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I had asked the question in a truculent tone, but Æthelstan answered enthusiastically. ‘I like him!’
‘A pagan?’
He laughed at that. ‘I like you too, lord,’ he said, ‘sometimes.’ He spurred his horse off the road and onto a track that skirted the Roman cemetery. He glanced at the weather-worn graves and made the sign of the cross. ‘Ingilmundr’s father held land in Ireland. He and his men got beaten and driven to the sea. The father died, but Ingilmundr managed to bring off half his army with their families. I sent a message early this morning asking that he should meet us at Brunanburh because I want you to meet him. You’ll like him too!’
‘I probably will,’ I said. ‘He’s a Norseman and a pagan. But that makes him your enemy, and he’s an enemy living on your land.’
‘And he pays us tribute. And tribute weakens the payer and acknowledges his subservience.’
‘Cheaper in the long run,’ I said, ‘just to kill the bastards.’
‘Ingilmundr swore on his gods to live peaceably with us,’ Æthelstan continued, ignoring my comment.
I leaped on his words. ‘So you trust his gods? You accept they are real?’
‘They’re real to Ingilmundr, I suppose,’ Æthelstan said calmly. ‘Why make him take an oath on a god he doesn’t believe in? That just begs for the oath to be broken.’
I grunted at that. He was right, of course. ‘But no doubt part of the agreement,’ I said scathingly, ‘was that Ingilmundr accepts your damned missionaries.’
‘The damned missionaries are indeed part of the agreement,’ he said patiently. ‘We insist on that with every Norseman who settles south of the Ribbel. That’s why my father put a burh at Mameceaster.’
‘To protect missionaries?’ I asked, astonished.
‘To protect anyone who accepts Mercian rule,’ he said, still patient, ‘and punish anyone who breaks our law. The warriors protect our land, and the monks and priests teach folk about God and about God’s law. I’m building a convent there now.’
‘That will terrify the Northmen,’ I said sourly.
‘It will help bring Christian charity to a troubled land,’ Æthelstan retorted. His aunt, the Lady Æthelflaed, had always claimed the River Ribbel as Mercia’s northern frontier, though in truth the land between the Mærse and the Ribbel was wild and mostly ungoverned, its coast long settled by Danes who had often raided the rich farmlands around Ceaster. I had led plenty of war-bands north in revenge for those raids, once leading my men as far as Mameceaster, an old Roman fort on a sandstone hill beside the River Mædlak. King Edward had strengthened those old walls and put a garrison into Mameceaster’s fort. And thus, I reflected, the frontier of Mercia crept ever northwards. Ceaster had been the northernmost burh, then Brunanburh, and now it was Mameceaster, and that new burh on its sandstone hill was perilously close to my homeland, Northumbria. ‘Have you ever been to Mameceaster?’ Æthelstan asked me.
‘I was there less than a week ago,’ I said ruefully. ‘The damned monk who lied to me left us at Mameceaster.’
‘You came that way?’
‘Because I thought the garrison would have news of you, but the bastards wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even let us through the gate. They let the damned monk in, but not us.’
Æthelstan laughed. ‘That was Treddian.’
‘Treddian?’
‘A West Saxon. He commands there. Did he know it was you?’
‘Of course he did.’
Æthelstan shrugged. ‘You’re a pagan and a Northumbrian and that makes you an enemy. Treddian probably thought you were planning to slaughter his garrison. He’s a cautious man, Treddian. Too cautious, which is why I’m replacing him.’
‘Too cautious?’
‘You don’t defend a burh by staying on the walls. Everything to the north of Mameceaster is pagan country, and they raid constantly. Treddian just watches them! He does nothing! I want a man who’ll punish the pagans.’
‘By invading Northumbria?’ I asked sourly.
‘Sigtryggr is king of that land in name only,’ Æthelstan replied forcefully. He saw me flinch at the uncomfortable truth, and pressed his argument. ‘Does he have any burhs west of the hills?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘Does he send men to punish evil-doers?’
‘When he can.’
‘Which is never,’ Æthelstan said scornfully. ‘If the pagans of Northumbria raid Mercia,’ he went on, ‘then we should punish them. Englaland will be a country ruled by law. By Christian law.’
‘Does Ingilmundr accept your law?’ I asked dubiously.
‘He does,’ Æthelstan said. ‘He has submitted himself and his folk to my justice.’ He ducked beneath the splintered branch of an alder. We were riding through a narrow belt of woodland that had been pillaged by the besiegers for firewood and the trees bore the scars of their axes. Beyond the wood I could see the reed beds that edged the flat grey Mærse. ‘He has also welcomed our missionaries,’ Æthelstan added.
‘Of course he has,’ I responded.
