Sword of Kings (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 12)

by Bernard Cornwell

  SWORD OF KINGS

  Bernard Cornwell

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

  Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2019

  Map © John Gilkes 2019

  Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Cover photograph © CollaborationJS/Arcangel Images (helmet/foreground and horse detail in background) and Shutterstock.com (all other images)

  Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008183899

  Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2019 ISBN: 9780008183912

  Version: 2019-08-29

  Dedication

  Sword of Kings is for

  Suzanne Pollak

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Place Names

  Map

  Part One: A Fool’s Errand

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Part Two: City of Darkness

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Part Three: The Field of Barley

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Part Four: Serpent-Breath

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Also by Bernard Cornwell

  The Sharpe series

  About the Publisher

  PLACE NAMES

  The spelling of place names in Anglo-Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whichever spelling is cited in either the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names or the Cambridge Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained within Alfred’s reign, AD 871–899, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hæglingaiggæ. Nor have I been consistent myself; I have preferred the modern form Northumbria to Norðhymbralond to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list of places mentioned in the book is, like the spellings themselves, capricious.

  Andefera Andover, Wiltshire

  Basengas Basing, Hampshire

  Bebbanburg Bamburgh, Northumberland

  Beamfleot Benfleet, Essex

  Caninga Canvey Island, Essex

  Ceaster Chester, Cheshire

  Celmeresburh Chelmsford, Essex

  Cent Kent

  Cestrehunt Cheshunt, Hertfordshire

  Cippanhamm Chippenham, Wiltshire

  Colneceaster Colchester, Essex

  Contwaraburg Canterbury, Kent

  Cyningestun Kingston upon Thames, Surrey

  Crepelgate Cripplegate, London

  Dumnoc Dunwich, Suffolk

  East Seax Essex

  Elentone Maidenhead, Berkshire

  Eoferwic Saxon name for York, Yorkshire

  Fæfresham Faversham, Kent

  Farnea Islands Farne Islands, Northumberland

  Fearnhamme Farnham, Surrey

  Ferentone Farndon, Cheshire

  Fleot, River River Fleet, London

  Fughelness Foulness, Essex

  Gleawecestre Gloucester, Gloucestershire

  Grimesbi Grimsby, Lincolnshire

  Hamptonscir Hampshire

  Heahburh Fictional name for Whitley Castle, Cumbria

  Heorotforda Hertford, Hertfordshire

  Humbre, River River Humber

  Jorvik Danish name for York, Yorkshire

  Ligan, River River Lea

  Lindcolne Lincoln, Lincolnshire

  Lindisfarena Lindisfarne, Northumbria

  Ludd’s Gate Ludgate, London

  Lupiae Lecce, Italy

  Lundene London

  Mameceaster Manchester

  Ora Oare, Kent

  Sceapig Isle of Sheppey, Kent

  St Cuthbert’s Cave Cuddy’s Cave, Holburn, Northumberland

  Strath Clota Kingdom in south-west Scotland

  Suðgeweork Southwark, London

  Swalwan Creek The Swale, Thames Estuary

  Temes, River River Thames

  Toteham Tottenham, Greater London

  Tuede, River River Tweed

  Weala, brook The Walbrook, London

  Werlameceaster St Albans, Hertfordshire

  Westmynster Westminster, London

  Wicumun High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire

  Wiltunscir Wiltshire

  Wintanceaster Winchester, Hampshire

  Map

  PART ONE

  A Fool’s Errand

  One

  Gydene was missing.

  She was not the first of my ships to vanish. The savage sea is vast and ships are small and Gydene, which simply meant ‘goddess’, was smaller than most. She had been built at Grimesbi on the Humbre and had been named Haligwæter. She had fished for a year before I bought her and, because I wanted no ship named Holy Water in my fleet, I paid a virgin one shilling to piss in her bilge, renamed her Gydene, and gave her to the fisherfolk of Bebbanburg. They cast their nets far offshore and, when Gydene did not return on a day when the wind was brisk, the sky grey, and the waves were crashing white and high on the rocks of the Farnea Islands, we assumed she had been overwhelmed and had given Bebbanburg’s small village six widows and almost three times as many orphans. Maybe I should have left her name alone, all seamen know that you risk fate by changing a ship’s name, though they know equally well that a virgin’s piss averts that fate. Yet the gods can be as cruel as the sea.

  Then Egil Skallagrimmrson came from his land that I had granted to him, land that formed the border of my territory and Constantin of Scotland’s realm, and Egil came by sea as he always did and there was a corpse in the belly of Banamaðr, his serpent-ship. ‘Washed ashore in the Tuede,’ he told me, ‘he’s yours, isn’t he?’

  ‘The Tuede?’ I asked.

  ‘Southern shore. Found him on a mudbank. The gulls found him first.’

  ‘I can see.’

  ‘He was one of yours, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was,’ I said. The dead man’s name was Haggar Bentson, a fisherman, helmsman of the Gydene, a big man, too fond of ale, scarred from too many brawls, a bully, a wife-beater, and a good sailor.

