Sword of Kings

by Bernard Cornwell

  And we slid out of the Temes into the clearer water of the Ligan and the oarsmen were grimacing, hauling on the looms, and still I bellowed at them as we turned into the widest of the Ligan’s channels. To the left, driven deep into the river’s margin, were four giant stakes. I wondered if they were markers, or perhaps the remnants of a wharf, then forgot them as the steerboard side oars touched bottom and I hauled the steering-oar towards me and shouted at the oarsmen to keep rowing. There was a small island of reeds ahead. Did I go to the left of it or to the right? I felt panic. It would be so easy to go aground, but just then a small ship nosed into view behind a screen of poplars. The ship was little more than a barge, loaded with hay, and she was aiming towards the easternmost channel. I touched my hammer again and thanked the gods for sending a sign. ‘Row!’ I shouted. ‘Row!’

  The helmsman of the barge would know the river, and know just which channels had enough depth to float his heavily laden barge. He was using the ebbing tide to carry his cargo down the Ligan and, once at the river’s mouth he would wait for the flood tide to float him and carry him up the Temes to Lundene. He had four oars, scarce enough to move the vast load, but the tides would do most of his work.

  Our rowers could clearly see Waormund’s ship, and see the mailed and helmeted men crowded into her prow. The oarsmen were bone-weary, but they pulled hard and we slid up the easternmost channel, passing the hay barge, and again our steerboard oars struck the river bed and I screamed at those rowers to keep pulling. Another spear was thrown and hammered into our stern post. Finan plucked it loose. The men on the hay barge watched us open mouthed. The barge’s four oarsmen were so astonished at our sudden appearance that they had stopped rowing to stare at us, while the steersman just gaped and his ship slewed across the river. There was a bellow of anger from behind as Waormund’s ship slammed into the barge and veered into the eastern bank. Men lurched forward as the big hull grounded.

  And we rowed on, struggling against the current and the last of the ebb. I let the oarsmen slow, content just to make a walking pace as we slid between the marshes. Waormund’s ship was aground, but men were already leaping overboard to shove her back into the channel. The hay barge had gone ashore on the other bank and its crew had been sensible enough to leap overboard and flee through the marshes.

  ‘So we’re safe?’ Finan asked.

  ‘They’ll be afloat soon.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered.

  I was gazing ahead, trying to pick a course through the tangled waterways. Our oars touched the river’s bed every few strokes, and once I felt the shudder of mud beneath the keel and held my breath till we had slid into deeper water. The branch of a poplar brushed our furled sail’s yard and scattered leaves on the rowers. Birds fled from us, their wings white, and I tried to discern an omen in their flight, but the gods had given me the gift of the hay barge and offered me nothing more. An otter slid into the water, looked up at me for an instant, then dived out of sight. We were still rowing through marshes, but ahead of us the land rose almost imperceptibly. There were small fields of wheat and rye and I thought of Jorund, whom we had met in the Dead Dane, and how he wanted to be home for the harvest.

  ‘Bastards are coming,’ Finan said. But the bastards were having a more difficult time than the Brimwisa, their oars were fouling more often and their pace was slowed by the river’s depth. They had a man in the prow who was watching for the shallows and shouting directions. ‘They’ll give up soon,’ Finan added.

  ‘They won’t,’ I said, because ahead of us the river twisted like a serpent. It flowed south on its way to the Temes, then turned sharply northwards before another tight bend brought it south again to where we struggled against the current. We would be well ahead of Waormund when we reached that first bend, but as we rowed south his ship would be just forty or fifty paces away on the northward reach. ‘Irenmund!’ I shouted.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘I want you here! Vidarr? Take his oar!’ I waited for Irenmund to reach me. ‘You can steer a ship?’ I asked.

  ‘Been doing it since I was eight years old,’ he said.

  I gave him the steering-oar. ‘Stay on the outside of that bend,’ I said, ‘then keep her in the middle of the river.’

  He grinned, happy to be given the responsibility, and I pulled on my old, battered helmet with its boiled-leather cheek-pieces. Finan pulled on his own helmet and gave me a quizzical glance. ‘Why that fellow?’ he asked softly, nodding at Irenmund. ‘And not Gerbruht?’