Æthelstan laughed, his good humour restored. ‘We don’t fight the Norsemen because they’re newcomers,’ he said. ‘We were newcomers ourselves once! We don’t even fight them because they’re pagans.’
‘We were all pagans once.’
‘We were indeed. No, we fight to bring them into our law. One country, one king, one law! If they break the law, we must impose it, but if they keep it? Then we must live with them in peace.’
‘Even if they’re pagans?’
‘By obeying the law they will see the truth of Christ’s commandments.’
I wondered if this was why Æthelstan had demanded my company; to preach the virtues of Christian justice to me? Or was it to meet Ingilmundr, with whom he was so plainly impressed? For a time, as we rode along the Mærse’s southern bank, he talked of his plans to strengthen Mameceaster, and then, impatient, he spurred his horse into a canter, leaving me behind. Mudflats and reed beds stretched to my right, the water beyond almost still, just occasionally ruffled by a breath of wind. As we drew closer to the burh I saw that Æthelstan’s flag still flew there, and two low lean ships were safely tied at the wharf. It seemed Cynlæf’s men had made no attempt to capture Brunanburh, which, as it turned out, had been garrisoned by a mere thirty men who opened the gates to welcome us.
As I rode through the gate I saw that Æthelstan had dismounted and was striding towards a tall young man who went to his knees as Æthelstan came close. Æthelstan raised him up, clasped the man’s right arm with both hands, and turned to me. ‘You must meet Ingilmundr,’ he exclaimed happily.
So this, I thought, was the Norse chieftain who had been allowed to settle so close to Ceaster. He was young, startlingly young, and strikingly handsome, with a straight blade of a nose and long hair that he wore tied in a leather lace so that it hung almost to his waist. ‘I asked Ingilmundr to meet us here,’ Æthelstan told me, ‘so we could thank him.’
‘Thank him for what?’ I asked once I had dismounted.
‘For not joining the rebellion, of course!’ Æthelstan said.
Ingilmundr waited as one of Æthelstan’s men translated the words, then took a simple wooden box from one of his companions. ‘It is a gift,’ he said, ‘to celebrate your victory. It is not much, lord Prince, but it is much of all that we possess.’ He knelt again and laid the box at Æthelstan’s feet. ‘We are glad, lord Prince,’ he went on, ‘that your enemies are defeated.’
‘Without your help,’ I could not resist saying as Æthelstan listened to the translation.
‘The strong do not need the help of the weak,’ Ingilmundr retorted. He looked up at me as he spoke, and I was struck by the intensity of his blue eyes. He was smiling, he was humble, but his eyes were guarded. He had come with just four companions, and, like them, he wore plain breeches, a woollen shirt, and a coat of sheepskin. No armour, no weapons. His only decorations were two amulets hanging at his neck. One, carved from bone, was Thor’s hammer, while the other was a silver cross studded with jet. I had never seen any man display both tokens at once.
Æthelstan raised the Norseman again. ‘You must forgive the Lord Uhtred,’ he said. ‘He sees enemies everywhere.’
‘You are Lord Uhtred!’ Ingilmundr said, and there was a flattering surprise and even awe in his voice. He bowed to me. ‘I am honoured, lord.’
Æthelstan gestured, and a servant came forward and opened the wooden box, which, I saw, was filled with hacksilver. The glittering scraps had been cut from torques and brooches, buckles and rings, most of them axe-hacked into shards that were used instead of coins. A merchant would weigh hacksilver to find its value, and Ingilmundr’s gift, I thought grudgingly, was not paltry. ‘You are generous,’ Æthelstan said.
‘We are poor, lord Prince,’ Ingilmundr said, ‘but our gratitude demands we offer you a gift, however small.’
And in his steadings, I thought, he was doubtless hoarding gold and silver. Why did Æthelstan not see that? Perhaps he did, but his pious hopes of converting the pagans exceeded his suspicions. ‘In an hour,’ he said to Ingilmundr, ‘we will have a service of thanksgiving in the hall. I hope you can attend and I hope you will listen to the words Father Swithred will preach. In those words are eternal life!’
‘We shall listen closely, lord Prince,’ Ingilmundr said earnestly, and I wanted to laugh aloud. He was saying everything Æthelstan wanted to hear, and though it was plain Æthelstan liked the young Norseman, it was equally plain he did not see the slyness behind Ingilmundr’s handsome face. He saw meekness, which the Christians ridiculously count as a virtue.
The meek Ingilmundr sought me out after Swithred’s interminable sermon, which I had not attended. I was on Brunanburh’s wharf, idly gazing into the belly of a ship and dreaming of being at sea with the wind in my sail and a sword at my side when I heard footsteps on the wooden planks and turned to see the Norseman. He was alone. He stood beside me and for a moment said nothing. He was as tall as I was. We both gazed into the moored ship and, after a long moment, Ingilmundr broke our silence. ‘Saxon ships are too heavy.’
