The Flame Bearer

by Bernard Cornwell

  His eyes widened. The last time I had laid up in Grimesbi the wharf fee had been a penny a day, and the coin on the table would pay for a fleet to stay a whole year. ‘I reckon he would forgive you, lord,’ Erik said. The coin vanished.

  I laid a silver coin where the gold had been. ‘I’m taking three of my ships to sea,’ I told him, ‘and I’ll be gone for a fortnight, maybe longer. But I’m not taking my women and children with me. They’ll stay here.’

  ‘Women bring ill luck at sea, lord,’ he said, eyeing the coin and waiting to discover what it was meant to buy.

  ‘The women need to be protected,’ I said. ‘I could leave warriors here, but I need all my men. We’re sailing for Frisia to take land.’ He nodded to show that he believed me, which maybe he did or maybe he didn’t. ‘I don’t need women and children aboard,’ I went on, ‘not if I’m fighting some Frisian lord for a patch of defensible land.’

  ‘Of course not, lord.’

  ‘But the women must be safe,’ I insisted.

  ‘I have a dozen good men to keep order,’ he said.

  ‘So when I return,’ I said, ‘or when I send for the families, they’ll all be safe and unmolested?’

  ‘I swear it, lord.’

  ‘Sigtryggr is sending men to guard them,’ I said. I had sent a message to Sigtryggr, and I was sure he would send some warriors, ‘but those men won’t arrive for a day or two.’

  He reached for the coin, but I placed a hand over it. ‘If my women are molested,’ I said, ‘I will come back here.’

  ‘I swear their safety, lord,’ he said. I moved my hand, and the second coin vanished. We each spat on a palm and shook on the agreement.

  My son had brought six ships to Grimesbi, which was now crowded by my people. The women, children, and heavy cargo had travelled downriver on the ships, while my men had ridden their horses from Eoferwic. Every tavern was full, and some families were living aboard the three warships that were tied to the town’s longest wharf. Nearby, on a pier, were three big trading ships that my son had purchased. ‘There’s not enough room for two hundred horses,’ he told me gloomily, ‘we’ll be lucky to ship sixty. But they were the only ships for sale.’

  ‘They’ll do,’ I said.

  Berg was now equipping the three ships to carry horses. ‘Lots of folk have asked why, lord,’ he told me, ‘and I tell them what you told me to say. That I don’t know. But they all seem to know we’re going to Frisia.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said, ‘that’s very good. And you don’t need to keep that a secret any longer.’ Berg was building stalls in the ships’ bellies, a necessary precaution to keep frightened horses still while they were at sea, and, because Berg was in charge, the work was being done well and I did not have the heart to tell him that the ships would probably never be needed. They were just a part of the deception, an attempt to persuade folk that I really had abandoned any thought of recapturing Bebbanburg and instead planned to take my people and their livestock to a new land. Doubtless, I thought morosely, I could eventually sell the three ships, but almost certainly for less than I had paid for them. A dozen men were working in the nearest boat, their hammers and saws loud as they rigged the stout stalls. ‘But stop the work now,’ I told Berg, ‘and take the beast-heads off the three warships.’

  ‘Take them off, lord?’ He sounded shocked. Two of the war boats had fine dragon-heads, newly carved, while the third and largest ship had a magnificent wolf’s head. Berg had made them to please me, and now I was demanding that he lift them off the prows.

  ‘Take them off,’ I said, ‘and put Christian crosses in their place.’

  ‘Crosses!’ Now he really was shocked.

  ‘Big ones,’ I said. ‘And the folk living on those three boats? They have to leave today. They can camp in the trading ships instead. We’re setting sail at dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he echoed me excitedly.

  ‘And one last thing,’ I said, ‘the horses are here?’

  ‘Stabled all through the town, lord.’

  ‘You have a grey, don’t you?’

  ‘Hræzla! He’s a good horse!’

  ‘Dock his tail,’ I said, ‘and bring me the hair.’

  He stared at me as if I was mad. ‘You want Hræzla’s tail?’

  ‘Do that first,’ I said, ‘then make the crosses. My son will provision the boats.’ My son already had men bringing supplies to the wharf. I had told him he needed to buy two weeks’ supply of food and ale; enough to feed one hundred and sixty-nine men.

