. ‘Move!’ I shouted, and the four of us scrambled away from the fire, going towards shadows as a second arrow slashed through the darkness to bury itself in the turf. ‘To me!’ I yelled. I was safely behind a shelter now, hidden from the archer who had loosed his arrows from among the spinney’s dark trees.

  Egil, Thorolf and Finan ran to me. My men were leaving their shelters, coming to discover what had caused me to shout. ‘Who has weapons?’ I asked. A chorus of voices answered and, without waiting, I shouted at them to follow me.

  I ran towards the spinney. I swerved to my left first, hoping not to be outlined against the bright fires, but knew I would be seen despite that small precaution. But there was, I thought, just one bowman, because if there had been two or more then we would have been attacked by a volley, not by a single arrow. I was also sure that whoever had loosed the arrow would already have fled. He must have seen a score of men coming, seen our swords reflecting the flame-light, and unless he was intent on dying he would be gone, but I still kept running. ‘Bebbanburg!’ I shouted, and my men took up the war cry.

  We were still shouting as we crashed into the spinney’s undergrowth, trampling brambles and saplings. No more arrows came and the noise slowly died. I stopped in the shadow of a thick trunk. ‘What were we shouting about?’ Berg asked.

  ‘This,’ Finan said, and tugged the arrow that was still caught in my cloak. He ripped it free and held it into the light. ‘Christ, that’s a long arrow!’

  ‘Get into shadow,’ I told him. ‘All of you.’

  ‘Bastard’s long gone,’ he growled, ‘he can’t see us.’

  There was no moon, but our campfires and the flames from the Welsh encampment cast plenty of sullen red light among the trees. I started laughing. ‘What?’ Egil asked.

  ‘We’re not supposed to carry weapons,’ I said, and gestured at the men in the trees, all of whom were carrying swords or axes, while still more of our men were streaming towards us from the shelters and all carrying their bright weapons.

  Egil led some of his men to the southern edge of the trees, but went no further. The Norsemen just stood there, gazing into the night, searching for an archer who had been swallowed in the darkness. Finan hefted the missile. ‘This isn’t from a short bow,’ he said dourly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a hunting arrow.’ He ran his fingers over the feather fletching. ‘From one of those big bows that the Welsh use.’

  ‘Some Saxons use them.’

  ‘But rarely.’ He flinched as he tested the arrowhead. ‘Newly sharpened too. The earsling wanted you dead.’

  I shivered as I remembered that flicker of light in the darkness, and that darkness was lessening because men, attracted by the noise, were running towards the spinney carrying flaming torches. The Welsh were closest and they came first, led by a huge man swathed in a fur cloak and carrying a mighty war axe. He barked an angry question in his own language and seemed unperturbed when my men raised swords to confront him, but before anyone could strike a blow a tall, bald-headed priest pushed the man aside. The priest stared at me. ‘Lord Uhtred,’ he said, sounding amused. ‘Does trouble follow you?’

  ‘It finds me, Father Anwyn,’ I said, ‘and it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Bishop Anwyn now,’ he responded, then spoke sharply to the huge man, who reluctantly lowered his formidable axe. Anwyn looked around the spinney, now crowded with my men and lit brightly by the torches the Welshmen carried. He smiled as he counted the hammer amulets. ‘I see you still keep bad company, Lord Uhtred? And what were they shouting about? Didn’t you know there was a service? Bishop Oswald was preaching!’ He paused, looking at me, ‘Bishop Oswald!’

  ‘I’m supposed to know who that is?’ I asked sourly. Anwyn’s tone suggested that Bishop Oswald was famous, but why would I care? A long life had condemned me to hear too many Christian sermons. ‘Why weren’t you listening?’ I asked Anwyn.

  ‘Why would I need a bloody Saxon bishop to tell me how to behave?’ Anwyn retorted, and his long bony face, usually so stern, broke into a smile. I had met him years before on a Welsh beach where my men and King Hywel’s men had slaughtered Rognvald’s Vikings. It was on that beach that Hywel had granted Berg his life. ‘And what were you shouting about?’ Anwyn asked. ‘Were you frightened by a mouse?’

  ‘By this,’ I said, taking the arrow from Finan.

