The Pagan Lord (31 page)

I was determined to enjoy myself.

There must have been two score of Mercians in the hall, all ealdormen, priests or thegns, the men left to guard Gleawecestre while Æthelred sought glory in East Anglia. Æthelflaed was there too, but my men surrounded her, separating her from the other Mercians. She was not the only woman in the hall. My daughter Stiorra, who lived in Æthelflaed’s household, was standing by one of the pillars, and the sight of her long, serious and beautiful face brought a sudden sharp memory of her mother. Next to her was another girl, as tall as Stiorra, but fair where my daughter was dark, and she seemed familiar, but I could not place her. I gave her a long hard look, more on account of her undeniable prettiness than to try to provoke my memory, but I still could not identify her, and so turned to the body of the hall. ‘And which of you,’ I demanded, ‘has command of the city’s garrison?’

There was a pause. Finally Bishop Wulfheard took a pace forward and cleared his throat. ‘I do,’ he said.

‘You!’ I said, sounding shocked.

‘The Lord Æthelred entrusted the city’s safety to me,’ he said defensively.

I stared at him. Let the silence stretch. ‘Is there a church here?’ I asked at last.

‘Of course.’

‘Then tomorrow I’ll celebrate mass,’ I said, ‘and I’ll preach a sermon. I can hand out stale bread and bad advice as well as anyone, can’t I?’ There was silence, except for a girlish giggle. Æthelflaed turned sharply to silence the sound, which came from the tall, fair, pretty girl standing next to my daughter. I recognised her then because she had ever been a light-headed, flippant creature. She was Æthelflaed’s daughter, Ælfwynn, whom I still thought of as a child, but she was a child no longer. I winked at her, which only made her giggle again.

‘Why would Æthelred put a bishop in charge of a garrison?’ I asked, turning my attention back to Bishop Wulfheard. ‘Have you ever fought in a battle? I know you burned down my barns, but that isn’t a battle, you stinking piece of rat-gristle. A battle is the shield wall. It’s smelling your enemy’s breath while he tries to disembowel you with an axe, it’s blood and shit and screams and pain and terror. It’s trampling in your friends’ guts as enemies butcher them. It’s men clenching their teeth so hard they shatter them. Have you ever been in a battle?’ He said nothing, just looked indignant. ‘I asked you a question!’ I shouted at him.

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘Then you’re not fit to be in charge of the garrison,’ I said.

‘The Lord Æthelred …’ he began.

‘Is pissing his breeches in East Anglia,’ I said, ‘and wondering how he’ll ever get home again. And he only put you in charge because you’re a grovelling lickspittle arsehole whom he trusted, just as he trusted Haesten. It was Haesten who assured you he’d captured Cnut’s family, yes?’

A few men muttered assent. The bishop said nothing.

‘Haesten,’ I said, ‘is a treacherous piece of slime, and he deceived you. He always served Cnut, but you all believed him because your shit-brained priests assured you that God was on your side. Well, he is now. He sent me, and I brought you Cnut’s wife and children, and I am also angry.’

I stood on those last four words, stepped off the dais and stalked towards Wulfheard. ‘I am angry,’ I said again, ‘because you burned my buildings. You tried to get that mob to kill me. You said any man who killed me would earn the grace of God. Do you remember that, you rancid piece of rat-dropping?’

Wulfheard said nothing.

‘You called me an abomination,’ I said. ‘Do you remember?’ I pulled Serpent-Breath from her sheath. She made a rasping noise, surprisingly loud, as her long blade scraped through the scabbard’s throat. Wulfheard made a small scared noise and stepped back towards the protection of four priests who were evidently his followers, but I did not threaten him, I just reversed the sword and thrust the hilt towards him. ‘There, you toad-fart,’ I said, ‘earn the grace of God by killing a pagan abomination.’ He stared at me puzzled. ‘Kill me, you bile-brained slug,’ I said.

‘I …’ he began, then faltered and took another backwards step.

I followed him, and one of the priests, a young man, moved to stop me. ‘Touch me,’ I warned him, ‘and I’ll spill your guts across the floor. I’m the priest-killer, remember? I’m an outcast of God. I’m an abomination. I’m the man you hate. I kill priests the way other men swat wasps. I am Uhtred.’ I looked back to Wulfheard and held the sword to him again. ‘So, you spavined weasel,’ I challenged him, ‘do you have the belly to kill me?’ He shook his head and still said nothing. ‘I’m the man who killed the Abbot Wihtred,’ I said to him, ‘and you cursed me for that. So why don’t you kill me?’ I waited, watching the fear on the bishop’s face, and that was the moment I remembered the twins’ strange reaction when Father Wissian had come into the great chamber at Ceaster. I turned towards Æthelflaed. ‘You told me the Abbot Wihtred came from Northumbria?’

