The Pagan Lord (40 page)

And Cnut attacked. He ran at me, Ice-Spite in his right hand, coming high towards the left side of my head and I lifted the shield despite the pain and somehow, I never knew how, his sword was coming from my right, only it was lunging for my ribs and I remember being astonished at the skill and speed of that stroke, but Serpent-Breath knocked the quick blade aside and I tried to bring her up for a counter-stroke, but Cnut was already slicing the blade at my neck and I had to duck. I heard it clash and scrape on my helmet and I rammed the shield at him, using my greater weight to crush him, but he skipped aside, lunged again and Ice-Spite pierced mail to cut my belly. I went back fast, taking the sting from the blow as I felt warm blood trickle down my skin, then at last I made a cut with Serpent-Breath, a backhanded stroke that scythed towards his shoulder and he was forced back, but came forward as soon as the blade passed him, lunging again, and I caught the tip of Ice-Spite on the lower rim of my shield and swung Serpent-Breath back to strike his helmet. The blade clashed loud on the side of his helmet, but he was moving away and there was no real power in the blow. It still shook him and I saw his teeth gritted, but he pulled Ice-Spite free of my shield and stabbed down at my left foot and I felt a lance of pain as I punched his face with Serpent-Breath’s hilt to drive him back. He went back and I followed, swinging, but my wounded foot slipped in a patch of cow shit and I went down on my right knee, and Cnut, his nose bleeding, lunged his sword at me.

He was quick. He was like lightning, and the only way to slow him was to be close, to crowd him, and I drove myself forward from my knees, using the shield to deflect the lunge and try to hammer it onto his face. I was taller than he, I was heavier, I had to use that height and weight to overwhelm him, but he knew what I was doing. He grinned through the blood on his face and flicked Ice-Spite so that she tapped the side of my helmet, and he skipped back, hesitated, but the hesitation was a ruse for as soon as I stepped towards him the pale blade darted at my face, I flinched away and he tapped her on my helmet again. He laughed. ‘You’re not good enough, Uhtred.’

I paused, breathing heavily, watching him, but he knew that was my ruse. He just smiled and let Ice-Spite drop as if inviting me to strike. ‘Strange to say,’ he said, ‘I like you.’

‘I like you too,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d killed you on the ridge-top.’

He used his free hand to touch the thick iron buckle of his sword belt. ‘You dented that,’ he said, ‘and took all the wind from me. It hurt, really hurt. I couldn’t breathe for a while and my men dragged me away.’

I lifted Serpent-Breath and Ice-Spite flicked up. ‘Next time it will be your throat,’ I said.

‘You’re quicker than most,’ he said, ‘but not quick enough.’ His men were watching from the hill’s foot, as my men and their Welsh saviours were watching from the ridge’s top. Even Edward’s shield wall had stopped to watch. ‘If they see you die,’ Cnut said, twitching Ice-Spite’s tip towards the West Saxon and Mercian army, ‘they’ll lose heart. That’s why I have to kill you, but I’ll make it fast.’ He grinned. There was blood in his pale moustache and more trickled from his broken nose. ‘It won’t hurt much, I promise, so hold your sword tight, friend, and we’ll meet in Valhalla.’ He took a half-pace towards me. ‘Ready?’

I glanced to my right, to where Edward’s men had crossed the ford. ‘They’re marching again,’ I said.

He looked southwards and I leaped. I sprang at him, and for a splinter of time he was looking at the West Saxons who were being urged forward, but he recovered fast and Ice-Spite darted up to my face and I felt her scrape on my cheekbone and catch between my skull and the helmet, and I did not know it but I was screaming a war shout as I slammed the shield onto him, thrusting it down to drive him to the ground, and he twisted like an eel, dragged his sword arm back and the blade cut my cheek, and the shield caught his right arm and all my weight and strength were in that blow, yet still he managed to dodge aside. I back-swung Serpent-Breath at him and he dodged and she went wide so that my arms were spread, the shield off to my left after its sweeping blow and Serpent-Breath to my right, and I saw him change hands, saw Ice-Spite in his left hand and saw her come at me like a stab of lightning and the blade struck me, she pierced the mail and broke the leather and she shattered a rib and pierced me and he was screaming his victory as I brought Serpent-Breath back in a last desperate swing and she crashed into his helmet and stunned him, and he went backwards, falling, and I was falling on him, my chest a furnace of pain, Ice-Spite inside me, and Serpent-Breath was across his throat and I remember sawing her and seeing her cut and the blood spraying into my face and my war cry became a scream of pain as we both fell on the meadow.

And then I remember nothing.

