Sunngifu was smiling as if she had waited half her life to greet me. I saw she was wearing a nun’s gray habit beneath the mail coat and thick cloak. I reached down and gently lifted the ribbon-decked helmet just enough to see her forehead, and there was the small reddish birthmark, shaped like an apple, the only disfigurement on one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. She was looking up at me with amusement. “It’s good to see you again, lord,” she said humbly.
“Hello, Mus,” I said.
The little warrior was Mus, Sunngifu, Sister Gomer, bishop’s widow, whore, and troublemaker.
And damn the trap, I was suddenly happy to be in Ceaster.
Two
“So, you remember Sister Sunngifu?” Æthelstan asked me. We had left the ramparts and were leaving the city through the eastern gate, going to inspect the sentries who guarded the enemy trapped in the arena. It was cold, snow made the ground treacherous, and Æthelstan must have been tempted to stay in the great hall’s warmth, but he was doing what he knew should be done; sharing his men’s discomfort.
“Sunngifu is difficult to forget,” I said. A dozen of Æthelstan’s guards now followed us. Within a quarter mile there were hundreds of defeated enemy, though I expected no trouble from them. They had been cowed, and now sheltered in their makeshift hovels waiting to see what the morning brought. “I’m surprised she became a nun,” I added.
“She’s not a nun,” Æthelstan said, “she’s a novice when she’s not pretending to be a soldier.”
“I always thought she’d marry again,” I went on.
“Not if she’s called to God’s service.”
I laughed at that. “Her beauty is wasted on your god.”
“Beauty,” he said stiffly, “is the devil’s snare.”
The fires we had placed around the arena lit his face. It was tight, almost angry. He had asked me about Sunngifu, but now it was plain he was uncomfortable talking of her. “And how,” I asked mischievously, “is Frigga?” Frigga was a young girl I had captured near Ceaster some years before and had given to Æthelstan. “She’s a beauty, I remember,” I went on, “I almost kept her for myself.”
“You’re married,” he said censoriously.
“You’re not,” I retorted, “and it’s time you were.”
“There will be a time for marriage,” he said dismissively. “And Frigga married one of my men. She’s a Christian now.”
Poor girl, I thought. “But you should be married,” I said. “You can practice with Sunngifu,” I teased him, “she plainly adores you.”
He stopped and glared at me. “That is unseemly!” He made the sign of the cross. “With Sister Sunngifu? With Bishop Leofstan’s widow? Never! She’s a most pious woman.”
God in his dull heaven, I thought as we walked on, and Æthelstan didn’t know her real story?
I will never understand Christians. I can understand their insistence that their nailed god rose from the dead, that he walked on water and cured diseases, because all gods can do those things. No, it’s their other beliefs that astonish me. Sunngifu had been married to Bishop Leofstan, a good man. I liked him. He was a fool, of course, but a holy fool, and I remember him telling me that one of his god’s prophets had married a whore called Gomer. I forget now why this prophet married a whore, it’s all explained in the Christian holy book. I do recall that it wasn’t just because he wanted to bounce her, it was something to do with his religion, and Bishop Leofstan, who at times had the brain of a mayfly, decided to do the same, and had plucked Sunngifu from some Mercian brothel and made her his wife. He solemnly assured me that his Gomer, as he insisted on calling her, had reformed, had been baptized, and was indeed a living saint, but when he wasn’t looking, Sunngifu was humping my men like a demented squirrel. I had never told Leofstan, but I had tried to expel Sunngifu from Ceaster to stop the frequent injuries caused by men fighting for her favors. I had failed, and here she still was, and, for all I knew, still merrily bouncing.
We were walking toward the firelit arena with snow whirling about us. “You do know that before Sunngifu married the bishop she was—” I began.
“Enough!” Æthelstan interrupted me. He had stopped again and now looked at me fiercely. “If you’re about to tell me that Sister Sunngifu was a harlot before she married, I know! What you don’t understand is that she saw the sinfulness of her life and repented! She is living proof of redemption. A witness of the forgiveness that only Christ can offer! Are you telling me that is falsehood?”
I hesitated, then decided it was best to let him believe whatever he chose. “Of course not, lord Prince.”
