The Last Kingdom Series Books 1–8: The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, The Lords of the North, Sword Song, The Burning Land, Death of Kings, The Pagan Lord, The Empty Throne. Bernard Cornwell
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realised I had not. ‘That’s madness,’ I protested.
‘It’s kingship,’ he said.
‘Kingship?’
‘The Witan chooses the king,’ Beocca said sternly, ‘and the king must have the trust of the people. If Alfred goes to Cippanhamm and walks among his enemies, then folk will know he deserves to be king.’
‘And if he’s captured,’ I said, ‘then folk will know he’s a dead king.’
‘So you must protect him,’ he said. I said nothing. It was indeed madness, but Alfred was determined to show he deserved to be king. He had, after all, usurped the throne from his nephew, and in those early years of his reign he was ever mindful of that. ‘A small group will travel,’ Beocca said, ‘you, some other warriors, a priest and the king.’
‘Why the priest?’
‘To pray, of course.’
I sneered at that. ‘You?’
Beocca patted his lamed leg. ‘Not me. A young priest.’
‘Better to send Iseult,’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Why not? She’s keeping the king healthy.’ Alfred was in sudden good health, better than he had been in years, and it was all because of the medicines that Iseult made. The celandine and burdock she had gathered on the mainland had taken away the agony in his arse, while other herbs calmed the pains in his belly. He walked confidently, had bright eyes and looked strong.
‘Iseult stays here,’ Beocca said.
‘If you want the king to live,’ I said, ‘send her with us.’
‘She stays here,’ Beocca said, ‘because we want the king to live.’ It took me a few heartbeats to understand what he had said, and when I did realise his meaning I turned on him with such fury that he stumbled backwards. I said nothing, for I did not trust myself to speak, or perhaps I feared that speech would turn to violence. Beocca tried to look severe, but only looked fearful. ‘These are difficult times,’ he said plaintively, ‘and the king can only put his trust in men who serve God. In men who are bound to him by their love of Christ.’
I kicked at an eel trap, sending it spinning over the bank into the river. ‘For a time,’ I said, ‘I almost liked Alfred. Now he’s got his priests back and you’re dripping poison into him.’
‘He …’ Beocca began.
I turned on him, silencing him. ‘Who rescued the bastard? Who burned Svein’s ships? Who, in the name of your luckless god, killed Ubba? And you still don’t trust me?’
Beocca was trying to calm me now, making flapping gestures. ‘I fear you are a pagan,’ he said, ‘and your woman is assuredly a pagan.’
‘My woman healed Edward,’ I snarled, ‘does that mean nothing?’
‘It could mean,’ he said, ‘that she did the devil’s work.’
I was astonished into silence by that.
‘The devil does his work in the land,’ Beocca said earnestly, ‘and it would serve the devil well if Wessex were to vanish. The devil wants the king dead. He wants his own pagan spawn all across England! There is a greater war, Uhtred. Not the fight between Saxon and Dane, but between God and the devil, between good and evil! We are part of it!’
‘I’ve killed more Danes than you can dream of,’ I told him.
‘But suppose,’ he said, pleading with me now, ‘that your woman has been sent by the devil? That the evil one allowed her to heal Edward so that the king would trust her? And then, when the king, in all innocence, goes to spy on the enemy, she betrays him!’
‘You think she would betray him?’ I asked sourly, ‘or do you mean I might betray him?’
‘Your love of the Danes is well known,’ Beocca said stiffly, ‘and you spared the men on Palfleot.’
‘So you think I can’t be trusted?’
‘I trust you,’ he said, without conviction. ‘But other men?’ he waved his palsied hand in an impotent gesture. ‘But if Iseult is here,’ he shrugged, not ending the thought.
‘So she’s to be a hostage,’ I said.
‘A surety, rather.’
‘I gave the king my oath,’ I pointed out.
‘And you have sworn oaths before, and you are known as a liar, and you have a wife and child, yet live with a pagan whore, and you love the Danes as you love yourself, and do you really think we can trust you?’ This all came out in a bitter rush. ‘I have known you, Uhtred,’ he said, ‘since you crawled on Bebbanburg’s rush floors. I baptised you, taught you, chastised you, watched you grow, and I know you better than any man alive and I do not trust you.’ Beocca stared at me belligerently. ‘If the king does not return, Uhtred, then your whore will be given to the dogs.’ He had delivered his message now, and he seemed to regret the force of it for he shook his head. ‘The king should not go. You’re right. It’s a madness. It is stupidity! It is,’ he paused, searching for a word, and came upon one of the worst condemnations in his vocabulary, ‘it is irresponsible! But he insists, and if he goes then you must also go for you’re the only man here who can pass as a Dane. But bring him back, Uhtred, bring him back, for he is dear to God and to all Saxons.’
Not to me, I thought, he was not dear to me. That night, brooding on Beocca’s words, I was tempted to flee the swamp, to go away with Iseult, find a lord, give Serpent-Breath a new master, but Ragnar had been a hostage and so I had no friend among my enemies, and if I fled I would break my oath to Alfred and men would say Uhtred of Bebbanburg could never be trusted again and so I stayed. I tried to persuade Alfred not to go to Cippanhamm. It was, as Beocca had said, irresponsible, but Alfred insisted. ‘If I stay here,’ he said, ‘men will say I hid from the Danes. Others face them, but I hide? No. Men must see me, must know that I live, and know that I fight.’ For once Ælswith and I were in agreement, and we both tried to keep him in Æthelingæg, but Alfred would not be dissuaded. He was in a strange mood, suffused with happiness, utterly confident that God was on his side, and, because his sickness had abated, he was full of energy and confidence.
He took six companions. The priest was a young man called Adelbert who carried a small harp wrapped in leather. It seemed ridiculous to take a harp to the enemy, but Adelbert was famed for his music and Alfred blithely said that we should sing God’s praises while we were among the Danes. The other four were all experienced warriors who had been part of his royal guard. They were called Osferth, Wulfrith, Beorth and the last was Egwine who swore to Ælswith that he would bring the king home, which made Ælswith throw a bitter glance at me. Whatever favour I had gained by Iseult’s cure of Edward had evaporated under the influence of the priests.
We dressed for war in mail and helmets, while Alfred insisted on wearing a fine blue cloak, trimmed with fur, which made him conspicuous, but he wanted folk to see a king. The best horses were selected, one for each of us and three spare mounts, and we swam them across the river, then followed log roads until we came at last to firm ground close to the island where Iseult said Arthur was buried. I had left Iseult with Eanflæd who shared quarters with Leofric.
It was February now. There had been a spell of fine weather after the burning of Svein’s fleet and I had thought we should travel then, but Alfred insisted on waiting until the eighth day of February, because that was the feast of Saint Cuthman, a Saxon saint from East Anglia, and Alfred reckoned that must be a propitious day. Perhaps he was right, for the day turned out wet and bitterly cold, and we were to discover that the Danes were reluctant to leave their quarters in the worst weather. We went at dawn and by mid morning we were in the hills overlooking the swamp which was half hidden by a mist thickened by the smoke from the cooking fires of the small villages. ‘Are you familiar with Saint Cuthman?’ Alfred asked me cheerfully.
‘No, lord.’
‘He