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‘Cnut and Sigurd won’t attack now,’ I said, ‘but in the spring, maybe.’ Cnut and Sigurd were Danes from Northumbria and, like all the Danes, their abiding dream was to capture all the lands where English was spoken. The invaders had tried again and again, and again and again they had failed, yet another attempt was inevitable because the heart of Wessex, which was the great bastion of Saxon Christendom, was failing. Alfred was dying, and his death would surely bring pagan swords and heathen fire to Mercia and to Wessex. ‘But why would Cnut or Sigurd attack Eohric?’ I asked. ‘They don’t want East Anglia, they want Mercia and Wessex.’
‘They want everything,’ Ceolnoth or Ceolberht answered.
‘And the true faith will be scourged from Britain unless we defend it,’ the older of the two West Saxon priests said.
‘Which is why we beg you to forge the alliance,’ Willibald said.
‘At the Christmas feast,’ one of the twins added.
‘And Alfred sent a gift for Eohric,’ Willibald went on enthusiastically, ‘Alfred and Edward! They have been most generous, lord!’
The gift was encased in a box of silver studded with precious stones. The lid of the box showed a figure of Christ with uplifted arms, around which was written ‘Edward mec heht Gewyrcan’, meaning that Edward had ordered the reliquary made, or more likely his father had ordered the gift and then ascribed the generosity to his son. Willibald lifted the lid reverently, revealing an interior lined with red-dyed cloth. A small cushion, the width and breadth of a man’s hand, fitted snugly inside, and on the cushion was a fish skeleton. It was the whole fish skeleton, except for the head, just a long white spine with a comb of ribs on either side. ‘There,’ Willibald said, breathing the word as if speaking too loud might disturb the bones.
‘A dead herring?’ I asked incredulously, ‘that’s Alfred’s gift?’
The priests all crossed themselves.
‘How many more fish bones do you want?’ I asked. I looked at Finan, my closest friend and the commander of my household warriors. ‘We can provide dead fish, can’t we?’
‘By the barrelful, lord,’ he said.
‘Lord Uhtred!’ Willibald, as ever, rose to my taunting. ‘That fish,’ he pointed a quivering finger at the bones, ‘was one of the two fishes our Lord used to feed the five thousand!’
‘The other one must have been a damned big fish,’ I said, ‘what was it? A whale?’
The older West Saxon priest scowled at me. ‘I advised King Edward against employing you for this duty,’ he said, ‘I told him to send a Christian.’
‘So use someone else,’ I retorted. ‘I’d rather spend Yule in my own hall.’
‘He wishes you to go,’ the priest said sharply.
‘Alfred also wishes it,’ Willibald put in, then smiled, ‘he thinks you’ll frighten Eohric.’
‘Why does he want Eohric frightened?’ I asked. ‘I thought this was an alliance?’
‘King Eohric allows his ships to prey on our trade,’ the priest said, ‘and must pay reparations before we promise him protection. The king believes you will be persuasive.’
‘We don’t need to leave for at least ten days,’ I said, looking gloomily at the priests, ‘am I supposed to feed you all till then?’
‘Yes, lord,’ Willibald said happily.
Fate is strange. I had rejected Christianity, preferring the gods of the Danes, but I loved Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, and she was a Christian and that meant I carried my sword on the side of the cross.
And because of that it seemed I would spend Yule in East Anglia.
Osferth came to Buccingahamm, bringing another twenty of my household warriors. I had summoned them, wanting a large band to accompany me to East Anglia. King Eohric might have suggested the treaty, and he might be amenable to whatever demands Alfred made, but treaties are best negotiated from a position of strength and I was determined to arrive in East Anglia with an impressive escort. Osferth and his men had been watching Ceaster, a Roman camp on Mercia’s far north-western frontier where Haesten had taken refuge after his forces had been destroyed at Beamfleot. Osferth greeted me solemnly, as was his manner. He rarely smiled, and his customary expression suggested disapproval of whatever he saw, but I think he was glad to be reunited with the rest of us. He was Alfred’s son, born to a servant girl before Alfred discovered the dubious joys of Christian obedience. Alfred had wanted his bastard son trained as a priest, but Osferth had preferred the way of the warrior. It had been a strange choice, for he did not take great joy from a fight or yearn for the savage moments when anger and a blade make the rest of the world seem dull, yet Osferth brought his father’s qualities to a fight. He was serious, thoughtful and methodical. Where Finan and I could be rashly headstrong, Osferth used cleverness, and that was no bad thing in a warrior.
