The Pagan Lord (23 page)

‘He lies,’ Ceolberht shouted.

‘If I lie to you,’ I said to the priest, but loudly enough for all Merewalh’s men to hear, ‘then my life is yours. If I lie to you then I shall bend my neck in front of you and you can hack off my head.’ That silenced the priest. He just stared at me. Merewalh believed me, and so did his men. I plucked Osferth’s sleeve, bringing him to stand beside me. ‘This man is a Christian. He is the son of King Alfred. He will tell you I speak the truth.’

‘He does,’ Osferth said.

‘He lies!’ Ceolberht said, but he had lost the argument. Men believed me, not the priest, and their world had changed. They were no longer safe, but poised on the edge of chaos.

I drew Merewalh aside to the shadows under a willow. ‘The last time Cnut attacked,’ I said, ‘he took ships to the south coast of Wessex. He’s gathering ships again.’

‘To attack Wessex?’

‘I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter.’

‘No?’

‘What matters,’ I said, ‘is that we have to make him dance to our drum. He thinks we’re capering to his.’

‘Æthelred won’t believe you,’ Merewalh said nervously.

I suspected that was true. Æthelred had launched his war and he would be unwilling to believe that he had started that war because he had been deceived. He would insist that he was right and his hatred of me would make him even more stubborn. I decided that did not matter. Æthelred would be forced to believe me soon enough. What mattered was to unbalance Cnut. ‘You should send most of your men back to Æthelred,’ I told Merewalh.

‘Without the saint?’

I was about to snarl at him, but checked myself. Æthelred had promised his army the assistance of Saint Oswald, and though Æthelred’s men were in the wrong place, and though Æthelred would be unwilling to abandon his war on East Anglia, it still made sense to give his army the confidence of magical assistance.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said, ‘we’ll make one last attempt to find Oswald. Then send him back to Æthelred.’

‘Send him?’

‘I have a ship less than a day’s ride from here,’ I told him. ‘Forty of your men will go there with Osferth. They’ll send my men back here on their horses. Until they arrive you can look for your saint. If you find him you can send two hundred men back to Æthelred with the bones, but the rest will come with me.’

‘But …’ He fell silent. He was thinking that he could not detach men to follow me without incurring Æthelred’s wrath.

‘If you don’t do what I say,’ I told him, ‘Æthelred will be dead within the month and Mercia will be Danish. If you trust me then both will be alive.’

‘I trust you,’ he said.

‘Then get some sleep,’ I told him, ‘because tomorrow we’re busy.’

I waited till the heart of the night, till the darkest hour when only the shadow-walkers tread the earth, when men sleep and owls fly, when the fox hunts and the world trembles at every small noise. The night is death’s kingdom. Merewalh’s sentries were awake, but they were at the edge of his encampment, and none was close to the sodden timber wreckage of the old monastery. Two fires smouldered there and by their small light I walked past the skeletons that had been prised from the earth and lain reverently in a long row. Father Ceolberht had declared that they must all be reburied with prayers, for these were the monks of Bearddan Igge, the monks who had lived here before the Danes came to burn, to steal and to kill.

The bones were wrapped in new woollen shrouds. I counted twenty-seven. At the far end of the row a shroud had been placed flat on the ground and heaped with more bones and skulls, orphan remains that had been unattached to any skeleton, and beyond that pile was a cart with a pair of high wheels. The cart was just big enough to contain a man. The flanks had been painted with crosses that I could just see in the faint glow of the dying fires. A folded cloth lay on the cart’s bed and, when I touched it, I felt the smooth, expensive material that is called silk and is imported from some distant country to the east. The silk was obviously meant to be a new shroud for Saint Oswald, the only difficulty being that Saint Oswald no longer existed.

So it was time for another resurrection.

I wondered if anyone had counted the skeletons, or, if they had, whether they would count them again before they were reburied. Yet I had little time and I doubted I could discover yet another body, not without making enough noise to rouse the nearest sleepers who were only yards away, and so I picked a corpse at random and unwrapped the woollen winding sheet. I felt the bones. They were clean, suggesting that these skeletons had been washed before being shrouded, and when I lifted one dry arm the bones stayed connected, suggesting this monk had died not long before the monastery had been destroyed.

