‘I heard those scavenging bastards had come south,’ Renwald said. ‘So you were Bebbanburg’s tenants?’
‘Grandpa rented from the old Lord Uhtred,’ Swithun said, meaning my father. ‘He’s been on that land a lifetime, but his wife’s father had land in East Anglia, so we’re hoping it’s still there.’
Renwald doubted that any Saxon had held onto East Anglian land in the last years of Danish rule. ‘But you never know!’ he said, ‘a few did.’
‘I want to be buried there,’ I mumbled.
‘What did he say?’
‘He wants to be buried with his family,’ Swithun explained, then added, ‘silly old fool.’
‘I understand that!’ Renwald insisted. ‘Better to rise with your family on the day of judgement than with strangers.’
‘Amen,’ I growled.
The story satisfied Renwald. Not that he was suspicious, merely curious. We were journeying down the Use, letting the current carry us with just the occasional touch of an oar to keep the boat on course. She was named Rensnægl, ‘Because she’s slow as a snail,’ Renwald explained cheerfully. ‘She’s not quick, but she’s sturdy.’ He had a crew of six men, a large crew for a trading ship, but he often carried valuable cargo and he reckoned the extra hands were a worthwhile precaution against the small boats that preyed on passing vessels. He leaned on the steering-oar to take Rensnægl into the river’s centre where the current was strongest. ‘And there’ll be rich pickings soon,’ he said balefully.
‘Rich pickings?’ Cerdic asked.
‘Folk are leaving.’ He glanced up at the sky, judging the wind. ‘The days of the pagan in Britain are numbered,’ he said.
‘God be praised,’ I muttered.
‘Even Uhtred of Bebbanburg!’ Renwald sounded surprised. ‘No one thought he’d leave, but he’s got ships in Eoferwic and he’s brought his families there.’
‘I heard he bought the ships to go to Bebbanburg,’ Swithun offered.
‘No man takes his families to war,’ Renwald said scornfully. ‘No, he’s off and away! Going to Frisia, I hear.’ He pointed ahead. ‘That’s where we join the Humbre,’ he said, ‘be a quick voyage down to the sea now!’
It was my abandonment of Dunholm and the decision to move the women and children, much of the livestock, and all our goods that had given substance to the rumour that we were going to Frisia. My men had arrived in Eoferwic with fifteen ox-drawn wagons loaded with beds and spits, cauldrons and rakes, scythes and grindstones, indeed with anything we could carry. Renwald was right, of course, when he said that no man went to war with ships filled with women and children, let alone with all their household goods, and I was certain my cousin would soon hear that I had left the safety of Dunholm with everything I possessed. He needed to hear more though, he needed to hear we had enough ships to carry all the people, animals, and belongings we would take to Frisia.
So, before leaving Eoferwic, I had given my son more of my diminishing stock of gold coins, and told him to buy or hire as many large trading ships as he needed. ‘Put wooden stalls in the ships,’ I had told him, ‘enough for two hundred horses, and do the work at Grimesbi.’
‘Grimesbi!’ My son was surprised.
Grimesbi was a fishing port at the mouth of the Humbre, downriver from Eoferwic. It was a gaunt, windswept place, far less comfortable than Eoferwic, but also much closer to the sea. I still did not know how I was to recapture Bebbanburg, but the only thing I could be certain of was that my cousin was negotiating for a fleet to sail to his relief, and, if Merewalh’s message was true, then that fleet was assembling at Dumnoc. I now needed to know when it would sail and how many ships would make the passage. The priest who had betrayed Æthelhelm had said the fleet would not put to sea till after Saint Eanswida’s day, and that was still some weeks away, so I had time to explore the East Anglian port and plan how I would replace Æthelhelm’s ships with my own. And those ships, my ships, would be at Grimesbi, close to the sea, ready to sail to make my cousin’s nightmares real.
I did not doubt that my cousin would hear of our new ships and of the presence of our families, and by now, I suspected, he was beginning to believe the Frisian story. He must have reckoned that even I would not fight a war against both Bebbanburg and Constantin, that I had abandoned my dream. He would still want to know where I was and might be puzzled when I did not travel to Grimesbi with the rest of my men, but Sigtryggr and my daughter had announced that I was ill and lying in a sickbed in their palace.
