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‘Old men don’t need swords,’ he said, and his two companions laughed.
‘My name,’ I still spoke softly, ‘is Hefring Fenirson and this is my son, Berg Hefringson.’
‘Tell me, Hefring Fenirson,’ the young man said, ‘why you ride eastwards.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Jarl Ragnall is calling men to his side, and you ride away from him.’
‘Jarl Ragnall has no need of old men,’ I said.
‘True, but he has need of young men.’ He looked at Berg.
‘My son has no skill with a sword,’ I said. In truth Berg was lethally fast with a blade, but there was an innocence to his face that suggested he might have no love for fighting. ‘And who,’ I asked respectfully, ‘are you?’
He hesitated, plainly reluctant to give me his name, then shrugged as if to suggest it did not matter. ‘Othere Hardgerson,’ he said.
‘You came with the ships from Ireland?’ I asked.
‘Where we are from is none of your concern,’ he said. ‘Did you swear loyalty to Jarl Ragnall?’
‘I swear loyalty to no man,’ I said, and that was true. Æthelflaed had my oath.
Othere sneered at that. ‘You are a jarl, perhaps?’
‘I am a farmer.’
‘A farmer,’ he said derisively, ‘has no need of a fine horse. He has no need of a sword. He has no need of a coat of mail, even that rusty coat. And as for your son,’ he kicked his horse past mine to stare at Berg, ‘if he cannot fight then he too has no need of mail, sword or horse.’
‘You wish to buy them?’ I asked.
‘Buy them!’ Othere laughed at that suggestion. ‘I will give you a choice, old man,’ he said, turning back to me. ‘You can ride with us and swear loyalty to Jarl Ragnall or you can give us your horses, weapons, and mail, and go on your way. Which is it to be?’
I knew Othere’s kind. He was a young warrior, raised to fight and taught to despise any man who did not earn a living with a sword. He was bored. He had come across the sea on the promise of land and plunder, and though Ragnall’s present caution was doubtless justified, it had left Othere frustrated. He was being forced to wait while Ragnall gathered more men, and those men were evidently being recruited from Northumbria, from the Danes and Norsemen who had settled that riven country. Othere, ordered to the dull business of patrolling the river’s northern bank to guard against any Saxon incursion across the Mærse, wanted to start the conquest of Britain, and if Ragnall would not lead him into battle then he would seek a fight of his own. Besides, Othere was an over-confident young bully, and what did he have to fear from an old man?
I suppose I was old. My beard had turned grey and my face showed the years, but even so, Othere and his two companions should have been more cautious. What farmer would ride a swift horse? Or carry a great sword? Or wear mail? ‘I give you a choice, Othere Hardgerson,’ I said, ‘you can either ride away and thank whatever gods you worship that I let you live, or you can take the sword from me. Your choice, boy.’
He gazed at me for a heartbeat, looking for that moment as if he did not believe what he had just heard, then he laughed. ‘On horse or on foot, old man?’
‘Your choice, boy,’ I said again, and this time invested the word ‘boy’ with pure scorn.
‘Oh, you’re dead, old man,’ he retorted. ‘On foot, you old bastard.’ He swung easily from the saddle and dropped lithely to the damp grass. I assumed he had chosen to fight on foot because his horse was not battle-trained, but that suited me. I also dismounted, but did it slowly as though my old bones and aching muscles hampered me. ‘My sword,’ Othere said, ‘is called Blood-Drinker. A man should know what weapon sends him to his grave.’
‘My sword …’
‘Why do I need to know the name of your sword?’ he interrupted me, then laughed again as he pulled Blood-Drinker from her scabbard. He was right-handed. ‘I shall make it quick, old man. Are you ready?’ The last question was mocking. He did not care if I was ready, instead he was sneering because I had unsheathed Serpent-Breath and was holding her clumsily, as if she felt unfamiliar in my hand. I even tried holding her in my left hand before putting her back in my right, all to suggest to him that I was unpractised. I was so convincing that he lowered his blade and shook his head. ‘You’re being stupid, old man. I don’t want to kill you, just give me the sword.’
