“Not one.”
“So we’re lost,” I said.
Finan turned and nodded southward, “Mameceaster has to be somewhere down there.”
“I need to go home,” I said harshly, “so we’ll ride east when the scouts get back, then find our own way.”
“And those two?” Finan gestured at the dead captives.
“Leave them here, let the bastards rot.”
Finan stared north through the persistent rain. “Sköll sounds like a mad bastard,” he said, “and he’ll want revenge for his son. He’ll be coming for us.”
“His son was alive when we left,” I said.
“You still humiliated the boy. You took his sword.”
I had thought I left Unker dying, but now I wondered if he had merely been stunned. He had bled enough, but head wounds always bled copiously. “He was fast,” I said. “If his horse hadn’t tripped you’d be singing a funeral song for me. For me and Stiorra.”
“We’ll make songs for her, lord,” Finan said.
I just gazed north, saying nothing. A gray day with gray rain and gray cloud. I remembered my first impulse to ride after Sköll and wondered if Finan was right, and that Sköll, with the same impulse, was planning to ride south and wreak revenge for his son’s wounding, but our two scouts returned to say that they had seen nothing. It seemed that Sköll’s pursuit had been called off and that the Norsemen must now be riding for home, and so we set off in the opposite direction, riding slowly toward the gradually lightening horizon where the sun rose beyond the clouds. It still rained, only now it was a sullen drizzle. I sent more scouts ahead, telling them to look for a settlement as well as any sign of an enemy, and it was midmorning when Eadric rode back to say there was a plump valley to the south of us. We were following a winding stream through thick trees when Eadric brought his news. “It’s just across the hills, lord,” he said, gesturing to the south, “and there’s at least three halls there. Big ones too.”
We called in our other scouts, turned, and followed Eadric across the low hills and down a valley of rich pastureland where, as Eadric had said, there were three halls. All had palisades and all had smoke drifting from roof-holes toward the low, persistent clouds.
Berg turned his horse toward me. “Want us to leap the palisade again, lord?” he asked eagerly, gesturing to the nearest hall.
“No.” I spurred Tintreg. I doubted we would need to fight. No men showed above the palisade, which was now little more than a long bowshot away, and that suggested there were few people in the hall. I wondered if the menfolk from this valley had ridden with Sköll, but that seemed doubtful. If they had, they would surely have returned by now, but no one watched from the steading’s gate. The only sign of life was the smoke from the hearth. “They won’t be happy,” I told Berg, “but if they can’t fight us they’ll open their gate.”
They did, and they were not happy. The family that lived in the hall was Danish, but only the womenfolk, their children, and three older men were there. The owner of the steading, we were told, had gone south with other men from the valley. “There’s easy pickings in Mercia,” Wiburgh, the mistress of the hall, told us. “Mercians are fighting each other, so we’ll help ourselves.” She watched as I looked around the hall. “And you’ll help yourselves too,” she added bitterly. “Who are you?”
“Travelers,” I said. “So how many men rode south into Mercia?”
“Twelve? Maybe more. Depends if the folk across the hill decided to help.”
“They rode to Mameceaster?”
“Is that the new Mercian fort?”
“It is.”
“My husband’s not a fool. He won’t attack a fort, but there’ll be pickings enough in the nearby country. They raid us, we raid them.”
“For cattle?”
“For cattle, sheep, slaves, for anything we can eat or sell.”
“And if you wanted to go to Jorvik,” I asked, using the city’s Danish name, “what road would you take?”
She laughed. “We have nothing to do with Jorvik! I don’t know a man who’s even been there. Why would we go? They’re all strangers over there. Besides,” she looked balefully at Finan’s cross, “there are Christians there.”
“You don’t like Christians?”
“They eat babies,” she said, touching a hammer necklace, “everyone knows that.”