“I have suffered from malicious gossip my whole life,” he said angrily, beckoning me onward, “and I detest it. I have known women raised in the faith, pious women, women full of good works, who are less saintly than Sunngifu! She is a good woman, an inspiration to us all! And she deserves a heavenly reward for what she has achieved here. She tends the wounded, and comforts the afflicted.”
I almost asked how she administered that comfort, but managed to bite my tongue. There was no way to argue with Æthelstan’s piety, and I had watched him grow ever more pious over the years. I had done my best to convince him that the older gods were better, but I had failed, and now he was becoming more and more like his grandfather, King Alfred. He had inherited Alfred’s intelligence and his love of the church, but to those he added the skills of a warrior. He was, in short, formidable, and I had the sudden realization that if I had just met him for the first time, instead of having known him since he was a child, I would probably dislike him. And if this young man became king, I thought, then Alfred’s dream of one Saxon country under the rule of one Christian king could well come true, indeed was likely to come true, which meant that this young man, whom I thought of as a son, was the enemy of Northumbria. My enemy. “Why do I always end up fighting for the wrong side?” I asked.
Æthelstan laughed, then surprised me by clapping my shoulder, maybe regretting the angry tone he had used just a moment before. “Because at heart you’re a Saxon,” he said, “and because, as we’ve already agreed, you’re a fool. But you’re a fool who’ll never be my enemy.”
“I won’t?” I asked threateningly.
“Not by my choice!” He strode ahead, making for the arena’s entrance, where a dozen of my men stood close to the great fire that burned in the archway. “Is Cynlæf still inside?” he called out.
Berg was the closest of the sentries, and he glanced at me as if wondering whether he should answer. I nodded. “No one’s left the arena, lord,” Berg said.
“Are we sure Cynlæf’s here?” I asked.
“We saw him two days ago,” Æthelstan said. He smiled at Berg. “I fear you’re suffering a cold night.”
“I’m Norse, lord, the cold doesn’t worry me.”
Æthelstan laughed at that. “Nevertheless I’ll send men to relieve you. And tomorrow?” He paused, distracted by Berg, who was gazing past him.
“Tomorrow we kill them, lord?” Berg asked, still staring northward over Æthelstan’s shoulder.
“Oh, we kill them,” Æthelstan said softly, “we certainly kill them.” Then he turned to see what had attracted Berg’s attention. “And perhaps we begin the killing now,” he added in a sharp tone.
I also turned to see a dozen men approaching. Eleven were warriors, all in mail, all cloaked, all bearded, all wearing helmets, and three carrying shields painted with creatures I supposed to be dragons. Their swords were sheathed. The firelight reflected from gold at one man’s neck and shone silver from a cross that was worn by the one priest who accompanied them. The warriors stopped some twenty yards away, but the priest kept walking until he was a couple of paces from Æthelstan, where he dropped to his knees. “Lord Prince,” he said.
“Stand, stand! I don’t expect priests to kneel to me! You represent God. I should kneel to you.”
“Earsling,” I said, but too softly for Æthelstan to hear.
The priest stood. Two crusts of
snow clung to his black robe where he had knelt. He was shivering, and, to my surprise, and even more to the priest’s astonishment, Æthelstan strode forward and draped his own thick cloak about the man’s shoulders. “What brings you here, father?” he asked. “And who are you?”
“Father Bledod,” the priest answered. He was a skinny man with lank black hair, no hat, a straggly beard, and frightened eyes. He fidgeted with the silver cross. “Thank you for the cloak, lord.”
“You’re Welsh?”
“Yes, lord.” Father Bledod gave an awkward gesture toward his companions. “That is Gruffudd of Gwent. He would speak with you, lord.”
“With me?”
“You are the Prince Æthelstan, lord?”
Æthelstan smiled. “I am.”
“Gruffudd of Gwent, lord, would return to his home,” the priest said.
“I am surprised,” Æthelstan said mildly, “that Gruffudd of Gwent thought to leave his home in the first place. Or did he come to Mercia to enjoy the weather?”
The priest, who seemed to be the only Welshman capable of speaking the Saxon tongue, had no reply. He just frowned, while the eleven warriors stared at us in mute belligerence.