  Because that was the number I was taking northwards. One hundred and sixty-nine warriors to fight against my cousin, against the forces of Æthelhelm, and against the King of Scotland. They were good men, almost all of them battle-hardened with just a smattering of young ones who had yet to stand in a shield wall and learn the terror of fighting an enemy who is close enough for you to smell the ale on his breath.

  I had paid Renwald handsomely. I had few coins left, so I had given him one of my arm rings, a fine piece of silver carved with runes. ‘I took that one,’ I said, ‘in a fight just north of Lundene. That’s the name of the man I killed,’ I pointed to the runes, ‘Hagga. He shouldn’t have died. Not that day, anyway.’

  ‘He shouldn’t?’

  ‘They were just scouting. Six of them and eight of us. We were hawking. Hagga chose to fight.’ I remembered Hagga. He had been a young man, well mounted, with a fine helmet that was too big for him. The helmet had cheek-pieces and was decorated with a snarling face etched onto its crown. I suppose he had thought we would be easy prey because none of us was in mail and two of our hunting party were women, and he had screamed insults, challenged us, and we had given him the fight he wanted, though it was soon over. I had hit the helmet hard with Serpent-Breath and, because it was too big for him, it had turned and half blinded him. He had screamed pathetically as he died.

  I had looked over at the Rensnægl, moored against one of Grimesbi’s piers. ‘Buy yourself a faster ship,’ I told Renwald.

  He had shaken his head. ‘She serves me well, lord. She’s like me, slow but sure.’

  ‘Dependable,’ I said. ‘And when this is all over,’ I went on, ‘you can depend on me as a friend.’

  ‘In Frisia, lord?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘In Frisia,’ I said, returning the smile.

  ‘You’ll go with my prayers, lord.’

  ‘For that,’ I said warmly, ‘and for all you did, thank you.’

  At sunset I walked with Finan, following a path that led beside a drainage ditch outside the town. I had told him much of what had happened in Dumnoc, but he was eager to know more, though first I asked him about Æthelstan and was assured that the young prince was safe in Sigtryggr’s hall. ‘He wanted to come with us,’ Finan said.

  ‘Of course he did.’

  ‘But I told him it was impossible. Christ, can you imagine the trouble if he died while he was a hostage? God save us!’

  ‘He knows he can’t come,’ I said.

  ‘He still wanted to.’

  ‘And get himself killed? Then I’d be blamed for that and the truce would be over and we’d all be up to our necks in shit.’

  ‘You mean we’re not?’

  ‘Maybe up to our armpits,’ I allowed.

  ‘That bad, eh?’ We walked in silence for a few paces. ‘So?’ he asked, ‘Lord Æthelhelm was in Dumnoc?’

  ‘Giving away silver,’ I said, and then told Finan more of the tale, and ended by describing how I planned to capture Bebbanburg.

  He listened, saying nothing till I had finished, and then, ‘King Edward told you there were four hundred Scots at Bebbanburg?’

  ‘Led by a man called Domnall.’

  ‘He’s said to be a beast in a fight.’

  ‘So are you.’

  He smiled at that. ‘So four hundred Scots?’

  ‘That’s what Edward said. But that might include the garrisons Constantin left on the wall forts, so I reckon he has at least two hu
ndred and fifty men at Bebbanburg.’

  ‘And how many men does your cousin have?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but he can muster at least three hundred. Edward reckoned he had two hundred in the fort.’

  ‘And Einar?’

  ‘He lost a ship and men at Dumnoc, but he still has four crews left.’

  ‘Say another hundred and twenty?’

  ‘At least that,’ I said.

  ‘And Æthelhelm will take how many?’

  ‘If he even goes now,’ I said, ‘he’ll take as many as he can. Three hundred? Maybe more.’

  ‘Ieremias?’

  ‘Fifty, maybe sixty. But he won’t be at Bebbanburg.’

  ‘He won’t?’ Finan sounded dubious. He frowned, then picked up a stone and skimmed it across a green-scummed pond. ‘How do you know Ieremias isn’t on his way to Bebbanburg with Einar right now?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘So you’re just guessing.’

