Uhtred the Bold

by H A CULLEY

  I’d always been taught to look my opponent in the eye but this man’s eyes were hidden in the shadows behind his helmet. He raised his axe and aimed at my head. However, his horse was panicking and trying to pull away from me. Not only was the man not used to fighting on horseback, his horse had been stolen from a farmer and was more used to a sedate ride to market pulling a cart than combat.

  The Viking brought his axe down, but the blow was mistimed and his horse moved away from the snapping teeth of my stallion at the crucial moment. His wild swing not only missed me, but the momentum of the axe nearly caused him to tumble out of the saddle. He ended up bent double. Whilst he attempted to straighten up, I brought the edge of my blade down on his exposed neck and half cut his head from his body.

  Leaving him, I quickly looked around and saw that Kenric was being engaged by two Norsemen, one of whom had been unhorsed and was trying to pull my friend out of his saddle as Kenric fended off the attack from the second warrior, who was still mounted.

  I kicked my heels into my horse’s sides and he leapt forward, knocking the Viking on foot to the ground. I thrust my sword into the neck of the other man and he fell from his horse as his life blood spurted everywhere.

  Suddenly it was all over. The others had disposed of six of Vikings but the seventh was galloping away to the east as fast as he could. If he got away he would alert the main host to our presence and we would be hunted down. I kicked my horse into a gallop and chased after the lone survivor.

  He had a two hundred yard start on me but I was mounted on a tall stallion who had been fed well. The small farm horse ridden by my quarry was no match for mine and I began to overhaul him. I had my sword ready to thrust into his back as soon as I came close enough when suddenly the Viking’s horse stumbled. The beast’s foreleg had caught a fallen branch lying across the track. Its rider shot over his horse’s head and lay on the ground winded and unable to move. The horse stood still for a moment and then went to crop grass by the side of the track.

  I dismounted and was about to thrust my sword through the Viking’s neck when I saw that he was just a boy, perhaps a year younger than me. He glared at me and spat his defiance as he struggled to pull his dagger from the sheath hanging from his belt. I put the tip of my sword at his neck and told him to lie still. Evidently it was close enough to the Norse phrase for him to grasp its meaning, or else my meaning was clear, and he stopped moving.

  ‘Hvad hedder du?’

  I glanced round and saw that Ulfric had caught me up, closely followed by the rest.

  ‘Borg,’ the boy replied warily, from which I assumed that Ulfric had asked him his name in Danish.

  ‘Tell him that I will spare his life if he answers my questions, but if he doesn’t I will kill him after cutting off his manhood.’

  Ulfric looked at me strangely but I knew that, being newly pubescent myself, that it was the one threat that was likely to frighten him enough to make him talk.

  The boy didn’t immediately grasp what Ulfric was saying. Norse and Danish were similar but evidently there were some differences. However, Ulfric soon got his message across and the boy instinctively put his hands in front of his groin.

  It took a little while but half an hour later I had learned that his father had been a minor jarl who had led the scouting party. I suspected that he’d been the man with the bushy beard who I’d killed as he was better dressed than the rest. To my surprise Borg said that they didn’t come from Ireland or the Orkneys, but from Norway itself.

  ‘Our leader is Olaf Tryggvason, the great-grandson of Harald Fairhair,’ Borg told them after he’d been allowed to get back to his feet and had been disarmed.

  I knew a little of the history of Norway and Denmark. I seemed to recall that Harald Fairhair was the first king of a united Norway, but his grandson had lost his throne to Harald Bluetooth, King of Denmark.

  ‘Olaf allied himself with Otto, the Holy Roman Emperor, against Harald Bluetooth. He had hoped that Otto would help him to regain the throne of Norway, but the emperor betrayed Olaf when Bluetooth converted to Christianity and we were forced to flee across the sea.’

  ‘And land here in Northumbria,’ I concluded grimly. ‘Does Olaf intent to stay or just raid?’

