The Flame Bearer. Bernard Cornwell
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We had captured my cousin’s son, a mere boy, and I had let Osferth, one of my trusted men, look after both him and his mother, who had been taken captive with her son. Mother and son had both died of a plague the year before, but inevitably men said that I had poisoned them. ‘He died of the sweating fever,’ I said, ‘and so did thousands of others in Wessex.’
‘Of course I believe you,’ Constantin said carelessly, ‘but your cousin is now in need of a wife!’
I shrugged. ‘Some poor woman will marry him.’
‘I have a daughter,’ Constantin said musingly, ‘perhaps I should offer the girl?’
‘She’ll be a cheaper price than you’ll pay trying to cross his ramparts.’
‘You think I fear Bebbanburg’s walls?’
‘You should,’ I said.
‘You planned to cross those ramparts,’ Constantin said, and there was no amusement in his manner any more, ‘and do you believe I am less willing and less able than you?’
‘So your peace,’ I said bitterly, ‘is conquest.’
‘Yes,’ he said bluntly, ‘it is. But we are merely moving the frontier back to where the Romans so wisely placed it.’ He paused, enjoying my discomfiture. ‘Bebbanburg, Lord Uhtred,’ he went on, ‘and all its lands are mine.’
‘Not while I live.’
‘Is there a fly buzzing in here?’ he asked. ‘I heard something. Or was it you speaking?’
I looked into his eyes. ‘You see the priest over there?’ I jerked my head towards Father Eadig.
Constantin was puzzled, but nodded. ‘I’m surprised, pleased, that you have a priest for company.’
‘A priest who spoiled your plans, lord King,’ I said.
‘My plans?’
‘Your men killed his escort, but Father Eadig got away. If he hadn’t reached me I’d still be at Ætgefrin.’
‘Wherever that is,’ Constantin said lightly.
‘The hill your scouts have been watching this past week and more,’ I said, realising at last who the mysterious and skilful watchers had been. Constantin gave a very slight nod, acknowledging that his men had indeed been haunting us. ‘And you’d have attacked me there,’ I went on, ‘why else would you be here instead of at Bebbanburg? You wanted to destroy me, but now you find me behind stone walls and killing me will be much more difficult.’ That was all true. If Constantin had caught me in open country his forces would have chopped my men into pieces, but he would pay a high price if he tried to assault Weallbyrig’s ramparts.
He seemed amused by the truth I had spoken. ‘And why, Lord Uhtred, would I want to kill you?’
‘Because he’s the one enemy you fear,’ Finan answered for me.
I saw the momentary grimace on Constantin’s face. Then he stood, and there were no more smiles. ‘This fort,’ he said harshly, ‘is now my property. All the land to the north is my kingdom. I give you till sundown today to leave my fort and my frontier, which means that you, Lord Uhtred, will go south.’
Constantin had come to my land with an army. My cousin had been reinforced by Einar the White’s ships. I had fewer than two hundred men, so what choice did I have?
I touched Thor’s hammer and made a silent vow. I would take Bebbanburg despite my cousin, despite Einar, and despite Constantin. It would take longer, it would be hard, but I would do it.
Then I went south.
We arrived at Eoferwic, or Jorvik as the Danes and Norse call it, on the next Sunday, and were greeted by the ringing of church bells. Brida, who had been my lover before she became my enemy, had tried to eradicate Christianity in Eoferwic. She had murdered the old archbishop, slaughtered many of his priests, and burned the churches, but Sigtryggr, the new ruler in the city, did not care what god any man or woman worshipped so long as they paid their taxes and kept the peace, and so the new Christian shrines had sprung up like mushrooms after rain. There was also a new archbishop, Hrothweard, a West Saxon who was reputed to be a decent enough man. We arrived around midday under a bright sun, the first sun we had seen since we had ridden from Ætgefrin. We rode to the palace, close by the rebuilt cathedral, but there I was told that Sigtryggr had gone to Lindcolne with his forces. ‘But the queen is here?’ I asked the elderly doorkeeper as I dismounted.
‘She rode with her husband, lord.’
I grunted disapprovingly, though my daughter’s taste for danger did not surprise me, indeed it would have astonished me if she had not ridden south with Sigtryggr. ‘And the children?’
‘Gone to Lindcolne too, lord.’
I flinched from the aches in my bones. ‘So who’s in charge here?’
‘Boldar Gunnarson, lord.’
I knew Boldar as a reliable, experienced warrior. I also thought of him as old, though in truth he might have been a year or two younger than I was and, like me, he had been scarred by war. He had been left with a limp thanks to a Saxon spear that had torn up his right calf, and he had lost an eye to a Mercian arrow, and those wounds had taught him caution. ‘There’s no news of the war,’ he told me, ‘but of course it could be another week before we hear anything.’
‘Is there really war?’ I asked him.
‘There are Saxons on our territory, lord,’ he said carefully, ‘and I don’t suppose they’ve come here to dance with us.’ He had been left with a scanty garrison to defend Eoferwic, and if there really was a West Saxon army rampaging in southern Northumbria then he had best hope it never reached the city’s Roman ramparts, just as he had best pray to the gods that Constantin did not decide to cross the wall and march south. ‘Will you be staying here, lord?’ he asked, doubtless hoping my men would stiffen his diminished garrison.
‘We’ll leave in the morning,’ I told him. I would have gone sooner, but our horses needed rest and I needed news. Boldar had no real idea what happened to the south, so Finan suggested we talked to the new archbishop. ‘Monks are always writing to each other,’ he said, ‘monks and priests. They know more about what’s going on than most kings! And they say Archbishop Hrothweard’s a good man.’
‘I don’t trust him.’
‘You’ve never met him!’
‘He’s a Christian,’ I said, ‘and so are the West Saxons. So who would he rather have on the throne here? A Christian or Sigtryggr? No, you go and talk to him. Wave your crucifix at him and try not to fart.’
My son and I walked east, leaving the city through one of the massive gates and following a lane to the river bank where a row of buildings edged a long wharf used by trading ships that came from every port of the North Sea. Here a man could buy a ship or timber, cordage or pitch, sailcloth or slaves. There were three taverns, the largest of which was the Duck, which sold ale, food, and whores, and it was there that we sat at a table just outside the door. ‘Nice to see the sun again,’ Olla, the tavern’s owner, greeted me.
‘Be nicer still to see some ale,’ I said.
Olla