  ‘Ieremias is betraying everyone,’ I said, ‘so he won’t want to appear as if he’s chosen sides. If he sails to Bebbanburg he has to either anchor with Einar’s ships, in which case my cousin knows he’s been betrayed, or he puts into Bebbanburg harbour, in which case Constantin learns the same. Ieremias wants to be on the winning side, so he’s on everyone’s side. He might be mad, but he’s not stupid. I tell you, he’ll have gone to Gyruum to wait things out.’

  He nodded, accepting the argument. ‘But still,’ he said, ‘if we get inside we’ll probably be fighting three hundred men?’

  ‘Nearer two hundred.’

  ‘And fighting uphill?’

  ‘Part of the time.’

  ‘And we could have another four or five hundred outside, trying to stab us in the back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not to mention the bastard Scots, who won’t be happy.’

  ‘They never are.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ he said. He skimmed another stone and watched it sink through the pond’s dark scum. ‘And Sigtryggr won’t help you?’

  ‘He’ll help me,’ I said, ‘but he won’t join an assault on the ramparts. He needs all his men for when the truce ends.’

  Finan walked a few paces to where a dead tree stood gaunt and black at the pond’s margin. No other trees grew nearby, and this one had been dead so long that the trunk was split open, fungus grew thick in the gaping rift, and the only branches left were a pair of thick and drooping stumps. Dozens of cloth scraps were nailed or tied to those forlorn branches. ‘A prayer tree,’ Finan said. ‘Did a saint live here?’

  ‘A god lived here.’

  He looked at me, amused. ‘A god? You’re telling me a god chose to live in this godforsaken place?’

  ‘Odin built a hall here.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, but you have strange gods. Or maybe your fellow Odin just likes swamps?’ He drew a knife from his belt. ‘You think the gods listen to prayers?’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were a god. Can you imagine it? All those moaning women, whining children, and miserable men?’

  ‘You’re a rare warrior,’ he said, ‘but let’s be grateful you’re not a god.’ He cut a strip from his jerkin, then found a crack in one of the branches and wedged the cloth into place. I saw him close his eyes and mutter a prayer, though whether he prayed to Odin or to the Christian god I did not ask. ‘The thing is, lord,’ he said, staring at the strip of cloth, ‘I can’t think of a better way to capture the place.’

  ‘Nor can I, short of raising a thousand men. And I can’t afford that. I’m running out of money.’

  He laughed. ‘Aye, you’ve been pissing it away like Bishop Wulfheard in a brothel.’ He reached up and touched the ragged cloth. ‘So let’s do it, lord. Let’s just do it.’

  I found Eadith in Grimesbi’s small church. The town might have been Danish and most of its inhabitants pagans, but it depended on ships and sailors for its prosperity, and no harbour town became rich by turning away trade. Christian seamen could see the cross atop the church’s roof from a mile away and know they would be welcome. Besides, as I have never tired of telling my Christian followers, we pagans rarely persecute Christians. We believe there are many gods, so we accept another man’s religion as his own affair, while Christians, who perversely insist that there is only one god, think it their duty to kill, maim, enslave, or revile anyone who disagrees. They tell me this is for our own good.

  Eadith had not gone to the church to pray, but rather to use its floor, which, unencumbered by any furniture, was a wide empty space on which she had spread a bolt of linen. The cloth was light blue. ‘I’m sorry about the colour,’ Eadith told me. She was on her hands and knees, crawling across the material with two other women. ‘It must have been dyed with woad,’ she said, ‘I asked for a darker colour, but he only had dark cloth in wool.’

  ‘Wool would be too heavy,’ I said.

  ‘But this linen was expensive,’ she looked worried.

  ‘And the white won’t show well against it,’ Ethne, Finan’s wife, said.

  ‘Then use black.’

  ‘We have no black cloth!’ Eadith said.

  ‘He does,’ I said, looking at the priest who stood frowning by his altar.

  ‘He does?’ Eadith asked.

  ‘He’s wearing it,’ I said. ‘Cut his robe up!’

  ‘Lord! No!’ The priest backed into a corner. He was a small man, bald, with a pinched face, and anxious eyes.

  ‘Paint it on,’ Finan suggested. ‘Use pitch.’ He nodded at the priest. ‘That miserable robe won’t make two stags, and you need one on each side. There’ll be plenty of pitch down at the harbour.’