  Anwyn took it from me, hefted it and frowned. He must have guessed what I was thinking because he shook his head. ‘It wasn’t one of our men. Come, talk to King Hywel.’

  ‘He’s not in Rome?’

  ‘You think I’d ask you if he was in Rome?’ Anwyn replied. ‘The thought of keeping your company on that long journey gives me horrors, Lord Uhtred, but Hywel will want to meet you. For some strange reason he speaks well of you.’

  But before we could move, still more men, carrying still more torches, appeared from the western side of the spinney. Most carried shields that bore Æthelstan’s dragon and lightning bolt and they were led by a young man mounted on an impressive grey horse. He had to duck his head to get beneath the branches, then curbed the stallion close to me. ‘You’re carrying a sword,’ he snarled at me, then looked around at all the other weapons. ‘The king has commanded that only sentries carry weapons.’

  ‘I’m a sentry,’ I said.

  That annoyed him, as it was meant to. He stared at me. He was young, maybe just twenty-one or -two, his boyish face clean-shaven. He had very blue eyes, bright blond hair, a long nose, and a haughty expression. In truth he was striking, a handsome man, made more striking by the quality of his mail and by the thick gold chain he wore about his neck. He carried a drawn sword and I could see that the heavy crosspiece was glinting with more gold. He still stared at me, his distaste for what he saw evident on his face. ‘And who,’ he asked, ‘are you?’

  One of his own men began to answer, but was hushed by Fraomar who had come with the young man. Fraomar was smiling. So was Anwyn. ‘I’m a sentry,’ I said again
.

  ‘You call me lord, old man,’ the horseman said, then leaned from the saddle and lifted his gold-hilted sword so that the blade pointed at my hammer. ‘You call me lord,’ he said again, ‘and you hide that idolatrous bauble around your neck. Now who are you?’

  I smiled. ‘I’m the man who will ram Serpent-Breath up your arsehole and slice off your tongue, you rat-faced piece of worm-shit.’

  ‘God be praised,’ Bishop Anwyn intervened hurriedly, ‘that the Lord Uhtred still possesses the tongue of angels.’

  The sword dropped. The young man looked startled. He also, to my satisfaction, looked scared. ‘And you call me lord,’ I growled.

  He had nothing to say. His horse whinnied and stepped sideways as Bishop Anwyn took another step forward. ‘There’s no trouble here, Lord Ealdred. We just came because King Hywel is eager to see Lord Uhtred again.’

  So this, I thought, was Ealdred, another of Æthelstan’s favourite companions. He had made a fool of himself, thinking that his closeness to the king made him invulnerable, and he had suddenly become aware that he and his men were confronted and outnumbered by bitter Welshmen and hostile Northmen, both enemies of the Saxons. ‘Weapons,’ he said, but without any of his former arrogance, ‘are not to be carried in the camp.’

  ‘Were you talking to me?’ I demanded harshly.

  He hesitated. ‘No, lord,’ he said, almost choking on the last word, then turned his stallion with a brutal jerk of the reins and spurred away.

  ‘Poor boy,’ Anwyn said, plainly amused. ‘But that poor boy will cause you trouble, lord.’

  ‘Let him try,’ I snarled.

  ‘No, let King Hywel tell you. He’ll be pleased you’re here. Come, lord.’

  So I took Finan, Egil and Berg, and went to meet a king.

  I have met many kings. Some, like Guthfrith, were fools, some struggled because they never knew what to do, while a few, very few, were men who commanded loyalty. Alfred was one, Constantine of Alba another, and the third was Hywel of Dyfed. I knew Alfred best of the three and since his death many folk have asked me about him, and I invariably say that he was as honest as he was clever. Is that true? He was as capable of cunning as Constantine or Hywel, but for all three men that cunning was always used in the service of what they believed was the best for their people. I disagreed with Alfred frequently, but I trusted him because he was a man of his word. I hardly knew Constantine, but those who knew him well often compared him to Alfred. Alfred, Constantine and Hywel were the three greatest kings of my lifetime, and all three had wisdom and a natural authority, but of the three I liked Hywel the best. He had an ease that Alfred lacked and a humour as broad as his smile. ‘My God,’ he greeted me, ‘but look what an ill wind has blown to my tent. I thought a pig had farted!’