  ‘Wasn’t drowned, was he?’
Egil remarked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the gulls didn’t kill him,’ Egil sounded amused.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘the gulls didn’t kill him.’ Instead Haggar had been hacked to death. His corpse was naked and fish-white, except for the hands and what was left of his face. Great wounds had been slashed across his belly, chest and thighs, the savage cuts washed clean by the sea.

  Egil touched a boot against a gaping wound that had riven Haggar’s chest from the shoulder to the breastbone. ‘I’d say that was the axe blow that killed him,’ he said, ‘but someone cut off his balls first.’

  ‘I noticed that.’

  Egil stooped to the corpse and forced the lower jaw down. Egil Skallagrimmrson was a strong man, but it still took an effort to open Haggar’s mouth. The bone made a cracking sound and Egil straightened. ‘Took his teeth too,’ he said.

  ‘And his eyes.’

  ‘That might have been the gulls. Partial to an eyeball, they are.’

  ‘But they left his tongue,’ I said. ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘Miserable way to die,’ Egil agreed, then turned to look at the harbour entrance. ‘Only two reasons I can think of to torture a man before you kill him.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘To enjoy themselves? Maybe he insulted them.’ he shrugged. ‘The other is to make him talk. Why else leave his tongue?’

  ‘Them?’ I asked. ‘The Scots?’

  Egil looked back to the mangled corpse. ‘He must have annoyed someone, but the Scots have been quiet lately. Doesn’t seem like them.’ He shrugged. ‘Could be something personal. Another fisherman he angered?’

  ‘No other bodies?’ I asked. There had been six men and two boys in the Gydene’s crew. ‘No wreckage?’

  ‘Just this poor bastard so far. But the others could be out there, still floating.’

  There was little more to say or do. If the Scots had not captured Gydene then I assumed it was either a Norse raider or else a Frisian ship using the early summer weather to enrich herself with the Gydene’s catch of herring, cod, and haddock. Whoever it was, the Gydene was gone, and I suspected her surviving crew had been put on their captor’s rowing benches and that suspicion turned to near certainty when, two days after Egil brought me the corpse, the Gydene herself washed ashore north of Lindisfarena. She was a dismasted hulk, barely afloat as the waves heaved her onto the sands. No more bodies appeared, just the wreck, which we left on the sands, certain that the storms of autumn would break her up.

  A week after the Gydene lurched brokenly ashore another fishing boat vanished, and this one on a windless day as calm as any the gods ever made. The lost ship had been called the Swealwe and, like Haggar, her master had liked to cast nets far out to sea, and the first I knew of the Swallow’s disappearance was when three widows came to Bebbanburg, led by their gap-toothed village priest who was named Father Gadd. He bobbed his head. ‘There was …’ he began.

  ‘Was what?’ I asked, resisting the urge to imitate the hissing noise the priest made because of his missing teeth.

  Father Gadd was nervous, and no wonder. I had heard that he preached sermons that lamented that his village’s overlord was a pagan, but his courage had fled now that he was face to face with that pagan.

  ‘Bolgar Haruldson, lord. He’s the—’

  ‘I know who Bolgar is,’ I interrupted. He was another fisherman.

  ‘He saw two ships on the horizon, lord. On the day the Swealwe vanished.’

  ‘There are many ships,’ I said, ‘trading ships. It would be strange if he didn’t see ships.’

  ‘Bolgar says they headed north, then south.’

  The nervous fool was not making much sense, but in the end I understood what he was trying to say. The Swealwe had rowed out to sea, and Bolgar, an experienced man, saw where she vanished beyond the horizon. He then saw the masthead of the two ships go towards the Swealwe, pause for some time, then turn back. The Swealwe had been beneath the horizon and the only visible sign of her meeting with the mysterious ships was their masts going north, pausing, then going south, and that did not sound like the movement of any trading ship. ‘You should have brought Bolgar to me,’ I said, then gave the three widows silver and the priest two pennies for bringing me the news.

  ‘What news?’ Finan asked me that evening.

  We were sitting on the bench outside Bebbanburg’s hall, staring across the eastern ramparts to the moon’s wrinkling reflection on the wide sea. From inside the hall came the sounds of men singing, of men laughing. They were my warriors, all but for the score who watched from our high walls. A small east wind brought the smell of the sea. It was a quiet night and Bebbanburg’s lands had been peaceful ever since we had crossed the hills and defeated Sköll in his high fortress a year before. After that grisly fight we had thought the Norsemen were beaten and that the western part of Northumbria was cowed, but travellers brought news across the high passes that still the Northmen came, their dragon-boats landing on our western coasts, their warriors finding land, but no Norseman called himself king as Sköll had done, and none crossed the hills to disturb Bebbanburg’s pastures, and so there was peace of a sort. Constantin of Alba, which some men call Scotland, was at war with the Norse of Strath Clota, led by a king called Owain, and Owain left us alone and Constantin wanted peace with us until he could defeat Owain’s Norsemen. It was what my father had called ‘a Scottish peace’, meaning that there were constant and savage cattle raids, but there are always cattle raids, and we always retaliated by striking into the Scottish valleys to bring back livestock. We stole just as many as they stole, and it would have been much simpler to have had no raids, but in times of peace young men must be taught the ways of war.

