Sword of Kings

by Bernard Cornwell

  I said nothing. I gripped Serpent-Breath’s hilt. I prayed that I would die with the sword in my hand.

  ‘Lost your tongue, lord?’ Waormund asked. I still said nothing. ‘We’ll cut it out before you die,’ he promised, ‘and cut your balls off too.’

  Everything dies. We all die. And all that is left of us is reputation. I hoped I would be remembered as a warrior, as a just man, and as a good lord. And perhaps this miserable death by a hedge would be forgotten. My screams would fade, and reputation would echo on in the songs men sang in the hall. And Waormund? He had a reputation too, and his renown was cruelty. He would be remembered as a man who could dominate a shield wall, but who delighted in making men suffer and in making women suffer. Yet just as I was known as the man who had killed Ubba by the sea and as the warrior who had slain Cnut, so Waormund would be known as the man who had killed Uhtred of Bebbanburg.

  He dismounted. He wore mail beneath the red cloak. Around his neck was a silver chain, and his helmet was ringed by silver, the symbols that showed he was one of Lord Æthelhelm’s commanders, a warrior to lead warriors, a man to fight his lord’s battles. For a moment I dared hope he would face me in single combat, but instead he gestured for his troops to dismount. ‘Take him,’ he said.

  Eight long ash-hafted spears surrounded and threatened me. One blade, its edge touched by rust, was at my throat. For a heartbeat I thought to raise Serpent-Breath and beat that spear away and hack at the men who faced me, and perhaps I should have fought, but fate had me in her grip, fate told me I had come to the end, and everything ends. I did nothing.

  A frightened man stepped between the spears and took Serpent-Breath from me. I resisted, but the rust-edged spear-blade pricked my throat and I let my sword go. Another man came from my left and kicked my legs, forcing me to my knees. I was ringed by enemies, Serpent-Breath was gone, and I could not fight back.

  Everything ends.

  Ten

  It seemed I was not to die by the hedge. Waormund wanted reputation. He wanted to be known as Waormund Uhtredslayer, and a killing by a hedge would not inspire the poets to write songs about his prowess. He wanted to carry me in triumph to his master, to Æthelhelm my enemy, and he wanted the news of my death to be carried along the Roman roads till all Britain knew and feared the name of Waormund Uhtredslayer.

  Yet if my death was not to be swift, I was still to be humbled. He walked towards me slowly, relishing the moment. He said nothing, just nodded grimly to a man standing close behind me. I thought for a heartbeat that was my end, that a knife was about to slice my throat, but instead the man just lifted off my helmet, and Waormund slapped me.

  That was revenge for the slap I had given him years before, but this slap was no mere insult as mine had been. It was a fearful blow that threw me sideways, as bad and painful a blow as the stone that had been hurled from Heahburh’s high wall to split my helmet and lay me low. My sight suddenly blackened, my head spun, while my skull filled with sound, darkness, and pain. And that, perhaps, was a blessing, because I was not really aware as they ripped the hammer amulet from about my neck, unbuckled my sword belt, took Wasp-Sting, stripped my mail coat, tugged off my boots, slit my shirt, then kicked my naked body. I could hear men’s laughter, felt the warmth as they pissed on me, and then I was forced to my feet, my head still ringing, and they lashed my wrists in front of me and tied the rope to the tail of Waormund’s horse. They wove the stallion’s tail into two plaits that they tied into a loop of the rope to make sure I could not drag the tether loose.

  Waormund, towering above me, spat into my face. ‘Lord Æthelhelm wants to speak with you,’ he said, ‘and his nephew wants to make you scream.’

  I said nothing. There was blood in my mouth, one ear was pain, I was staggering with dizziness. I suppose I must have looked at him, one of my eyes half-closed, because I remember he spat again and laughed. ‘King Ælfweard wants to make you scream. He’s good at that.’ I said nothing, which angered him and he hit me in the belly, his face distorted with hatred. I folded over, breathless, and he seized my hair and dragged my head up. ‘The king will want to kill you, but I’ll make it easy for him first.’ He reached out and forced my jaw open, paused, then spat into my mouth. That amused him.

