The Pagan Lord. Bernard Cornwell
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‘Sit and have some ale,’ I told him.
He hesitated. He was nervous of pagans, but the gold tempted him. ‘God be praised,’ he said, and sat on the bench opposite.
I looked at the two men. They were large men, their hands stained black with the tar that coats fishing nets. One looked particularly formidable; he had a flattened nose in a weather-darkened face and fists like war-hammers. ‘I’m not going to kill your priest,’ I told the two men, ‘so you don’t need to stand there like a pair of bullocks. Go find your own ale.’
One of them glanced at Father Byrnjolf who nodded assent, and the two men crossed the room. ‘They’re good souls,’ Father Byrnjolf said, ‘and like to keep my body in one piece.’
‘Fishermen?’
‘Fishermen,’ he said, ‘like our Lord’s disciples.’
I wondered if one of the nailed god’s disciples had a flattened nose, scarred cheeks and bleak eyes. Maybe. Fishermen are a tough breed. I watched the two men settle at a table, then spun the coin in front of the priest’s eyes. The gold glittered, then made a thrumming noise as the spin lost speed. The coin clattered for an instant and then fell flat. I pushed it a little way towards the priest. Finan had called for another pot and poured ale from the jug. ‘I have heard,’ I said to Father Byrnjolf, ‘that the Lord Ælfric pays for men.’
He was staring at the coin. ‘What have you heard?’
‘That Bebbanburg is a fortress and safe from attack, but that Ælfric has no ships of his own.’
‘He has two,’ Father Byrnjolf said cautiously.
‘To patrol his coast?’
‘To deter pirates. And yes, he does hire other ships at times. Two are not always sufficient.’
‘I was thinking,’ I said, and I tipped the coin upwards and spun it again, ‘that we might go to Bebbanburg. Is he friendly to folk who are not Christian?’
‘He’s friendly, yes. Well,’ he paused, then corrected himself, ‘perhaps not friendly, but he is a fair man. He treats folk decently.’
‘Tell me about him,’ I said.
The coin caught the light, flickered and gleamed. ‘He’s unwell,’ Father Byrnjolf said, ‘but his son is a capable man.’
‘And the son is called?’ I asked. I knew the answer, of course. Ælfric was my uncle, the man who had stolen Bebbanburg, and his son was named Uhtred.
‘He’s called Uhtred,’ Father Byrnjolf said, ‘and he has a son of the same name, a fine boy! Just ten years old but stout and brave, a good lad!’
‘Also called Uhtred?’
‘It is an old family name.’
‘Just the one son?’ I asked.
‘He had three, but the two youngest died.’ Father Byrnjolf made the sign of the cross. ‘The eldest thrives, God be praised.’
The bastard, I thought, meaning Ælfric. He had named his son Uhtred, and Uhtred had named his son the same, because the Uhtreds are the lords of Bebbanburg. But I am Uhtred and Bebbanburg is mine, and Ælfric, by naming his son Uhtred, was proclaiming to all the world that I had lost the fortress and that his family would now possess it to the end of time. ‘So how do I get there?’ I asked. ‘He has a harbour?’
And Father Byrnjolf, transfixed by that gold coin, told me so much I already knew, and some that I did not know. He told how we would need to negotiate the narrow entrance north of the fortress and so take Middelniht into the shallow harbour that lay protected by the great rock on which Bebbanburg was built. We would be allowed to go ashore, he said, but to reach the Lord Ælfric’s hall we would need to take the uphill path to the first gate, called the Low Gate. That gate was immense, he told us, and reinforced by stone walls. Once through the Low Gate there was a wide space where a smithy stood next to the fortress stables, and beyond that another steep path climbed to the High Gate, which protected Ælfric’s hall, the living quarters, the armoury and the lookout tower. ‘More stone?’ I asked.
‘The Lord Ælfric has made a stone wall there, yes. No one can pass.’
‘And he has men?’
‘Some forty or fifty live in the fortress. He has other warriors, of course, but they plough his land or live in halls of their own.’ And that I knew too. My uncle could summon a formidable war-band, but most of them lived on outlying farms. It would take at least a day or two for those hundreds of men to assemble, which meant I had to deal with the housecarls, the forty or fifty trained warriors whose job was to keep Ælfric’s nightmare from coming true. I was the nightmare. ‘You’ll be going north soon then?’ Father Byrnjolf asked.
I ignored the question. ‘And the Lord Ælfric needs ships,’ I asked, ‘to protect his traders?’
‘Wool, barley and pelts,’ Father Byrnjolf said. ‘They’re sent south to Lundene or else across the sea to Frisia, so yes, they need protection.’
‘And he pays well.’
‘He’s renowned for his generosity.’
‘You’ve been helpful, father,’ I said, and flicked the coin across the table.
‘God be with you, my son,’ the priest said, scrambling for the coin that had fallen among the floor rushes. ‘And your name?’ he asked when he had retrieved the gold.
‘Wulf Ranulfson.’
‘God bless your northward voyage, Wulf Ranulfson.’
‘We may not go north,’ I said as the priest stood. ‘I hear there’s trouble brewing in the south.’
‘I pray not,’ he sounded hesitant, ‘trouble?’
‘In Lundene they said that the Lord Æthelred thinks East Anglia is there for the taking.’
Father Byrnjolf made the sign of the cross. ‘I pray not, I pray not,’ he said.
‘There’s profit in trouble,’ I said, ‘so I pray for war.’
He said nothing, but hurried away. I had my back to him. ‘What’s he doing?’ I asked Finan.
‘Talking to his two fellows. Looking at us.’
I cut a piece of cheese. ‘Why does Ælfric pay to keep a priest in Grimesbi?’
‘Because he’s a good Christian?’ Finan suggested blandly.
‘Ælfric’s a treacherous piece of slug-shit,’ I said.
Finan glanced towards the priest and looked back to me. ‘Father Byrnjolf takes your uncle’s silver.’
‘And in return,’ I said, ‘he tells Ælfric who moves through Grimesbi. Who comes, who goes.’
‘And who asks questions about Bebbanburg.’
‘Which I just did.’
Finan nodded. ‘You just did. And you paid the bastard too much, and you asked too many questions about the defences. You might just as well have told him your real name.’
I scowled, but Finan was right. I had been too eager to get information, and Father Byrnjolf must be more than suspicious. ‘So how does he get news to Ælfric?’ I asked.
‘The fishermen?’
‘And in this wind,’ I suggested, looking towards a shutter that banged and rattled against its latches, ‘it will be two days’ sailing? Or a day and a half if they use something the size of Middelniht.’
‘Three days if they put ashore at night.’
‘And did the bastard tell me the truth?’ I wondered aloud.
‘About