The Flame Bearer (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 10) (18 page)

‘You think what?’ I blurted out.

‘She’s a princess of Mercia,’ Æthelflaed said firmly, ‘and if I can rule Mercia, why can’t she? Why must a man always be the next ruler?’

‘I adore Ælfwynn,’ I said, ‘but she doesn’t have your good sense.’

‘Then she can marry Cynlæf Haraldson,’ Æthelflaed said, ‘and he’ll advise her. He’s a strong young man.’

I said nothing. Cynlæf Haraldson was a young, handsome West Saxon warrior, but of no great birth, which meant he did not bring Ælfwynn the power of a big noble house, and he was of no great achievement either, which meant he did not have the reputation to attract men to follow him. I thought him shallow, but there was no point in saying so to Æthelflaed, who had always been charmed by his looks, manners, and courtesy.

‘Cynlæf will protect her,’ Æthelflaed said, ‘and so will you.’

‘You know I’m fond of her,’ I said, and that was an evasion. What she wanted to hear was that I would support Ælfwynn as I had supported her, that Ælfwynn would have my oath. I was saved from having to say more by Rorik, my servant, who slapped a hand on the tent flap and came nervously out of the sunlight.

‘Lord?’ he said, then remembered to bow to Æthelflaed.

‘What is it?’

‘King Sigtryggr is leaving, lord. You wanted me to tell you.’

‘I’m riding north with him,’ I told Æthelflaed.

‘Then go,’ she said.

I stood and bowed to her. ‘I will protect Ælfwynn,’ I said, and that would have to satisfy her. Saying that much did not commit my oath to Ælfwynn, and Æthelflaed knew it, but she smiled anyway and held out her hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

I bent and kissed her hand, then held onto it. ‘The best fate,’ I said, ‘is for you to get well. Become healthy! You’re the best ruler Mercia has ever had, so be well and go on ruling.’

‘I shall do my best.’

Then I shocked the two nuns by bending further and kissing Æthelflaed on the mouth. She did not resist. We had been lovers, I still loved her, and I love her to this day. I sensed a slight sob as we kissed.

‘I shall come again,’ I promised her, ‘after I’ve taken Bebbanburg.’

‘Not Frisia?’ she asked mischievously. So the rumour was spreading.

I lowered my voice. ‘I’m going to Bebbanburg next. Tell no one.’

‘Dear Lord Uhtred,’ she said softly, ‘everyone knows you’re going to Bebbanburg. Perhaps I’ll visit you there?’

‘You must, my lady, you must. You will be treated like the queen you are.’ I kissed her hand again. ‘Till we meet in the north, my lady,’ I said, then reluctantly released her fingers and followed Rorik out of the tent.

I never saw her again.

My men and Sigtryggr’s men rode together, going north. The sun shone, it was warm, and the summer air was filled with the sound of hooves and the jingle of harnesses. ‘I hate Saxons,’ Sigtryggr said.

I did not answer. To my right was a field thick with growing wheat, a reminder of how rich this land was. Dust drifted from our passing.

‘You’ve bought me at least a year,’ Sigtryggr said, ‘thank you.’

I saw a falcon high in the warm air, hovering, its wings motionless except for a slight quiver as it stared intensely at the ground where some creature was doomed. I watched it, hoping to see the bird stoop, but it just stayed there, effortlessly riding the high wind. An omen? Maybe an omen of peace, except I did not want peace. I was carrying my sword towards Bebbanburg.

‘They smell different,’ Sigtryggr said vengefully. ‘They reek of the Saxon stink! Rotted turnips! That’s what they smell like, rotted turnips! Smug, self-satisfied turnips!’

I twisted in my saddle and looked at Æthelstan, who was riding next to my son a few paces behind us and who, thankfully, was out of earshot of Sigtryggr’s spleen. ‘Prince Æthelstan,’ I called, ‘do Danes and Norsemen smell?’

‘The Danes stink of curdled cheese, lord,’ he called back cheerfully, ‘while the Norse reek of bad fish.’

Sigtryggr snorted. ‘I hope the Saxons do break the truce, Prince Æthelstan,’ he said loudly, ‘then I will have the pleasure of killing you.’ He knew I would never allow it, but he enjoyed making the threat.