‘Gladly,’ I said, and moved towards him. He held out his left hand and I sliced Serpent-Breath up with a twist of my wrist and knocked that hand away, brought the blade back hard to beat Blood-Drinker aside, then lunged once to drive Serpent-Breath’s tip against his breast. She struck the mail above his breastbone, driving him back, and he half stumbled and roared in anger as he swept his sword around in a hay-making slice that should have sheared my head from my body, but I already had Serpent-Breath lifted in the parry, the blades struck and I took one more step forward and slammed her hilt into his face. He managed to half turn away so that the blow landed on his jawbone rather than his nose.
He tried to cut my neck, but had no room for the stroke, and I stepped back, flicking Serpent-Breath up so that her tip cut through his chin, though not with any great force. She drew blood and the sight of it must have prompted one of his companions to draw his sword, and I heard but did not see, a clash of blades, and knew Berg was fighting. There was a gasp behind me, another ringing clash of steel on steel, and Othere’s eyes widened as he stared at whatever happened. ‘Come, boy,’ I said, ‘you’re fighting me, not Berg.’
‘Then to the grave, old man,’ he snarled, and stepped forward, sword swinging, but that was easy to parry. He had no great sword-craft. He was probably faster than I was, he was, after all, younger, but I had a lifetime of sword knowledge. He pressed me, cutting again and again, and I parried every stroke, and only after six or seven of his savage swings did I suddenly step back, lowering my blade, and his sword hissed past me, unbalancing him, and I rammed Serpent-Breath forward, skewering his sword shoulder, piercing the mail and mangling the flesh beneath, and I saw his arm drop, and I backswung my blade onto his neck and held it there, blood welling along Serpent-Breath’s edge. ‘My name, boy, is Uhtred of Bebbanburg, and this sword is called Serpent-Breath.’
‘Lord!’ He dropped to his knees, unable to lift his arm. ‘Lord,’ he said again, ‘I didn’t know!’
‘Do you always bully old men?’
‘I didn’t know!’ he pleaded.
‘Hold your sword tight, boy,’ I said, ‘and look for me in Valhalla,’ and I grimaced as I dragged the blade back, sawing at his neck, then thrust it forward, still sawing and he made a whimpering noise as his blood spurted far across the damp pasture. He made a choking sound. ‘Hold onto Blood-Drinker!’ I snarled at him. He seemed to nod, then the light went from his eyes and he fell forward. The sword was still in his hand, so I would meet him again across the ale-board of the gods.
Berg had disarmed one of the remaining horsemen, while the other was already two hundred paces away and spurring his horse frantically. ‘Should I kill this one, lord?’ Berg asked me.
I shook my head. ‘He can take a message.’ I walked to the young man’s horse and hauled him hard downwards. He fell from the saddle and sprawled on the turf. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
He gave a name, I forget what it was now. He was a boy, younger than Berg, and he answered our questions willingly enough. Ragnall was making a great wall at Eads Byrig, but he had also made an encampment beside the river where the boats bridged the water. He was collecting men there, making a new army. ‘And where will the army go?’ I asked the boy.
‘To take the Saxon town,’ he said.
‘Ceaster?’
He shrugged. He did not know the name. ‘The town nearby, lord.’
‘Are you making ladders?’
‘Ladders? No, lord.’
We stripped Othere’s corpse of its mail, took his sword and horse, then did the same to the boy Berg had disarmed. He was not badly wounded, more frightened than hurt, and he shivered as he watched us remount. ‘Tell Ragnall,’ I told him, ‘that the Saxons of Mercia are coming. Tell him that his dead will number in the thousands. Tell him that his own death is just days away. Tell him that promise comes from Uhtred of Bebbanburg.’
He nodded, too frightened to speak.
‘Say my name aloud, boy,’ I ordered him, ‘so I know you can repeat it to Ragnall.’
‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ he stammered.
‘Good boy,’ I said, and then we rode home.
