Sword Song. Bernard Cornwell
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we give time for our enemies to gather their forces. Better to be defiant.’
‘You’ll pick war with both Guthrum and Alfred?’ I asked.
‘Guthrum won’t fight,’ Erik said, sounding very certain. ‘He threatens, but he won’t fight. He’s getting old, Lord Uhtred, and he would prefer to enjoy what life is left to him. And if we send him severed heads? I think he will understand the message that his own head is in danger if he disturbs us.’
‘What of Alfred?’ I asked.
‘He’s cautious,’ Erik said, ‘isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’ll offer us money to leave the city?’
‘Probably.’
‘And maybe we’ll take it,’ Sigefrid said, ‘and stay anyway.’
‘Alfred won’t attack us till the summer,’ Erik said, ignoring his brother, ‘and by then, Lord Uhtred, we hope you will have led Earl Ragnar south into East Anglia. Alfred can’t ignore that threat. He will march against our combined armies, not against the garrison in Lundene, and our job is to kill Alfred and put his nephew on the throne.’
‘Æthelwold?’ I asked dubiously. ‘He’s a drunk.’
‘Drunk or not,’ Erik said, ‘a Saxon king will make our conquest of Wessex more palatable.’
‘Until you need him no longer,’ I said.
‘Until we need him no longer,’ Erik agreed.
The big-bellied priest at the end of the line of kneeling prisoners had been listening. He stared at me, then at Sigefrid, who saw his gaze. ‘What are you looking at, turd?’ Sigefrid demanded. The priest did not answer, but just looked at me again, then dropped his head. ‘We’ll start with him,’ Sigefrid said, ‘we’ll nail the fat bastard to a cross and see if he dies.’
‘Why not let him fight?’ I suggested.
Sigefrid stared at me, unsure he had heard me correctly. ‘Let him fight?’ he asked.
‘The other priest is skinny,’ I said, ‘so much easier to nail to the cross. That fat one should be given a sword and made to fight.’
Sigefrid sneered. ‘You think a priest can fight?’
I shrugged as though I did not care one way or the other. ‘It’s just that I like seeing those fat-bellied ones lose a fight,’ I explained. ‘I like seeing their bellies slit open. I like watching their guts spill out.’ I was staring at the priest as I spoke and he looked up again to gaze into my eyes. ‘I want to see yards of gut spilled out,’ I said wolfishly, ‘and then watch as your dogs eat his intestines while he’s still alive.’
‘Or make him eat them himself,’ Sigefrid said thoughtfully. He suddenly grinned at me. ‘I like you, Lord Uhtred!’
‘He’ll die too easily,’ Erik said.
‘Then give him something to fight for,’ I said.
‘What can that fat pig of a priest fight for?’ Sigefrid demanded scornfully.
I said nothing, and it was Erik who supplied the answer. ‘His freedom?’ he suggested. ‘If he wins then all prisoners go free, but if he loses then we crucify them all. That should make him fight.’
‘He’ll still lose,’ I said.
‘Yes, but he’ll make an effort,’ Erik said.
Sigefrid laughed, amused by the incongruity of the suggestion. The priest, half naked, big-bellied and terrified, looked at each of us in turn but saw nothing but amusement and ferocity. ‘Ever held a sword, priest?’ Sigefrid demanded of the fat man. The priest said nothing.
I mocked his silence with laughter. ‘He’ll only flail around like a pig,’ I said.
‘You want to fight him?’ Sigefrid asked.
‘He wasn’t sent as an envoy to me, lord,’ I said respectfully. ‘Besides, I’ve heard there is no one to match your skill with a blade. I challenge you to make a cut straight across his belly button.’
Sigefrid liked that challenge. He turned to the priest. ‘Holy man! You want to fight for your freedom?’
The priest was shaking with fear. He glanced at his companions, but found no help there. He managed to nod his head. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said,
‘Then you can fight me,’ Sigefrid said happily, ‘and if I win? You all die. And if you win? You can ride away from here. Can you fight?’
‘No, lord,’ the priest said.
‘Ever held a sword, priest?’
‘No, lord.’
‘So are you ready to die?’ Sigefrid asked.
The priest looked at the Norseman and, despite his bruises and cuts, there was a hint of anger in his eyes that was belied by the humility in his voice. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said, ‘I’m ready to die and meet my Saviour.’
‘Cut him free,’ Sigefrid ordered one of his followers. ‘Cut the turd free and give him a sword.’ He drew his own sword that was a long two-edged blade. ‘Fear-Giver,’ he named the blade with fondness in his voice, ‘and she needs exercise.’
‘Here,’ I said, and I drew Serpent-Breath, my own beautiful blade, and I turned her so that I held her by the blade and I tossed the sword to the priest whose hands had just been cut free. He fumbled the catch, letting Serpent-Breath fall among the pale winter weeds. He stared at the sword for a moment as though he had never seen such a thing before, then stooped to pick her up. He was unsure whether to hold her in his right hand or left. He settled for the left and gave her a clumsy experimental stroke that caused the watching men to laugh.
‘Why give him your sword?’ Sigefrid asked.
‘He’ll do no good with it,’ I said scornfully.
‘And if I break it?’ Sigefrid asked forcefully.
‘Then I’ll know the smith who made it didn’t know his business,’ I said.
‘It’s your blade, your choice,’ Sigefrid said dismissively, then turned to the priest who was holding Serpent-Breath so that her tip rested on the ground. ‘Are you ready, priest?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, lord,’ the priest said, and that was the first truthful answer he had given to the Norseman. For the priest had held a sword many times before and he did know how to fight and I doubted he was ready to die. He was Father Pyrlig.
If your fields are heavy and damp with clay then you can harness two oxen to an ard blade, and you can goad the beasts bloody so that the blade ploughs your ground. The beasts must pull together, which is why they are yoked together, and in life one ox is called Fate and the other is named Oaths.
Fate decrees what we do. We cannot escape fate. Wyrd bið ful ãræd. We have no choices in life, how can we? Because from the moment we are born the three sisters know where our thread will go and what patterns it will weave and how it will end. Wyrd bið ful ãræd.
Yet we choose our oaths. Alfred, when he gave me his sword and hands to enfold in my hands did not order me to make the oath. He offered it and I chose. But was it my choice? Or did the Fates choose for me? And if they did, why bother with oaths? I have often wondered about this and even now, as an old man, I still wonder. Did I choose Alfred? Or were the Fates laughing when I knelt and took his sword and hands in mine?
The three Norns were certainly laughing on that cold bright day in Lundene, because the moment I saw that the big-bellied priest was Father Pyrlig I knew that nothing was simple. I had realised in that instant that the Fates had not spun me a golden thread leading to a throne. They were laughing from the roots of Yggdrasil, the tree of life. They had made a jest and I was its victim, and I had to make a choice.