War Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  Then I had two days to ready my own men. I would leave just thirty to guard Bebbanburg under the command of Redbad, one of my son’s warriors. He was a steady and reliable man, and thirty men were sufficient to man the ramparts when no attack was expected. I gave Gerbruht my helmet and cloak, then sent him down the coast again with orders to buy fish from Guthfrith’s boats and to take Spearhafoc deep into the mouth of the Humbre so that trading ships would carry the news of my presence to Eoferwic.

  Bebbanburg’s big inner courtyard stank as pitch was burned out of pine, then smeared on shields. Weapons were sharpened, food crammed into bags, and Hanna, Berg’s wife, brought me three new battle-standards she had sewn in secret.

  And three days after I had returned to Bebbanburg I left again, this time riding my best stallion and leading fifty-three battle-hardened men into the hills.

  Where we would do the Devil’s work.

  Eight

  There was silence in the hills, not even the sound of a soft wind over thin grass. It was close to dawn and it seemed as if the starlit earth was holding its breath. A few high clouds drifted eastward where the horizon was just touched with a blade of grey.

  I had been close to the Devil’s Valley for two nights and a day, and no horsemen had come from Eoferwic. If none came on this new day then I would admit failure because it would be impossible to hide almost two hundred men and their horses for longer. True, we were in the hills, but we had already encountered one shepherd bringing his flock south. That man, his dogs and his sheep were under guard, but ever since Finan had revealed the gold, the villagers had been climbing to the Devil’s Fort asking to see the hoard.

  He had showed them the treasure, he had boasted of the new wealth and he had gone with half a dozen men to the village alehouse. He had worn the heavy golden torque and paid for their ale and food with a lump of gold. ‘So Guthfrith has to come today,’ Egil now told me. ‘The bastard must know the gold’s here.’ The two of us were lying on the grass, watching the eastern horizon where the grey was slowly lightening.

  I saw a horseman briefly outlined against the wolf-grey streak of dawn. That would be one of our men. I had given my son the responsibility of leading our scouts, who would watch the road from Eoferwic. They would watch from the hills, then retreat fast if they saw Guthfrith coming.

  ‘Let’s hope they both come,’ I said vengefully. It still grated on me that Æthelstan had named Ealdred the Lord of Bebbanburg and, pleasant as it would be to slaughter Guthfrith, there would be even more pleasure in cutting Ealdred down.

  I had expected Guthfrith the previous day, and every hour that he did not show gave me more anxiety. Finan had flaunted the gold, but the obvious question was why he had not immediately taken it north to Bebbanburg. He had told the villagers that he was waiting for me, that he needed another fifty warriors to ensure the gold’s safe return to Bebbanburg, and that he wanted to search the other two mounds, but would Guthfrith believe that feeble story?

  Sihtric of Dunholm climbed the slope behind us and dropped next to me with a grin and a curt nod of greeting. I had known him since he was a boy, the bastard child of Kjartan the Cruel who had been one of my worst enemies. Sihtric had none of his father’s viciousness, but had grown to be one of my most trusted warriors. He had a gaunt face, a dark beard, a knife scar beneath one eye, and only four teeth when he grinned. ‘I remember when you were good-looking,’ I welcomed him.

  ‘At least I was once,’ he said, ‘unlike some I can think of.’ He nodded east into the glare of the rising sun that had just flared on the horizon. ‘Smoke over there.’

  ‘Where?’

  Sihtric squinted. ‘Long way off, lord. In the valley.’

  ‘It could be mist,’ Egil said. I could see the pale smear in the Tesa’s shadowed valley, but could not be certain if it was mist or smoke.

  ‘It’s smoke and there’s no village there,’ Sihtric sounded certain. His men patrolled this part of my land and he knew it well.

  ‘Charcoal burners?’ Egil suggested.

  ‘Wasn’t there last night, lord,’ Sihtric said, ‘and they’d hardly build the pit overnight. No, that’s Guthfrith’s men. Bastards are camped there.’

  ‘And are letting us know they’re coming?’ I asked dubiously.