  He had tossed Wasp-Sting and her scabbard to one of his men, but kept my sword belt with Serpent-Breath’s scabbard for himself. He took off his own belt and sword, tossed them to a tall warrior, then buckled my belt about his waist. He took Serpent-Breath from the man who had disarmed me and ran a finger up the blood groove in her blade. ‘Mine,’ he said, almost crooning with joy, ‘mine,’ and I could have wept. Serpent-Breath! I had owned her almost all of my life, and she was a sword as fine as any in the world, a sword forged by Ealdwulf the Smith and given the sorcerous spells of a warrior and of a woman, and now I had lost her. I looked at her bright pommel where Hild’s silver cross glinted and all I could feel was despair and an impotent hatred.

  Waormund laid my own sword’s blade against my neck and for a brief moment I thought his anger would make him cut, but instead he just spat again and then slid Serpent-Breath into her scabbard. ‘Back to the road!’ he called to his men. ‘Mount up!’

  They would ride east to find the great road that led south to Lundene, the Roman road I had crossed that morning. Waormund led them through a gap in the hedge, though the gap was thick with brambles and the thorns ripped me as I stumbled after his horse. ‘Tread in my horse’s dung, earsling!’ Waormund shouted back at me.

  The stubble of the pasture cut my feet as I staggered downhill. Twenty men rode ahead, Waormund followed, and another twenty rode behind us. Two horsemen, both with spears, flanked me. It had to be near midday, the sun was high and bright, and the road rutted with dried mud. I was thirsty, but all I could swallow was blood. I stumbled and the horse dragged me for a dozen paces, the mud and stones lacerating me until Waormund stopped, turned in his saddle and laughed as I struggled to my feet. ‘Keep up, earsling,’ he said and kicked his feet so the stallion jerked ahead and I almost fell again. The sudden jolt started blood from the wound in my left shoulder.

  The road led through the coppiced beeches. Finan was hidden somewhere in this wood and I dared to hope that he would rescue me, but he had just six men, and Waormund had over forty. Waormund must have known that I had not been alone and I feared he would send men to find my companions, but it seemed he was content with his prize, his reputation was assured, and he would ride in triumph to Lundene where my enemies would watch me die in misery and pain.

  We passed two priests and their two servants who were walking west towards Werlameceaster. They stood at the side of the road and watched me stumble by. ‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg!’ Waormund boasted to them. ‘Uhtred the Pagan! On his way to death!’ One of the priests made the sign of the cross, but neither spoke.

  I staggered again, fell again, and was torn by the road again. I did it twice more. Slow them down, I was thinking, slow them down, though what that would achieve other than delaying my death I did not know. Waormund became angry with me, but then ordered one of his men to dismount and I was draped over the empty saddle, though still tied to his stallion’s tail. The dismounted man walked beside me and amused himself by slapping my naked arse, crowing with laughter with each slap.

  We went faster now that I could no longer stumble, and the Roman road soon came in sight. It ran north and south through a wide and shallow valley, while far beyond it I could glimpse a silvery stretch of the River Ligan. The land here was good and plump, rich with pastureland and thick crops, with orchards heavy with ripening fruit, and stands of valuable woodland. Waormund ordered his men to trot, forcing my arse-slapping guard to hold onto the empty stirrup as he ran beside the horse. ‘We’ll make Lundene by nightfall!’ Waormund shouted at his men.

  ‘Use the river, lord?’ a man suggested. I gave a croak of laughter to hear Waormund addressed as ‘lord’. He did not hear me, but the man whose horse carried me did and he slapped me again.


  ‘I hate boats,’ Waormund snarled.

  ‘A ship might be quicker, lord?’ the man suggested. ‘And safer?’

  ‘Safer?’ Waormund sneered. ‘We’re not in danger! The only troops Pretty Boy has near here are at Werlameceaster, and they’re useless.’ He turned in his saddle to enjoy looking at me. ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘what do we do with the horses?’

  I wondered how he had found the beasts. He had followed me up the river and there had been no horses in his big ship, yet now he had mustered forty or more. Had he somehow gone all the way back to Lundene to find the horses? That seemed unlikely. ‘We could take the horses back to Toteham, lord?’ the man suggested. ‘And you take the earsling to Lundene by river?’

  ‘Those lazy bastards in Toteham can piss into the wind,’ Waormund growled, ‘and we’ll keep their damned horses.’

  I had no idea where Toteham was, but plainly it was not far away. I knew that Merewalh was in Werlameceaster, and I supposed that Æthelhelm had sent troops to watch him and harass his forage parties. Maybe those troops were at Toteham where Waormund had found his horses, but what did any of that matter? I was bloody, bruised, and naked, a captive of my enemy, and doomed.