‘Haesten is still licking his wounds,’ he told me.
‘We should have killed him,’ I grumbled. Haesten had retreated to Ceaster after I had destroyed his fleet and army at Beamfleot. My instinct had been to follow him there and finish his nonsense once and for all, but Alfred had wanted his household troops back in Wessex and I did not have enough men to besiege the walls of the Roman fort at Ceaster, and so Haesten still lived. We watched him, looking for evidence that he was recruiting more men, but Osferth reckoned Haesten was getting weaker rather than stronger.
‘He’ll be forced to swallow his pride and swear loyalty to someone else,’ he suggested.
‘To Sigurd or Cnut,’ I said. Sigurd and Cnut were now the most powerful Danes in Britain, though neither was a king. They had land, wealth, flocks, herds, silver, ships, men and ambition. ‘Why would they want East Anglia?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Why not?’ Finan asked. He was my closest companion, the man I trusted most in a fight.
‘Because they want Wessex,’ I said.
‘They want all of Britain,’ Finan said.
‘They’re waiting,’ Osferth said.
‘For what?’
‘Alfred’s death,’ he said. He hardly ever called Alfred ‘my father’, as though he, like the king, was ashamed of his birth.
‘Oh there’ll be chaos when that happens,’ Finan said with relish.
‘Edward will make a good king,’ Osferth said reprovingly.
‘He’ll have to fight for it,’ I said. ‘The Danes will test him.’
‘And will you fight for him?’ Osferth asked.
‘I like Edward,’ I said non-committally. I did like him. I had pitied him as a child because his father placed him under the control of fierce priests whose duty was to make Edward the perfect heir for Alfred’s Christian kingdom. When I met him again, just before the fight at Beamfleot, he had struck me as a pompous and intolerant young man, but he had enjoyed the company of warriors and the pomposity vanished. He had fought well at Beamfleot and now, if Willibald’s gossip was to be believed, he had learned a little about sin as well.
‘His sister would want you to support him,’ Osferth said pointedly, making Finan laugh. Everyone knew Æthelflaed was my lover, as they knew Æthelflaed’s father was also Osferth’s father, but most people politely pretended not to know, and Osferth’s pointed remark was as close as he dared refer to my relationship with his half-sister. I would much rather have been with Æthelflaed for the Christmas feast, but Osferth told me she had been summoned to Wintanceaster and I knew I was not welcome at Alfred’s table. Besides, I now had the duty of delivering the magic fish to Eohric and I was worried that Sigurd and Cnut would raid my lands while I was in East Anglia.
Sigurd and Cnut had sailed south the previous summer, taking their ships to Wessex’s southern coast while Haesten’s army ravaged Mercia. The two Northumbrian Danes had thought to distract Alfred’s army while Haesten ran wild on Wessex’s northern border, but Alfred had sent me his troops anyway, Haesten had been stripped of his power, and Sigurd and Cnut had discovered they were powerless to capture any of Alfred’s burhs, the fortified towns that were scattered all across the Saxon lands, and so had returned to their ships. I knew they would not rest. They were Danes, which meant they were planning mischief.
So next day, in the melting snow, I took Finan, Osferth and thirty men north to Ealdorman Beornnoth’s land. I liked Beornnoth. He was old, grizzled, lame and fiery. His lands were at the very edge of Saxon Mercia and everything to the north of him belonged to the Danes, which meant that in the last few years he had been forced to defend his fields and villages against the attacks of Sigurd Thorrson’s men. ‘God Almighty,’ he greeted me, ‘don’t say you’re hoping for the Christmas feast in my hall?’
‘I prefer good food,’ I said.