  ‘We are forced to seek new lands. We heard that the area north of the Danish enclave of York were sparsely populated and would be easy to conquer,’ Borg replied. ‘Your puny forces won’t be able to stand against two thousand Norse Vikings,’ he went on to claim with a triumphant smile.

  I sucked my teeth. The combined force of fyrd and professional warriors in Bernicia could probably match Olaf’s army in numbers, but not in quality. The Norse would be armoured and well-armed for the most part; the fyrd were freemen armed with scythes, pitchforks and a few swords and spears. Most didn’t have helmets, let alone any form of armour. The total number of my father’s thanes and household warriors, who were similarly armed and trained as the Norse were, was six hundred at most.

  ‘If this Olaf wants land, why is he heading west instead of north?’ I asked.

  ‘He has heard that there is much plunder at Hexham. After we’ve sacked the place, we’ll head north.’

  ‘Not south, where the land is more fertile and prosperous?’

  ‘No,’ Borg shook his head vehemently. ‘We do not wish to fight the Danes; besides, my father said that he had reached an agreement with Earl Ælfhelm that he won’t interfere, provided we don’t stray south of the Tyne valley.’

  It made sense. Ælfhelm was a Saxon but many of his thanes were of Danish extraction. He’d been appointed by King Æthelred, but he was dependent on the Danes if he wanted to keep his earldom. It was clear to me now that my mission to seek aid from York was doomed to failure.

  The Earl of Cumbria was not likely to come to our assistance either. His preoccupation was with the Irish Norse, who raided his coastline, and the Strathclyde Britons. They had already conquered the northern part of Cumbria and had laid claim to the rest of it, down as far as the River Mersey.

  However, if Olaf intended to move north, it was possible that this would alarm Kenneth, King of Scots, enough for him to help us. Of course, it was a dangerous tactic. The northern part of Bernicia, known as Lothian, had become a bone of contention between our family and the Scots ever since a previous king of ours had agreed to cede Lothian to the Scots in return for their king’s oath of allegiance as his vassal.

  Their king had died soon afterwards and his successor had reneged on the agreement, denying subservience to England. Consequently one of my forebears had driven the Scots back north again.

  To seek aid from the Scots was therefore a risk but one I thought worth taking. Kenneth faced trouble at home from three rival claimants for his throne, all descended from previous Kings of Scots, so he was in no position to try and take Lothian from us. Given the current circumstances, it was more likely that he’d prefer us as peaceful neighbours rather than a few thousand warlike Norsemen. That was my hope at least.

  ‘What do you want to do with this piece of scum,’ Feran asked, bringing me back to the present.

  My friend was ashamed of his failure to keep his horse quiet whilst we were hiding in the trees and he was in a bad mood in consequence.

  ‘I suggest I slit his throat,’ he suggested with an unpleasant smirk.

  ‘No, I promised him his life. No man makes me an oath breaker,’ I warned my friend.

  Feran sulked like a spoilt child at my reprimand and I wondered for a moment why I had chosen him to be one of my companions. However, now was not the time to ponder about his qualities, or lack of them.

  ‘Ulfric, Translate please. Tell Borg that I offer him a choice. I will set him free but I will blind him and cut out his tongue first. That way he won’t be able to betray our presence, not until we are far away at any rate. Alternatively, he can swear on his father’s honour and whatever gods he believes in not to run away or betray me. In which case he can remain whole and become my servant.’
r />   ‘He says that he would rather die than become a thrall.’

  ‘A thrall?’ I asked.

  ‘A slave.’

  ‘He will be my bondsman but I promise not to mistreat him. I’ll only beat him if he deserves it.’

  Borg gave me a wary look after Ulfric had explained. I suspected that thralls were treated worse than dogs by the Norse; I had certainly heard that the Danes of Deira did so.

  ‘He says that, provided he is treated with respect, then he will serve you.’

  ‘Get him to swear.’

  After Borg had given me his oath we returned to the rest of his scouting party and dug rough graves for them in the trees. Borg reverentially took his father’s sword and closed his hand around the hilt before covering him with earth.