  I closed my eyes lest any of my enemies saw tears. There was a clatter of hooves on stone as the leading horsemen reached the Roman road and there we turned southwards, going towards Lundene. The road had no hedges here. To the right a long slope of grassland that had been cut for hay led to a wooded crest, while to the left was another field of stubble and beyond that was the low wooded hill where we had fought the slaves in the moonlit barn. The man slapped my arse again, and again he laughed, and I kept my eyes tight shut as if I could blot out the pain with darkness. But I knew there was more pain to come, nothing but pain and death in Lundene where Urðr, Verðandi and Skuld, the three pitiless Norns who spin our lives at the foot of Yggdrasil, would cut my thread at last.

  Then Finan came.

  Waormund reckoned that Æthelstan had no forces closer to Lundene than the garrison at Werlameceaster, which is why he rode southwards without any scouts ranging the pastures and low wooded hills either side of the Roman road. So far as he knew this was safe ground and all he could think of was the joy of his triumph and the sweet revenge of my death.

  But Rædwalh’s two servants had reached Werlameceaster in the night, and Merewalh, who had fought beside me in Æthelflaed’s service, had sent sixty men to rescue me, and those horsemen did have scouts riding ahead. They had seen Waormund’s men, but being uncertain how many warriors the West Saxon led, they had followed cautiously. They had seen my capture, but had not known it was me, and so they had followed Waormund further eastwards and, in the wood of coppiced beech, had found Finan and the rest of my company.

  Now, caution swept to the wind, they came from a wood to the west of the Roman road. They came at a gallop, the high sun reflecting off spear-points, from sword-blades, and from shields bright painted with Æthelstan’s symbol of a dragon clutching a lightning bolt. Their horses’ hooves threw up great clods of pastureland, the thunder of the horses suddenly loud.

  Waormund’s men were tired, their horses white with sweat. For a few heartbeats they just stared in disbelief, then men dragged swords from scabbards and turned to face the charge, but Waormund just went on staring. I heard shouting, though whether it was bellows of surprise from the West Saxons or war cries from the Mercians, I could not tell, but the shouts seemed to startle Waormund who suddenly turned his horse away from the attackers and spurred it towards the field of stubble that lay between the road and the tree-covered hill. His stallion, checked by my weight that was still tied to its tail, reared. Waormund savaged the spurs back, the horse screamed, then bolted. My horse followed, but then it was my turn to scream as I was dragged from the saddle. Behind me were other screams as the Mercian horsemen slashed into the West Saxons. I saw none of it, did not see the blood on the Roman stones nor the men in their death throes. I was being dragged across the dry stubble, being lacerated by the short, sharp stalks, bouncing and sobbing as the horse fled, hauling on my tether in an attempt to prevent my arms being wrenched from their sockets, and as I sobbed I half saw another horse come alongside me, saw the earth flung up by giant hooves, and saw the sword lifted above me.

  Then the sword sliced down. I screamed. And I saw nothing.

  Not far from Bebbanburg is a cave where the Christians claim Saint Cuthbert’s body was hidden when the Danes sacked Lindisfarena and the monks fled with the saint’s corpse. Others say that Saint Cuthbert lived in the cave for a time, but whichever story is true, whether Saint Cuthbert was alive or dead, the Christians revere the cave. Sometimes, when hunting deer or boar, I will pass the cave and see the crosses made from twisted grass or reeds that are left by people praying for the saint’s help. It is a sacred place and I hate it. We call it a cave, but in truth it is a massive ledge of rock jutting from a hillside and supported by one small stone pillar. A man can shelter from a storm beneath that ledge. Perhaps Saint Cuthbert did, but that is not why I hate the place.

  When I was a child, maybe six or seven years old, my father had taken me to Saint Cuthbert’s cave and forced me to crawl under that vast ledge of rock. He had five men with him, all warriors. ‘You stay there, boy,’ he had said, then taken a war hammer from one of his men and struck the pillar a great ringing blow.

  I had wanted to scream in terror, imagining the massive rock crushing me, but knew I would be beaten bloody if I made a sound. I cringed, but stayed silent. ‘You stay there, boy,’ my father had said again, then using all his strength he hit the pillar a second time. ‘One day, boy,’ he had continued, ‘this pillar will crumble and the rock will fall. Maybe that day is today.’ He hammered it again, and again I kept silent. ‘You stay there, boy,’ he had said a third time, then mounted his horse and rode away, leaving two men to watch me. ‘Don’t talk to the boy,’ he had ordered them, ‘and don’t let him leave,’ nor did they.