  ‘Because we’ll be fighting soon,’ I said. Gerbruht was a fine seamen, but he was also an immensely strong man who was pulling an oar and we needed all the strength we could find. ‘Or we will be fighting,’ I went on, ‘if Waormund has half a brain.’

  ‘He’s got tripe for brains,’ Finan said.

  ‘But sooner or later he’ll see his chance.’

  That chance was caused by how closely the southern reach lay to the northern. Just a narrow strip of marsh separated the two, which meant that Waormund could send men across the intervening marsh to assail us with spears. Irenmund was already taking us into the bend, keeping to the outside where the water would be deepest, but the current was also fastest there and our progress was painfully slow. Most of our rowers were at the end of their endurance, their faces grimacing as they hauled on the heavy oars. ‘Not much longer now!’ I shouted as I made my way forward to where the children, the women, and Father Oda were sitting on the deck beneath the small prow platform. Benedetta looked up at me anxiously and I tried to reassure her with a smile.

  ‘I want the smallest children under the platform,’ I told Benedetta, pointing to the small space at the prow, ‘and the rest on this side of the deck.’ I was on the bæcbord side because once we rounded the sharp bend, that side would be facing the enemy ship as it rowed northwards. ‘Immar!’ I shouted. ‘Come here!’

  He scrambled back to me and I handed him one of the big shields we had discovered in Gunnald’s yard. ‘The bastards might be throwing spears,’ I explained, ‘and your job is to stop them. Catch them on the shield.’

  Finan, Immar, Oswi and I had shields. Finan would protect the steering platform, Immar would try to defend the women and children huddled beneath the ship’s rail, while Oswi and I must somehow keep spears from striking the rowers. ‘It would be a long throw,’ Oswi said dubiously. He was gazing at the enemy ship that was nearing the first bend just as we struggled out of it.

  ‘They won’t throw from the ship,’ I said, ‘and maybe they won’t throw at all.’ I touched the hammer, hoping I was right.

  The helmsman on the enemy ship stayed too close to the inner bank of the curve and I saw the big ship lurch as she ran aground again. For a few heartbeats it just stayed there, then a dozen men leaped overboard. I thought they were about to attempt to push the big ship off the mud, but instead they carried spears and began running towards us.

  ‘Pull!’ I shouted. ‘Irenmund! Keep to the right!’ The steerboard oars began fouling the river bed again, but they also found purchase and the Brimwisa kept moving. The rowers on the bæcbord benches looked anxiously at the enemy who were stumbling through the marsh’s reeds and tussocks. ‘Just keep rowing!’ I called.

  ‘Why?’ A bare-chested man with a spade beard challenged me. He stopped hauling his oar, stood, and looked at me truculently. ‘They’re your enemy, they’re not ours!’

  He was right, of course, but there was no time to argue with him, especially as some of the oarsmen muttered sullen agreement. I just drew Serpent-Breath, stepped over the next bench and thrust hard. He had time to look astonished, then his calloused hands closed on the long blade that had glanced off a rib and driven deep into his chest. He made a gasping noise, blood bubbled at his open mouth and spilled down his beard as his eyes stared at me beseechingly. I snarled, wrenched the blade sideways and so toppled him over the side. Blood spread on the water.

  ‘Does anyone else want to argue?’ I asked. No one did. ‘Those men,’ I pointe
d the blood-streaked blade at our pursuers, ‘will sell you! I will free you. Now row!’ The death of one man spurred the others to renewed effort and Brimwisa surged forward against the river’s swirling current. ‘Folcbald,’ I shouted, ‘take this oar! Aldwyn!’ The boy ran to me and I gave him Serpent-Breath. ‘Clean it.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Dip the blade in the river,’ I told him, ‘then wipe off every drop of blood and water. Bring it back when it’s dry. Really dry!’

  I had not wanted to kill the man, but I had sensed resentment among the bone-weary oarsmen who had been trapped in a struggle that was none of their business. The dead man, whose body now floated belly down towards our pursuers, could have roused that resentment into outright refusal. Even now, as the oarsmen pulled desperately on their looms, I saw the distrust on their faces, but then Irenmund, standing proud at the stern, called out. ‘Lord Uhtred is right! We’d just have been sold again! So row!’