‘And I prefer good-looking guests,’ he retorted, then shouted for his servants to take our horses. He lived a little north and east of Tofeceaster in a great hall surrounded by barns and stables that were protected by a stout palisade. The space between the hall and his largest barn was now being blood-soaked by the slaughter of cattle. Men were hamstringing the frightened beasts to buckle them to the ground and so keep them still while other men killed them with an axe blow to the forehead. The twitching carcasses were dragged to one side where women and children used long knives to skin and butcher the corpses. Dogs watched or else fought over the scraps of offal thrown their way. The air stank of blood and dung. ‘It was a good year,’ Beornnoth told me, ‘twice as many animals as last year. The Danes left me alone.’
‘No cattle raids?’
‘One or two,’ he shrugged. Since last I saw him he had lost the use of his legs and needed to be carried everywhere in a chair. ‘It’s old age,’ he told me. ‘I’m dying from the ground up. I suppose you want ale?’
We exchanged news in his hall. He bellowed with laughter when I told him of the attempt on my life. ‘You use sheep to defend yourself these days?’ He saw his son enter the hall and shouted at him. ‘Come and hear how the Lord Uhtred won the battle of the sheep!’
The son was called Beortsig and, like his father, was broad-shouldered and heavy-bearded. He laughed at the tale, but the laughter seemed forced. ‘You say the rogues came from Tofeceaster?’ he asked.
‘That’s what the bastard said.’
‘That’s our land,’ Beortsig said.
‘Outlaws,’ Beornnoth said dismissively.
‘And fools,’ Beortsig added.
‘A thin, bald, one-eyed man recruited them,’ I said. ‘Do you know anyone who looks like that?’
‘Sounds like our priest,’ Beornnoth said, amused. Beortsig said nothing. ‘So what brings you here?’ Beornnoth asked, ‘other than the need to drain my ale barrels?’
I told him of Alfred’s request that I seal a treaty with Eohric, and how Eohric’s envoys had explained their king’s request because of his fear of Sigurd and Cnut. Beornnoth looked sceptical. ‘Sigurd and Cnut aren’t interested in East Anglia,’ he said.
‘Eohric thinks they are.’
‘The man’s a fool,’ Beornnoth said, ‘and always was. Sigurd and Cnut want Mercia and Wessex.’
‘And once they possess those kingdoms, lord,’ Osferth spoke softly to our host, ‘they’ll want East Anglia.’
‘True, I suppose,’ Beornnoth allowed.
‘So why not take East Anglia first?’ Osferth suggested, ‘and add its men to their war-bands?’
‘Nothing will happen till Alfred dies,’ Beornnoth suggested. He made the sign of the cross, ‘and I pray he still lives.’
‘Amen,’ Osferth said.
‘So you want to disturb Sigurd’s peace?’ Beornnoth asked me.
‘I want to know what he’s doing,’ I said.
‘He’s preparing for Yule,’ Beortsig said dismissively.
‘Which means he’ll be drunk for the next month,’ the father added.
‘He’s left us in peace all year,’ the son said.
‘And I don’t want you poking his wasps out of their nest,’ Beornnoth said. He spoke lightly enough, but his meaning was heavy. If I rode on north then I might provoke Sigurd, then Beornnoth’s land would be thudded by Danish hooves and reddened by Danish blades.
‘I have to go to East Anglia,’ I explained, ‘and Sigurd’s not going to like the thought of an alliance between Eohric and Alfred. He might send men south to make his displeasure known.’
Beornnoth frowned. ‘Or he might not.’
‘Which is what I want to find out,’ I said.
Beornnoth grunted at that. ‘You’re bored, Lord Uhtred?’ he asked. ‘You want to kill a few Danes?’
‘I just want to smell them,’ I said.
‘Smell?’
‘Half Britain will already know of this treaty with Eohric,’ I said, ‘and who has the most interest in preventing it?’
‘Sigurd,’ Beornnoth admitted after a pause.
