The Pagan Lord (16 page)

I was still hesitating, still indecisive. Of course I knew what to do, I knew I should take my men back to
Middelniht
, but I dared not do that while Finan was still missing. I wanted to look at the smithy, but did not want to draw my cousin’s attention to it, so I just stared at him and, as my mind raced, and as I tried to find some other way out of this defeat, I suddenly sensed that he was nervous too. It did not show. He looked magnificent in his black cloak, and with his wolf-crowned helmet incised with Christian crosses, and holding his blade that was as formidable as Serpent-Breath, but beneath that confidence there was a fear. I had not seen it at first, but it was there. He was tense.

‘Where’s your father?’ I asked. ‘I’d like him to see you die.’

‘He will watch you die,’ cousin Uhtred said. Had he bridled at my question? My sense of his discomfort was slight, but it was there. ‘Drop your sword,’ he ordered me again and in a much firmer voice.

‘We shall fight,’ I said just as firmly.

‘So be it.’ He accepted the decision calmly. So it was no fear of fighting that made him nervous, and perhaps I had misjudged him? Perhaps there was no uncertainty in him. He turned to his men. ‘Keep Uhtred alive! You will slaughter the rest, but keep Uhtred and his son alive!’ He walked away, not bothering to look back at me.

And I walked back to the Low Gate where my crew was waiting with their shields overlapping and weapons ready. ‘Osferth!’

‘Lord?’

‘Where’s Finan?’

‘He went to the smithy, lord.’

‘I know that!’ I hoped that Finan might have left the smithy and that I had not seen him leave, but Osferth confirmed he had not come out. So three of my men were inside that dark building, and I feared they were dead, that other guards had been inside and had overwhelmed them, but if that was the case why had those guards not appeared at the smithy door? I wanted to send men to discover Finan’s fate, but that would weaken my already weak shield wall.

And my cousin’s men had begun beating their shields again. They were beating a rhythm with steel on wood, and they were advancing.

‘In a moment,’ I spoke to my men, ‘we’ll make the swine’s horn. Then we’ll break them.’

It was my only hope. The swine’s horn was a wedge of men that would charge the enemy’s shield wall like a wild boar. We would go fast and the hope was that we could pierce their wall, break it and so begin to slaughter them. That was the hope, but the fear was that the swine’s horn would crumple. ‘Uhtred!’ I called.

‘Father?’

‘You should take a horse and ride now. Ride south. Keep riding till you reach friends. Keep our family alive and come back one day and take this fortress.’

‘If I die here,’ my son said, ‘then I’ll hold this fortress till Judgement Day.’

I had expected that answer, or something like it, and so I did not argue. Even if he rode south I doubted he would reach safety. My uncle would send men in pursuit, and between Bebbanburg and Saxon-ruled Britain there was nothing but enemies. Still, I had offered him the chance. Perhaps, I thought, my eldest son, the priestly son who was no longer my son, would marry and have children, and one of those sons would hear of this fight and want revenge.

The three Fates were laughing at me. I had dared and I had lost. I was trapped, and my cousin’s men reached the end of the rock-bound path and spread now. Their shield wall was wider than mine. They would overlap us, they would curl around our flanks and chew us with axes, spears and swords.

‘Step back,’ I told my men.

I still planned the swine’s horn, but for now I would let my cousin believe that I was going to make a wall inside the arch of the Low Gate. That would stop him from flanking me. It would make him cautious, and then I could charge him and hope to break him. Osferth stood beside me, my son behind me. We were under the arch now and I sent Rolla, Kettil and Eldgrim to the fighting platform so they could hurl stones at the advancing men. Osferth had told me the stones were piled there, ready, and I dared to hope we could survive this fight. I doubted I could take the High Gate, but just to survive and reach
Middelniht
would be victory enough.

My cousin took his shield. It was round, iron-bound willow with a big bronze boss. The boards had been painted red, and the wolf’s head badge was grey and black against that blood-coloured field. The enemy tightened their ranks, their shields overlapping. The rain was slicing from the sea, heavy again, dripping from helmet rims and shield rims and from spear-blades. It was cold, wet and grey.