We ate no babies, but she did feed us a mutton stew with oatcakes, though it took a while for her servants to cook the meal. She grumbled, of course, that there were so many of us, but her storehouse was well stocked, and she was confident her husband would be bringing more food from Mercia. She was a plump and resourceful woman, resigned to our presence, and clever enough to know that if she treated us well we would return the favor. “You surprised us,” she confessed to me after dark, “by coming from the hills. Not many come that way! If any come from the south we get warning.”
“You live well here,” I said.
“Few know we’re here. We keep to ourselves.”
“Except when you raid?”
“The brothers like to keep busy.” She was spinning wool, her hands deft. “My husband’s father, Fastulf, found the valley. There was a Saxon lord here then, but he died,” she gave a brief laugh, “and Fastulf had three sons. So three sons and three farms. We call it the valley of the brothers.”
I was gazing into the glowing embers beneath the burning logs, searching for an omen in the shimmering fire. “I had a brother,” I said quietly, “but he died.” She said nothing. “And I had a daughter too,” I went on, “and she died.”
She let the distaff drop and gave me a meaningful look. “You’re a lord,” she said, making it sound like an accusation. “Uhtred of Bebbanburg!”
“I am,” I said. There had been no point in hiding who we were. We had stayed at the steading all day and my men must have told Wiburgh’s servants who we were.
“I’ve heard of you,” she said, then nodded at the chain I wore around my neck, “and you wear gold.”
“I do.”
“You wear gold,” she said again, “and you don’t even notice you’re wearing it! A family could live for ten years on the metal you hang around your neck.”
“So?”
“So the gods notice you! The more you become like the gods the more they’re going to slap you down!” She wiped the wool grease from her fingers onto her robe. “When wolves attack the flock, which dog dies first?”
“The bravest,” I said.
“The bravest, aye.” She threw a billet of wood onto the fire. The two of us were sitting at one side of the hearth, slightly apart from the rest of the company. She watched the sparks settle into the smoldering ashes. “I had three sons too,” she said wistfully, “and two died of the fever. But the eldest? He’s called Immar and he’s a good man. Sixteen now and fighting at his father’s side.” She looked at me. “So when did your daughter die?”
“A few days ago.”
“She was ill?”
“Sköll Grimmarson killed her.”
She made the sign to ward off evil. “Oh, he’s a beast!”
“You know him?” I asked with quickening interest.
She shook her head. “We just hear things. But I don’t believe half of what I hear.” She picked up the distaff again.
“What do you hear?”
“He’s a cruel man,” she said, not looking at me. “He likes people to suffer. I hope . . .” her voice died away.
“From what I hear,” I said, “my daughter died quickly. In battle.”
“Thank the gods for that,” she said fervently. “We’ve had runaway slaves come across the hills, and they tell us stories. He hunts people for pleasure, sets the dogs on them. He’s said to have blinded two of his wives for daring to look at a young warrior, and the poor young man was gelded then sewn into a sheepskin and thrown to the hounds. And his sorcerer!” She made the two-fingered sign to ward off evil. “But as I said, I only believe half of what I hear.”
“I’ll kill him,” I said.
“Maybe that’s what the gods want.”
“Maybe.”
I slept that night. I had not expected to, but the gods gave me that small blessing. I had told Finan I would visit the sentinels we had put at the palisade, but he insisted I sleep. “I’ll make sure they’re awake,” he said, and so he did. I dreamed, but none of what I dreamed revealed the wishes of the gods. I was on my own. They were watching me, waiting, wanting to see how their game ended.
With Sköll’s death, I vowed. Or else my own.
The rain ended in the night and dawn brought a pale clear sky. The small wind was warmer, a promise of spring. I woke to the memory of Stiorra’s death and the absurd hopes that she might yet live. I felt abandoned by the gods, and for a moment I was tempted to tear the hammer from around my neck and hurl it into the hearth’s fire, but caution stopped me. I needed the help of the gods, not their enmity, and so I clutched the amulet instead.