‘He did.’

‘And he suddenly appeared preaching about Saint Oswald?’ I asked.

‘The blessed Saint Oswald was a Northumbrian,’ the bishop put in as if that might placate me.

‘I know who he was!’ I snarled. ‘And did it occur to any of you that Cnut persuaded Abbot Wihtred to come south? Cnut rules in Northumbria, he wanted the Mercian army lured to East Anglia, and so he drew them there with promises of a dead saint’s miraculous corpse. Wihtred was his man! His children called him uncle.’ I did not know if all that was true, of course, but it seemed very likely. Cnut had been clever. ‘You’re fools, all of you!’ I thrust the sword at Wulfheard again. ‘Kill me, you slug-turd,’ I said, but he just shook his head. ‘Then you will pay me,’ I said, ‘for the damage you did at Fagranforda. You will pay me in gold and silver and I shall rebuild my halls and my barns and my cowsheds at your expense. You are going to repay me, aren’t you?’

He nodded. He had little choice.

‘Good!’ I said cheerfully. I slammed Serpent-Breath back into her scabbard, and strode back to the dais. ‘My Lady Æthelflaed,’ I said very formally.

‘My Lord Uhtred,’ she answered just as formally.

‘Who should command here?’

She hesitated, looking at the Mercians. ‘Merewalh is as good as anyone,’ she said.

‘What about you?’ I asked her. ‘Why don’t you command?’

‘Because I go where you go,’ she said firmly. The men in the room stirred uncomfortably, but none spoke. I thought about contradicting her, then decided it was best not to waste my breath.

‘Merewalh,’ I said instead, ‘you’re in charge of the garrison. I doubt Cnut will attack you because I intend to lure him northwards, but I could be wrong. How many trained warriors are in the city?’

‘A hundred and forty-six,’ Æthelflaed answered, ‘most of them mine. Some used to be yours.’

‘They’ll all be riding with me,’ I said. ‘Merewalh, you can keep ten of your men, the rest go with me. And I might send for you when I know the city is safe because I’d hate for you to miss the battle. It’s going to be a vicious one. Bishop! Would you like to fight the pagans?’

Wulfheard just stared at me. He was doubtless praying that his nailed god would send a lightning strike to shrivel me, but the nailed god did not oblige.

‘So let me tell you what is happening,’ I said, pacing the dais as I spoke. ‘The Jarl Cnut has brought over four thousand men to Mercia. He’s destroying Mercia, burning and killing, and Æthelred,’ I deliberately did not call him Lord Æthelred, ‘has to come back to stop the destruction. How many men does Æthelred have?’

‘Fifteen hundred,’ someone muttered.

‘And if he doesn’t come back,’ I went on, ‘Cnut will hunt him down in East Anglia. That’s probably what Cnut is doing now. He’s hunting Æthelred and hopes to destroy him before the West Saxons come north. So our job is to pull Cnut away from Æthelred and keep him busy while the West Saxons muster their army and march to join Æthelred. How many men can Edward bring?’ I asked Osferth.

‘Between three and four thousand,’ he said.

‘Good!’ I smiled. ‘We’ll outnumber Cnut and we’ll rip his guts out and feed them to the dogs.’

Ealdorman Deogol, a slow-witted man who held land just north of Gleawecestre, frowned at me. ‘You’ll lead men north?’

‘I will.’

‘And take almost all the trained warriors with you,’ he said accusingly.

‘I will,’ I said.

‘But there are Danes ringing the city,’ he said plaintively.

‘I got into the city,’ I said, ‘and I can get out.’

‘And if they see the trained warriors leave,’ his voice was rising, ‘what’s to stop them attacking?’

‘Oh, they’re leaving tomorrow,’ I said, ‘didn’t I tell you that? They’re leaving, and we’re going to burn their ships.’

‘They’re leaving?’ Deogol asked incredulously.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘they’re leaving.’

And I hoped I was right.

‘You were hard on Bishop Wulfheard,’ Æthelflaed said to me that night. We were in bed. I assumed it was her husband’s bed and I did not care. ‘You were very hard on him,’ she said.