“Why did he come?” Æthelstan asked.
The priest made a helpless gesture with his left hand, then looked embarrassed. “We were paid to come, lord Prince,” he admitted.
I could see that answer made Æthelstan angry. To the Welshmen he doubtless looked calm, but I could sense his fury that Cynlæf’s rebellion had hired Welsh troops. There had ever been enmity between Mercia and the Welsh. Each raided the other, but Mercia, with its rich fields and plump orchards, had more to lose. Indeed the first warrior I ever killed in a shield wall was a Welshman who had come to Mercia to steal cattle or women. I killed four men that day. I had no mail, no helmet, just a borrowed shield and my two swords, and that was the day I first experienced the battle-joy. Our small force of Mercians had been led by Tatwine, a monstrous beast of a warrior, and when the battle was done, when the bridge where we had fought was slippery with blood, he had complimented me. “God love me,” I remembered him saying in awe, “but you’re a savage one.” I was a youngster, raw and half-trained, and thought that was praise.
Æthelstan controlled his anger. “You tell me that Gruffudd comes from Gwent,” he said, looking at the man who showed the glint of gold at his neck. “But tell me, father, is not Arthfael King of Gwent?”
“He is, lord Prince.”
“And King Arthfael thought it good to send men to fight against my father, King Edward?”
Father Bledod still looked embarrassed. “The gold, lord, was paid to Gruffudd.”
That answer was evasive and Æthelstan knew it. He paused, looking at the warriors standing in the snow. “And who,” he asked, “is Gruffudd of Gwent?”
“He is kin to Arthfael,” the priest admitted.
“Kin?”
“His mother’s brother, lord Prince.”
Æthelstan thought for a moment. It could hardly have been a surprise that Welsh troops were at the siege. The Welsh and the Mercians were enemies and had always been enemies. King Offa, who had ruled Mercia in the days of its greatness, had built a wall and ditch to mark the frontier and had sworn to kill any Welshman who dared cross the wall, but of course they dared, indeed they seemed to regard the barrier as a challenge. The Mercian rebellion was an opportunity for the Welsh to weaken their traditional enemy. They would have been fools not to take advantage of the Saxon troubles, and the kingdom of Gwent, which lay on the other side of Offa’s ditch, must have hoped to gain land if Cynlæf’s rebellion had succeeded. A few dead warriors was a small price to pay if the Welsh gained some prime Saxon farmland, and it was plain that King Arthfael had made that bargain with Cynlæf. Father Bledod had done his best to absolve the Gwentish king of blame, and Æthelstan did not press him. “Tell me,” he said instead, “how many men did Gruffudd of Gwent bring to Ceaster?”
“Seventy-four, lord.”
“Then tell Gruffudd of Gwent,” Æthelstan said, and each time he repeated the name he invested it with more scorn, “that he and his seventy-four men are free to cross the river and go home. I will not stop them.” And that, I thought, was the right decision. There was no point in picking a quarrel with a defeated force. If Æthelstan had chosen to kill Gruffudd and his Welshmen, which he was surely entitled to do, the news of the massacre would spread through the Welsh kingdoms and provoke retaliation. It was better to provoke gratitude by allowing Gruffudd and his men to crawl back to their hovels. “But they may travel with nothing more than they brought with them,” Æthelstan added. “If they steal so much as one goat I will slaughter all of them!”
Father Bledod showed no concern at the threat. He must have expected it, and he knew as well as Æthelstan that the threat was a formality. Æthelstan just wanted the foreigners gone from Mercia. “Your goats are safe, lord,” the priest said with sly humor, “but Gruffudd’s son is not.”
“What of his son?”
The priest gestured toward the arena. “He is in there, lord.”
Æthelstan turned and stared at the arena, its bloodred walls lit by fire and half obscured by snow. “It is my intention,” he said, “to kill every man inside.”
The priest made the sign of the cross. “Cadwallon ap Gruffudd is a hostage, lord.”