He looked older. I remembered the gleeful young battle-warrior who had leaped up the ramparts of Ceaster as he tried to kill me. A lord of war. I had taken one of his eyes and he had taken my daughter, and now we were friends, but a few months of kingship had put lines on his face and taken the joy from his soul.

‘And that bastard Thurferth!’ he spat. ‘He’s no better! He calls himself a Dane and lifts his arse for the Christians? I’d nail the treacherous bastard to a cross.’ His anger was justified. The Danish lords who ruled Northumbria’s southern burhs had the power to give Sigtryggr a formidable army, but their fear was proving stronger than their loyalty. I suspected most would follow Thurferth and give their allegiance to both the West Saxons and to the nailed god. ‘They’ll even march with the Saxons,’ Sigtryggr said bitterly.

‘Probably.’

‘And what do I do then?’ It was not a real question, more a cry of despair.

‘You come to live in Bebbanburg,’ I said mildly.

We rode in silence for a half-mile as the road dropped to a shallow ford where the horses paused to drink. I rode ahead a few paces and checked Tintreg in the road’s dusty centre, just listening to the day’s silence.

Sigtryggr followed me. ‘I can’t fight the Scots and the Saxons,’ he said. He sounded grudging, not wanting me to think him a coward, ‘not at the same time.’

‘The Saxons will keep the truce,’ I assured him, and I was sure I was right.

‘Next year,’ he said, ‘or maybe the year after, the armies of Mercia and Wessex will come north. I can hold them. I have just enough men. At the very least I can make them wish they’d never heard of Northumbria. And with your men? We can darken the earth with their filthy blood.’

‘I won’t fight against Æthelflaed,’ I told him, ‘she has my oath.’

‘Then you can kill the bastard West Saxons,’ he said vengefully, ‘and I’ll kill the Mercians, but I can’t fight if I don’t have enough men.’

‘True.’

‘And to throw Constantin back to his hovels? I can do it, but at what price?’

‘A high price,’ I said, ‘the Scots fight like angry polecats.’

‘So …’ he began.

‘I know,’ I interrupted him. ‘You can’t throw away the best part of your army fighting the Scots, at least not till you’ve beaten back the Saxons.’

‘You understand?’

‘Of course I understand,’ I said. And he was right. Sigtryggr commanded a small army. If he led it north to evict the Scots from Bebbanburg’s land he would be inviting a war with Constantin, who would welcome a chance to weaken Northumbria’s army. Sigtryggr might well win the first battles, driving Domnall’s four hundred men northwards, but after that the howling devils of Niflheim would emerge from the Scottish hills, and the battles would become grimmer. Sigtryggr, even if he won, would lose the men he needed to stave off the Saxon assault.

He gazed north to where the day’s heat shimmered above low hills and thick woods. ‘So you’ll wait to attack Bebbanburg?’ he asked. ‘You’ll wait till we’ve driven off the Saxons?’

‘I can’t wait.’

Sigtryggr looked pained. ‘Without those bastard Thurferth’s troops,’ he said, ‘and the rest of those slimy toads in the south, I can’t assemble more than eight hundred men. I can’t lose a hundred to Constantin.’

‘I’ll want a hundred and fifty from you,’ I said, ‘maybe two hundred, and if I’m right, not one of those men will be scratched. I can’t wait because by next spring Constantin will have starved the bastard out and he’ll be sitting inside Bebbanburg, so I’m going there now, and I’m going to capture it,’ I touched the hammer, ‘and I need your help.’

‘But—’ he said.

And I interrupted him again.

By telling him how we would conquer the unconquerable, and how his men would suffer no casualties in the conquest.

Or so I hoped. I gripped the hammer. Wyrd bið ful ãræd.

PART THREE

The Mad Bishop

Seven

‘We’re going to Frisia,’ I told Eadith.

She just stared at me in astonishment.

I had ridden north to Eoferwic where I spent one night, feasting with Sigtryggr, my daughter and, of all people, the new Archbishop Hrothweard. He was indeed a decent man, or seemed so to me. He flinched when I told him what had happened in Hornecastre. ‘It seems God was on your side, Lord Uhtred,’ he said gently, ‘you snatched peace from the jaws of war.’

‘Which god?’ I asked him.