I crouched beside the dead man and felt in my pouch for the silver cross I had worn when we deceived the sentries on Bebbanburg’s Low Gate. It was a heavy cross with garnets embedded into the arms. I had planned to sell it, but now it must serve another purpose, though first I had to dismember the skeleton. I used a knife to hack off one arm and the skull, then carried the severed parts to the heap of orphaned bones.

After that it was simple. I laid the silver cross inside the ribcage, tangling the chain around one rib, then used the woollen shroud to pick the man up and carry him west towards a sluggish stream. I laid him in the shallow water, pulled the shroud free and tugged an eel trap across the bones. I left the dead man to ripple the slow current as I wrung as much water from the shroud as I could, then dropped the damp wool onto a dying fire where it hissed and steamed. Most of it would be charred and unrecognisable by morning. I went back to the dead monks and moved the skeletons to disguise the gap I had made, then touched the hammer about my neck and prayed to Thor that no one made a new count of the bodies.

Then, because when dawn came I must be busy, I slept.

I called Osferth and Merewalh to me in the dawn, but a dozen other men came too. They were thegns, important men, landowners in Mercia who had brought their warriors to serve in Æthelred’s army. They were subdued, perhaps because a thick mist draped the flat land, or because their confidence in Æthelred had been destroyed by my news of Haesten’s true allegiance. We gathered round the cart, where servants brought us pots of weak ale and slabs of hard bread.

Merewalh was the Mercian leader, but Merewalh deferred to me, just as he had at Ceaster so many years before. ‘You,’ I pointed to Osferth, ‘will ride back to
Middelniht
today.’ I looked at Merewalh. ‘You’ll give him a good horse and forty men.’

‘Forty?’

‘A crew,’ I explained, and looked back to Osferth. ‘You send Finan and his men to me on the horses you take to
Middelniht
. Tell him to come quickly and to bring the rest of my war gear. After that you sail to Lundene and warn the garrison what’s happening, then find your half-brother and tell him.’ Osferth’s half-brother was King of Wessex, and we would need the strong West Saxon army if Cnut was to be defeated. ‘Tell him the Danes are coming either to Mercia or Wessex, that they’re coming in force and he’s to look for me in the west.’

‘In the west,’ Osferth repeated solemnly.

‘I don’t know where,’ I said, ‘but if Cnut attacks Mercia then King Edward should take his forces to Gleawecestre. If Cnut attacks Wessex then I’ll join him, but I think it’ll be Mercia, so send your brother to Gleawecestre.’

‘Why Gleawecestre?’ one of the thegns asked. ‘We don’t know what Cnut will do!’

‘We know he’ll attack,’ I said, ‘and as long as he’s loose then he can march where he likes and do what damage he pleases, so we have to snare him. We have to make him fight where we want to fight, not where he chooses.’

‘But …’

‘I’ve chosen the west,’ I snarled, ‘and I’ll make him fight where I choose.’

No one spoke. They probably did not believe me, but I was telling them the truth.

‘I need a hundred of your men,’ I told Merewalh, ‘the best of them on the lightest horses. You can lead them.’

He nodded slowly. ‘To go where?’

‘With me,’ I said. ‘The rest of your men will rejoin Æthelred. Tell him you’re sorry, but Saint Oswald was scattered to the winds long ago.’

‘He won’t like it,’ a heavy-set man called Oswin said.

‘He won’t like any of the news,’ I said, ‘and he’ll refuse to believe it. He’ll stay in East Anglia till he’s proved wrong, and then he’ll be terrified of going home. But he has to go towards Gleawecestre.’ I looked at Osferth. ‘Have your brother send him orders.’

‘I will,’ Osferth said.

‘And have Edward tell Æthelred that if he wants to stay Lord of Mercia he’d best move his arse quickly.’

‘And what are you going to do?’ Oswin asked indignantly.

‘I’m going to kick Cnut’s balls,’ I said, ‘and kick them so hard that he’ll be forced to turn and deal with me, and then I’ll hold him in place till the rest of you can come and kill the bastard once and for all.’

‘We can’t even be sure Cnut will attack,’ another of the thegns said nervously.

‘Wake up!’ I shouted at him, startling all of the men gathered about the cart. ‘The war has started! We just don’t know where or how. But Cnut began it and we’re going to finish it.’

No one said anything more because just at that moment there was another shout, a triumphant shout, and I saw men running towards the shallow stream that curled about the western end of the encampment. Father Ceolberht was there, waving his arms, and the two other priests were with him, both on their knees. ‘God be praised!’ one of them shouted.