‘Quiet,’ the voice said, then said it louder, ‘quiet!’

There was a fire burning. I sensed a lot of people in a small room. There was the stench of blood, of burned bread, of woodsmoke and of rotted floor rushes.

‘He won’t die,’ another voice said, but not close to me.

‘The spear broke his skull?’

‘I lifted the bone back, now we must pray.’

‘But I wasn’t wounded in the skull,’ I said, ‘it’s my chest. His sword went into my chest. Low down on my left side.’

They ignored me. I wondered why I could not see. I turned my head and there was a glow in the dark of my eyes.

‘Lord Uhtred moved.’ It was Æthelflaed’s voice and I became aware that her small hand was holding my left hand.

‘It was my chest,’ I said, ‘tell them it was my chest. It wasn’t my skull.’

‘The skull heals,’ a man said, the same man who had talked about lifting the bone back.

‘It was my chest, you idiot,’ I said.

‘I think he’s trying to speak,’ Æthelflaed said.

There was something in my right hand. I tightened my fingers and felt the familiar roughness of the leather bindings. Serpent-Breath. I felt a wash of relief go through me because whatever happened I had held onto her and my grip would carry me to Valhalla.

‘Valhalla,’ I said.

‘I think he’s just moaning,’ a man said close by.

‘He’ll never know he killed Cnut,’ another man said.

‘He will know!’ Æthelflaed said fiercely.

‘My lady …’

‘He will know!’ she insisted, and her fingers tightened on mine.

‘I do know,’ I said. ‘I cut his throat, of course I know.’

‘Just moaning,’ the man’s voice said very close by. A cloth with rough weave was wiped across my lips, then there was a gust of colder air and the sound of people entering the room. A half-dozen people spoke at once, then someone was close by my head and a hand stroked my forehead.

‘He’s not dead, Finan,’ Æthelflaed said softly.

Finan said nothing. ‘I killed him,’ I said to Finan. ‘But he was fast. Even faster than you.’

‘Sweet Jesus,’ Finan said, ‘I can’t imagine life without him.’ He sounded heartbroken.

‘I’m not dead, you Irish bastard,’ I said, ‘we have battles yet to fight, you and I.’

‘Is he speaking?’ Finan asked.

‘Just groaning,’ a man’s voice answered, and I was aware that more folk had come into the room. Finan’s hand went away and another took its place.

‘Father?’ It was Uhtred.

‘I’m sorry if I was cruel to you,’ I said, ‘but you’re good. You killed Sigurd! Men will know you now.’

‘Oh dear God,’ Uhtred said, then his hand went away. ‘Lord?’ he said.

‘How is he?’ That was King Edward of Wessex. There was a rustle as men went to their knees.

‘He can’t last long,’ a man’s voice said.

‘And Lord Æthelred?’

‘The wound is grievous, lord, but I think he will live.’

‘God be praised. What happened?’

There was a pause as if no one wanted to answer. ‘I’m not dying,’ I said, and no one took any notice.

‘Lord Æthelred was attacked by a group of Danes, lord,’ a man said, ‘at the end of the battle. Most were surrendering. These tried to kill Lord Æthelred.’

‘I see no wound,’ the king said.

‘The back of his skull, lord. The helmet took most of the blow, but the tip of the spear went through.’

The back of his skull, I thought, it would be the back of his skull. I laughed. It hurt. I stopped laughing.

‘Is he dying?’ a voice close by asked.

Æthelflaed’s fingers gripped mine hard. ‘He’s just choking,’ she said.

‘Sister,’ the king said.

‘Be quiet, Edward!’ she said fiercely.

‘You should be at your husband’s side,’ Edward said sternly.

‘You boring little fart,’ I told him.

‘I am where I wish to be,’ Æthelflaed said in a tone I knew well. No one would win an argument with her now, and no one tried, though a voice muttered something about her behaviour being unseemly.

‘They’re rancid shit-wits,’ I told her, and felt her hand stroke my forehead.

There was silence except for the crackle of the burning logs in the hearth. ‘Has he been given the rites?’ the king asked after a while.

‘He doesn’t want the rites,’ Finan said.

‘He must have them,’ Edward insisted. ‘Father Uhtred?’

‘His name isn’t Uhtred,’ I snarled, ‘he’s called Father Judas. The bastard should have been a warrior!’

Yet to my surprise Father Judas was weeping. His hands shook as he touched me, as he prayed over me, as he administered the death rites. When he finished he left his fingers on my lips. ‘He was a loving father,’ he said.

‘Of course I wasn’t,’ I said.

‘A difficult man,’ Edward said, though not unsympathetically.