  ‘Folk have no sense, lord. And Guthfrith’s a king and God only knows what the West Saxon boy thinks he is, but kings and lords don’t abide being cold by night,’ he grinned at the implied insult, ‘and it’s still dark down there, sun hasn’t risen on the valley yet. You watch, that smoke will vanish in a few minutes.’

  I watched, I waited, and Sihtric was right. The smoke or mist faded and disappeared as soon as the river valley’s shadow shrank. I touched the hilt of Serpent-Breath and prayed that both Guthfrith and Ealdred were coming. I doubted that either would trust the other, which meant that both must come if they were to share the gold equally, but with how many men? I had assembled almost two hundred, but now, as the sun rose to burn the dew from the uplands, I began to worry that I did not have enough. I did indeed plan the devil’s work that day, and to achieve it I needed to overwhelm whoever came to the Devil’s Valley.

  And I was sure they would come across the hills. Guthfrith would have heard that the view from the new fort dominated the valley of the Tesa so that if he rode the Roman road he would be seen long before he could hope to reach the high valley. So he must come through the hills, hoping to surprise and overwhelm Finan’s men. Those men were still digging trenches, trimming pine logs, and excavating the mounds.

  It was late morning when the first of my son’s scouts came back to us. It was Oswi, who we saw intermittently as he made a wide detour to the north to ensure he did not appear on any skyline as he approached us. The day had warmed and his horse was white with sweat as he slipped from the saddle. ‘A hundred and forty-three, lord,’ he said, ‘and coming over the hills just as you said they would.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘An hour away? But they’re canny, lord. They’re coming slow and they have scouts too.’

  ‘You weren’t seen?’

  He scoffed at that. ‘We’ve watched them, lord, and they ain’t seen a hair of us. Your son’s taken the other lads north so they don’t find him, but he’s coming soon as he can. Doesn’t want to be left out.’

  We were on the western crest of the hills that enfolded the Devil’s Valley. To my left, in the north, the ground rose higher and the slopes were steeper, while the eastern ridge, opposite us, offered an easy slope down to the mounds. I stared at that ridge, looking for any sign that an enemy scout was already there, but I saw nothing. Nor did I expect to. Any man there would be like us, lying low.

  ‘Borrow a fresh horse,’ I told Oswi, ‘then ride down to warn Finan. Don’t hurry! Just take it slowly.’ If there was an enemy scout watching the valley then a horseman in a hurry would raise an alarm, while a man ambling into the valley would raise no suspicions.

  The day grew warmer. I was in my mail coat, reluctant to put on the helmet in case it reflected sunlight to anyone on the far crest. I had brought one of my father’s old helmets that had two big iron cheek-pieces which would leave only my eyes showing. My shield, waiting with Aldwyn in the lower ground behind me, was smeared with pitch. A black shield, such as Owain of Strath Clota’s men carried, and Owain was now Constantine’s ally. All our shields were black, while the three battle-flags showed a red hand holding a cross, the symbol of Domnall, Constantine’s chief warrior. If Æthelstan knew I had killed Ealdred, let alone Guthfrith, he would have brought a mighty army to Bebbanburg long before the harvest. So someone else must take the blame.

  ‘There’s someone there,’ Egil said.

  I stared at the far ridge, my view blurred by the grass in which we lay. I saw nothing.

  ‘Two of them,’ Egil added.

  ‘I see them,’ Sihtric said.

  Oswi had reached Finan, who only had thirty men now. I had brought the others up to join us. Finan, like his rema
ining men, wore no mail, had no helmet, and only wore a short seax instead of Soul-Stealer, his sword. His shield, mail coat, sword and spear were behind me, on the hill, as was the gold. Finan would pretend to flee when Guthfrith attacked, racing with his men up to our hilltop where they could retrieve their weapons and armour. Their shield, like mine, had been smeared with pitch so that when they joined the battle they would appear to be men from across the northern border.

  ‘Over there!’ Sihtric jerked his head northwards and I saw an enemy scout working his way around those higher hills. The man was on foot, going cautiously and staying back from the crest so he could not be seen from the valley. I swore. If he came another half mile he would see my men, but then he came to the gully where the stream poured from the hills and he paused. He stared towards us and I stayed motionless. The man waited a long time, then must have decided that he had no need to scramble across the steep gully with its fast-flowing stream because he turned back and I lost sight of him.