  ‘Good idea!’ the priest said hurriedly. ‘Use pitch!’

  ‘It won’t dry in time,’ Ethne said, ‘one side might, but we have to turn it over to paint the second side.’

  ‘Charcoal?’ the priest suggested nervously.

  ‘Pitch,’ I said, ‘on one side only. Then sew it to the Hanna’s sail.’ The Hanna was one of the three ships Berg had purchased. She had been called the Saint Cuthbert, but Berg, hating the Christian name, had changed it to Hanna. ‘Hanna?’ I had asked him.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ he had blushed.

  ‘Olla’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘The girl who wanted to sell her brother into slavery?’

  ‘That one, lord, yes.’

  I had stared at him, deepening his blush. ‘You do know,’ I had asked him, ‘that it’s unlucky to change a ship’s name?’

  ‘I know, lord. But if a virgin pisses in the bilge? Then it is all right, yes? My father always said you find a virgin and you ask her to pee in …’ his voice had faded away and he had gestured at the renamed Hanna, ‘and then it is good, yes? The gods will not mind.’

  ‘You found a virgin in Eoferwic?’ I asked, astounded.

  He had blushed again. ‘I did, lord, yes.’

  ‘Hanna?’

  He had gazed at me with pathetic, puppy eyes, afraid that I disapproved. ‘She is so lovely, lord,’ he had blurted out, ‘and perhaps, when this is finished …’ He was too nervous to finish the question.

  ‘When this is finished,’ I said, ‘and we’ve won, then you can go back to Eoferwic.’

  ‘And if we don’t win?’ he had asked anxiously.

  ‘If we don’t win, Berg,’ I had said, ‘then we’ll all be dead.’

  ‘Ah!’ he had beamed at me. ‘Then we must win, lord, yes?’

  And to win we needed the tail hairs from Berg’s horse, a bolt of pale blue linen, some pitch, and the favour of the gods. ‘It has to be enough,’ I said to Eadith that night. I had found it hard to sleep, and so walked down to the harbour and watched a crescent moon shudder its reflection on the estuary beyond the anchorage, while, on the wharf, my three warships shivered to the night wind. The Hanna, the Eadith and the Stiorra. Berg had named the ships for women, choosing two for me and one for himself. I suppose, if I had chosen the names, I would have picked Gisela, the mother of my chil
dren, and Æthelflaed, who had received my oath, which I had never broken, but Berg’s choices were good too. I smiled at the memory of Berg’s nervousness and at the thought of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl reducing a warrior like him to quivers. What was he, I wondered, eighteen, nineteen? He had stood in the shield wall, he had faced swordsmen and spear-warriors, he had killed and known the battle-joy, but a pretty face and a tangle of brown hair had him shaking like a fifteen-year-old in his first fight.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Eadith asked as she came to join me. She slipped her arm through mine and leaned her head on my shoulder.

  ‘Of the power of women,’ I said.

  She squeezed my arm, but said nothing.

  I was looking for omens and finding none. No birds flew, even the dogs in the town were silent. I knew my sleeplessness came from the anticipation of battle, from the fear that I had miscalculated. ‘Is it past midnight? I asked Eadith.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe?’

  ‘I should sleep.’

  ‘You leave at dawn?’

  ‘Before, if I can.’

  ‘And how long is the voyage?’

  I smiled. ‘If I get wind? Two days. Without it? Three.’

  ‘So in two or three days,’ she began, then her voice faltered.

  ‘We fight the first battle,’ I finished the sentence for her.

  ‘Dear God,’ she said, and I think it was a prayer. ‘And the second?’

  ‘Maybe two days later?’

  ‘You’ll win,’ she said. ‘You’re Uhtred, you always win.’

  ‘We must win,’ I said. Neither of us spoke for a while, but just listened to the creak of boats and the sigh of the wind and the small slap of the waves. ‘If I don’t come back,’ I began, and she tried to hush me. ‘If I don’t come back,’ I insisted, ‘then take our people to Eoferwic. Sigtryggr will look after you.’

  ‘Won’t he have marched north?’

  ‘He should have left by now, but if I don’t survive then he’ll be back in Eoferwic very soon.’

  ‘You’ll survive,’ she said very firmly. ‘I gave the emerald ring to the church and said a prayer.’