War of the Wolf

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Because I want to see the man I’m going to kill,” I answered, “and if your men were mounted we could finish the bastard off now.”

  “I came to find you,” Osferth said, “not to start a war with Northumbria.”

  “The war has found you,” I said, “so let’s fight now.”

  “What are you saying?” Sköll demanded.

  “Tell them to go home,” Osferth insisted.

  “You won’t fight?”

  Osferth frowned. He knew we outnumbered Sköll’s men, he knew that in a fight we would eventually overwhelm the Norsemen, but he also knew that to start a fight was to lend his men to a purely Northumbrian quarrel, and if Æthelstan or King Edward were to discover that West Saxons and Mercians had died in a fight to settle a feud between two pagans they would not be happy. “I came to find you,” he said stubbornly, “and I have no reason to fight this man.”

  “He attacked you!”

  “The attack failed.” He let go of Tintreg’s bridle and half turned his horse away. “Tell him to go back home.”

  I leaned forward and took hold of the spear shaft. “My prince,” I said to Sköll, “has decided to spare your rotten life. He advises you to go home unless you wish a shallow grave in this valley.” I plucked the spear free and turned to follow Osferth.

  “You’re cowards!” Sköll shouted. “You run away like slaves!”

  And so we did.

  We outnumbered them and we ran away. Well, we rode away.

  I had been tempted to attack. My hatred of Sköll tried to persuade me that my men would defeat his, but it would have been an expensive and incomplete victory. Men would die on both sides, and, because we were all on horseback, many would escape the slaughter. It is always the same with mounted battles, the moment one side looks as if it has gained the advantage, the other flees, and then it becomes a horse race. Good sense, and I retained just enough in the face of Stiorra’s killer, told me that a fight on horseback between two equal forces would leave both sides weakened, and neither with an overwhelming victory. I wanted to face Sköll, and I wanted to kill Sköll, but I wanted to be certain that I faced him man-to-man, and that I disarmed him before slaughtering him to make sure that his vile face would not offend me in Valhalla’s feasting hall.

  If Osferth’s men had joined mine, then our victory would have been certain, but Osferth had been right. He had no quarrel with Sköll, indeed Osferth had no business leading troops into Northumbria at all, so to return to Mameceaster with a report that he had lost a score of men in a fight that was none of his concern would almost certainly end with him losing command of Mameceaster’s garrison.

  “I am sorry, lord,” he told me as we rode away.

  “Sorry? Why?”

  He looked embarrassed. “For your daughter. For your hopes of revenge.”

  “My daughter will be revenged,” I said.

  “I pray so.”

  “You do?”

  “I pray for you,” he said, still embarrassed, “I always have.”

  “You think your god wants Sköll dead?”

  “I think my god weeps for Englaland,” he said. “I think my god wants peace.”

  “And Northumbria?”

  For a moment he was not sure what I meant, then he bridled. “God wants the Christians of Northumbria to be ruled by a Christian king. One religion, one language, one nation.”

  “So you’ll invade us? Force us to our knees?”

  He half smiled. “There might be another way, lord.”

  “What other way?” I demanded.

  “By talking,” he said, “by negotiation.” He ignored my sneer. “You know the Easter Witan is to be held in Mercia?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It will be the first to combine the Witans of Mercia, East Anglia, and Wessex,” he said, “and Prince Æthelstan thinks you should attend.”

  “Was that his message to me?”

  “It was, it is.”

  I had expected another demand that I give Æthelstan my oath, though on reflection it seemed unlikely that Æthelstan would reveal that demand to anyone. Instead it seemed he wanted me to attend the Easter Witan so he could press me himself. At least I assumed as much. “And why should I go?” I asked truculently. “My lands in Wessex and Mercia were stripped from me.”

  “You must ask Prince Æthelstan, lord,” Osferth said. “I was just charged with delivering the message.”

  “I need to find Sigtryggr,” I said. “That’s more important than any damned meeting of the Witan.”