  It was almost midday by now. High thin clouds hazed the sun. There was still no wind. Sheep bleated somewhere far to the west. Finan’s men, some bare chested in the day’s warmth, were saddling their horses, while two were carrying bundles from the shelters and putting them in the leather bags of two packhorses. They were carrying stones, but to the watching scouts it must have seemed that they were stowing the golden pieces. I wanted Guthfrith’s men to think Finan was leaving, and that their best chance of capturing the treasure was to attack quickly. I pulled on my helmet, smelling the stink of old sweat in its leather liner. I pulled the heavy cheek-pieces closed and tied them together.

  ‘They’re there,’ Sihtric breathed the words, though there was no chance of his being heard on the far ridge a half mile away. I stared, and thought I saw men lying on the crest, but the heat shimmered the skyline and I could not be certain. ‘I saw a spearhead, lord,’ Sihtric said.

  ‘Two,’ Egil confirmed.

  I slithered backwards and turned to my horsemen. They were sweating in mail and close-fitting helmets. Flies buzzed around their horses. ‘Soon!’ I told them. They watched me anxiously. They were close to two hundred men mounted on heavy stallions, gripping baleful black shields and holding their long heavy spears. ‘Remember,’ I called, ‘these are the men who raided our land! Kill them! But bring their leaders to me.’

  ‘Lord!’ Egil called urgently.

  They were coming. I stood and ran back to the ridge top where I crouched. Guthfrith’s men were spilling over the far crest in two groups, the smaller to my left. That group, maybe thirty or forty strong, was streaming down the far slope and I guessed their job was to circle around Finan’s men to block their escape, but they were already too late. Finan and his men, feigning panic, were fleeing, apparently so panicked that they left the packhorses behind. I watched, careless that I could probably be seen, though I reckoned that the men hurrying their horses down the far slope were far too intent on their breakneck ride to notice me. I waited, beckoning Aldwyn forward with my stallion. Egil had gone back to mount his horse, as had Sihtric. I wanted the enemy to stop in the valley’s centre, I wanted them to dismount and only then I would unleash my men. The smaller group, seeing Finan’s men flee up the western slope were reining in their horses and turning towards the mounds where the large group who surrounded two standard-bearers were milling about. The flags, Guthfrith’s boar and Æthelstan’s dragon with its lightning bolt, hung lifeless in the still air. More men dismounted, and among them was Ealdred. I recognised his stallion, the big grey, and the gleam of his polished mail. He strode towards the packhorses as I heaved myself onto my stallion’s back, took the shield and heavy spear from Aldwyn, then waved my men forward. ‘Now kill them!’

  I was angry, I was vengeful, and I was probably being rash. As my horse tipped over the crest I was reminded of the foolishness of men who played dice, who lost almost all their silver, but then put their faith and all that was left of their money on one last throw. If this worked I would give Æthelstan a new enemy, a new war, and that war would indeed be terrible. And if I lost then his vengefulness would have no limit.

  The slope was steep. I leaned back against the saddle’s high cantle, my shield banging against my left thigh, and I was tempted to curb the stallion. But on either side of me warriors were racing ahead and I spurred instead. I had warned my men not to use their usual war cry, not to shout Bebbanburg’s name, though I heard someone call it aloud. ‘Scotland!’ I bellowed. ‘Scotland!’ We flew the flags Hanna had sewn, the flags showing Domnall’s red hand gripping a heavy cross.

  The slope lessened. The sound of hooves was like thunder. The enemy was staring astonished, then the dismounted men ran for their horses. Egil was slanting off to my left, his spear-points aiming for the smaller group who were turning to face him. Sihtric was galloping to the valley’s lip to cut that line of escape. Our bright flags with their false badges were streaming. A horse fell behind Sihtric, the rider tumbling, spear turning end over end, the horse screaming, riders splitting around it, and then my stallion was threading the trunks where the pines had been felled.

  I lowered the spear and let my stallion have his head.