He laughed, then asked me what I thought would happen at Bebbanburg and I gave him the same answer that Finan had given him, that Constantin would find an assault too costly, but that he hardly needed to expend troops on the fortress walls when hunger would do the job for him. Hrothweard shook his head sadly. ‘So Saint Cuthbert’s monastery, if it is rebuilt, will host Scottish monks.’

‘And that worries you?’ I asked him.

He thought about his answer. ‘It shouldn’t,’ he finally said. ‘They will be godly men, I am sure.’

‘But you will lose the money that pilgrims bring,’ I said.

He liked that retort, and his long face lit up with delight as he pointed a goose-leg at me. ‘You like to think the worst of us, Lord Uhtred!’

‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’

He shook his head. ‘Lindisfarena is a holy place. An island of prayer. I would like to appoint its new abbot if God wills it, only to be certain that he is worthy of the island and will not bring God’s church into disrepute. And a worthy man, Lord Uhtred, would not be a greedy man, whatever you might think.’

‘I think Bishop Ieremias has dreams of being the next abbot,’ I said mischievously.

Hrothweard laughed. ‘Poor man! What do men call him? The mad bishop?’ He chuckled. ‘There are those who urge me to excommunicate him, but what good would that do? He is sorely mistaken, I’m sure, but unlike some I can think of,’ he looked at me with humour in his eyes, ‘he worships the one god. He is, I think, harmless. In grievous error, of course, but harmless.’

I liked the man. Like Father Pyrlig, he wore his faith lightly, but his piety, kindness, and honesty were obvious. ‘I shall pray for you,’ he said, on parting, ‘whether you like it or not.’

I made no attempt to see Berg on that brief visit, though my daughter told me he had purchased three ships and was now repairing them on the wharves close to the Duck tavern. Now, back in Dunholm, I told Eadith of those ships, and of my plans to cross the sea to Frisia. It was night-time, and we talked in the house I had built above the main gate. In daylight the house gave us a fine view southwards, but now all that could be seen were the glow of fires from the small town below the fortress and the sparks of uncountable stars spread across the heavens. The house had been an extravagance. It had meant building a gatehouse tunnel to support it, and two chambers flanking the tunnel, one to house our servants and the other for the gate’s guards. A set of stairs led from our servants’ quarters into our private rooms, and I was inordinately proud of those stairs. They were rare! Of course every Roman town that had kept its walls had steps leading to the ramparts, but I had rarely seen stairs in the buildings we made. Many halls had an upper floor, but those platforms, which we usually used for sleeping, were reached by ladders, and sometimes by a ramp, but I had always admired how the Romans had made stairs inside their houses, and so I had ordered some built, though admittedly the Dunholm stair was made from wood and not from finely-cut stone. Building our house above the entrance tunnel meant thrusting a new rampart out over the approach road, and, because there were sentries on that rampart’s high platform, I kept my voice low, though not quite low enough to prevent our conversation from being overheard.

‘Frisia!’ Eadith exclaimed.

‘There are islands,’ I said, ‘off the Frisian coast. We’ll take one, build a fortress and make it home.’ I could see a mixture of disbelief and disappointment on her face. ‘Frisia is Christian,’ I said, reassuring her, because she was a Christian and, despite all my persuasion, had never reverted to the worship of my older gods, ‘well, it’s mostly Christian,’ I went on, ‘and you won’t find it a strange place. Their language is so close to ours that you can understand everything!’

‘But,’ she began, and gestured around our chamber that was lit by small rushlights that glowed on the woven wall hangings, on the big woollen rug and the heap of furs that was our bed.

‘I’ve made too many enemies,’ I said bleakly. ‘Æthelflaed is dying, so she can’t protect me, the West Saxons have never loved me, and Æthelhelm hates me, my cousin sits in Bebbanburg like a great toad, and Constantin would like nothing more than to squash me like a louse.’

‘Sigtryggr …’ she began.

‘Is doomed,’ I said firmly. ‘The Saxons will attack next year or the year after, and he might hold them off for a couple of months, but after that? They’ll keep coming, and Constantin will see his opportunity and start taking more land in the north of Northumbria.’

‘But Sigtryggr’s looking to you for help!’ she protested.

‘And that’s what I’m giving him,’ I said. ‘We’re making a new land in Frisia. He’ll be welcome!’