  ‘The news,’ I told Finan, ‘is that there are raiders out there,’ I nodded at the sea, ‘and they’ve plucked two of our ships.’

  ‘There are always raiders.’

  ‘I don’t like these,’ I said.

  Finan, my closest friend, an Irishman who fought with the passion of his race and the skill of the gods, laughed. ‘Got a stench in your nostril?’

  I nodded. There are times when knowledge comes from nothing, from a feeling, from a scent that cannot be smelled, from a fear that has no cause. The gods protect us and they send that sudden prickling of the nerves, the certainty that an innocent landscape has hidden killers. ‘Why would they torture Haggar?’ I asked.

  ‘Because he was a sour bastard, of course.’

  ‘He was,’ I said, ‘but it feels worse than that.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘Go hunting, of course.’

  Finan laughed. ‘Are you bored?’ he asked, but I said nothing, which made him laugh again. ‘You’re bored,’ he accused me, ‘and just want an excuse to play with Spearhafoc.’

  And that was true. I wanted to take Spearhafoc to sea, and so I would go hunting.

  Spearhafoc was named for the sparrowhawks that nested in Bebbanburg’s sparse woodlands and, like those sparrowhawks, she was a huntress. She was long with a low freeboard amidships and a defiant prow that held a carving of a sparrowhawk’s head. Her benches held forty rowers. She had been built by a pair of Frisian brothers who had fled their country and started a shipyard on the banks of the Humbre where they had made Spearhafoc from good Mercian oak and ash. They had formed her hull by nailing eleven long planks on either flank of her frame, then stepped a mast of supple Northumbrian pinewood, braced with lines and supporting a yard from which her sail hung proud. Proud because the sail showed my symbol, the symbol of Bebbanburg, the head of a snarling wolf. The wolf and the sparrowhawk, both hunters and both savage. Even Egil Skallagrimmrson who, like most Norsemen, despised Saxon ships and Saxon sailors, grudgingly approved of Spearhafoc. ‘Though of course,’ he had said to me, ‘she’s not really Saxon, is she? She’s Frisian.’

  Saxon or not, Spearhafoc slid out through Bebbanburg’s narrow harbour channel in a hazed summer dawn. It had been a week since I had heard the news of Swealwe, a
week in which my fisherfolk never went far from land. Up and down the coast, on all Bebbanburg’s harbours, there was fear, and so Spearhafoc went to seek vengeance. The tide was flooding, there was no wind, and my oarsmen stroked hard and well, surging the ship against the current to leave a widening wake. The only noises were the creak of the oars as they pulled against the tholes, the ripple of water along the hull, the slap of feeble waves on the beach, and the forlorn cries of gulls over Bebbanburg’s great fortress.

  Forty men hauled on the long oars, another twenty crouched either between the benches or on the bow’s platform. All wore mail and all had their weapons, though the rowers’ spears, axes and swords were piled amidships with the heaps of shields. Finan and I stood on the steersman’s brief deck. ‘There might be wind later?’ Finan suggested.

  ‘Or might not,’ I grunted.

  Finan was never comfortable at sea and never understood my love of ships, and he only accompanied me that day because there was the prospect of a fight. ‘Though whoever killed Haggar is probably long gone,’ he grumbled as we left the harbour channel.

  ‘Probably,’ I agreed.

  ‘So we’re wasting our time then.’

  ‘Most likely,’ I said. Spearhafoc was lifting her prow to the long, sullen swells, making Finan grip the sternpost to keep his balance. ‘Sit,’ I told him, ‘and drink some ale.’

  We rowed into the rising sun, and as the day warmed a small wind sprang from the west, enough of a breeze to let my crew haul the yard to the mast’s top and let loose the wolf’s head sail. The oarsmen rested gratefully as Spearhafoc rippled the slow heaving sea. The land was lost in the haze behind us. There had been a pair of small fishing craft beside the Farnea Islands, but once we were further out to sea we saw no masts or hulls and seemed to be alone in a wide world. For the most part I could let the steering-oar trail in the water as the ship took us slowly eastwards, the wind barely sufficient to fill the heavy sail. Most of my men slept as the sun climbed higher.

  Dream time. This, I thought was how Ginnungagap must have been, that void between the furnace of heaven and the ice beneath, the void in which the world was made. We sailed in a blue-grey emptiness in which my thoughts wandered slow as the ship. Finan was sleeping. Every now and then the sail would sag as the wind dropped, then belly out again with a dull thud as the small breeze returned. The only real evidence that we were moving was the gentle ripple of Spearhafoc’s wake.