  They rowed, but even with the new energy born of fear, they could not outpace the men hurrying across the marsh. I counted them. Twelve men carrying two spears each. Waormund was not among them, he was still on board the pursuing ship that was being heaved off the mudbank. I could just hear him bawling orders.

  Then the leading spearman decided to chance his arm. It was a long throw, but he hurled his spear and it soared across the river, aimed at Irenmund, and I heard it thump into Finan’s shield. The other men kept coming, then two stopped and threw their spears. One fell short, plunging into the river, the other struck Brimwisa’s hull and quivered there.

  Waormund had been clever enough. He had realised that spearmen on foot could catch us and cripple us by slaughtering enough oarsmen, but he had not been clever enough to tell them that their best chance was to throw their spears together. A man can dodge a spear or catch it on his shield, but a shower of spears is far more deadly. One by one the men threw the heavy blades, and one by one we either stopped them or watched them fly high or low. Not every spear missed. One oarsman was hit in the thigh, the blade gouging a deep cut that Father Oda hurried to bandage. Another glanced off the iron rim of my shield and scored a long shallow wound across a man’s naked back, but most of the spears were wasted, and still we rowed on, nearing the next bend that would take us north again. North into Mercia.

  Waormund had freed his ship and had his men hauling on their oars again, but Irenmund was already taking us into the sharp curve. I saw Beornoth readying to hurl a spear back at the frustrated men who could only watch as we rowed away from them. ‘No!’ I called to him.

  ‘I can skewer one of the bastards, lord!’ he called back.

  ‘And give them a chance to throw it back? Don’t throw!’

  Waormund’s men had used all their spears and his only chance now was to row faster, but the deeper draught of his big ship was turning against him and the tide was blessedly low. We turned the bend and headed north and saw our pursuer shudder to another stop. We rowed on, gaining distance with every stroke, still threading the wide marsh, but ahead of us now there were low wooded hills and the smoke from cooking hearths. The river was becoming dirtier, with streaks of foul-smelling brown water. There was a village, I remembered, built where the Roman road from Lundene to Colneceaster forded the Ligan and I feared that the East Anglians might have left men there to guard the crossing. We were rowing now between thick willow trees that snagged on our mast and yard and I could see the small smoke from the village smearing the sky. Benedetta had come aft to join me as we passed between the village’s first small cottages. She wrinkled her nose. ‘The stink!’

  ‘Tanners,’ I said.

  ‘Leather?’

  ‘They cure the hides with shit.’

  ‘It is filthy.’

  ‘The world is filthy,’ I said.

  Benedetta paused, and then, in a lower voice, ‘I have to say something.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘The slave girls,’ Benedetta said, nodding towards the bow where the girls we had freed from Gunnald’s warehouse were huddled. ‘They are frightened.’

  ‘We’re all frightened,’ I said.

  ‘But they have been kept from the men. It is not your enemy they fear, but the other slaves. I am frightened of them too.’ She paused and then, more harshly, ‘You should not have freed the men with oars, Lord Uhtred. They should all be chained still!’

  ‘I’m giving them freedom,’ I said.

  ‘Freedom to take what they want.’

  I gazed at the women. All were young, and the four who had been kept for Gunnald’s use were undeniably attractive. They stared back at me with fear on their faces. ‘Short of killing the rowers,’ I said, ‘the best I can do is protect the women. My men won’t touch them.’

  ‘I’ll kill any man who does,’ Finan put in. He had been listening to our conversation.

  ‘Men are not kind,’ Benedetta said, ‘I know.’

  We passed a wooden church, and beyond it a woman was pulling weeds from a vegetable garden. ‘Are there soldiers here?’ I called to her, but she pretended not to hear and walked towards her thatched hovel.

  ‘Can’t see any troops,’ Finan said, ‘and why would they have an outpost here?’ He nodded ahead to where a ripple of water showed where the road forded the river. ‘Isn’t that the road to East Anglia? They can’t be expecting enemies on that road.’

  I shrugged and said nothing. Irenmund still steered us. A dog chased us along the bank, barking frantically, then gave up the pursuit as we reached the ford. Our keel touched the bottom again, even though we were keeping to the middle of the river, but the ominous scraping died and the slight grounding hardly checked our small speed. ‘He won’t get past that,’ I told Finan.

