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
Читать онлайн книгу.
whom the fyrd would muster. I could stay with my friend, Ragnar, I could earn more arm rings, I could make a name that would be celebrated wherever Northmen sailed their long ships, and all it would take was one sentence.
And I was so tempted that night in Cippanhamm’s royal church. There is such joy in chaos. Stow all the world’s evils behind a door and tell men that they must never, ever, open the door, and it will be opened because there is pure joy in destruction. At one moment, when Ragnar was bellowing with laughter and slapping my shoulder so hard that it hurt, I felt the words form on my tongue. That is Alfred, I would have said, pointing at him, and all my world would have changed and there would have been no more England. Yet, at the last moment, when the first word was on my tongue, I choked it back. Brida was watching me, her shrewd eyes calm, and I caught her gaze and I thought of Iseult. In a year or two, I thought, Iseult would look like Brida. They had the same tense beauty, the same dark colouring and the same smouldering fire in the soul. If I spoke, I thought, Iseult would be dead, and I could not bear that. And I thought of Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, and knew she would be enslaved, and also knew that wherever the remnants of the Saxons gathered about their fires of exile my name would be cursed. I would be Uhtredærwe for ever, the man who destroyed a people.
‘What were you about to say?’ Brida asked.
‘That we have never known such a hard winter in Wessex.’
She gazed at me, not believing my answer. Then she smiled. ‘Tell me, Uhtred,’ she spoke in English, ‘if you thought Ragnar was dead then why did you come here?’
‘Because I don’t know where else to be,’ I said.
‘So you came here? To Guthrum? Whom you insulted?’
So they knew about that. I had not expected them to know and I felt a surge of fear. I said nothing.
‘Guthrum wants you dead,’ Brida said, speaking in Danish now.
‘He doesn’t mean it,’ Ragnar said.
‘He does mean it,’ Brida insisted.
‘Well I won’t let him kill Uhtred,’ Ragnar said. ‘You’re here now!’ He slapped me on the back again and glared at his men as if daring any of them to betray my presence to Guthrum. None of them moved, but they were nearly all of them drunk and some already asleep.
‘You’re here now,’ Brida said, ‘yet not so long ago you were fighting for Alfred and insulting Guthrum.’
‘I was on my way to Defnascir,’ I said, as if that explained anything.
‘Poor Uhtred,’ Brida said. Her right hand fondled the black and white fur at the back of Nihtgenga’s neck. ‘And I thought you’d be a hero to the Saxons.’
‘A hero? Why?’
‘The man who killed Ubba?’
‘Alfred doesn’t want heroes,’ I said, loudly enough for him to hear, ‘only saints.’
‘So tell us about Ubba!’ Ragnar demanded, and so I had to describe Ubba’s death, and the Danes, who love a good story of a fight, wanted every detail. I told the tale well, making Ubba into a great hero who had almost destroyed the West Saxon army, and I said he had been fighting like a god, and told how he had broken our shield wall with his great axe. I described the burning ships, their smoke drifting over the battle slaughter like a cloud from the netherworld, and I said I had found myself facing Ubba in his victory charge. That was not true, of course, and the Danes knew it was not true. I had not just found myself opposing Ubba, but had sought him out, but when a story is told it must be seasoned with modesty and the listeners, understanding that custom, murmured approval. ‘I have never known such fear,’ I said, and I told how we had fought, Serpent-Breath against Ubba’s axe, and how he had chopped my shield into firewood, and then I described, truthfully, how he had lost his footing in the spilled guts of a dead man. The Danes about the fire sighed with disappointment. ‘I cut the tendons of his arm,’ I said, chopping my left hand into the crook of my right elbow to show where I had cut him, ‘and then beat him down.’
‘He died well?’ a man asked anxiously.
‘As a hero,’ I said, and I told how I had put the axe back into his dying hand so that he would go to Valhalla. ‘He died very well,’ I finished.
‘He was a warrior,’ Ragnar said. He was drunk now. Not badly drunk, but tired drunk. The fire was dying, thickening the shadows at the western end of the church where Alfred sat. More stories were told, the fire died and the few candles guttered. Men were sleeping, and still I sat until Ragnar lay back and began to snore. I waited longer, letting the room go to sleep, and only then did I go back to Alfred. ‘We go now,’ I said. He did not argue.
No one appeared to notice as we went into the night, closing the door quietly behind us. ‘Who were you talking with?’ Alfred asked me.
‘Earl Ragnar.’
He stopped, puzzled. ‘Wasn’t he one of the hostages?’
‘Wulfhere let them live,’ I said.
‘He let them live?’ he asked, astonished.
‘And Wulfhere is now on Guthrum’s side.’ I gave him the bad news. ‘He’s here, in the hall. He’s agreed to fight for Guthrum.’
‘Here?’ Alfred could scarce believe what I said. Wulfhere was his cousin, he had married Alfred’s niece, he was family. ‘He’s here?’
‘He’s on Guthrum’s side,’ I said harshly.
He just stared at me. ‘No,’ he mouthed the word, rather than said it. ‘And Æthelwold?’ he asked.
‘He’s a prisoner,’ I said.
‘A prisoner!’ he asked the question sharply, and no wonder, for Æthelwold had no value to the Danes as a prisoner unless he had agreed to become their token king on the West Saxon throne.
‘A prisoner,’ I said. It was not true, of course, but I liked Æthelwold and I owed him a favour. ‘He’s a prisoner,’ I went on, ‘and there’s nothing we can do about it, so let’s get away from here.’ I pulled him towards the town, but too late, for the church door opened and Brida came out with Nihtgenga.
She told the dog to stay at her heels as she walked towards me. Like me she was not drunk, though she must have been very cold for she wore no cloak over her plain blue woollen dress. The night was brittle with frost, but she did not shiver. ‘You’re going?’ She spoke in English. ‘You’re not staying with us?’
‘I have a wife and child,’ I said.
She smiled at that. ‘Whose names you have not mentioned all evening, Uhtred. So what happened?’ I gave no answer and she just stared at me, and there was something very unsettling in her gaze. ‘So what woman is with you now?’ she asked.
‘Someone who looks like you,’ I admitted.
She laughed at that. ‘And she would have you fight for Alfred?’
‘She sees the future,’ I said, evading the question. ‘She dreams it.’
Brida stared at me. Nihtgenga whined softly and she put down a hand to calm him. ‘And she sees Alfred surviving?’
‘More than surviving,’ I said. ‘She sees him winning.’ Beside me Alfred stirred and I hoped he had the sense to keep his head lowered.
‘Winning?’
‘She sees a green hill of dead men,’ I said, ‘a white horse, and Wessex living again.’
‘Your woman has strange dreams,’ Brida said, ‘but you never answered my first question, Uhtred. If you thought Ragnar was dead, why did you come here?’
I had no ready answer so made none.
‘Who did you expect to find here?’ she asked.
‘You?’ I suggested