  Two days later we rode into Mameceaster. The burh was new, built around a Roman fort that stood beside the River Mædlak on a low breast-shaped hill that had given the place its name. My men called it Titceaster. A wall of timber and earth surrounded the new streets with their small houses, but the real strength of the burh was the old fort. Our horses’ hooves sounded loud on the stone-paved road that led through the twin arches of the fort’s northern gate, which, like the walls of Ceaster, was built of stone, though Mameceaster’s stone was darker. The lower courses were thick with moss, but the upper showed signs of repair where the long years had collapsed the ramparts. The body and separate head of one of Cynlæf’s rebels stank on the old fort’s gate. The two pieces had been nailed there and the birds feasted on the rotting flesh. “I always wondered,” Osferth remarked as we rode past the macabre trophies, “why Sigtryggr didn’t garrison the place first.”

  “Because it’s in Northumbria?”

  “No one knows! It certainly isn’t in Northumbria now.”

  My son-in-law, or rather my once son-in-law, could have fortified Mameceaster, but the truth was that he only had sufficient forces to garrison Eoferwic and Lindcolne. The other great fortresses of Northumbria were ruled by lords, as I ruled Bebbanburg, and as my journeying of the last weeks had proved we lords did not always do Sigtryggr’s bidding. Edward of Wessex expected obedience from all his subjects, but Northumbria was ruled by Vikings who might or might not obey whoever called himself king in Eoferwic. “Northumbria was a great country once,” I said to Osferth as we reached the center of the old Roman fort. “The Scots paid us tribute, the Mercians feared us, there was gold.”

  “Everything changed when the pagans invaded,” he said. His men had vanished into the side streets where their families lived and where their horses were stabled. Mameceaster’s fort reminded me of Ceaster because the Romans built their forts to a pattern. Their buildings had long collapsed, but the new houses, storerooms, and stables had been made where the old ones had stood. Ceaster still had a great hall, but here that hall was all timber and thatch, and close to it was a new church, even bigger than the hall. Everywhere the Saxons build they make a church.

  “I will give you a house for your stay,” Osferth said as he slid wearily from the saddle and let a servant take his horse’s bridle.

  A second servant took Tintreg in hand as I dismounted. “We won’t stay long,” I said, wincing at the aches in my back.

  “Your horses need rest,” Osferth insisted, “and you need rest.” That was true. Even Tintreg, a hardy beast, had stumbled more than once as we approached the burh, and was sweating and panting.

  “Two days,” I said reluctantly, “then I need to join Sigtryggr.”

  Osferth hesitated, and I knew he wanted to mention the Witan again and encourage me to attend, but he seemed to acknowledge his words would be wasted. “Bettic will show you to your quarters,” he said instead, nodding at his steward, a one-eyed man with a limp.

  “And my men?”

  “Will be fed and sheltered,” Osferth said. He was already distracted by two young priests bringing him sheets of parchment. “We shall eat in the hall!” he called as he hurried away.

  “He’s like his father,” I said to the steward.

  “A pity he doesn’t wear his father’s crown, lord,” Bettic said.

  I made sure my men had food and somewhere to rest, gave them a pointless warning about picking fights in the
taverns, then followed Bettic to a house on the southern side of the fort. It was one of the buildings that had kept their Roman walls, though the plaster had fallen away and the roof was thatch. There was a small outer room that I guessed had been a shop, and a larger inner chamber where there was a bed, a stool, a table, rushes on the floor, and a hearth. The weather had warmed and I refused Bettic’s offer of a fire. Rorik, my servant, had followed us. “Fetch me something to eat,” I ordered him, “and some ale. Some for yourself too.”

  “I’ll show you where to find food, lad.” Bettic had seen Rorik’s confusion.

  “Where did you lose the eye?” I asked the steward.

  “East Anglia, lord. A nasty fight two years ago.”

  “I missed it,” I said. I had been in Ceaster for most of the time that Edward had spent conquering East Anglia.

  “And more’s the pity,” Bettic said. He went silent, but I looked at him quizzically and he shrugged. “The king lined us in front of a ditch, lord. The Danes pushed us back and we lost good men.”

  “In front of the ditch? Not behind it?”

  “He reckoned it would stop us retreating.”