When rumours fly, when false tales are being told, be the storyteller.
I was going to Dumnoc.
I had been to Dumnoc before, long ago, and had been trapped in its largest tavern, the Goose, and the only way to escape had been to start a fire that had caused panic in the town and had scattered the enemies who had surrounded the building. The fire had spread, eventually consuming most of the town. All that had been left was a few houses at the town’s edge and the tall, rickety platform from which folk had kept a look-out for enemy ships creeping through the treacherous sandbanks at the river’s mouth. I had expected Renwald to be cautious as we approached those notorious shoals, but he did not hesitate, aiming Rensnægl between the outermost withies that marked the channel. ‘They’ve taken away the false marks,’ he said.
‘False marks?’ Cerdic asked.
‘For years they had withies which were meant to mislead you. Now they mark the real channel. Row, boys!’ His men were hauling hard on the oars to bring Rensnægl safe through the outer shallows and to escape the freshening weather. The wind was gusting high to send white-crested waves scudding across the shoals. Clouds darkened the western sky, hiding the sun and promising foul weather. ‘My father,’ Renwald went on, ‘saw a fifty-oared dragon boat high and dry on that bank,’ he jerked his head south to where the white caps fretted across a bulge of hidden sand. ‘Poor bastards had gone aground at high tide. Spring tide at that. They followed the false marks and were rowing as if the devil himself was up their arse. Bastards spent a fortnight trying to get that thing to float again, but it never did. They either drowned or starved, and the townsfolk just watched them die. Nine or ten of them managed to swim ashore, and the reeve let the womenfolk kill them.’ He leaned on the steering-oar and Rensnægl veered up the main channel. ‘Of course that was the old days, before the Danes took the place.’
‘Now it’s Saxon again,’ I said.
‘What did he say?’ Renwald asked.
‘Speak up, grandpa!’ Swithun bellowed. ‘You’re muttering!’
‘Now it’s Saxon again!’ I shouted.
‘And pray God it stays that way,’ Renwald said.
The oarsmen pulled hard. The tide was ebbing and the sharp south-west wind buffeted Rensnægl’s bow. The small waves were spiteful and I did not envy men who were further out to sea in this rising wind. It would be a cold rough night. Renwald must have thought the same because he cocked an eye at the high scudding clouds that streamed from the darker clouds in the west. ‘Reckon I might lay up for a day or two,’ he said, ‘and let this weather pass. But it’s not a bad place to be stranded.’
The town looked much the same as it had before I burned it. It was still dominated by a church with a tower crowned by a cross. Guthrum had been King of East Anglia back then, and, though he was Danish, he had converted to Christianity. Smoke drifted from a score of fires on the muddy beach, either smoking tall racks of herrings or boiling wide, shallow salt pans. The nearest houses were built on sturdy wooden pillars, and green slime on the thick trunks showed that the highest tides almost reached the lower floors. The river’s bank was hidden by a long wharf and two piers, which in turn were crowded with ships. ‘Looks like Lundene!’ Renwald said in astonishment.
‘All sheltering from the weather?’ I suggested.
‘Most of them were here two months ago,’ he said, ‘ they brought supplies for King Edward’s army, but I’d have thought they’d have long ago returned to Wessex. Ah!’ This last exclamation
was because he had seen an empty gap on the long wharf that stretched along the river’s southern bank. He pushed the loom of the steering-oar, and the Rensnægl turned slowly towards the space, but just then a man shouted from one of the two piers.
‘Not there!’ he shouted. ‘Not there! Sheer off, damn you! Sheer off!’
In the end we tied outboard of a Frisian trader moored along the western pier, and the man who had chased us away from the inviting space on the wharf clambered aboard to demand a berthing fee. Gulls screamed overhead, soaring and wheeling in the stiffening wind. ‘That gap’s for the king’s ship,’ the man explained, counting the silver that Renwald had given him.
‘The king is coming?’ Renwald asked.