  And so we struck. It was ragged, that charge, but it hit like one of Thor’s thunderbolts. The enemy was in panic, disorganised, some lucky men spurring desperately eastwards to safety, others turning their horses and blocking those who were screaming to escape, many just staring wide-eyed at Ealdred as if waiting for orders, while a few drew swords and came to meet us. One horseman readied his sword to swat my spear aside, but I raised it to threaten his frightened eyes, his sword came up to parry and I dropped the spear-blade to drive it deep into his lower chest, bending him back in the saddle. I let go of the haft and started to pull Serpent-Breath free, felt a blow on my shield, glimpsed a man with his mouth open turning his horse away from me as Berg slammed a spear into his pelvis. A scream, my horse swerving, more men with black shields on my right shouting incoherently as they speared into the hapless enemy. I saw Ealdred’s grey horse ahead of me, he was flailing his sword to part men who obstructed him and I spurred my horse, left Serpent-Breath in her scabbard, came up behind him and, reaching out, seized the neck of his mail coat and dragged him backwards. He swung his sword wildly, I was turning my stallion, he came back over his horse’s rump, shouted something and then fell with his left foot trapped in its stirrup. He was dragged along the ground for a few paces, then his horse was blocked by others. I threw down my shield and slid from the saddle. Ealdred struck at me with his sword, but he was half dazed, on his back, and the blow was feeble. The mail and the heavy rings on my forearm blocked the sword, then I dropped onto him, a knee in his belly, and pulled Wasp-Sting, my seax, free.

  A seax, with its broken-backed shape and curved fore-blade, is a wicked weapon. I held its edge at Ealdred’s throat. ‘Drop the sword,’ I ordered him, then pressed the short blade harder, saw the terror in his eyes, then the sword fell. My horsemen had swept past me, leaving enemy dead and dying. Many had escaped and I was content to let them go, knowing what tale they would tell in Eoferwic, the same story that would travel south to Æthelstan in Wessex. The Scots had broken their word.

  Berg, always watchful of me in a fight, had dismounted too. I stood, kicked Ealdred’s sword out of his reach, and told Berg to guard him. ‘He’s to stay on his back.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘And where’s Guthfrith?’ I stared around the valley. Most of the enemy was fleeing up the eastern slope, a few were kneeling with outspread hands to show that they yielded. ‘Where’s Guthfrith?’ I bellowed.

  ‘I’ve got the bastard!’ Sihtric shouted. He was driving Guthfrith ahead of his horse, using his sword to prod Northumbria’s king towards me.

  I did not need prisoners except for Guthfrith and Ealdred. I had Egil’s men strip those who had surrendered of their mail, of their boots and of their weapons, then Thorolf, Egil’s brother, ordered them to carry their wounded down the hill and acr
oss the Tesa’s ford into Guthfrith’s territory. ‘And if you come back across the river,’ he growled, ‘we’ll use your ribs to sharpen our swords.’ His Norse-accented English would sound foreign to the prisoners, most of whom would never have heard a Scottish voice. ‘Now be on your way,’ he finished, ‘before we decide to eat you.’

  That left Ealdred and Guthfrith. Both men had been stripped of their helmets and weapons, but were otherwise unharmed. ‘Drag them here,’ I snarled. I still wore the helmet with its heavy cheek-pieces, but as Ealdred and Guthfrith were pulled towards the packhorses, I loosened the leather lace. ‘You wanted my gold?’ I asked the two.

  ‘Your gold?’ Ealdred said belligerently. ‘It’s Northumbria’s gold!’ He must have been thinking that we really were a Scottish war-band.

  I pushed the cheek-pieces aside and hauled the helmet off. I tossed it to Aldwyn. ‘My gold, you rancid little turd.’

  ‘Lord Uhtred,’ Ealdred breathed the two words.

  ‘It’s yours,’ I said, beckoning at the packhorses. ‘Take it!’ Neither man moved. Guthfrith, his broad face sour, took a pace backwards, bumping into one of the packhorses. I saw he wore a silver cross, the price of being allowed to stay on his throne, and he raised his hand to touch the amulet, then realised there was no hammer there and the hand went still. ‘Take it!’ I said again and half drew Serpent-Breath as a threat.

  Ealdred did not move, just stared at me with a mixture of fear and loathing, but Guthfrith turned, lifted the bag’s leather flap and found only stones. ‘There is no gold,’ I said, letting Serpent-Breath fall back into her scabbard.