  ‘Now he will go to Valhalla,’ he explained to Ulfric.

  The rest of the armour, weapons and other valuable possessions were loaded onto the Vikings’ horses and I gave my new body servant the worst of the nags to ride. I believed that he could be trusted after giving me his word but I wasn’t taking any chances. He wouldn’t get far on that sorry excuse for a horse. Besides, the rest thought I was mad to trust Borg and giving the boy the worst mount mollified them somewhat.

  We rode at a canter to Hexham to warn the bishop and the local thane about the approaching Viking horde and then we took the road north into Redesdale. After spending the night at Otterburn we continued up the broad valley to the pass through the Cheviot Hills that divided Bernicia from Lothian. The rain, which had been threatening for the past day or so, had started to come down in torrents. At least it would keep those with any sense indoors. The fewer who knew of our passing the better.

  We were soaked and chilled to the bone by the time we saw a settlement loom out of the deluge that had reduced visibility to a hundred yards or so. I had never been in this part of the world, despite the fact that it was in my father’s earldom, but I thought that the place was probably Jedburgh. I knew that Bishop Ecgred of Lindisfarne, the island just across the bay from my home at Bebbanburg, had converted the population to Christianity and founded a church there a hundred and fifty years ago, so we made for the small stone building with a tower located between the main street and the river known as the Jed Water.

  The sight of a group of well-armed men was enough to drive those few who had braved the downpour back inside and I had a feeling that it wouldn’t be long before we were challenged by the town watch.

  I dismounted outside the church and looked around. There were two stone buildings, one either side of the church itself. I guessed one was the priest’s house, though it seemed rather grander that the residences of most poor priests. The other building had me puzzled. It was two storey and too long to be a house.

  A man in a brown robe came to the door of the house. By the silver crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck I surmised that he must be the priest but he looked to be more richly dressed than I was expecting. Most priests wore a wooden cross, not an elaborate silver one. Then I noticed the five or six men dressed in homespun robes who had come to the door of the other building to gawp at us.

  Then it clicked. The original church must had developed into a monastery, albeit a small one, over the last century or so.

  ‘Father Abbot?’ I asked tentatively, approaching the man in the doorway of the house, whilst shaking my cloak to get the worst of the water off.

  ‘Alas, I am but a humble prior, my son’ he replied with a smile. ‘Our abbot lives in Melrose.’

  It was then that I recalled that the blessed Saint Cuthbert had been a monk at Melrose. The monastery there had been founded hundreds of years ago, around the time that my distant ancestor, Catinus, had become the first of the non-royal lords of Bebbanburg.

  ‘We seek shelter for the night, Father Prior. I am Uhtred, son of Earl Waltheof.’

  ‘We are honoured, lord,’ the prior said as his expression changed from one of polite enquiry to one of panic. ‘We had no warning of your coming and we have little to offer you in the way of a feast.’

  I smiled. ‘We would be grateful for somewhere out of the rain to spend the night and a fire to dry our clothes. Anything you can provide in the way of food would be appreciated. I expect no feast; indeed I can only apologise for imposing ourselves on you. However, we would like to get out of this rain.’

  ‘Of course, lord. Apologies. Come in, come in. Brother Marcus, roust out the ostler to take the horses up to the livery stables and prepare pallets for Lord Uhtred’s men.’