‘We’re ordered to leave that wharf free in case he does come. He hasn’t yet, but he might. An angel might come and wipe my wife’s bum too, but that hasn’t happened yet either. Now, you’ve paid your wharfage, so let’s work out the customs’ dues, shall we? What’s your cargo?’
I left Renwald haggling and led my three men ashore. The Goose was still the largest building on the harbour front, and it looked much the same as it did before I had burned the old tavern, but the new one had been built to the same design, and its timbers had been bleached by sun and salt to the same silvery sheen. The tavern’s sign, which showed an indignant goose, swung and creaked in the wind. We pushed through the door into a crowded room, but found two benches with a barrel for a table by a window that had its shutters open to the wharf. It was still two hours till sundown, but the tavern was noisy with half-drunken men. ‘Who are they?’ Cerdic asked.
‘Lord Æthelhelm’s men,’ I said. I had recognised a couple, while others in the room wore the distinctive dark red cloak of Æthelhelm’s household warriors. They would have recognised me too, except I had taken care to pull the scruffy hood over my head, to straggle hair across my face, and to walk with a stoop and a limp. I also sat in the shadow of a window shutter. I had closed and latched the shutters when we first sat down, but men bellowed at us to open them again. The room was smoky from a hearth, and the breeze through the window helped sweep the smoke away.
‘Why are they all here?’ Cerdic asked.
‘They finished the conquest of East Anglia,’ I said, ‘and they’re waiting for the ships to take them home.’ That, I suspected, was not true, but it was doubtless the story being spread in the small town, and it satisfied Cerdic.
‘You have money?’ a truculent voice demanded.
Swithun tipped some silver onto the barrel table. ‘You have ale?’ he asked the man who had confronted us. I kept my head lowered.
‘Ale, food, and whores, boys. What’s your pleasure?’
The whores worked in the attic that was reached by a ladder in the room’s centre. A table of rowdy men was just beneath the ladder, and every time a girl climbed or descended they banged the table top and roared appreciation. ‘Listen,’ I hissed to my three men, ‘these bastards will be looking for a fight. Don’t let them provoke you.’
‘And if they ask who we are?’ Oswi was nervous.
‘We’re servants to the Archbishop of Eoferwic,’ I said, ‘and we’re travelling to Lundene to buy silk.’ I had decided the tale I had told Renwald would not work ashore. Men would ask who my wife’s family were, and I had no convincing answer. It was better to pose as strangers, and Oswi was right to be nervous. The men in the Goose had the confidence of warriors who knew each other, who loved to show off to each other, and who despised strangers. They were also either drunk or well on the way to being drunk. Fights would start soon enough, but I reckoned men might be cautious before challenging servants of the church.
A huge cheer greeted a man descending the ladder. He was a big man, broad shouldered, with fair hair cropped short. He jumped from the ladder onto the nearest table and bowed to the company, first in one direction, then to the other. ‘His name,’ I said, ‘is Hrothard.’
‘You know him, lord?’ Cerdic seemed impressed.
‘Don’t call me lord,’ I snarled. ‘Yes, I know him. He’s one of Æthelhelm’s dogs.’ I had been surprised that Hrothard was not with Brice at Hornecastre. I knew him because he had been Brice’s second-in-command when they attempted to kill the young Æthelstan in Cirrenceastre, an attempt I had thwarted. Hrothard was very like Brice; a brutal fighter who did his lord’s bidding without pity or remorse.
Hrothard now grinned at his comrades. ‘I wore out two of the beauties, boys! But there’s a ripe little Danish plum just waiting for you!’ Another cheer filled the room.
‘When things calm down,’ I said to Swithun, then paused as a harried girl brought pots and a jug of ale to the table. I waited till she was gone, threading her way through benches and groping hands. ‘When it’s quieter,’ I told him, ‘you’ll go up the ladder.’
He grinned, but said nothing.
‘Find out what the girls know. Be clever about it. Don’t let them think you’re interested, just let them talk.’