  “I had hopes of him once,” I said bleakly.

  “He beat the Danes in the end,” Bettic said, but it was half-hearted praise. “I’ll show your boy where to find food, lord.”

  Once he was gone I unbuckled my sword belt, pulled my heavy mail with its greasy leather liner over my head, then lay on the bed and stared at the dirty thatch. I tried to summon Stiorra’s face and could not. I remembered her vivacity, her quick smile, her sense. Where were her children now? I closed my eyes tight, reluctant to let the tears fall. I clutched the hammer tightly enough to hurt my fingers. The curse had struck, but was it finished? I had just wasted weeks of my life by crossing Britain to rescue a man who did not need rescuing, then pursuing an enemy halfway to Eoferwic, only to be stranded in this Mercian burh where a bell was ringing to summon the faithful to midday prayers. I thought of Bebbanburg, where the endless sea beat on the sand, where the wind blew about the hall, and where I should be at this moment.

  “Greetings, lord,” a voice said.

  I had not heard anyone approach and I was startled. I sat up, looking for Serpent-Breath, then relaxed.

  It was Mus. Also known as Sunngifu, Sister Gomer, bishop’s widow, whore, and trouble-maker.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at prayer?” I asked her sourly.

  “We’re always at prayer,” she said, “life is prayer. Here, lord,” she held out something wrapped in a scrap of linen, which I unwrapped to find a hunk of blood sausage. “And that’s Lord Osferth’s wine,” she added, putting a flask at my feet.

  “Lord Osferth?”

  “He’s a king’s son, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a bastard.”

  “Folk say that of Lord Æthelstan too.”

  “No, his parents were married. I know the priest who married them.”

  She had pulled the stool across the floor and sat opposite me. “Really?”

  “Truly.”

  “So . . .” she began, then hesitated.

  “So,” I said, “Æthelstan is the rightful heir to his father’s throne.”

  “But . . .” she said, and again hesitated.

  “But,” I went on, “that little shit Ælfweard has a powerful uncle.”

  “Æthelhelm?”

  “Whose sister married Edward.”

  “But he put her aside,” Mus said, “and he has another woman now.”

  “But Lord Æthelhelm,” I pointed out, “leads four or five hundred warriors. The new woman just has nicer tits and no army.” She giggled at that and I scowled at her. “You’re not supposed to find that funny. You’re a nun.”

  “Do I look like a nun?” She was dressed in a pale yellow linen shift, which, when I looked more closely, had hems embroidered with blue flowers. Expensive, I thought.

  “You’re not a nun?”

  “I was only ever a postulant, lord.”

  “A postulant? That sounds like a boil.”

  “And I got squeezed,” she said ruefully. “The abbess doesn’t like me.”

  “So what,” I began to ask, then decided the question did not need asking.

  “I help in the hall,” she answered anyway. “Lord Osferth likes me well enough.” She saw my expression and laughed. “He’d like to, lord, but he’s scared of his god.”

  I laughed too. “Men are fools. Women make them fools.”

  “It’s our skill,” she said, smiling.

  “For some women, yes,” I said, “but life isn’t fair. Not all women are lovely.”

  “I’m told your daughter was beautiful.”

  I smiled. For some reason talking about Stiorra with Mus did not hurt. “She was. She was dark, not like you, and tall. She had a fierce beauty.”

  “I’m sorry, lord.”

  “It was fate, Mus, just fate.” I drank from the flask and found Osferth’s wine was sour. “So you’re a servant now?”

  “I have charge of the maids in the hall and kitchen,” she said, “and I came to ask a favor of you.”

  I nodded. “Ask it.”

  “There’s a girl who joined us, I think you know her? Wynflæd. She has red hair.”

  “The squirrel,” I said.

  Mus laughed. “She looks like one, doesn’t she? She and her husband are helping in the kitchens.”

  “He was a monk,” I said, “and broke his vows.”

  “He was?” She sounded surprised.

  “He preferred the squirrel’s tits to a life of prayer.”

  “A lot of monks enjoy both,” Mus said bleakly. “I want you to talk to Wynflæd, lord.”

  “Me?”