Merewalh and his men stared towards the priests. Osferth looked at me.

‘We’ve found him!’ Ceolberht called. ‘We’ve found the saint!’

‘God be praised,’ the priest called again.

We all walked toward the stream. ‘You were so wrong!’ Ceolberht greeted me, his voice made sibilant by his missing teeth. ‘Our God is greater than you know. He has delivered the saint to us! Uhtred was wrong and we were right!’

Men were lifting the skeleton from the water, disentangling weeds and strands of willow that had broken from the fish trap. They carried the bones reverently towards the cart.

‘You were wrong,’ Merewalh said to me.

‘I was wrong,’ I said, ‘indeed I was.’

‘Victory will be ours!’ Ceolberht said. ‘Look! A cross!’ He lifted the silver cross out of the ribcage. ‘The cross of the blessed Saint Oswald.’ He kissed the silver and gave me a look of pure hatred. ‘You mocked us, but you were wrong. Our God is greater than you will ever know! It is a miracle! A miracle! Our God preserved the saint through trial and tribulation, and now he will grant us victory over the pagans.’

‘God be praised,’ Merewalh said, and he and his men stepped back reverently as the yellowed bones were laid on the cart’s bed.

I let the Christians have their moment of happiness as I drew Osferth to one side. ‘Take
Middelniht
to Lundene,’ I told him, ‘and take Ingulfrid and the boy with you.’

He nodded, began to say something and then decided to stay silent.

‘I don’t know what I’ll do with the boy yet,’ I said, ‘and I have to deal with Cnut first, but keep him safe. He’s worth a lot of gold.’

‘I’ll buy him from you,’ Osferth said.

‘Let his father do the buying,’ I said, ‘and you deal with the mother. But keep them both safe!’

‘I shall keep them safe,’ Osferth said. The priests had begun to sing, and Osferth watched them with his usual serious expression. There were times when he looked so like his father that I was almost tempted to call him ‘lord’. ‘I remember,’ he still looked at the three chanting priests as he spoke, ‘that you once told me your uncle was given an arm of Saint Oswald.’

‘He was, yes. Ingulfrid has seen it. You can ask her.’

‘The left arm, you said?’

‘Did I?’

‘I have a memory for these things,’ he said solemnly, ‘and you said it was the left arm.’

‘I don’t remember,’ I said, ‘and how would I have known which arm it was?’

‘You said it was the left arm,’ he insisted. ‘One of your spies must have told you.’

‘So it was the left arm,’ I said.

‘Then this truly is a miracle,’ Osferth said, still gazing towards the men crowded about the cart, ‘because that body is missing its right arm.’

‘It is?’

‘Yes, lord, it is.’ He looked at me and surprised me by smiling. ‘I shall tell Finan to hurry, lord.’

‘Tell him I want him here tomorrow.’

‘He’ll be here, lord, and God speed you.’

‘I hope he speeds you to Lundene,’ I said. ‘We need your brother’s army.’

He hesitated. ‘And what are you going to do, lord?’

‘You’ll tell no one?’ I asked.

‘I promise, lord,’ he said, and when Osferth gave a promise I knew it would be kept.

‘I’m going to do what I was accused of doing all those weeks ago,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to capture Cnut’s wife and children.’

He nodded as if such a task was to be expected, then frowned. ‘And will you make sure my sister is safe?’

‘That above all,’ I said.

Because I had made a promise to Æthelflaed, and that was one oath I had never broken.

Which meant I would be riding westwards. To meet Cnut Longsword.

We left Bearddan Igge in a thick fog just two mornings after Saint Oswald had been so miraculously discovered entangled in the fish trap.

One hundred and thirty-three men rode. We took fifty packhorses to carry armour and weapons, and we carried two banners: the wolf’s head of Bebbanburg and the white horse of Mercia, though for most of our journey those banners would have to stay hidden. We also took one priest, Father Wissian. Merewalh insisted that a priest accompany us. He said his men fought better when they had a priest to shepherd their souls, and I growled that they were warriors, not sheep, but Merewalh insisted in his polite way and so I grudgingly permitted Wissian to ride with us. He was a Mercian, a tall, thin young man with a perpetually nervous look and an unkempt shock of hair that had gone prematurely white. ‘We’ll be riding through Danish land,’ I told him, ‘and I don’t want them knowing we’re Saxons, which means you can’t wear that dress,’ I pointed to his long black priestly robe, ‘so take it off.’