“A hostage!” Æthelstan could not hide his surprise. “Are you telling me that Cynlæf doesn’t trust Gruffudd of Gwent?” Æthelstan asked, but the priest did not answer, nor did he need to. Gruffudd’s son had clearly been taken hostage as a surety that the Welsh warriors would not desert Cynlæf’s cause. And that, I thought, meant that Gruffudd must have given Cynlæf cause to doubt the Welshmen’s loyalty.
“How many of your seventy-four men still live, priest?” I asked.
Æthelstan looked annoyed at my intervention, but said nothing. “Sixty-three, lord,” the priest answered.
“You lost eleven men assaulting the walls?” I asked.
“Yes, lord.” Father Bledod paused for a heartbeat. “We put ladders against the northern gate, lord, we took the tower.” He meant one of the two bastions that flanked the Roman gate. “We drove the sais from the rampart, lord.” He was proud of what Gruffudd’s men had achieved, and he had every right to be proud.
“And you were driven from the gate,” Æthelstan remarked quietly.
“By you, lord Prince,” the priest said. “We took the tower, but could not keep it.”
“And how many sais,” I used Bledod’s word for the Saxons, “died with you on the gate?”
“We counted ten bodies, lord.”
“No,” I said, “I want to know how many of Cynlæf’s men died with you.”
“None, lord,” Father Bledod could not hide his scorn, “not one.”
Æthelstan understood my questions now. Cynlæf had let the Welshmen lead the assault and had done nothing to support them. The Welsh had done the fighting and the Saxons had let them die, and that experience had soured Gruffudd and his men. They could have resisted our arrival the previous day, but had chosen not to fight because they had lost faith in Cynlæf and his cause. Æthelstan looked at the warriors lined behind the priest. “What can Gruffudd,” he asked, “give me in return for his son’s life?”
The priest turned and spoke with the short, broad-chested man who wore the gold chain about his neck. Gruffudd of Gwent had a scowling face, a gray tangled beard, and one blind eye, his right eye, which was white as the falling snow. A scar on his cheek showed where a blade had taken the sight from that eye. He spoke in his own language, of course, but I could hear the bitterness in the words. Father Bledod finally turned back to Æthelstan. “What does the lord Prince wish from Gruffudd?”
“I want to hear what he will offer,” Æthelstan said. “What is his son worth? Silver? Gold? Horses?”
There was another brief exchange in the Welsh language. “He will not offer gold, lord,” the priest said, “but he will p
ay you with the name of the man who hired him.”
Æthelstan laughed. “Cynlæf hired him!” he said. “I already know that! You waste my time, father.”
“It is not Cynlæf,” it was Gruffudd himself who spoke in halting English.
“Of course it was not Cynlæf,” Æthelstan said scornfully, “he would have sent someone else to bribe you. The devil has evil men to do his work.”
“It is not Cynlæf,” Gruffudd said again, then added something in his own language.
“It was not Cynlæf,” Father Bledod translated. “Cynlæf knew nothing of our coming till we arrived here.”
Æthelstan said nothing for a few heartbeats, then reached out and gently took his cloak from Father Bledod’s shoulders. “Tell Gruffudd of Gwent that I will spare his son’s life and he may leave at midday tomorrow. In exchange for his son he will give me the name of my enemy and he will also give me the gold chain about his neck.”
Father Bledod translated the demand, and Gruffudd gave a reluctant nod. “It is agreed, lord Prince,” Bledod said.
“And the chain,” Æthelstan said, “will be given to the church.”
“Earsling,” I said again, still too low for Æthelstan’s ears.
“And Gruffudd of Gwent,” Æthelstan went on, “will agree to keep his men from raiding Mercia for one whole year.” That too was agreed, though I suspected it was a meaningless demand. Æthelstan might as well have demanded that it did not rain for a whole year as expect that the Welsh would end their thieving. “We will meet again tomorrow,” Æthelstan finished.
“Tomorrow, edling,” Gruffudd said, “tomorrow.” He walked away, followed by his men and by Father Bledod. The snow was falling harder, the flakes whirling in the light of the campfires.
“I sometimes find it difficult,” Æthelstan said as he watched them walk away, “to remember that the Welsh are Christians.”
I smiled at that. “There’s a king in Dyfed called Hywel. You’d like him.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He’s a good man,” I said warmly, and rather surprised myself by saying it.
War of the Wolf Page 4