THREE (#ulink_59434285-238e-5917-be90-ea619ff6c0b4)
Bishop Leofstan arrived the next day. Of course he was not the bishop yet, for the time being he was just Father Leofstan, but everyone excitedly called him Bishop Leofstan and kept telling each other that he was a living saint and a scholar. The living saint’s arrival was announced by Eadger, one of my men who was with a work party in the quarry south of the River Dee where they were loading rocks onto a cart, rocks that would eventually be piled on Ceaster’s ramparts as a greeting to any Northman who tried to clamber over our walls. I was fairly certain Ragnall planned no such assault, but if he lost his mind and did try, I wanted him to enjoy a proper welcome. ‘There’s at least eighty of the bastards,’ Eadger told me.
‘Priests?’
‘There are plenty enough priests,’ he said dourly, ‘but the rest of them?’ He made the sign of the cross, ‘God knows what they are, lord, but there’s at least eighty of them, and they’re coming.’
I walked to the southern ramparts and gazed at the road beyond the Roman bridge, but saw nothing there. The city gate was closed again. All Ceaster’s gates would stay closed until Ragnall’s men had left the district, but the news of the bishop’s approach was spreading through the town, and Father Ceolnoth came running down the main street, clutching the skirt of his long robe up to his waist. ‘We should open the gates!’ he shouted. ‘He is come unto the gate of my people! Even unto Jerusalem!’
I looked at Eadger, who shrugged. ‘Sounds like the scripture, lord.’
‘Open the gates!’ Ceolnoth shouted breathlessly.
‘Why?’ I called down from the fighting platform above the arch.
Ceolnoth came to an abrupt halt. He had not seen me on the ramparts. He scowled. ‘Bishop Leofstan is coming!’
‘The gates stay closed,’ I said, then turned to look across the river. I could hear singing now.
Finan and my son joined me. The Irishman stared south, frowning. ‘Father Leofstan is coming,’ I explained the excitement. A crowd was gathering in the street, all of them watching the big closed gates.
‘So I heard,’ Finan said curtly. I hesitated. I wanted to say something comforting, but what do you say to a man who has killed his own kin? Finan must have sensed my gaze because he growled. ‘Stop your worrying about me, lord.’
‘Who said I was worried?’
He half smiled. ‘I’ll kill some of Ragnall’s men. Then I’ll kill Conall. That’ll cure whatever ails me. Sweet Jesus! What is that?’
His question was prompted by the appearance of children. They were on the road south of the bridge and, so far as I could tell, all were dressed in white robes. There must have been a score of them, and they were singing as they walked. Some of them were waving small branches in time to their song. Behind them was a group of dark-robed priests and, last of all, a shambling crowd.
Father Ceolnoth had been joined by his twin brother, and the pair had climbed to the ramparts from where they stared south with ecstatic looks on their ugly faces. ‘What a holy man!’ Ceolnoth said.
‘The gates must be open!’ Ceolberht insisted. ‘Why aren’t the gates open?’
‘Because I haven’t ordered them opened,’ I growled, ‘that’s why.’ The gates stayed closed.
The strange procession crossed the river and approached the walls. The children were waving ragged willow fronds in time to their singing, but the fronds drooped and the singing faltered when they reached the flooded ditch and realised they could go no further. Then the voices died away altogether as a young priest pushed his way through the white-robed choir and called up to us. ‘The gates! Open the gates!’
‘Who are you?’ I called back.
The priest looked outraged. ‘Father Leofstan has come!’
‘Praise God,’ Father Ceolnoth said, ‘he is come!’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Oh, dear Jesus!’ Ceolberht exclaimed behind me.
‘Father Leofstan!’ the young priest called. ‘Father Leofstan is your …’
‘Quiet! Hush!’ A skinny priest mounted on an ass called the command. He was so tall and the ass was so small that his feet almost dragged on the roadway. ‘The gates must be closed,’ he called to the angry young priest, ‘because there are heathens close by!’ He half fell off the ass, then limped across the ditch’s wooden bridge. He looked up at us, smiling. ‘Greetings in the name of the living God!’
‘Father Leofstan!’ Ceolnoth called and waved.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
‘I am Leofstan, a humble servant of God,’ the skinny priest answered, ‘and you must be the Lord Uhtred?’ I nodded for answer. ‘And I humbly ask your permission to enter the city, Lord Uhtred,’ Leofstan went on.
