Warriors of the Storm. Bernard Cornwell
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into the wood, but instead of riding straight on towards Eads Byrig, we suddenly swung the horses southwards so we were riding among the trees at the edge of the woods. A horn sounded behind us. It sounded three times, and that had to be one of Ragnall’s sentinels sending a warning that we had entered the great forest, but in truth we were merely thundering along its margin. A man ran from a thicket to our left and Finan swerved, chopped down once, and there was a bright red splash among the spring-green leaves. Our horses galloped into sunlight as we crossed a clearing dense with bracken, then we were back among the thick trunks, ducking under the low branches, and another of Ragnall’s scouts broke cover and my son rode him down, spearing his sword into the man’s back.
I galloped through a thicket of young hazel trees and elder-berries. ‘He’s gone!’ Sihtric called from behind me, and I saw Beadwulf’s riderless horse off to my right. We kept going for another half-mile, but saw no more sentries. The horn still called, answered by a distant one presumably on the hill. Ragnall’s men would be pulling on mail and buckling sword belts, but long before any could reach us we had swerved back to the open pasture and onto the cattle tracks that would lead us back to Ceaster. We paused in a fitful patch of sunlight, collected the riderless horses and waited, but no enemy showed at the woodland’s edge. Birds that had panicked to fly above the woods as we rode through the trees went back to their roosts. The horns had gone silent and the forest was quiet again.
Ragnall’s scouts would have seen a war-band go into the forest and then leave the forest. If Beadwulf had simply dropped from his saddle to find a hiding place then that enemy might have noticed that one horse had lost its rider among the trees, but I was certain no sentry would have bothered to count our riderless stallions. One more would not be noticed. Beadwulf, I reckoned, was safely hidden among our enemies. Cloud shadow raced to engulf us and a heavy drop of rain spattered on my helmet. ‘Time to go home,’ I said, and so we rode back to Ceaster.
Æthelflaed arrived that same afternoon. She was leading over eight hundred men and was in a thoroughly bad temper that was not improved when she saw Eadith. The day had turned stormy, and the long tail and mane of Æthelflaed’s mare, Gast, lifted to the gusting wind, as did Eadith’s long red hair. ‘Why,’ Æthelflaed demanded of me with no other form of greeting, ‘does she wear her hair unbound?’
‘Because she’s a virgin,’ I said, and watched Eadith hurry through the spatter of rain towards the house we shared on Ceaster’s main street.
Æthelflaed scowled. ‘She’s no maid. She’s …’ she bit back whatever she was about to say.
‘A whore?’ I suggested.
‘Tell her to bind her hair properly.’
‘Is there a proper way for a whore to bind her hair?’ I asked. ‘Most of the ones I’ve enjoyed prefer to leave it loose, but there was a black-haired girl in Gleawecestre who Bishop Wulfheard liked to hump when his wife wasn’t in the city, and he made her coil her hair around her head like ropes. He made her plait her hair first and then insisted that she …’
‘Enough!’ she snapped. ‘Tell your woman she can at least try to look respectable.’
‘You can tell her that yourself, my lady, and welcome to Ceaster.’
She scowled again, then swung down from Gast. She hated Eadith, whose brother had tried to kill her, and that was doubtless reason enough to dislike the girl, but most of the hatred stemmed from the simple fact that Eadith shared my bed. Æthelflaed had also disliked Sigunn, who had been my lover for many years but had succumbed to a fever two winters before. I had wept for her. Æthelflaed had also been my lover and perhaps still was, though in the mood that soured her arrival she was more likely to be my foe. ‘All our ships lost!’ she exclaimed. ‘And a thousand Northmen not a half-day’s march away!’
‘Two thousand by now,’ I said, ‘and at least a hundred battle-crazed Irish warriors with them.’
‘And this garrison is here to stop that happening!’ she spat. The priests who accompanied her looked at me accusingly. Æthelflaed was almost always escorted by priests, but there seemed to be more than usual, and then I remembered that Eostre’s feast was just days away and we were to enjoy the thrill of consecrating the humble, ever-smiling Leofstan. ‘So what do we do about it?’ Æthelflaed demanded.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said, ‘I’m not a Christian. I suppose you shove the poor man into the church, stick him onto a throne, and have the usual caterwauling?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I honestly don’t see why we need a bishop anyway. We already have enough useless mouths to feed, and this wretched creature Leofstan has brought half the cripples of Mercia with him.’
‘What do we do about Ragnall!’ she snapped.
‘Oh him!’ I said, pretending surprise. ‘Why nothing, of course.’
She stared at me. ‘Nothing?’
‘Unless you can think of something?’ I suggested. ‘I can’t!’
‘Good God!’ she spat the words at me, then shivered as a blast of wind brought a slap of cold rain to the street. ‘We’ll talk in the Great Hall,’ she said, ‘and bring Finan!’
‘Finan’s patrolling,’ I said.
‘Thank God someone’s doing something here,’ she snarled, and strode towards the Great Hall, which was a monstrous Roman building at the centre of the town. The priests scuttled after her, leaving me with two close friends who had accompanied Æthelflaed north. One was Osferth, her half-brother and illegitimate son of King Alfred. He had been my liegeman for years, one of my better commanders, but he had joined Æthelflaed’s household as a councillor. ‘You shouldn’t tease her,’ he reproved me sternly.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because she’s in a bad mood,’ Merewalh said, climbing down from his horse and grinning at me. He was the commander of her household warriors, and was as reliable a man as any I have ever known. He stamped his feet, stretched his arms, then patted his horse’s neck. ‘She’s in a downright filthy mood,’ he said.
‘Why? Because of Ragnall?’
‘Because at least half the guests for Father Leofstan’s enthronement have said they’re not coming,’ Osferth said gloomily.
‘The idiots are frightened?’
‘They’re not idiots,’ he said patiently, ‘but respected churchmen. We promised them a sacred Easter celebration, a chance for joyful fellowship, and instead there’s a war here. You can’t expect the likes of Bishop Wulfheard to risk capture! Ragnall Ivarson is known for his bestial cruelty.’
‘The girls at the Wheatsheaf will be pleased Wulfheard’s staying in Gleawecestre,’ I said.
Osferth sighed heavily and set off after Æthelflaed. The Wheatsheaf was a fine tavern in Gleawecestre that employed some equally fine whores, most of whom had shared the bishop’s bed whenever his wife was absent. Merewalh grinned at me again. ‘You shouldn’t tease Osferth either.’
‘He looks more like his father every day,’ I said.
‘He’s a good man!’
‘He is,’ I agreed. I liked Osferth, even though he was a solemn and censorious man. He felt cursed by his bastardy and had struggled to overcome the curse by living a blameless life. He had been a good soldier, brave and prudent, and I did not doubt he was a good councillor to his half-sister, with whom he shared not just a father but a deep piety. ‘So Æthelflaed,’ I started walking with Merewalh towards the Great Hall, ‘is upset because a pack of bishops and monks can’t come to see Leofstan made a bishop?’
‘She’s upset,’ Merewalh said, ‘because Ceaster and Brunanburh are close to her heart. She regards them as her conquests, and she isn’t happy that the pagans are threatening them.’ He stopped abruptly and frowned. The frown was not for me, but rather for