  ‘Thank you, Father Prior. Ulfric, tell Borg to come with me. He can spend the evening getting the rust off my helmet and byrnie.’

  ~~~

  The next morning the rain had stopped and everywhere steamed gently as the growing heat of the sun dried everything out. I had hoped that the prior might have known where King Kenneth was, but Jedburgh was too far south to take much interest in what happened in Scotland. Before leaving I warned him about the Viking Army and suggested that he and the townspeople should take refuge in the countryside as the town lay on their likely route north.

  We reached Melrose mid-morning and at last found out where the King of Scots could be found. The abbot was something of a gossip and liked to question travellers to find out what was happening in the wider world. Not only had he already heard about the Vikings in the Tyne Valley. But he also knew where Kenneth was at the moment.

  I had hoped that he would be at Dunfermline just across the Firth of Forth from our fortress at Edinburgh. However, it seemed that he was much further north at St. John’s Town of Perth at the western end of the Firth of Tay.

  It would probably take four days for us to ride there, and we would have to hire a boat to take us and our horses across the Firth of Forth. Alternatively, we could travel via the bridge over the River Forth at Stirling, but that would add another two days to our journey. I really needed to get to see King Kenneth as quickly as possible if we were to have any chance of combining our forces before it was too late.

  It was Kenric who suggested that it would be a lot quicker, and less dangerous as we wouldn’t have to ride through Scottish territory, if we returned to Bebbanburg and took a ship north to the Tay.

  Dusk was drawing a veil over the land as we crested the last rise and rode down to the village of Bebbanburg. We reached the gates to the fortress but found them shut for the night. Inevitably the hiatus of getting them opened again brought my father to the gate tower.

  ‘Why are you back so quickly, boy? You can’t possibly have been to York and back; and what’s that Dane doing with you?’ he bellowed down to me.

  ‘He’s not a Dane he’s Norse,’ I called back. ‘Open the gates father and I will tell you all that I have learnt in your hall. It is unseemly to yell at each other out here for all the world to hear.’

  ‘Don’t be impudent, Uhtred. You’re not too old for me to beat you,’ he roared back.

  ‘I’d like to see you try,’ I muttered under my breath.

  Both of us were strong willed and, although I’m sure he loved me in his own way, we were constantly at loggerheads these days.

  A quarter of an hour later I sat down between him and my mother, the lady Ælfleda, at the high table. I had left Borg to see to my horse and, divested myself of my byrnie and clothes, had a servant rub the worst of the dirt and sweat from my body with a wet cloth before dressing in a fresh tunic and leggings.

  ‘Well, why are you back?’ he barked at me before my bottom had even reached the chair.

  ‘Husband, let the boy eat. I’m sure his news can wait for a minute or two more,’ my mother said soothingly.

  My father grunted and allowed me to take a drink of ale and a mouthful of bread and cheese before prompting me with an impatient ‘well?’

  ‘There are two thousand Norse warriors led by Olaf Tryggvason in the Tyne valley. By now they will have sacked Hexham and probably be headed north for Jedburgh. I managed to warn both places in time for them to evacuate everyone but the
bad news is that they are here to settle.’

  My father sat digesting these unwelcome tidings for a minute or two before he spoke again.

  ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘We ran into a scouting party and killed them all but one boy who we took prisoner. He’s the son of a jarl and, after a certain amount of persuasion, he talked.’

  ‘He’s the Dane you brought with you?’

  ‘Norse, yes.’

  ‘Pah. He probably spun you a pack of lies to save his own skin.’

  I shook my head vehemently.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Everything he said rang true. He even explained what had driven Olaf and his men into exile from Norway.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do as I told you and continue to York? If this tale is true, we need Ælfhelm’s help even more if this isn’t just a raid.’

  ‘Because Olaf has made a pact with Ælfhelm. He’ll stay north of the Tyne if the Danes of Deira remain neutral.’

  ‘And I suppose that this Norse boy told you this as well?’

  ‘Ask Ulfric if you don’t believe me!’ I responded with some heat. I was getting tired of my father’s sceptical attitude.

  ‘Mind your manners, boy!’

  He glared at me and I had the sense to resume eating with my eyes on my food whilst he calmed down.

  ‘Why did you come back here?’ he asked eventually and in a more reasonable tone. ‘You could have sent as messenger whilst you shadowed the Vikings.’

  ‘Because it doesn’t matter where they go and what they do if we don’t have the forces to defeat them,’ I explained in as reasonable a tone as I could manage. ‘My proposal is that I sail north to the head of the Firth of Tay, to St. John’s Town of Perth, where King Kenneth is at the moment. It’s in his interest to defeat these invaders too.’