I looked at the grubby-robed choir, then at the shambolic crowd, and shuddered. Leofstan waited patiently. He was younger than I had expected, with a broad, pale face, thick lips, and dark eyes. He smiled. I had the impression that he always smiled. He waited patiently, still smiling, just staring at me. ‘Who are those people?’ I demanded, pointing to the shambles who followed him. They were a shambles too. I had never seen so many people in rags. There must have been almost a hundred of them; cripples, hunchbacks, the blind, and a group of evidently moon-crazed men and women who shook and gibbered and dribbled.
‘These little ones,’ Leofstan placed his hands on the heads of two of the children, ‘are orphans, Lord Uhtred, who have been placed under my humble care.’
‘And the others?’ I demanded, jerking my head at the gibbering crowd.
‘God’s children!’ Leofstan said happily. ‘They are the halt, the lame, and the blind! They are beggars and outcasts! They are the hungry, the naked and the friendless! They are all God’s children!’
‘And what are they doing here?’ I asked.
Leofstan chuckled as though my question was too easy to answer. ‘Our dear Lord commands us to look after the helpless, Lord Uhtred. What does the blessed Matthew tell us? That when I was hungry you gave me food! When I was thirsty you gave me drink, when I was a stranger, you gave me shelter, when I was naked you clothed me, and when I was sick you visited me! To clothe the naked and to give help to the poor, Lord Uhtred, is to obey God! These dear people,’ he swept an arm at the hopeless crowd, ‘are my family!’
‘Sweet suffering Jesus,’ Finan murmured, sounding amused for the first time in days.
‘Praise be to God,’ Ceolnoth said, though without much enthusiasm.
‘You do know,’ I called down to Leofstan, ‘that there’s an army of Northmen not a half-day’s march away?’
‘The heathen pursue us,’ he said, ‘they rage all about us! Yet God shall preserve us!’
‘And this city might be under siege soon,’ I persevered.
‘The Lord is my strength!’
‘And if we are besieged,’ I demanded angrily, ‘how am I supposed to feed your family?’
‘The Lord will provide!’
‘You’ll not win this one,’ Finan said softly.
‘And where do they live?’ I asked harshly.
‘The church has property here, I am told,’ Leofstan answered gently, ‘so the church will house them. They shall not come nigh thee!’
I growled, Finan grinned, and Leofstan still smiled. ‘Open the damned gates,’ I said, then went down the stone steps. I reached the street just as the new bishop limped through the long gate arch and, once inside, he dropped to his knees and kissed the roadway. ‘Blessed be this place,’ he intoned, ‘and blessed be the folk who live here.’ He struggled to his feet and smiled at me. ‘I am honoured to meet you, Lord Uhtred.’
I fingered the hammer hanging at my neck, but even that symbol of paganism could not wipe the smile from his face. ‘One of these priests,’ I gestured at the twins, ‘will show you where you live.’
‘There is a fine house waiting for you, father,’ Ceolnoth said.
‘I need no fine house!’ Leofstan exclaimed. ‘Our Lord dwelt in no mansion! The foxes have holes and the birds of the sky have their nests, but something humble will suffice for us.’
‘Us?’ I asked. ‘All of you? Your cripples as well?’
‘For my dear wife and I,’ Leofstan said, and gestured for a woman to step forward from among his accompanying priests. At least I assumed she was a woman, because she was so swathed in cloaks and robes that it was hard to tell what she was. Her face was invisible under the shadow of a deep hood. ‘This is my dear wife Gomer,’ he introduced her, and the bundle of robes nodded towards me.
‘Gomer?’ I thought I had misheard because it was a name I had never heard before.
‘A name from the scriptures!’ Leofstan said brightly. ‘And you should know, lord, that my dear wife and I have taken vows of poverty and chastity. A hovel will suffice us, isn’t that so, dearest?’
Dearest nodded, and there was the hint of a squeak from beneath the swathe of hoods, robes, and cloak.
‘I’ve taken neither vow,’ I said with too much vehemence. ‘You’re both welcome,’ I added those words grudgingly because they were not true, ‘but keep your damned family out of the way of my soldiers. We have work to do.’
