The Flame Bearer. Bernard Cornwell
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to the north of the fort. ‘Look at the pasture on this side of the stream,’ I said, ‘what do you see there?’
Eadric had eyes as good as Finan’s and he now stood in his stirrups, shaded his face with a hand and stared. ‘Graves?’ he sounded puzzled.
‘They’re digging something,’ Finan said. There seemed to be several mounds of freshly-turned earth.
‘You want me to look, lord?’ Eadric asked.
‘We all will,’ I said.
We rode slowly towards the fort, leaving our shields behind as a sign we did not want battle, and for a time it seemed the West Saxons were content just to watch as we explored the pasture on our side of the river where I could see the mysterious heaps of earth. As we rode closer I saw that the mounds had not been excavated from graves, but from trenches. ‘Are they building a new fort?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘They’re building something,’ Finan said.
‘Lord,’ Eadric said warningly, but I had already seen the dozen horsemen leave the fort and ride to where a ford crossed the stream.
We numbered fourteen men, and Brunulf, if he was trying to avoid trouble, would bring the same number, and so he did, but when the horsemen were in the centre of the stream where the placid water almost reached up to their horses’ bellies, they all stopped. They bunched there, ignoring us, and it seemed to me that they argued, and then, unexpectedly, two men turned and rode back to the fort. We were at the pasture’s edge by then, the grass lush from the recent rain, and as I spurred Tintreg forward I saw it was no fort they were making, nor graves, but a church. The trench had been dug in the form of a cross. It was meant to be the building’s foundation and it would eventually be half filled with stone to support the wall pillars. ‘It’s big!’ I said, impressed.
‘Big as the church in Wintanceaster!’ Finan said, equally impressed.
The dozen remaining emissaries from the fort were now spurring from the river. Eight were warriors like us, the rest were churchmen, two priests in black robes, and a pair of monks in brown. The warriors wore no helmets, carried no shields, and, apart from their sheathed swords, no weapons. Their leader, on an impressive grey stallion that stepped high through the long grass, wore a dark robe edged with fur above a leather breastplate over which hung a silver cross. He was a young man with a grave face, a short beard, and a high forehead beneath a woollen cap. He reined in his restless horse, then looked at me in silence as if expecting me to speak first. I did not.
‘I am Brunulf Torkelson of Wessex,’ he finally said. ‘And who are you?’
‘You’re Torkel Brunulfson’s son?’ I asked.
He looked surprised at the question, then pleased. He nodded. ‘I am, lord.’
‘Your father fought beside me at Ethandun,’ I said, ‘and fought well! He slew Danes that day. Does he still live?’
‘He does.’
‘Give him my warm greeting.’
He hesitated and I sensed he wanted to thank me, but there was a pretence that had to be spoken first. ‘And whose greeting is that?’ he asked.
I half smiled, looking along the line of his men. ‘You know who I am, Brunulf,’ I said. ‘You called me “lord”, so don’t pretend you don’t know me.’ I pointed at the oldest of his warriors, a grizzled man with a scar across his forehead. ‘You fought beside me at Fearnhamme. Am I right?’
The man grinned, ‘I did, lord.’
‘You served Steapa, yes?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘So tell Brunulf who I am.’
‘He’s …’
‘I do know who he is,’ Brunulf interrupted, then gave me a slight nod of his head. ‘It is an honour to meet you, lord.’ Those words, spoken courteously, caused the eldest of the two priests to spit on the grass. Brunulf ignored the insult. ‘And may I ask what brings Uhtred of Bebbanburg to this poor place?’
‘I was about to ask what brought you here,’ I retorted.
‘You have no business here,’ it was the spitting priest who spoke. He was a strongly built man, broad-chested, older than Brunulf by perhaps ten or fifteen years, with a fierce face, short-cropped black hair, and an undeniable air of authority. His black robe was made of finely woven wool, and the cross on his chest was of gold. The second priest was a much smaller man, younger, and plainly very nervous of our presence.
I looked at the older priest. ‘And who are you?’ I demanded.
‘A man doing God’s business.’
‘You know my name,’ I said mildly, ‘but do you know what they call me?’
‘Satan’s earsling,’ he snarled.
‘Perhaps they do,’ I said, ‘but they also call me the priest-killer, but it’s been many years since I last slit the belly of an arrogant priest. I need the practice.’ I smiled at him.
Brunulf held up a hand to check whatever retort was about to be made. ‘Father Herefrith fears you are trespassing, Lord Uhtred.’ Brunulf, plainly, was not looking for a fight. His tone was courteous.
‘How can a man trespass on his own king’s land?’ I asked.
‘This land,’ Brunulf said, ‘belongs to Edward of Wessex.’
I laughed at that. It was a brazen statement, as outrageous as Constantin’s claim that all the land north of the wall belonged to the Scots. ‘This land,’ I said, ‘is a half-day’s ride north of the frontier.’
‘There is proof of our claim,’ Father Herefrith said. His voice was a deep, hostile growl, and his gaze even more unfriendly. I guessed he had been a warrior once, he had scars on one cheek, and his dark eyes betrayed no fear, only challenge. He was big, but it was all muscle, the kind of muscle a man develops from years of practising sword-skill. I noticed that he stood his horse apart from the rest of Brunulf’s followers, even from his fellow priest, as if he despised their company.
‘Proof,’ I said scornfully.
‘Proof!’ he spat back. ‘Though we need prove nothing to you. You’re shit from the devil’s arse and you trespass on King Edward’s land.’
‘Father Herefrith,’ Brunulf seemed disturbed by the older priest’s belligerence, ‘is a chaplain to King Edward.’
‘Father Herefrith,’ I said, keeping my voice mild, ‘was born from a sow’s arsehole.’
Herefrith just stared at me. I had been told once that there is a tribe of men far beyond the seas who can kill with a look, and it seemed as if the big priest was trying to emulate them. I looked away from him before it became a contest, and saw that the second banner, the one that had not stretched in the small wind, had now been taken down from the fort’s ramparts. I wondered if a war party was assembling to follow that banner to our destruction. ‘Your royal chaplain, born of a sow,’ I spoke to Brunulf, though I was still watching the fort, ‘says he has proof. What proof?’
‘Father Stepan?’ Brunulf passed my question to the nervous younger priest.
‘In the year of our lord 875,’ the second priest answered in a high, unsteady voice, ‘King Ælla of Northumbria ceded this land in perpetuity to King Oswald of East Anglia. King Edward is now the ruler of East Anglia and thus is the true and rightful inheritor of the gift.’
I looked at Brunulf and had the impression that here was an honest man, certainly a man who did not look convinced by the priest’s statement. ‘In the year of Thor 875,’ I said, ‘Ælla was under siege from a rival, and Oswald wasn’t even the King of East Anglia, he was a puppet for Ubba.’
‘Nevertheless—’ the older priest insisted, but stopped when I interrupted him.
‘Ubba