That was why we were here, to learn what was brewing in this remote harbour town on the eastern edge of Britain. I doubted any of the tavern’s whores would know much, but every little scrap of information was useful. I had already learned much just by coming here. The town was filled with warriors who should have returned home by now. The marker withies in the treacherous entrance had been aligned with the real channel rather than left to tempt enemy boats onto a wrecking shoal, and that meant that the new rulers of this town were expecting more ships and did not want to lose them. And the real ruler of this town, I had no doubt, was Æthelhelm, and Æthelhelm wanted his revenge on me.
And I knew just what that revenge would be.
I just did not know exactly how he would do it.
‘Jesus,’ Cerdic said, ‘look at that!’ He was gazing through the window, and whatever he had seen had also attracted the attention of other men, who pushed through the door to gaze at the river.
Where a ship had appeared.
I had never seen a ship like her. She was white! Her timbers had been bleached pale by the sun, or more likely had been given a soaking with limewash. The white faded to sour dark green at the waterline, suggesting the limewash had been scoured by the rough seas. She was long and handsome, a Danish vessel I thought, by the look of her, but she was plainly in Saxon hands for her high prow was topped with a cross that glinted silver. Her sail was furled on the yard, but even that looked as if it was made from white sailcloth. A banner had wrapped itself around a shroud so that it flapped impotently, but just as her steersman turned her towards the empty space on the wharf the flag freed itself and streamed proudly out to the east. The banner showed a white stag leaping against a black background.
‘Lord Æthelhelm,’ Swithun murmured.
‘Silence now!’ Hrothard had gone to the door, seen the ship, and now bellowed at the half-drunken men who had crowded out of the tavern to welcome the white ship. ‘Show respect!’
I was standing on the bench to see above the heads of the men who had gone to the wharf to watch the ship’s arrival. Some, a few, wore hats that they pulled off as the vessel slowed. She was, I thought, beautiful. She left hardly a ripple as she ghosted into the sheltered water between the piers. Her lines were perfect, the timbers curved by craftsmen so that she seemed to rest on the water rather than plough through it. The oars gave a last pull and then were thrust out of the oar-holes in the ship’s side and brought inboard as the steersman expertly brought her into the waiting gap. Lines were thrown, men hauled, and she nestled gently into the wharf. ‘The Ælfswon,’ a man said admiringly.
The bright swan, a good name, I thought. The rowers slumped on the benches. They must have pulled hard to bring the bright swan through the rising wind and against the spiteful waves heaping at the harbour mouth. Behind them, at the stern of the ship, I saw a group of helmeted warriors, their mail covered by dark red cloaks. They leaped onto the wharf and other men threw them their shields. There were six of them. Was Æthelhelm here?
A tall man, his helmet crested with black horsehair and wearing a black cloak, strode over the walkway. It was not Æthelhelm. This man was taller. I saw a glint of gold at his neck as he turned to wait for the last passenger to alight. It was a girl. She was dressed in white and was bare-headed so that her long fair hair streamed in the rising wind. She was slender, tall, and evidently nervous because, as she reached the walkway’s centre, she seemed to lose her balance. For a heartbeat I thought she would fall into the water, but then the tall man in the horsehair helmet reached out, took her arm, and guided her to safety.
The men outside the tavern began to applaud by clapping their hands and stamping their feet. The girl seemed surprised by the noise and turned towards us, and the clear sight of her face made the breath catch in my throat. She was young, blue-eyed, pale, unscarred, wide-mouthed, beautiful, and utterly miserable. I guessed she was thirteen or fourteen, and she was plainly still unmarried or else she would have bound her hair. Two of the women wrapped a fur-trimmed cloak about her thin frame, and one of them pulled the cloak’s hood over the girl’s long hair. The tall man then took her elbow and led her away from the wharf, the women and priests following, all of them protected by the six spear-carrying warriors. The girl hurried by the tavern with her head bowed.
‘Who in Christ’s name is she?’ Swithun asked.
‘Ælswyth, of course,’ one of the men outside the window had overheard the question.
The tall man in the black-tailed helmet walked beside Ælswyth, towering over her by at least a head. He glanced towards us and I instinctively shrank back into the shadows. He did not see me, but I recognised him.
The Flame Bearer Page 16