War of the Wolf. Bernard Cornwell
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killed your father?’
He nodded. ‘They broke his shield wall.’
‘But you brought men away from the battle?’
‘One hundred and sixty-three men and their families. Nine ships.’ He sounded proud of that, and so he should have been. Retreating from a defeat is one of the hardest things to do in war, yet Ingilmundr, if he spoke truth, had fought his way back to the Irish shore. I could imagine the horror of that day; a broken shield wall, the shrieks of maddened warriors slaughtering their enemies, and the horsemen with their sharp spears racing in pursuit.
‘You did well,’ I said, and looked down at his two amulets. ‘Which god did you pray to?’
He laughed at that. ‘To Thor, of course.’
‘Yet you wear a cross.’
He fingered the heavy silver ornament. ‘It was a gift from my friend Æthelstan. It would be churlish to hide it away.’
‘Your friend Æthelstan,’ I said, mocking the word ‘friend’ with my tone, ‘would like you to be baptised.’
‘He would, I know.’
‘And you keep his hopes alive?’
‘Do I?’ he asked. He seemed amused by my questions. ‘Perhaps his god is more powerful than ours? Do you care which god I worship, Lord Uhtred?’
‘I like to know my enemies,’ I said.
He smiled at that. ‘I am not your enemy, Lord Uhtred.’
‘Then what are you? A loyal oath-follower of Prince Æthelstan? A settler pretending to be interested in the Saxon god?’
‘We are humble farmers now,’ he said, ‘farmers and shepherds and fishermen.’
‘And I’m a humble goatherd,’ I said.
He laughed again. ‘A goatherd who wins his battles.’
‘I do,’ I said.
‘Then let us make sure we are always on the same side,’ he said quietly. He looked at the cross that crowned the prow of the nearest ship. ‘I was not the only man driven out of Ireland,’ he said, and something in his tone made me pay attention. ‘Anluf is still there, but for how long?’
‘Anluf?’
‘He is the greatest chieftain of the Irish Norse and he has strong fortresses. Even fiends find those walls deadly. Anluf saw my father as a rival, and refused to help us, but that is not why we lost. My father lost the battle,’ he gazed across the placid Mærse as he spoke, ‘because his brother and his men retreated before the fight. I suspect he was bribed with Irish gold.’
‘Your uncle.’
‘He is called Sköll,’ he went on, ‘Sköll Grimmarson. Have you heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘You will. He is ambitious. And he has a feared sorcerer,’ he paused to touch the bone-hammer, ‘and he and his magician are in your country.’
‘In Northumbria?’
‘Northumbria, yes. He landed north of here, far north. Beyond the next river, what is it called?’
‘The Ribbel.’
‘Beyond the Ribbel where he has gathered men. Sköll, you see, craves to be called King Sköll.’
‘King of what?’ I asked scornfully.
‘Northumbria, of course. And that would be fitting, would it not? Northumbria, a northern kingdom for a Norse king.’ He looked at me with his ice-blue eyes and I remember thinking that Ingilmundr was one of the most dangerous men I had ever met. ‘To become king, of course,’ he went on in a conversational tone, ‘he must first defeat Sigtryggr, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he knows, who does not, that King Sigtryggr’s father-in-law is the renowned Lord Uhtred. If I were Sköll Grimmarson I would want Lord Uhtred far from his home if I planned to cross the hills.’
So this was why he had sought me out. He knew I had been lured across Britain, and he was telling me that his uncle, whom he plainly hated, had arranged the deception. ‘And how,’ I asked, ‘would Sköll do that?’
He turned to stare again at the river. ‘My uncle has recruited men who settled south of the Ribbel, and that, I am told, is Mercian land.’
‘It is.’
‘And my friend Æthelstan insists that all such settlers must pay tribute and must accept his missionaries.’
I realised he was talking about the monk. Brother Osric. The man who had led me on a wild dance across the hills. The man who had lied to me. And Ingilmundr was telling me that his uncle, Sköll Grimmarson, had sent the monk on his treacherous errand. ‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.
‘Even we simple farmers like to know what is happening in the world.’
‘And even a simple farmer would like me to take revenge for his father’s betrayal?’
‘My Christian teachers tell me revenge is an unworthy thing.’
‘Your Christian teachers are full of shit,’ I said savagely.
He just smiled. ‘I almost forgot to tell you,’ he went on calmly, ‘that Prince Æthelstan asked that you should join him. I offered to carry the message. Shall we stroll back, lord?’
That was the first time I saw Ingilmundr. In time I would meet him again, though in those later encounters he shone in mail, was hung with gold, and carried a sword called Bone-Carver that was feared through all northern Britain. But on that day by the Mærse he did me a favour. The favour, of course, was in his interest. He wanted revenge on his uncle and was not yet strong enough to take that revenge himself, but the day would come when he would be strong. Strong, deadly and clever. Æthelstan had said I would like him, and I did, but I also feared him.
Æthelstan had requested that I accompany him to Brunanburh and I had thought it was simply an opportunity for him to tell me about his hopes for Mercia and Englaland, or perhaps to meet Ingilmundr, but it seemed there was another reason. He was waiting for me at the fort’s gate, and, when we joined him, he beckoned for me to walk a small way eastwards. Ingilmundr left us alone. Four guards followed us, but stayed well out of earshot. I sensed that Æthelstan was nervous. He commented on the weather, on his plans to rebuild Ceaster’s bridge, on his hopes for a good spring planting, on anything, it seemed, rather than the purpose of our meeting. ‘What did you think of Ingilmundr?’ he asked when we had exhausted the prospects of harvest.
‘He’s clever,’ I said.
‘Just clever?’
‘Vain,’ I said, ‘untrustworthy and dangerous.’
Æthelstan seemed shocked by that answer. ‘I count him as a friend,’ he said stiffly, ‘and I hoped you would too.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s proof we can live together in peace.’
‘He still wears Thor’s hammer.’
‘So do you! But he is learning better! He’s eager for the truth. And he has enemies among the other Norse, and that could make him a friend to us, a good friend.’
‘You sent him missionaries?’ I asked.
‘Two priests, yes. They tell me he is earnest in his search for truth.’
‘I want to know about your other missionaries,’ I went on, ‘those you sent to the Norse who settled south of the Ribbel.’
He shrugged. ‘We sent six, I believe. They are brothers.’
‘You mean monks? Black monks?’