The Flame Bearer

by Bernard Cornwell

  Because we were trying to clear up the first mess I had made. We were fighting to regain the Sea Gate.

  Gerbruht had never impressed me as a clever man. He was huge, he was strong, he was loyal, and he was cheerful and there were very few men I would rather have beside me in a shield wall, but he was not a quick thinker like Finan, nor decisive like my son. I had left him to guard the Sea Gate because I had thought it a straightforward task, well suited to Gerbruht’s stubborn, slow nature, and I had never anticipated that he would have to make a swift and crucial decision.

  But he made it. And he made the right decision.

  Neither Æthelhelm’s men, nor the Scots with their Norse allies, had attempted to storm the Sea Gate. It would have been a massive task, though not impossible if they had used the ships’ masts as makeshift ladders. That would have taken the rest of the day to organise, and they had no time, they were too busy fighting each other, and the few who had strayed up the rock steps had been met by more rocks hurled down by Gerbruht and his men high above.

  Now, suddenly, Gerbruht saw my cousin’s men streaming down from the higher gate and he understood the danger immediately. The panicked men could unbar the lower gate and let in a horde of enemy, and so Gerbruht abandoned his high platform and took his men down to make a shield wall in the archway.

  My cousin’s men had been bloodied in the alleyways where they had been torn apart by the sheer savagery of our assault, and now they were looking for refuge. They could not reach the great hall, I had barred their route to the southern gates, where, I suspected, my cousin was gathering his forces, and so they had fled northwards. The great stone fortifications of the Sea Gate promised them safety, and so they headed that way, and then they saw Gerbruht’s wall forming. It was a small shield wall, but it filled the width of the gate’s archway and it offered death to the first men brave enough to make an assault. The fugitives hesitated. No one led them. No one told them what to do. The church bell was still ringing its panic, there were sounds of fighting beyond the Sea Gate, and so, leaderless and scared, they paused.

  And Finan struck them from behind.

  Finan, knowing better than anyone what slaughter would follow if the Sea Gate was opened, did not wait to form his men into a wall, instead he just fell on the enemy with Irish fury, keening his crazed battle song. He had the advantage of the high ground, he sensed the enemy’s fear, and he gave them no time to understand the advantage they possessed. They had allies in Æthelhelm’s hard-pressed survivors beyond the gate, and all they needed to do was overcome Gerbruht’s dozen men, unbar the doors, and push them outwards, but instead they died. Finan’s men, with the cruelty of warriors finding a terrified enemy at their mercy, showed none. They turned the rock steps into a flight of blood, and Gerbruht, seeing the slaughter, led his men out of the arch and attacked uphill. By the time I reached the upper gate my cousin’s men were all either dead or captive. ‘Do we want prisoners?’ Finan shouted up to me. There were about thirty men kneeling, most holding out their hands to show they had no weapons. About half that many were dead or dying, cut down by Finan’s ferocious attack. Not one of his men, so far as I could see, had even been wounded.

  I did not want prisoners, but nor did I want to kill these men, some of whom were scarcely more than boys. Many were doubtless the sons of Bebbanburg’s tenants, or the grandsons of folk I had known as a child. If I won this day then they would be my people, my tenants, even my warriors, but before I could shout an answer to Finan there was a hammering on the gate. ‘Gerbruht!’ I shouted. ‘Get your men back on the fighting platform!’

  ‘Yes, lord!’

  ‘And Gerbruht! Well done!’

  A voice shouted from outside the Sea Gate. ‘For pity’s sake! Let us in!’ The man beat on the gate again. I suspected that he was a survivor from among those of Æthelhelm’s men who had stayed to defend the ships and who had been cut down by the Scots and by Einar’s Norsemen. I shared Finan’s pity for them. They had been brought to this raw coast only to find themselves thrown into a merciless battle against savage northerners. It would have been a mercy to open the gate and let the last survivors inside, and some of those West Saxons might even have fought for me, but that was a risk I dared not take. The Sea Gate had to stay closed, and that meant Æthelhelm’s men trapped outside the wall must die and that our prisoners had to remain inside the fortress. ‘Finan,’ I called, ‘strip the prisoners naked! Throw their weapons over the wall!’ I would have preferred to send the captives out of the fortress, but that would have condemned them. Stripping and disarming them would be enough. It would leave them helpless.