‘He was not difficult,’ Æthelflaed said fiercely, ‘but he was only happy when he was fighting. And you were all frightened of him, but in truth he was generous, kind and stubborn.’ She was crying now.

‘Oh, do stop it, woman,’ I said, ‘you know I can’t bear weeping women.’

‘Tomorrow we go south,’ the king announced, ‘and we shall give thanks for a great victory.’

‘A victory Lord Uhtred gave you,’ Æthelflaed said.

‘That he gave us,’ the king agreed, ‘and that God allowed him to give us. And we shall build burhs in Mercia. There is God’s work to do.’

‘My father would want to be buried at Bebbanburg,’ Father Judas said.

‘I want to be buried with Gisela!’ I said. ‘But I’m not dying!’

I could not see, not even the glow of the fire. Or rather I could only see a great vault that was both dark and light at the same time, a cave shot through with strange lights, and somewhere in the far recesses of that glowing darkness were figures and I thought Gisela was one, and I gripped Serpent-Breath as the pain tore through me again so that I arched my back and that made the pain worse. Æthelflaed gasped and clung to my hand and another hand closed about the grip I had on Serpent-Breath, holding me tight to her.

‘He’s going,’ Æthelflaed said.

‘God take his soul.’ It was Finan who was holding my hand to Serpent-Breath’s hilt.

‘I am not!’ I said. ‘I am not!’ And the woman in the cave was alone now and it really was Gisela, lovely Gisela, and she was smiling at me, holding her hands towards me, and she was speaking though I could not hear her voice. ‘Be quiet, all of you,’ I said, ‘I want to hear Gisela.’

‘Any moment,’ a voice said in a hushed tone.

A long pause. A hand touched my face. ‘He still lives, God be praised,’ Father Judas said uncertainly.

Then there was another silence. A long silence. Gisela had faded and my eyes stared at misted nothingness. I was aware of people around the bed. A horse neighed and out in the dark an owl called.

‘Wyrd bið ful
ā
ræd,’ I said, and no one answered, so I said it again.

Wyrd bið ful
ā
ræd.

AD 910. This year Frithestan took to the bishopric of Wintanceaster; and the same year King Edward sent an army both from Wessex and Mercia, which very much harassed the northern army by their attacks on men and property of every kind. They slew many of the Danes, and remained in the country five weeks. This year the Angles and the Danes fought at Teotanheale; and the Angles had the victory.

That was one of the entries in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for the year 910. Another recorded Æthelred’s death, prematurely, though some historians believe Æthelred was wounded so gravely at Teotanheale that the injury brought on his death in 911.

Teotanheale is now Tettenhall, a pleasant suburb of Wolverhampton in the West Midlands. Readers familiar with the area might protest that the River Tame does not run near Tettenhall, but there is evidence that it did in the tenth century AD, long before it was diked, channelled and diverted to its present course.

We know there was a battle at Tettenhall in AD 910, and we know that it was fought by a combined army of Wessex and Mercia that decisively defeated the marauding Danes. The two Danish leaders were killed. Their names were Eowils and Healfdan, but rather than introduce two new names to the story and promptly kill them, I decided to use Cnut and Sigurd, who feature in some of the earlier novels about Uhtred’s adventures. We know very little, indeed next to nothing, of what happened at Tettenhall. There was a battle and the Danes lost, but why or how is a mystery. So the battle is not fiction, though my version is entirely invented. I doubt that the Danes precipitated the search for Saint Oswald’s bones, though that too happened when Æthelred of Mercia sent an expedition into southern Northumbria to retrieve the bones. Oswald was a Northumbrian saint, and one theory holds that Æthelred was attempting to solicit the support of those Saxons living under Danish rule in Northumbria. The bones were discovered and taken back to Mercia where they were interred at Gloucester, all but for the skull, which remained in Durham (four other churches in Europe claim to possess the skull, but Durham seems the likeliest candidate), and the one arm that was at Bamburgh (Bebbanburg), though, centuries later, that was stolen by monks from Peterborough.

The first Latin quote in Chapter Eleven,
moribus et forma conciliandus amor
, which is incised on the Roman bowl that Uhtred reduces to hacksilver, is from Ovid; ‘pleasant looks and good manners assist love’, which is probably true, but was undoubtedly rare in Saxon Britain. The second quote, on the bridge at Tameworþig, is quoted from the magnificent Roman bridge at Alcántara in Spain:
pontem perpetui mansurum in saecula,
which means ‘I have built a bridge which will last for ever.’ The Saxons lived in the shadow of Roman Britain, surrounded by the ruins of their great monuments, using their roads, and doubtless wondering why such magnificence had decayed to oblivion.