The Pagan Lord

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘They know already,’ I said. A couple of boats had slid past us during the day and the news of our presence would be spreading through the islands and along the marshy mainland shore. Thancward, the man who had challenged our presence before, would probably come again, though I doubted he wanted to fight. We would be at peace for a few days, I reckoned.

  I could see Finan was worried about me. I had not spoken much all evening, nor joined in the singing. The Irishman had kept glancing at me. I suspected he knew what worried me. It was not my cousin, nor any forces my cousin could muster against me. My concern was broader and deeper than that: it was an inability to see a way ahead. I had no idea what to do, yet I had to do something. I led a crew, I had a ship, we carried swords, and we could not just rot on a beach, yet I did not know where to lead them. I was lost.

  ‘Are you setting sentries?’ Finan asked deep in the night.

  ‘I’ll stand guard,’ I said. ‘And make sure the men know that the Lady Ingulfrid is not here for their amusement.’

  ‘They already know that. Besides, the preacher will kill any man who looks at her.’

  I laughed. ‘The preacher’ was Osferth’s nickname. ‘He does seem fascinated,’ I said mildly.

  ‘Poor bastard’s in love,’ Finan said.

  ‘About time he was,’ I said, then gently slapped Finan’s shoulder. ‘Sleep, my friend, sleep well.’

  I walked the beach in the dark. On this side of the island the waves made feeble slapping sounds, though I could hear the beat and suck of the bigger waves on the western side of the dune. The fire died slowly until it was just smouldering embers, and still I walked. The tide was low and Middelniht was a dark shadow canted on the sand.

  I am a hlaford, a lord. A lord must provide for his men. He is their gold-giver, their ring-giver, their silver-lord. He must feed his men, shelter them and enrich them, and in return they serve him and make him a great lord, one whose name is spoken with respect. And my men had a homeless lord, a lord of sand and ashes, a one-ship lord. And I did not know what to do.

  The Saxons hated me because I had killed an abbot. The Danes would never trust me, and besides I had killed Sigurd Thorrson’s son and Sigurd, who was friend to Cnut Ranulfson, was sworn to avenge that death. Ragnar, who would have welcomed me as a brother and given me half his wealth, was dead. Æthelflaed loved me, but Æthelflaed loved her church too and did not possess the strength to defend me against the Mercians who followed her estranged husband. She was protected by her brother, Edward of Wessex, and he would probably welcome me, though he would demand a wergild for the death of the priest and force me to make a grovelling apology to his priests. He would not give me land. He might protect me and use me as a warrior, but I would not be a lord.

  And I was getting old. I knew that, I could feel it in my bones. I was at an age when men lead armies. When they stood in the rear ranks of the shield wall and left the fighting to the young men at the front. I had grey hairs and a beard streaked white. So I was old, I was hated, I was outcast, and I was lost, yet I had been worse. My uncle had once sold me into slavery and that had been a bad time, except I had met Finan and together we had survived, and Finan had had the pleasure of killing the bastard who had branded us, and I had just been given the joy of killing the bastard who had betrayed me. The Christians talk of the wheel of fortune, a vast wheel that turns constantly and sometimes it lifts us up into the sunlight and at others it drags us down to the shit and mud. And there I was now, in the shit and muck. So perhaps stay here, I thought. A man could do worse than rule a few Frisian islands. I did not doubt I could defeat Thancward, take his surviving men into my service and then forge a small kingdom of sand dunes and seal-shit. I smiled at the thought.

  ‘Osferth says you really won’t kill my son.’ She spoke from behind me. I turned to see Ingulfrid. She was a shadow against the dune. I said nothing. ‘He says you’re really a kind man.’

  I laughed at that. ‘I have made more widows and orphans than most men,’ I said. ‘Is that kind?’

  ‘He says you’re decent, honourable, and …’ she hesitated, ‘headstrong.’

  ‘Headstrong is right,’ I said.

  ‘And now you’re lost,’ she said. She spoke mildly, all the defiance and anger gone from her voice.

  ‘Lost?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t know where to go,’ she said, ‘and you don’t know what to do.’

  I smiled because she was right, then watched as she stepped cautiously down the beach. ‘I don’t know where to go,’ I admitted.