‘Not hard enough.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘He’s an earsling,’ I said. She sighed. ‘Ælfwynn’s grown into a pretty girl,’ I went on.

‘She has a head filled with feathers,’ her mother said harshly.

‘But very pretty feathers.’

‘And she knows that,’ Æthelflaed said, ‘and she behaves like a fool. I should have given birth to sons.’

‘I’ve always liked Ælfwynn.’

‘You like all pretty girls,’ she said disapprovingly.

‘I do, yes, but you’re the one I love.’

‘And Sigunn, and a half-dozen others.’

‘Only half a dozen?’

She pinched me for that. ‘Frigg is pretty.’

‘Frigg,’ I said, ‘is beautiful beyond words.’

She thought about that, then gave a grudging nod. ‘Yes, she is. And Cnut will come for her?’

‘He’ll come for me.’

‘You’re such a humble man.’

‘I’ve wounded his pride. He’ll come.’

‘Men and their pride.’

‘You want me to be humble?’

‘I might as well hope to see the moon turn somersaults,’ she said. She tilted her head and kissed my cheek. ‘Osferth is in love,’ she said, ‘it’s rather touching.’

‘With Ingulfrid?’

‘I’d like to meet her,’ Æthelflaed said.

‘She’s clever,’ I said, ‘very clever.’

‘So is Osferth, and he deserves someone clever.’

‘I’m sending him back to your brother,’ I told her. Osferth had come north after taking his message to Edward, and Edward had sent him on to Gleawecestre to order Æthelflaed back to Wessex, a command she had predictably ignored. Osferth had arrived in Gleawecestre just hours before the Danes landed south of the city, and now he needed to go back to spur the West Saxons to haste. ‘Is your brother mustering his army?’

‘So Osferth says.’

‘But will he bring it north?’ I wondered aloud.

‘He has to,’ Æthelflaed said bleakly.

‘I’ll tell Osferth to kick Edward’s arse,’ I said.

‘Osferth will do no such thing,’ she said, ‘and he’ll be glad to go back to Wessex. He left his lady in Wintanceaster.’

‘And I left mine in Gleawecestre,’ I said.

‘I knew you’d come back.’ She stirred beside me, a small hand stroking my chest.

‘I thought about joining Cnut,’ I told her.

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘He wanted me to be an ally,’ I said, ‘but instead I have to kill him.’ I thought of Ice-Spite, Cnut’s sword, and of his famed skill, and felt a shiver in the night.

‘You will.’

‘I will.’ I wondered whether age had slowed Cnut. Had it slowed me?

‘What will you do with the boy?’

‘Ingulfrid’s son? Sell him back to his father when I’ve settled Cnut.’

‘Osferth said you very nearly captured Bebbanburg.’

‘Nearly isn’t enough.’

‘No, I suppose not. What would you have done if you’d succeeded? Stayed there?’

‘And never left,’ I said.

‘And me?’

‘I’d have sent for you.’

‘I belong here. I’m a Mercian now.’

‘There won’t be a Mercia,’ I said truthfully, ‘until we’ve killed Cnut.’

She lay in silence for a long time. ‘What if he wins?’ she asked after that long silence.

‘Then a thousand ships will come from the north to join him, and men will come from Frisia, and every Northman who wants land will bring a sword, and they’ll cross the Temes.’

‘And there’ll be no Wessex,’ she said.

‘No Wessex,’ I said, ‘and no Englaland.’

How odd that name sounds. It was her father’s dream. To make a country called Englaland. Englaland. I fell asleep.

The Danes decided not to leave Gleawecestre.

It was not Bjorgulf’s decision, at least I thought not, but he must have sent a messenger eastwards in search of orders or advice because, next morning, a delegation of Danes rode towards Gleawecestre’s walls. They came on horseback, their stallions picking their way through the ruins of the houses that had been dismantled beyond the ramparts. There were six men, led by a standard-bearer who carried a leafy branch as a signal that they came to talk and not to fight. Bjorgulf was one of the six, but he hung back and left the talking to a tall, heavy-browed man with a long red beard that was plaited, knotted and hung with small silver rings. He was dressed in mail, had a sword at his side, but wore no helmet and carried no shield. His arms were bright with the rings of war, and a chain of heavy gold links hung at his neck. He motioned for his companions to stop some twenty paces from the ditch, then rode forward alone until he reached the ditch’s edge where he curbed his horse and stared up at the ramparts. ‘Are you Lord Uhtred?’ he called to me.