‘Shields,’ I said, and our brief front rank, just six men constrained by the oak walls of the arch’s tunnel, touched shields. Let them come, I thought. Let them die on our shield wall rather than go to them. If I used the swine’s horn I would have to leave the shelter of the gate. I was still being indecisive, but the enemy had stopped advancing. That was normal. Men have to steel themselves to fight. My cousin was talking to them, but I could not hear his words. I did hear them cheer as they started forward again. They came sooner than I had expected. I had thought they would take time to ready themselves, time in which they would hurl insults, but they were well trained and confident. They came slowly, deliberately, their shields locked. They came as warriors advancing to a fight they expected to win. A big black-bearded man holding a long-hafted war axe was at their line’s centre, next to my cousin. He was the man who would attack me. He would try to tear down my shield with the axe, leaving me open to my cousin’s sword thrust. I hefted Serpent-Breath, then remembered that my hammer of Thor was still hidden beneath the mail. That was a bad omen, and a man should never have to fight under the thrall of a bad omen. I wanted to tear the silver cross from about my neck, but my left hand was threaded into the shield’s grips and my right was holding Serpent-Breath.

And the bad omen told me I would die there. I gripped Serpent-Breath more tightly, for she was my passage to Valhalla. I would fight, I thought, and I would lose, but the Valkyries would take me to that better world that lies beyond this one. And what better place to die than Bebbanburg?

And then a horn blew again.

It was a loud squawk, nothing like the brave, bold note of the first horn that had sounded the alarm from the High Gate. This horn sounded as if it was being blown by an enthusiastic child, and its raucous tone made my cousin look towards the smithy, and I looked too, and there at the door was Finan. He blew the horn a second time and, disgusted by the crude noise it made, threw it down.

He was not alone.

A few paces in front of him was a woman. She looked young and was wearing a white dress belted with a golden chain. Her hair was pale gold, so pale it was almost white. She had no cloak or cape and the rain was plastering the dress to her slim body. She stood motionless, and even at this distance I could see the anguish on her face.

And my cousin started towards her, then stopped because Finan had drawn his sword. The Irishman did not threaten the woman, but just stood, grinning, with his long blade naked. My cousin glanced at me, uncertainty on his face, then looked back to the smithy just as Finan’s two companions appeared, and each had a captive.

One captive was my uncle, Lord Ælfric, the other was a boy. ‘You want them dead?’ Finan called to my cousin. ‘You want me to slit their bellies open?’ He tossed his sword high into the air so that it turned end over end. It was an arrogant display and every man in the courtyard watched as he deftly caught the falling weapon by its hilt. ‘You want their guts fed to the dogs? Is that what you want? I’ll oblige you, by the living Christ I’ll oblige you! It would be a pleasure. Your dogs look hungry!’ He turned and took the small boy into his grasp. I saw my cousin motion to his men, ordering them to stay still. Now I knew why he had seemed nervous: because he had known his only son was in the smithy.

And Finan now had the boy. He held him by one arm and brought him towards me. Ulfar, another of my Danes, followed with my uncle, while the woman, evidently the boy’s mother, walked with them. No one held her, but she was clearly reluctant to leave her son.

Finan was still grinning as he reached me. ‘This wee bastard says his name is Uhtred. Would you believe today is his birthday? He’s eleven years old today and his grandfather bought him a horse, a fine one too! They were shoeing it, so they were. Just enjoying a sweet family outing which I interrupted.’

Relief was coursing through me like water pouring down a dry stream bed. A moment before I had been trapped and doomed, now I had my cousin’s son as a hostage. And his wife, I assumed, and his father. I smiled at my black-cloaked enemy. ‘It’s time for you to drop your sword,’ I told him.

‘Father!’ The boy struggled to escape Finan’s grasp, lunging towards his father, and I hit him with my shield, a stinging blow from the heavy iron-rimmed boards that prompted a cry of pain and a protest from his mother.

‘Stay still, you little bastard,’ I said to him.

‘He’s not going any place,’ Finan said, still holding the child’s arm.

I looked at the woman. ‘And you are?’ I demanded.

She stiffened defiantly, straightening her back and staring me in the eyes. ‘Ingulfrid,’ she said coldly.

Interesting, I thought. I knew my cousin had taken a Danish wife, but no one had told me what a fine-looking woman she was. ‘This is your son?’ I asked her.

‘He is,’ she said.

‘Your only son?’ I asked.

She hesitated, then nodded abruptly. I had heard that she had given birth to three boys, but only the one had lived.

‘Uhtred!’ my cousin called.