‘Too heavy and too slow.’
‘My father had a Frisian ship once,’ he said, ‘and it was a beauty.’
‘You should persuade your friend Æthelstan to give you ships,’ I said, ‘then you can sail home.’
He smiled, despite my harsh tone. ‘I have ships, lord, but where is home? I thought Ireland was my home.’
‘Then go back there.’
He gave me a long look, as if weighing the depth of my hostility. ‘You think I don’t want to go back?’ he asked. ‘I would, lord, tomorrow, but Ireland is cursed. They’re not men, they’re fiends.’
‘They killed your father?’
He nodded. ‘They broke his shield wall.’
‘But you brought men away from the battle?’
‘One hundred and sixty-three men and their families. Nine ships.’ He sounded proud of that, and so he should have been. Retreating from a defeat is one of the hardest things to do in war, yet Ingilmundr, if he spoke truth, had fought his way back to the Irish shore. I could imagine the horror of that day; a broken shield wall, the shrieks of maddened warriors slaughtering their enemies, and the horsemen with their sharp spears racing in pursuit.
‘You did well,’ I said, and looked down at his two amulets. ‘Which god did you pray to?’
He laughed at that. ‘To Thor, of course.’
‘Yet you wear a cross.’
He fingered the heavy silver ornament. ‘It was a gift from my friend Æthelstan. It would be churlish to hide it away.’
‘Your friend Æthelstan,’ I said, mocking the word ‘friend’ with my tone, ‘would like you to be baptised.’
‘He would, I know.’
‘And you keep his hopes alive?’
‘Do I?’ he asked. He seemed amused by my questions. ‘Perhaps his god is more powerful than ours? Do you care which god I worship, Lord Uhtred?’
‘I like to know my enemies,’ I said.
He smiled at that. ‘I am not your enemy, Lord Uhtred.’
‘Then what are you? A loyal oath-follower of Prince Æthelstan? A settler pretending to be interested in the Saxon god?’
‘We are humble farmers now,’ he said, ‘farmers and shepherds and fishermen.’
‘And I’m a humble goatherd,’ I said.
He laughed again. ‘A goatherd who wins his battles.’
‘I do,’ I said.
‘Then let us make sure we are always on the same side,’ he said quietly. He looked at the cross that crowned the prow of the nearest ship. ‘I was not the only man driven out of Ireland,’ he said, and something in his tone made me pay attention. ‘Anluf is still there, but for how long?’
‘Anluf?’
‘He is the greatest chieftain of the Irish Norse and he has strong fortresses. Even fiends find those walls deadly. Anluf saw my father as a rival, and refused to help us, but that is not why we lost. My father lost the battle,’ he gazed across the placid Mærse as he spoke, ‘because his brother and his men retreated before the fight. I suspect he was bribed with Irish gold.’
‘Your uncle.’
‘He is called Sköll,’ he went on, ‘Sköll Grimmarson. Have you heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘You will. He is ambitious. And he has a feared sorcerer,’ he paused to touch the bone-hammer, ‘and he and his magician are in your country.’
‘In Northumbria?’
‘Northumbria, yes. He landed north of here, far north. Beyond the next river, what is it called?’
‘The Ribbel.’
‘Beyond the Ribbel where he has gathered men. Sköll, you see, craves to be called King Sköll.’
‘King of what?’ I asked scornfully.
‘Northumbria, of course. And that would be fitting, would it not? Northumbria, a northern kingdom for a Norse king.’ He looked at me with his ice-blue eyes and I remember thinking that Ingilmundr was one of the most dangerous men I had ever met. ‘To become king, of course,’ he went on in a conversational tone, ‘he must first defeat Sigtryggr, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he knows, who does not, that King Sigtryggr’s father-in-law is the renowned Lord Uhtred. If I were Sköll Grimmarson I would want Lord Uhtred far from his home if I planned to cross the hills.’
So this was why he had sought me out. He knew I had been lured across Britain, and he was telling me that his uncle, whom he plainly hated, had arranged the deception. ‘And how,’ I asked, ‘would Sköll do that?’
He turned to stare again at the river. ‘My uncle has recruited men who settled south of the Ribbel, and that, I am told, is Mercian land.’
‘It is.’
‘And my friend Æthelstan insists that all such settlers must pay tribute and must accept his missionaries.’
I realised he was talking about the monk. Brother Osric. The man who had led me on a wild dance across the hills. The man who had lied to me. And Ingilmundr was telling me that his uncle, Sköll Grimmarson, had sent the monk on his treacherous errand. ‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.
‘Even we simple farmers like to know what is happening in the world.’