  The hammering on the gate had stopped and I heard a bellow of rage as Gerbruht hurled a stone from the ramparts. A man shouted a curse in Norse, which told me that only Einar’s men and the Scots, both of them my cousin’s enemy, were now outside the Sea Gate. ‘Guard it well!’ I shouted to Gerbruht.

  ‘They’ll not get inside, lord!’ he called back. I believed him.

  ‘Father,’ my son had pushed through the men crowded at the upper gate and touched my mailed arm, ‘you’d better come.’

  I followed him back through the upper gate to see that a shield wall had formed across the centre of the fortress. The wall began just beneath the high crag on which the church and the great hall were built and stretched all the way to the sea-facing ramparts. A banner flew at the line’s centre, my banner of the wolf’s head, and beneath it was my cousin who had at last assembled his forces. His men were clashing their swords against their shields and stamping their feet. There were still more men making a smaller shield wall by the church, and both walls were uphill of us. ‘How many?’ I asked.

  ‘A hundred and eighty on the lower rock,’ my son said, ‘and thirty up by the church.’

  ‘Just about equal numbers then,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a good thing you can’t count,’ my son said, sounding more amused than he had any right to be, ‘and there’s more of the bastards,’ he added as a large group of men pushed into the centre of my cousin’s shield wall, which spread apart to make room for them. I guessed those men had been garrisoning the High Gate, and my cousin had summoned them, trusting the guards at the Low Gate to deter any assault by the Scots. I could see my cousin more clearly now. He had mounted a horse and was joined by three other riders, all of them behind the banner at the centre of the larger shield wall on the lower rock. ‘He’s become fat,’ I said.

  ‘Fat?’

  ‘My cousin.’ He looked heavy on his big horse. He was too far away for me to see his face framed by his helmet, but I could see he was just staring at us as his men clashed their blades against their shields. ‘We’ll take him first,’ I said vengefully. ‘We’ll kill the bastard and see if his men have any fight left in them.’

  My son said nothing for a heartbeat. Then I saw he was staring at Bebbanburg’s summit. ‘Oh, sweet galloping Christ,’ he said.

  Because the leaping stag had come to Bebbanburg.

  ‘How in God’s name did they get inside?’ my son asked, no amusement in his voice now, only astonishment, because Æthelhelm’s red-cloaked men were appearing on the fortress’s high crag. They were in mail, they made a new shield wall, and they cheered when they saw how few we were. Finan’s men were still out of their sight, down the steps by the Sea Gate, and Æthelhelm’s troops must have believed we numbered fewer than a hundred men. ‘How in God’s name did they get inside?’ my son asked again.

  I had no answer, so said nothing. Instead I counted the red-cloaked warriors and saw there were at least sixty men, and still more men were coming from the fortress’s southern end to join my cousin’s shield wall. My cousin, heartened by the arrival of his ally, was shouting at his men, as were two priests who harangued the thickening wall, doubtless telling them it was the nailed god’s wish that we should all die. Above him, on the heights of the fortress, Æthelhelm stood tall in a dark cloak and bright mail. He too had a priest, who walked along the growing shield wall o
ffering his god’s blessing on the household warriors who were readying to kill us.

  There were vengeful Norsemen waiting outside the gate, and death making two shield walls inside. I had fought badly so far, leading my men in wasteful attacks, and then been forced into a panicked retreat. Worse, I had given my enemy time to recover from his surprise and form his troops, but suddenly, as I saw that enemy ready and waiting, I felt alive. I had been wounded in the right thigh, stabbed by the spearman who had died screaming in the alley, and I touched my fingers to the wound and they came away bloody. I touched the blood to my cheek-pieces and then held the fingers to the sky. ‘For you, Thor! For you!’