  ‘Waormund?’

  ‘That ford will stop him dead. He’ll have to wait hours.’

  ‘God be praised,’ Benedetta said.

  Aldwyn brought me Serpent-Breath. I checked that the blade was clean and dry, slid the sword into her fleece-lined scabbard, and patted Aldwyn’s head. ‘Well done,’ I said, then looked behind and could see no sign of our pursuer. ‘I think we’re safe.’

  ‘God be praised,’ Benedetta said again, but Finan just nodded westwards.

  And on the road to Lundene, at the village’s western end, were horsemen. The sun was low, dazzling my eyes, but I could see men hauling themselves into saddles. They were not many, perhaps eight or nine, but two of them wore the distinctive dull red cloaks. ‘So they did leave sentries here,’ I said bitterly.

  ‘Or maybe a forage party,’ Finan said dourly.

  ‘They don’t seem interested in us,’ I said as we rowed on northwards.

  ‘You hope,’ Finan said. Then the horsemen disappeared behind an orchard. The sun might have been low, but it was summer and a long evening lay ahead.

  Which could yet bring us death.

  Nine

  It should have been a pleasant evening. The day was warm, but not too hot, the sun slanted across a green land, and we rowed slowly, almost gently. The oarsmen were near the end of their strength, but I did not demand more effort. We were travelling at a walking pace, content that no one pursued us. True, we had seen a small group of Æthelhelm’s men at the village by the Ligan’s ford, but it seemed they had taken no interest in us, and no horsemen appeared in the fields to our left and so we went slowly northwards between willows and alders, past meadows where cattle grazed, and by small steadings marked by smoke that rose into the windless air. We kept rowing as the shadows lengthened into the long summer evening. Hardly anyone spoke, even the children were quiet. The loudest noises were the creaking of the oars and the splashes of the blades that left ripples which the current swirled downstream. I relieved Irenmund on the steering-oar and he took the oar of a youngster who looked on the point of collapse. Finan squatted beside me on the steering platform, and Benedetta perched on the rail with one hand on the sternpost. ‘This is Mercia?’ she asked me.

  ‘The river is the frontier,’ I explained. ‘W
hich means that is East Anglia,’ I pointed to the right bank, ‘and that,’ I pointed into the setting sun, ‘is Mercia.’

  ‘But if it is Mercia,’ she went on, ‘then we surely find friends?’

  Or we would find enemies, I thought, but I said nothing. We were rowing up a long straight river stretch and I could see no sign of any pursuit. I was certain Waormund’s ship would not have been able to pass the ford, at least not until the tide rose, and his men, tired from rowing and burdened by mail and weapons, could never catch us on foot. My fear was that Waormund would find horses and then he would be on to us like a stoat slaughtering leverets, but as the sun blazed its last in the west we saw no sign of any horsemen.

  We passed by two more villages. The first was on the western bank and was surrounded by the rotting remnants of a palisade and by a ditch that was half filled in. That fallen palisade was a reminder of how peaceful this part of Britain had become. It had been a wild frontier once, the border between the Saxons of Mercia and the Danes of East Anglia. King Alfred had signed a treaty with those Danes, ceding them all the land to the east, but his son had conquered East Anglia, and the river was peaceful again. Now Edward’s will, that divided his kingdom between Æthelstan and Ælfweard, might mean that the palisade would need to be repaired and the ditch deepened. The second village was on the eastern bank and had a wharf fronting the river where four barges, each about the size of Brimwisa, were tied. None of the barges had a mast stepped, but all were equipped with stout tholes for oars and one had her deck heaped with sawn timbers. Beyond the wharf were felled trunks that two men were splitting with wedges and mauls. ‘Timber for Lundene,’ I said to Finan.

  ‘Lundene?’

  ‘The ships don’t have their masts stepped,’ I said, ‘so they can get under the bridge.’ The Saxon city beyond Lundene’s Roman walls was where the hunger for timber, for new houses, for new wharves, and for firewood, was unending.

  The two men splitting the trunks paused to watch us pass. ‘There’s a ford up there,’ one shouted, pointing north. He spoke in Danish. ‘Careful now!’