  She went to the remnants of the fire, crouched there and held her hands towards the dully glowing embers. ‘I’ve felt that way for fifteen years,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Then your husband is a fool,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘So you keep telling me,’ she said, ‘but in truth he’s a clever man, and you did him a favour.’

  ‘By taking you?’

  ‘By killing Lord Ælfric.’ She stared into the smouldering timbers, watching the small remnant flames twist, fade and glow again. ‘Now my husband is free to do whatever he wants.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘To be safe in Bebbanburg,’ she said. ‘Not to go to sleep every night wondering where you are. And right now? I suspect he wants his son back. For all his faults he is fond of Uhtred.’

  So that, I thought, was why she was talking to me without scorn or bitterness. She wanted to plead for her son. I sat on the far side of the fire and nudged the charred logs with a foot to make the small flames leap up. ‘He won’t be safe in Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘while Cnut Ranulfson and Sigurd Thorrson live. They want Bebbanburg too, and one day they’ll try to capture it.’

  ‘But my husband’s priests say that Northumbria is fated to be Christian,’ she said, ‘so the Danes will be defeated. It’s the Christian god’s will.’

  ‘Are you a Christian?’ I asked.

  ‘They say I am,’ she said, ‘but I’m not sure. My husband insisted I was baptised and a priest put me in a barrel of water and pushed my head under. My husband laughed when they did that. Then they made me kiss Saint Oswald’s arm. It was dry and yellow.’

  Saint Oswald. I had forgotten that new excitement that had been stirred by the abbot I had killed. Saint Oswald. He had been King of Northumbria in the old times. He had lived at Bebbanburg and ruled over all the north until he went to war with Mercia and was defeated in battle by a pagan king. The nailed god did not help him much that day, and his body was chopped to pieces, but because he was a saint as well as a king, people collected the butchered remains and preserved them. I knew that the saint’s left arm had been given to Lord Ælfric, and long before that I had helped escort Oswald’s severed head across the hills of the north.

  ‘The priests say that if Oswald’s body can be put together,’ Ingulfrid said, ‘then all the Saxon lands will be ruled by one lord. One king.’

  ‘Priests never stop talking nonsense.’

  ‘And Æthelred of Mercia begged Lord Ælfric for the arm,’ she went on, ignoring my comment.

  That caught my interest. I looked up at her flame-lit face. ‘And what did Ælfric say?’

  ‘He said he would exchange the arm for your body.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly.’

  I laughed at that, then went silent as I thought. Æthelred wanted to reassemble the dead Oswald? Was that his ambition? To be king of all the Saxons? And did he believe the priestly nonsense that whoever possessed the corpse of Saint Oswald could not be defeated in battle? Legend claimed that most of Oswald’s body had been taken to a monastery in Mercia where the monks had refused to accept the relics because, they claimed, Oswald had been an enemy of their kingdom, but that night, while the corpse lay outside the monastery gates, a great light had pierced the heavens to shine on the body, and the column of light had persuaded the monks to accept the saint’s remains. The monastery had then been conquered by the Danes who had swallowed its lands into Northumbria
, and Æthelred wanted to find that dry corpse? If I had ruled that part of Northumbria I would long ago have dug up the corpse, burned it and scattered its ashes to the winds. But presumably Æthelred believed the body still lay in its grave, but to claim the body he needed to fight against the Northumbrian lords. Did he plan a war against Cnut? East Anglia first, then Northumbria? That was madness. ‘You think Æthelred wants to invade Northumbria?’ I asked her.

  ‘He wants to be King of Mercia,’ Ingulfrid said.

  He had always wanted that, but he had never dared defy Alfred, but Alfred had been dead these many years and Edward was king. Æthelred had fretted under Alfred and I could only imagine how he resented being in thrall to the younger Edward. And Æthelred was growing old like me, and he was thinking of his reputation. He did not want to be remembered as the vassal of Wessex, but as the King of Mercia, and the king moreover who had added East Anglia to Mercia’s lands. And why stop there? Why not invade Northumbria and become king of all the northern Saxons? And once he had added East Anglia’s thegns to his army, he would be strong enough to defy Cnut, and the possession of Saint Oswald’s body would convince the northern Christians that their nailed god was on Æthelred’s side and those Christians might well rise against their Danish lords. Æthelred would be remembered as the king who had made Mercia strong again, maybe even as the man who united all the Saxon kingdoms. He would set Britain ablaze to write his name in the chronicles of history.