  ‘You’re wounded,’ my son said.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, then laughed. I remember laughing at that moment, and I remember my son frowning at me in puzzlement. What I remember best of all, though, was the sudden certainty that the gods were with me, that they would fight for me, that my sword would be their sword. ‘We’re going to win,’ I told my son. I felt as if Odin or Thor had touched me. I had never felt more alive and never felt more certain. I knew there would be no more mistakes and that this was no dream.

  I had come to Bebbanburg and Bebbanburg would be mine.

  ‘Rorik!’ I called. ‘You have your horn?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  I pushed through my men, going back through the upper gate. Finan had taken fifty men down the steps to rescue Gerbruht’s small group, and those fifty were still there, hurling the prisoners’ weapons, mail coats and clothing across the high stone wall.

  And I realised that men often see what they want to see. My cousin could see about a hundred of us huddled by the northern gate, and it must have seemed to him that we had retreated and were now caught between his overpowering force and the vicious Norsemen outside. He saw victory.

  Æthelhelm saw the same. He could count, and he could see that we were outnumbered and on the lower ground. He could see we were trapped, and as the sun sank towards the western hills he must have known the elation of imminent revenge.

  Except I had woken from my unreal daze. Suddenly I knew how my wolves would fight for the rest of this day. ‘Finan,’ I called, ‘keep your men out of sight till you hear the horn! Then leave six men to help Gerbruht and bring the rest to join us. You’ll be a rearguard!’ There was no need to explain further. Finan, when he led his men up out of the shadows, would see what I wanted him to do. He nodded, and just at that moment the church bell, which had been tolling ever since we broke into the fortress, stopped, and my cousin’s men gave a loud cheer.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Finan asked.

  ‘Æthelhelm got in somehow. With maybe sixty or seventy men? We’re outnumbered.’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘Badly enough.’

  Finan must have sensed my mood because he offered me a wide grin, or maybe he was just trying to encourage his men, who were all listening. ‘So that bastard Æthelhelm is here,’ he called up to me. ‘We’re outnumbered and they have the high ground. Does that mean we’re attacking?’

  ‘Of course it does!’ I shouted back. ‘Wait for two blasts of the horn, then come!’

  ‘We’ll be there!’ he called, then turned away to hurry his men, who were shepherding naked prisoners into the gully between the rock and the outer wall.

  A horn sounded. Not mine, but coming from the centre of the fortress. It sounded a long and mournful note and I thought my cousin must be advancing his wall, but when I went back through the upper gate I saw that it heralded a single horseman who approached us. The hooves of his big stallion sounded loud on the rock. He was still some distance away, walking the horse slowly, and his face was hidden by cheek-pieces. For a moment I hoped it was my cousin, but he was still with his shield wall, and I could see Æthelhelm among the dark red cloaks on the high ground. So the approaching warrior had to be a champion, sent to taunt us.

  I turned my back on him and looked for my son. ‘How many of our men have spears?’ I asked him.

  ‘Maybe ten? Not too many.’

  I chided myself for not thinking of spears sooner, because doubtless Finan’s men had just hurled a few over the outer wall, but ten should be enough. ‘When we attack,’ I told my son, ‘put those spearmen in the second rank. They won’t need shields.’ I did not wait for his response, but walked to meet the horseman.

  It was Waldhere, who had arrived with Æthelhelm, but who must have joined my cousin as soon as he could. He curbed the horse some twenty paces from my shield wall and opened his cheek-pieces so that I could see his face. He wore the same bearskin cloak he had worn on the day of Einar’s arrival. The heavy garment must have been hot, but it made him look huge, especially on horseback. His hard face was framed by his battle-scarred helmet that was crowned with an eagle’s clawed foot, while his mail-clad forearms, like mine, were ringed with gold. He was a warrior in his glory and he watched as I approached, then picked something from his yellow teeth and flicked whatever he found towards me. ‘Lord Uhtred,’ he said, meaning my cousin, ‘offers you the chance to surrender now.’

  ‘He didn’t dare come and tell me that himself?’ I asked.

  ‘Lord Uhtred doesn’t talk to earslings.’

  ‘He talks to you.’

  For some reason that mild insult made him angry. I saw the grimace and heard the suppressed fury in his voice. ‘You want me to kill you now?’ he growled.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘please.’

