The Last Kingdom Series Books 1-3: The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, The Lords of the North. Bernard Cornwell
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heads above Snotengaham’s gate were pecked by birds till they were nothing but skulls with hanks of hair that stirred in the summer wind. The Mercians and the West Saxons still did not attack. The sun shone. The river rippled prettily past the town where the ships were drawn up on the bank.
Ravn, though he was blind, liked to come to the ramparts where he would demand that I describe all I could see. Nothing changes, I would say, the enemy are still behind their hedge of felled trees, there are clouds above the distant hills, a hawk hunts, the wind ripples the grass, the swifts are gathering in groups, nothing changes, and tell me about the runesticks, I begged him.
‘The sticks!’ he laughed.
‘Do they work?’
He thought about it. ‘If you can read them, yes. I was good at reading the runes before I lost my eyes.’
‘So they do work,’ I said eagerly.
Ravn gestured towards the landscape he could not see. ‘Out there, Uhtred,’ he said, ‘there are a dozen signs from the gods, and if you know the signs then you know what the gods want. The runesticks give the same message, but I have noticed one thing.’ He paused and I had to prompt him, and he sighed as though he knew he should not say more. But he did. ‘The signs are best read by a clever man,’ he went on, ‘and Storri is clever. I dare say I am no fool.’
I did not really understand what he was saying. ‘But Storri is always right?’
‘Storri is cautious. He won’t take risks, and Ubba, though he doesn’t know it, likes that.’
‘But the sticks are messages from the gods?’
‘The wind is a message from the gods,’ Ravn said, ‘as is the flight of a bird, the fall of a feather, the rise of a fish, the shape of a cloud, the cry of a vixen, all are messages, but in the end, Uhtred, the gods speak in only one place.’ He tapped my head. ‘There.’
I still did not understand and was obscurely disappointed. ‘Could I read the sticks?’
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but it would be sensible to wait till you’re older. What are you now?’
‘Eleven,’ I said, tempted to say twelve.
‘Maybe you’d best wait a year or two before reading the sticks. Wait till you’re old enough to marry, four or five years from now?’
That seemed an unlikely proposition for I had no interest in marriage back then. I was not even interested in girls, though that would change soon enough.
‘Thyra, perhaps?’ Ravn suggested.
‘Thyra!’ I thought of Ragnar’s daughter as a playmate, not as a wife. Indeed, the very idea of it made me laugh.
Ravn smiled at my amusement. ‘Tell me, Uhtred, why we let you live.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘When Ragnar captured you,’ he said, ‘he thought you could be ransomed, but he decided to keep you. I thought he was a fool, but he was right.’
‘I’m glad,’ I said, meaning it.
‘Because we need the English,’ Ravn went on. ‘We are few, the English are many, despite which we shall take their land, but we can only hold it with the help of Englishmen. A man cannot live in a home that is forever besieged. He needs peace to grow crops and raise cattle, and we need you. When men see that Earl Uhtred is on our side then they won’t fight us. And you must marry a Danish girl so that when your children grow they will be both Dane and English and see no difference.’ He paused, contemplating that distant future, then chuckled. ‘Just make sure they’re not Christians, Uhtred.’
‘They will worship Odin,’ I said, again meaning it.
‘Christianity is a soft religion,’ Ravn said savagely, ‘a woman’s creed. It doesn’t ennoble men, it makes them into worms. I hear birds.’
‘Two ravens,’ I said, ‘flying north.’
‘A real message!’ he said delightedly, ‘Huginn and Muminn are going to Odin.’
Huginn and Muminn were the twin ravens that perched on the god’s shoulders where they whispered into his ear. They did for Odin what I did for Ravn, they watched and told him what they saw. He sent them to fly all over the world and to bring back news, and the news they carried back that day was that the smoke from the Mercian encampment was less thick. Fewer fires were lit at night. Men were leaving that army.
‘Harvest time,’ Ravn said in disgust.
‘Does that matter?’
‘They call their army the fyrd,’ he explained, forgetting for a moment that I was English, ‘and every able man is supposed to serve in the fyrd, but when the harvest ripens they fear hunger in the winter so they go home to cut their rye and barley.’
‘Which we then take?’
He laughed. ‘You’re learning, Uhtred.’
Yet the Mercians and West Saxons still hoped they could starve us and, though they were losing men every day, they did not give up until Ivar loaded a cart with food. He piled cheeses, smoked fish, newly baked bread, salted pork and a vat of ale onto the cart and, at dawn, a dozen men dragged it towards the English camp. They stopped just out of bowshot and shouted to the enemy sentries that the food was a gift from Ivar the Boneless to King Burghred.
Next day a Mercian horseman rode towards the town carrying a leafy branch as a sign of truce. The English wanted to talk. ‘Which means,’ Ravn told me, ‘that we have won.’
‘It does?’
‘When an enemy wants to talk,’ he said, ‘it means he does not want to fight. So we have won.’
And he was right.
Next day we made a pavilion in the valley between the town and the English encampment, stretching two ships’ sails between timber poles, the whole thing supported by seal-hide ropes lashed to pegs, and there the English placed three high-backed chairs for King Burghred, King Æthelred and for Prince Alfred, and draped the chairs with rich red cloths. Ivar and Ubba sat on milking stools.
Both sides brought thirty or forty men to witness the discussions, which began with an agreement that all weapons were to be piled twenty paces behind the two delegations. I helped carry swords, axes, shields and spears, then went back to listen.
Beocca was there and he spotted me. He smiled. I smiled back. He was standing just behind the young man I took to be Alfred, for though I had heard him in the night I had not seen him clearly. He alone among the three English leaders was not crowned with a circlet of gold, though he did have a large, jewelled cloak brooch which Ivar eyed rapaciously. I saw, as Alfred took his seat, that the prince was thin, long-legged, restless, pale and tall. His face was long, his nose long, his beard short, his cheeks hollow and his mouth pursed. His hair was a nondescript brown, his eyes worried, his brow creased, his hands fidgety and his face frowning. He was only nineteen, I later learned, but he looked ten years older. His brother, King Æthelred, was much older, over thirty, and he was also long-faced, but burlier and even more anxious-looking, while Burghred, King of Mercia, was a stubby man, heavy-bearded, with a bulging belly and a balding pate.
Alfred said something to Beocca who produced a sheet of parchment and a quill which he gave to the prince. Beocca then held a small vial of ink so that Alfred could dip the quill and write.
‘What is he doing?’ Ivar asked.
‘He is making notes of our talks,’ the English interpreter answered.
‘Notes?’
‘So there is a record, of course.’
‘He