‘Father?’ the boy answered. He had a smear of blood where my shield had broken the skin over his right cheekbone.

‘Not you, boy. I’m talking to him.’ My cousin pointed his sword at me.

I dropped my shield and walked towards my cousin. ‘So,’ I said, ‘it seems we have each other at a disadvantage. Shall we fight? You and I? The law of the hazel rods?’

‘Fight him!’ my uncle called.

‘Let my wife and son go,’ my cousin said, ‘and you can leave in peace.’

I pretended to consider that, then shook my head. ‘It will take more than that. And you don’t want your father back?’

‘Him too, of course.’

‘You give me one thing,’ I said, ‘which is to go unharmed, and I have to give you three? That doesn’t make sense, cousin.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘because it’s mine.’

‘It is not yours!’ my uncle snarled. I turned to look at him. He was old now, old and bent, his dark face deep-lined, but he still had clever eyes. His dark hair had turned white and hung lank to his thin shoulders. He was dressed richly in embroidered robes with a heavy fur-trimmed cloak. When my father rode off to war, only to die at Eoferwic, Ælfric had sworn on the comb of Saint Cuthbert that he would give the fortress to me when I came of age, but instead he had tried to kill me. He had tried to buy me from Ragnar, the man who had raised me, and later he had paid to have me sold into slavery, and I hated him more than I have ever hated any creature on this earth. He had even been betrothed to my beloved Gisela, though I had taken her long before she could reach his bed. That had been a small victory, but this was a greater one. He was my captive, though nothing in his demeanour suggested he thought the same thing. He stared at me disdainfully. ‘Bebbanburg is not yours,’ he said.

‘It is my birthright,’ I said.

‘Your birthright,’ he spat. ‘Bebbanburg belongs to the man strong enough to hold it, not to some fool who waves parchment deeds. Your father would have wanted that! He told me often enough you were an irresponsible lackwit. He meant Bebbanburg to go to your elder brother, not to you! But it’s mine now, and one day it will belong to my son.’

I wanted to kill the lying bastard, but he was old and frail. Old, frail and as poisonous as a viper. ‘My Lady Ingulfrid,’ I said to Osferth, ‘is wet and cold. Give her my uncle’s cloak.’

If Ingulfrid was grateful she did not show it. She took the cloak willingly enough and pulled the heavy fur collar around her neck. She was shivering, but stared at me with loathing. I looked back to my cousin, her husband. ‘Maybe you should buy your family,’ I said, ‘and the price will be gold.’

‘They’re not slaves to be bought and sold,’ he snarled.

I gazed at him and pretended to be struck by a sudden thought. ‘There’s an idea! Slaves! Finan!’

‘Lord?’

‘How much does a fine Saxon boy fetch in Frankia these days?’

‘Enough to buy a coat of Frankish mail, lord.’

‘That much?’

Finan pretended to appraise the boy. ‘He’s a fine-looking lad. Got meat on his bones. There are men who’ll pay well for a plump little Saxon rump, lord.’

‘And the woman?’

Finan looked her up and down, then shook his head. ‘She’s fair enough looking, I suppose, but she’s used goods, lord. Maybe she still has a few years left in her? So she might fetch enough to buy a packhorse. More if she can cook.’

‘Can you cook?’ I asked Ingulfrid and received nothing more than a hate-filled stare for answer. I looked back to my cousin. ‘A packhorse and a coat of mail,’ I told him, then pretended to think about it. ‘It’s not enough,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I want more than that. Much more.’

‘You can leave unharmed,’ he offered, ‘and I shall pay you gold.’

‘How much gold?’

He glanced at his father. It was plain that Ælfric had yielded the day-to-day command of the fortress to his son, but when it came to matters of money then my uncle was still in charge. ‘His helmet,’ Ælfric said sullenly.

‘I will fill your helmet with gold coins,’ my cousin offered.

‘That will buy your wife,’ I said, ‘but how much for your heir?’

‘The same,’ he said bitterly.

‘Not nearly enough,’ I protested, ‘but I’ll exchange all three for Bebbanburg.’

‘No!’ my uncle cried loudly. ‘No!’

I ignored Ælfric. ‘Give me back what is mine,’ I told my cousin, ‘and I will give you what is yours.’

‘You can make other sons!’ Ælfric snarled at his son, ‘and Bebbanburg is not yours to give. It is mine!’