  He sneered at that and shook his head. ‘I would kill you with pleasure,’ he said, ‘but Lord Uhtred and Lord Æthelhelm want you kept alive. Your death will be their entertainment in the hall tonight.’

  ‘Get off your horse and fight me,’ I responded, ‘because your death will entertain my men.’

  ‘If you surrender now,’ he went on, ignoring my challenge, ‘your death will be quick.’

  I laughed at him. ‘Too frightened to face me, Waldhere?’

  He just spat at me for answer.

  I turned my back on him. ‘This is Waldhere,’ I shouted at my men, ‘and he’s too frightened to fight me! I’ve offered, and he refused. He’s a coward!’

  ‘Then fight me instead!’ My son walked out of the shield wall.

  In truth I did not want any of us to fight Waldhere, not because I feared his skill, but because I wanted to attack the enemy before they found their courage. The men who faced us, who clashed their swords against their shields, were not cowards, but men must summon the resolve to advance into death’s embrace. We all fear the shield wall, only a fool would say otherwise, but my men were ready for the horror, and my cousin’s men were only just recovering from the shock of realising they must fight for their lives in this late afternoon. The church bell had jarred them into panic. They had expected another dull evening, instead they faced death, and it takes a man time to ready himself for that meeting. Besides, they knew who I was, they knew my reputation. Their priests and leaders were telling them they would win, but their fears were telling them that I did not lose, and I wanted to attack while those fears gnawed at their courage, and fighting Waldhere delayed that attack. Which was why he had ridden to us, of course. His demand that we surrender, a demand he knew I would reject, was to give the defenders time to summon their resolve. And his riding alone to confront me showed those defenders he did not fear us. It was all a part of the dance of death that always precedes battle. ‘And who,’ he asked my son, ‘are you?’

  ‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ my son answered.

  ‘I don’t fight puppies,’ he sneered. His horse, a fine grey, suddenly tossed his head and skittered sideways on the rock. Waldhere calmed the stallion. ‘If you surrender,’ he spoke to me now, but loudly enough for my men to hear, ‘then your warriors will live.’ He raised his voice to make absolutely certain that all of my men could hear the offer repeated. ‘Lay your weapons down! Lay your shields down, and you will live! You will be given safe passage south! Lay down your shields and live!’

  There was a
clatter behind me as a shield hit the rock. I turned, appalled, to see the tall man wearing the dark blue cloak and the fine silver helmet stride from the shield wall. He had his cheek-pieces closed, obscuring his face. He had thrown down his shield and now walked towards Waldhere. Finan had told me that this was Kettil, the young and fastidious Dane. ‘Kettil!’ I snarled.

  ‘Yes, lord?’ Kettil answered from behind me. I turned, frowning, to see Kettil in an iron helmet and wearing no cloak. ‘Lord?’ he asked, puzzled.

  I looked back to the tall man. His helmet, I could see now, was chased with a pattern of interlocking Christian crosses, while another cross, forged from gold, hung at his breast. Kettil was a pagan and would never wear such things. I was about to demand that the coward pick up his damned shield and take his place back in the wall, but before I could speak he drew his long-sword and pointed it at Waldhere. ‘This puppy,’ the man said, ‘would fight you.’ He had not thrown down his shield as a sign of surrender, but because Waldhere carried no shield and he would offer the horseman a fair fight. ‘If you have the courage to face me,’ he went on, ‘which I doubt.’

  ‘No!’ I shouted.

  Waldhere glanced at me, puzzled and intrigued by my response to the tall man’s offer to fight. ‘Are you frightened I’ll kill your puppy?’ Waldhere sneered at me.

  ‘Fight me!’ I almost begged him. ‘Fight me! Not him!’

  He laughed at me. He did not know why I was suddenly so agitated, but he had understood that I did not want him to fight the tall man who had defied him, and so, of course, he accepted the challenge. ‘Come, puppy,’ he said, then swung down from his saddle. He unhooked the cloak’s clasp and let it fall so that its weight did not obstruct his sword arm.