“It would be sensible, lord,” Finan came and crouched beside the revived fire, “to have a day of resting. The horses need it. We can dry out. It’s a fine day dawning.”
I nodded. “But I want to send out scouts.”
“East?” he guessed.
I nodded. “To make sure Sköll’s given up his pursuit. Then we continue east, back home.” The word “home” was like ash in my mouth. I remembered Stiorra’s joy when she had first seen Bebbanburg and how she had ridden a horse along the sand, her eyes bright, her laughter loud.
“We’ll go back to the road?” Finan asked.
“It’s probably the quickest way back.”
“Sigtryggr must have learned the news by now,” Finan said. “He could be on his way already.”
“He’ll probably be on the road we were using,” I suggested, then frowned. “If he’s coming.”
“And why wouldn’t he?”
“Maybe the Mercians are threatening?” I hated not knowing. I did not know where we were, I did not know what happened in Mercia, in Cumbraland, or in Eoferwic. I did not even know what happened at Bebbanburg. My son would have heard of his sister’s fate by now, so was he leading men to avenge her?
“Have you thought about Æthelstan?” Finan asked.
“What about him?”
“We’re probably closer to him than to Sigtryggr, and Æthelstan owes you.”
I grimaced. “I like him, but he’s getting to be like his grandfather, drunk on God. And the pompous little bastard wants my oath.”
“He still owes you,” Finan insisted, “and he’s threatened by the Norse just as much as Sigtryggr.”
I thought about that, except it was hard to think. All I could see in my mind was Stiorra dragged from a shield wall, screaming, a sword coming down, and her blood on the street. I prayed she had died fast. I tried to summon a picture of her in my head, but it would not come, any more than I could see her dead mother, Gisela.
“Lord?” Finan said anxiously.
“I’m listening.”
“Sköll threatens Mercia too,” Finan insisted. “He might have failed to capture Eoferwic, but Ceaster would be a good consolation.”
“If we invite Æthelstan into Northumbria,” I said, “it’s a confession of weakness, that we can’t control our own kingdom. Besides, he has to help his father defeat the Mercian rebels first. He might have ended Cynlæf’s hopes, but there were other rebels.”
“Maybe they’re already defeated?”
“Maybe. But if Æthelstan helps us defeat Sköll, what happens to western Northumbria?”
Finan understood what I was suggesting. “Æthelstan keeps hold of Cumbraland?”
“And makes it part of Mercia,” I said, “part of Englaland. And Cumbraland belongs to Northumbria, and my son-in-law is King of Northumbria.” I paused. “And if Æthelstan helps us,” I went on, “then he’ll want my oath.”
“Which he won’t get.”
“Not while I’m alive,” I said grimly. “Damn the Christians,” I added, “and damn Edward’s Englaland. I’m fighting for my own country.”
“So we go east,” Finan said.
“We go east.”
“I’ll lead a half-dozen scouts,” he said.
“Just make sure we can reach the road,” I said, “because that’s probably the fastest way back to Eoferwic.”
“And we leave tomorrow?”
“We leave tomorrow,” I agreed.
But we left at midday because we were still being hunted.
Sköll Grimmarson wanted revenge. When I had first heard about Stiorra’s slaughter my immediate thought had been to confront her killers, but sense had stopped me. Sköll, discovering his son’s wounding, must have had the same impulse; to ride after the men who had dared insult his family and then to kill them in as imaginative a way as his foul mind could devise.
I had let sense rule me because I knew we were outnumbered, and that to attack Sköll was to invite our own defeat, but Sköll had no such restraints. He knew how many we were, he knew he had the advantage of numbers, so all he needed to do was find us, fight us, and kill us.
Except that in the fading twilight of the previous day, in the murk of the rainswept dusk, Sköll’s scouts had seen our tracks going eastward, but they had not spotted the place where we had turned south. They must have spent a cold wet night under the bare trees, expecting to continue the pursuit at dawn, and, luckily for us, they had continued eastward until, somehow, they deduced that we had changed direction. Finan and his men had seen them as they retraced their steps. “I reckon they saw the smoke here and are coming to find out what causes it. And they’ll be here soon, lord.”