  “You know what happened to her?”

  “She was raped.”

  “Over and over,” Mus said.

  Rorik appeared at the inner door and looked confused by Mus’s presence. “I have bread and cheese, lord,” he stammered, “and ale.”

  “On the table,” I told him, “then go and wash Tintreg.” He looked at Mus and hesitated. “Go!” I said. He went. “Have some cheese,” I told Mus.

  She shook her head. “They hurt her, lord.”

  “She’s not the first, she won’t be the last.”

  “She cries at night.”

  “And Brother Beadwulf can’t comfort her?”

  “He’s a weak man, lord.”

  I grunted at that. “So you want me to comfort her?” I asked scornfully.

  “No.” She spoke with a deal of force. She looked so beautiful and delicate, but there was a backbone of steel inside her small body.

  “So what do you want?”

  “Do you know what men say about you?”

  I gave a snort of laughter. “That I’m old. They also call me Uhtredærwe,” that meant Uhtred the Wicked, “they call me priest-killer and Ealdordeofol.” The last meant chief of the devils.

  “They also say that you’re kind, that you’re generous, and that you punish any man who rapes a woman.”

  I grunted. “The last thing you said is true.”

  “You won’t even let your men beat their wives.”

  “I do sometimes.” Rarely, though. I watched my father beat my stepmother, and it was not pretty. As for rape, I had seen what that had done to Ragnar’s daughter, and to Hild, and few crimes angered me more. “So you’re saying I’m soft,” I challenged Mus.

  “No, I’m saying Wynflæd needs to know that not all men are rapists or weaklings.”

  “And I can persuade her of that?” I asked dubiously.

  “You’re Uhtred of Bebbanburg. Everyone fears you.”

  I gave another snort. “You too, Mus?”

  “I’m terrified of you, lord,” she said with a smile. “Will you talk to her?”

  “The last time I saw you, Mus,” I said, “at least the last time before this year, I threatened to have the skin whipped off your back.”

  “I didn’t believe you. Have
you ever whipped a woman?”

  “No.”

  “So I was right,” she said. “Now will you talk to Wynflæd?”

  I took a drink of the sour wine. “We’re leaving in two days, Mus,” I said, “and I’ll be busy.” The truth was that I had nothing particular to do before we left except give our horses time to recover, but I could not imagine anything I would say could help the squirrel, nor did I want to talk to her. What could I tell her? “She’s a Christian, isn’t she?” I asked. “So why doesn’t she talk to a priest?” Mus responded to that with a scornful noise. “Or talk to you?” I suggested.

  “She has talked to me; I think you’d be good for her.”

  It was my turn to make a scornful noise. “I’m going to Eoferwic, Mus. Eoferwic and Bebbanburg. I’m going home.”

  “I don’t think you are, lord,” Mus said quietly.

  “You don’t?” At first I thought I had misheard her, then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what you think, Mus, I must leave, I have to find Sigtryggr. I don’t want to waste time, so believe me, we’re going to Eoferwic.”

  “Then you won’t find King Sigtryggr there, lord, because he’s been summoned to Tamweorthin.”

  I just stared at her. “Summoned?”

  “Invited, lord.”

  “Sigtryggr! To Tamweorthin?” Tamweorthin was a Mercian burh, a place that Æthelflaed had been fond of, and a place where there was a palace fit for a king. “How do you know?” I asked, still struggling to understand her news.

  “I serve in the hall. You’d be surprised at the things we hear. Men think we don’t exist except to serve them, and not just food and ale.”

  “Who invited him?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Tamweorthin, like Gleawecestre or Wintanceaster or Lundene, was one of the few burhs where royalty could live in the luxury they loved.

  “King Edward, of course,” Mus said, “he wants King Sigtryggr to be at the Easter meeting of the Witan, so you won’t have to leave for at least a week, lord, and that will give you time to talk to Wynflæd.”

  I stood and snarled. The impudence of Wessex! The only reason for Edward to invite Sigtryggr to a meeting of the Witan was to demand his fealty! To humiliate him publicly and make him a client king! “He won’t go,” I said angrily.