  And the biggest obstacle to that ambition was Cnut Ranulfson, Cnut Longsword, the man who wielded Ice-Spite. And Cnut’s wife and children were missing, presumably held hostage. I asked Ingulfrid if she had heard of their capture.

  ‘Of course I heard about it,’ she said, ‘all Britain knows of it.’ She paused. ‘Lord Ælfric thought you had taken them.’

  ‘Whoever took them,’ I said, ‘wanted folk to think that. They rode under my banner, but it wasn’t me.’

  She gazed into the tiny flames. ‘Your cousin Æthelred stands to gain most from their capture,’ she said.

  She was a clever woman, I realised, clever and subtle. My cousin, I thought, was a fool to despise her. ‘Æthelred didn’t do it,’ I said. ‘He isn’t that brave. He’s scared of Cnut. He wouldn’t risk Cnut’s anger, not yet, not till he’s far stronger.’

  ‘Someone did,’ she said.

  Someone who benefited from Cnut’s inaction. Someone stupid enough to risk Cnut’s savage revenge. Someone clever enough to keep it secret. Someone who would do it on Æthelred’s behalf, presumably for a great reward in gold or land, and someone who would blame me.

  And suddenly it was as though dry tinder had been thrown onto the dying embers. The realisation was like a blaze of light, bright as the shaft that had descended from the sky to shine on Oswald’s dismembered corpse. ‘Haesten,’ I said.

  ‘Haesten,’ Ingulfrid repeated the name as though she had known all along. I stared at her and she gazed back. ‘Who else?’ she asked simply.

  ‘But Haesten …’ I began, then fell silent.

  Yes, Haesten was brave enough to defy Cnut, and treacherous enough to ally himself with Æthelred, but would he really risk Cnut’s revenge? Haesten was no fool. He had survived defeat after defeat, yet he always wriggled free. He had land and men, though not much and not many of either, yet he had them. And if he really had kidnapped Cnut’s wife he risked losing everything, his life chiefly, and that life would not end easily. It would be days of torture.

  ‘Haesten is everyone’s friend,’ Ingulfrid said softly.

  ‘Not mine,’ I put in.

  ‘And everyone’s enemy,’ she went on, ignoring my comment. ‘He survives by swearing loyalty to everyone stronger than himself. He keeps quiet, he lies like a dog on the hearth and he wags his tail when anyone comes close. He swears loyalty to Cnut and to Æthelred, but you know what the Christians say. No man can serve two masters.’

  I frowned. ‘He serves Æthelred?’ I shook my head. ‘No, he’s an enemy. He serves Cnut. I know, I met him in Cnut’s hall.’

  Ingulfrid smiled secretly, she paused, then asked. ‘Do you trust Haesten?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘My father first came to Britain in Haesten’s service,’ she said, ‘and he left him to join Sigtrygg. He says Haesten is as trustworthy as a serpent. If he takes your hand, my father says, you should count your fingers.’

  None of that was astonishing. ‘All true,’ I said, ‘but he’s weak, he needs Cnut’s protection.’

  ‘He does,’ she agrees, ‘but suppose he sent an envoy to Æthelred? A secret envoy?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘And Haesten offers to serve Æthelred,’ she continued, ‘by sending him news and by doing what services he can without arousing Cnut’s suspicion. And in return Æthelred promises not to attack Haesten.’

  I thought about it, then nodded. ‘I’ve spent eight years wanting to attack Haesten,’ I said, ‘and Æthelred refuses to give me the men.’ Haesten occupied Ceaster, and that great Roman fortress would have protected Mercia’s northern lands from attacks by the Irish Norse or from the Danes and Norse in Cumbraland, yet Æthelred had refused to countenance an assault. I had thought his refusal was simply to deny me the chance of adding to my reputation, and so I had been forced to let my men just watch Ceaster to make sure Haesten caused no trouble.