“How many?”
“I’m guessing three crews. It was hard to see them under the trees. But a lot. Too many. And Sköll was with them.”
“I didn’t see him yesterday.”
“He’s here, right enough. You can’t miss that white cloak, lord. And he’s got three crews at least.”
Three crews would be around a hundred and twenty men, and we had seen far more than that on the road, which suggested Sköll had split his force, sending some men back home with the captured cattle and the slaves, and brought a fighting force to find us.
And now he was to the east of us, but coming toward us, which meant we could not return to the road, nor travel eastward, and so I had no choice but to go farther south. “I wonder how far Mameceaster is,” I asked Finan as we left the steading.
“Your woman there reckoned two days.”
“She didn’t sound very sure.”
“It can’t be too far.”
We would go south, looking for Mameceaster, and we would be safe if we could persuade the garrison to open its gates. I hated the thought of running for safety and begging for shelter, but I liked the idea of dying even less, so south we went. I had my usual scouts ahead, but this time I had six good men following us with orders to keep their eyes skinned for any pursuit. I tried to remember the name of the commander at Mameceaster, the man who had denied us entrance on our way to Ceaster. Treddian! Æthelstan had told me that Treddian was being replaced and I hoped the new man, if he had already been appointed, was more welcoming, because if Sköll continued his relentless pursuit I would need the shelter of Mameceaster’s walls.
I took one precaution before we left the hall. I gave Wiburgh some hacksilver and told her to take all her people, all her valuables, and all the livestock up into the woods behind the steading. “Sköll Grimmarson will be coming,” I said, “and he’ll ask if you’ve seen me. You’d best not be here to answer him. And warn the other halls in the valley.”
She had shuddered. “He’ll like as not burn the place down.”
“Then you’ll rebuild,” I said, “as we all do. And I’m sorry.”
And I was sorry. Sorry for her, sorry for Northumbria, sorry for myself. My daughter was dead. The thought beat through me, a deep sorrow and a spur for revenge. But to take revenge I needed men. I needed Sigtryggr’s troo
ps, or more of my own men, who were at Bebbanburg, and when I had those men I vowed I would carry fire and slaughter through Cumbraland, and the prospect of that revenge was my only consolation.
We had ridden the length of the valley that headed south and west, and at its far end we followed a wider valley southward. Wiburgh had told me which way to ride. In the second valley, she said, we would find a drove road going south. “It’s an old road, lord, Been there forever. Since long before we came,” she had been talking to us at her steading’s gate, “and if you meet Hergild and his brothers,” she had continued, “warn him about Sköll.” Hergild was her husband and I had promised I would warn him. I guessed that the road had been made by drovers herding their cattle and flocks south to feed the Roman settlements around Mameceaster. “You can’t miss the road,” Wiburgh had said, and she proved right. We made good progress. The weather was kind, the ground was drying after the hard rain, and the scouts who followed us did not raise any alarm, and so I began to hope we had evaded Sköll’s war-band. Maybe we would not need Mameceaster’s shelter, maybe we could turn east again and ride to Bebbanburg.
Then one of the scouts ahead of us came racing back, his horse flinging up clods of damp turf. “God help us,” Finan said quietly, watching the far figure.
“They’ve seen Wiburgh’s husband,” I suggested, “coming back home?” That seemed the obvious explanation. We knew that the Danes from the valley of the brothers had gone south to raid the country around Mameceaster, and I had been half expecting to meet them as they returned.
Eadric, the scout who was riding back with the news, reined in his horse. “Trouble, lord,” he said, “horsemen a mile or so ahead. We don’t know how many.” There was no excitement in his voice, let alone enthusiasm. It was as if the trouble ahead was both inevitable and unavoidable.
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