I sometimes thought of Britain as a mill. At the base, heavy and dependable was the millstone of Wessex, while at the top, just as heavy, was the grindstone of the Danes, and Mercia was crushed between them. Mercia was where Saxon and Dane fought most often. Alfred had cleverly extended his authority over much of the kingdom’s south, but the Danes were lords of its north, and till now the struggle had been fairly evenly divided, which meant both sides sought allies. The Danes had offered enticements to the Welsh kings, but though the Welsh nursed an undying hatred of all Saxons, they feared the wrath of their Christian God more than they feared the Danes, and so most of the Welsh kept an uneasy peace with Wessex. To the east, though, lay the unpredictable kingdom of East Anglia, which was ruled by Danes, but was ostensibly Christian. East Anglia could tip the scales. If Eohric sent men to fight against Wessex then the Danes would win, but if he allied himself with the Christians then the Danes would face defeat.
Sigurd, I thought, would want to prevent the treaty ever happening, and he had two weeks to do that. Had he sent the thirteen men to kill me? As I sat by Beornnoth’s fire, that seemed the best answer. And if he had, then what would he do next?
‘You want to smell him, eh?’ Beornnoth asked.
‘Not provoke him,’ I promised.
‘No deaths? No robbery?’
‘I won’t start anything,’ I promised.
‘God knows what you’ll discover without slaughtering a few of the bastards,’ Beornnoth said, ‘but yes. Go and sniff. Beortsig will go with you.’ He was sending his son and a dozen household warriors to make sure we kept our word. Beornnoth feared we planned to lay waste a few Danish steadings and bring back cattle, silver and slaves, and his men would be there to prevent that, but in truth I only wanted to smell the land.
I did not trust Sigurd or his ally, Cnut. I liked both of them, but knew they would kill me as casually as we kill our winter cattle. Sigurd was the wealthier of the two men, while Cnut the more dangerous. He was young still, and in his few years he had gained a reputation as a sword-Dane, a man whose blade was to be respected and feared. Such a man attracted others. They came from across the sea, rowing to Britain to follow a leader who promised them wealth. And in the spring, I thought, the Danes would surely come again, or perhaps they would wait till Alfred died, knowing that the death of a king brings uncertainty, and in uncertainty lies opportunity.
Beortsig was thinking the same. ‘Is Alfred really dying?’ he asked me as we rode north.
‘So everyone says.’
‘They’ve said it before.’
‘Many times,’ I agreed.
‘You believe it?’
‘I haven’t seen him for myself,’ I said, and I knew I would not be welcome in his palace even if I wanted to see him. I had been told Æthelflaed had gone to Wintanceaster for the Christmas feast, but more likely she had been summoned for the death-watch rather than for the dubious delights of her father’s table.
‘And Edward will inherit?’ Beortsig asked.
‘That’s what Alfred wants.’
‘And who becomes king in Mercia?’ he asked.
‘There is no king in Mercia,’ I said.
‘There should be,’ he said bitterly, ‘and not a West Saxon either! We’re Mercians, not West Saxons.’ I said nothing in response. There had once been kings in Mercia, but now it was subservient to Wessex. Alfred had managed that. His daughter was married to the most powerful of the Mercian ealdormen, and most Saxons in Mercia seemed content that they were effectively under Alfred’s protection, but not all Mercians liked that West Saxon dominance. When Alfred died the powerful Mercians would start eyeing their empty throne, and Beortsig, I supposed, was one such man. ‘Our forefathers were kings here,’ he told me.
‘My forefathers were kings in Northumbria,’ I retorted, ‘but I don’t want the throne.’
‘Mercia should be ruled by a Mercian,’ he said. He seemed uncomfortable in my company, or perhaps he was uneasy because we rode deep into the lands that Sigurd claimed.
We rode directly north, the low winter sun throwing our shadows far ahead of us. The first steadings we passed were nothing but burned out ruins, then after midday we came to a village. The people had seen us coming, and so I took my horsemen into the nearby woods until we had rousted a couple out of their hiding place. They were Saxons, a slave and his wife, and they said their lord was a Dane. ‘Is he in his hall?’ I asked.
‘No, lord.’ The man was kneeling, shaking, unable to lift his eyes to meet my gaze.
‘What’s his name?’