  Ingulfrid half frowned. She was still looking into the small flames as she spoke. ‘I don’t know if any of what I’m saying is true,’ she said, ‘but I remember hearing about Cnut’s wife and I instantly thought of Haesten. He’s treacherous and clever. He could persuade Æthelred that he is loyal, but Haesten will always serve the stronger man, not the weaker. He will be smiling at Æthelred, but licking Cnut’s backside, and Æthelred thinks Cnut dare not attack because his wife is a hostage, but …’ She paused and raised her head to look straight at me. ‘… just suppose that’s what Cnut and Haesten want Æthelred to think?’

  I stared at her as I tried to comprehend what she was suggesting. It made sense. Cnut’s wife and children had never been captured at all, it was just a ruse to make Æthelred feel safe. I thought back to my meeting with Cnut. That would all have been part of the deception. He had seemed angry, but then he had turned friendly, and Haesten had been there, smiling his smirking smile all the time. And why had Cnut never swatted Haesten aside? Ceaster was a fort worth having for it controlled much of the traffic between Britain and Ireland, it lay between Mercia and Northumbria and between the Welsh and the Saxons, yet Cnut had allowed Haesten to keep it. Why? Because Haesten was useful? So was Ingulfrid right, and was Haesten hiding Cnut’s wife and children? And telling Æthelred that he had captured them and was holding them hostage? ‘So Cnut is deceiving Æthelred,’ I said slowly.

  ‘And if Æthelred feels safe to attack East Anglia?’ she asked me.

  ‘Then he’ll march,’ I said, ‘and the moment his troops have left Mercia the Danes will attack there.’

  ‘The Danes will attack Mercia,’ she agreed. ‘It’s probably happening now. Æthelred thinks he’s safe, and he’s been fooled. The Mercian army is in East Anglia, and Cnut and Sigurd are in Mercia, destroying, burning, stealing, raping, killing.’

  I watched the fire die. There was grey light over the mainland now, a grey light touching the inner sea with its ghostly shimmer. Dawn, the coming of light, and it was flooding into my thoughts at the same time. ‘It makes sense,’ I said uncertainly.

  ‘Lord Ælfric had his spies everywhere,’ she said, ‘though he failed to find one in your household. But they were everywhere else and they sent their news to Bebbanburg. The men talked in the high hall and I listened. They never listened to me, but they let me hear. And sometimes my husband tells me things, if he’s not beating me.’

  ‘He beats you?’

  She looked at me as though I was a fool. ‘I’m his wife,’ she said. ‘If I displease him of course he beats me.’

  ‘I’ve never beaten a woman.’

>   She smiled at that. ‘Lord Ælfric always said you were a fool.’

  ‘Maybe I am,’ I said, ‘but he was frightened of me.’

  ‘He was terrified,’ she agreed, ‘and with every breath he drew he cursed you and prayed for your death.’

  And it was Ælfric, not I, who had gone to the Corpse-Ripper. I watched the grey light brighten. ‘Saint Oswald’s arm,’ I said, ‘Bebbanburg still has it?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s kept in the chapel, in a silver box, but my husband wants to give it to Æthelred.’

  ‘To encourage him?’

  ‘Because Cnut wants him to give it.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, understanding. Cnut was encouraging Æthelred to invade East Anglia, and Æthelred would do that if he thought he could gain the magical assistance of Saint Oswald’s body.

  ‘Bebbanburg is weak,’ Ingulfrid said. ‘The fortress itself isn’t weak. The fortress is hugely strong, and they can raise enough men to defend it against most enemies, but they daren’t provoke a really dangerous enemy. So they stay safe by being agreeable to their neighbours.’

  ‘Agreeable to the Danes.’

  ‘To the Danes,’ she said.

  ‘So your husband is like Haesten,’ I said, ‘he survives by lying low and wagging his tail.’

  She hesitated a heartbeat, then nodded. ‘Yes.’

  And Bebbanburg did not matter to the Danes. It mattered to me, but it was just an itch to the Danes. They wanted Bebbanburg, of course they did, but they wanted so much more. They wanted the rich fields, the slow rivers and thick woods of Mercia and Wessex. They wanted a country called Daneland. They wanted everything, and, while I was stranded on a Frisian beach, they were probably taking it.

  And I thought of Æthelflaed. She was caught in the madness.

  I did not know if that was true. At that moment, as the sun blazed the east red, I knew nothing of what happened in Britain. It was all surmise. For all I knew the long peace had continued and I was just imagining chaos, but instinct told me otherwise. And if instinct is not the voice of the gods, what is it?