  Father Beocca, my tutor, was sent to rescue me at nightfall and discovered me shaking with fear. ‘Your father does it,’ Beocca had explained to me, ‘to teach you to conquer your fear. But you were in no danger. I prayed to the blessed Saint Cuthbert.’

  That night and for many nights after I dreamed of that great lump of rock crushing me. It did not fall fast in my dreams, but came slowly, inch by ponderous inch, the stone groaning as it descended so inexorably, and in my dream I was powerless to move. I would see the rock coming, know that I was going to be slowly crushed to death, and I would wake screaming.

  I had not had that nightmare for years, but I had it that day, and again I woke screaming, only now I was in a farm cart, cushioned on straw and cloaks, my body covered by a dark red cloak. ‘All’s well, lord,’ a woman said. She was riding in the cart with me as it lurched along the rough road to Werlameceaster.

  ‘Finan,’ I said. The sun was in my eyes, too bright. ‘Finan.’

  ‘Aye, it’s me,’ Finan answered. He was riding alongside the cart.

  The woman bent over me, shadowing my face. ‘Benedetta,’ I said.

  ‘I’m here, lord, with the children. We’re all here.’

  I closed my eyes. ‘No Serpent-Breath,’ I said.

  ‘I do not understand,’ Benedetta said.

  ‘My sword!’

  ‘You’ll have her again, lord,’ Finan called.

  ‘Waormund?’

  ‘The big bastard escaped, lord. Rode his horse straight into the river. But I’ll find him.’

  ‘I’ll find him,’ I croaked.

  ‘You’ll sleep now, lord,’ Benedetta said and she laid a gentle hand on my forehead. ‘You must sleep, lord, you must sleep.’

  I did sleep, and at least that was an escape from the pain that filled me. I remember little of that day after the sight of Finan’s bright sword slashing down to sever the rope that had tied me to Waormund’s stallion.

  I was taken to Werlameceaster. I do remember opening my eyes and seeing the R
oman arch of the eastern gate above me, but I must have slept again, or else the pain just drove me to unconsciousness. I was put on a bed, I was washed, and my wounds, and they were many, were smeared with honey. I dreamed of the cave again, saw the rock coming to crush me, but instead of screaming I just woke shaking to see I was in a stone-walled room lit by stinking rushlights. I was confused. For a moment I could only think about rushlights and how bad they smelled when the fat used to smear them was rancid, and then I felt the pain, remembered my humiliation, and groaned. I wanted the blessing of sleep, but someone put a damp cloth on my forehead. ‘You’re a hard man to kill,’ a woman said.

  ‘Benedetta?’

  ‘It is Benedetta,’ she said. She gave me weak ale to drink. I struggled to sit up and she put two straw-filled bags behind me.

  ‘I’m ashamed,’ I said.

  ‘Hush,’ she said and held my hand. It embarrassed me and I took my hand away.

  ‘I’m ashamed,’ I said again.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg. They humiliated me.’

  ‘And I am Benedetta of nowhere,’ she said, ‘and I have been humiliated all my life, raped all my life, enslaved all my life, but I am not ashamed.’ I closed my eyes to stop myself crying, and she took my hand again. ‘If you are powerless, lord,’ she went on, ‘then why be ashamed of what the strong inflict on you? It is for them to be ashamed.’

  ‘Waormund,’ I said the name quietly, as if testing it.

  ‘You will kill him, lord,’ Benedetta said, ‘as I killed Gunnald Gunnaldson.’

  I let her hold my hand, but I turned away from her so she would not see my tears.

  I was ashamed.

  Next day Finan brought me my mail coat, he brought me Wasp-Sting, with a sword belt to which he had attached Wasp-Sting’s scabbard, and he brought me my boots and my old shabby helmet. All that was missing was my torn mail coat, the hammer amulet, and Serpent-Breath. ‘We took all these off the dead, lord,’ Finan explained, placing Wasp-Sting and the helmet on the bed, and I was glad it was not my fine war-helmet, the helmet that was crested by the silver wolf, because the wolf of Bebbanburg had been humiliated. ‘Six or seven of the bastards got away,’ the Irishman said.