The Last Kingdom

  THE LAST KINGDOM

  Bernard Cornwell

  The Last Kingdom

  is for Judy, with love.

  Wyrd bi ful ræd.

  MAP

  PLACE NAMES

  PROLOGUE: Northumbria, a.d. 866–867

  My name is Uhtred. I am the son of Uhtred, who was the son

  PART ONE

  A Pagan Childhood

  ONE

  The Danes were clever that day. They had made new walls inside

  TWO

  Springtime, the year 868, I was eleven years old and the Wind-

  THREE

  The next day we made a pavilion in the valley between the town

  FOUR

  King Edmund of East Anglia is now remembered as a saint, as

  FIVE

  We gathered at Eoferwic where the pathetic King Egbert was

  SIX

  These days, whenever Englishmen talk of the battle of Æsc’s Hill,

  PART TWO

  The Last Kingdom

  SEVEN

  I settled in southern Mercia. I found another uncle, this one called

  EIGHT

  We spent the spring, summer, and autumn of the year 875

  NINE

  I suppose, if you are reading this, that you have learned your letters,

  PART THREE

  The Shield Wall

  TEN

  Alfred’s army withdrew from Werham. Some West Saxons

  ELEVEN

  Ealdorman Odda did not want to kill Danes. He wanted to stay

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY BERNARD CORNWELL

  CREDITS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  PLACE-NAMES

  The spelling of place-names in Anglo-Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster, and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whatever spelling is cited in the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained within Alfred’s reign, A.D. 871–899, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hæglingaiggæ. Nor have I been consistent myself; I have preferred the modern England to Englaland and, instead of Norhymbralond, have used Northumbria to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list, like the spellings themselves, is capricious.

  Æbbanduna

  Abingdon, Berkshire

  Æsc’s Hill

  Ashdown, Berkshire

  Baðum (pronounced Bathum)

  Bath, Avon

  Basengas

  Basing, Hampshire

  Beamfleot

  Benfleet, Essex

  Beardastopol

  Barnstable, Devon

  Bebbanburg

  Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland

  Berewic

  Berwick on Tweed, Northumberland

  Berrocscire

  Berkshire

  Blaland

  North Africa

  Cantucton

  Cannington, Somerset

  Cetreht

  Catterick, Yorkshire

  Cippanhamm

  Chippenham, Wiltshire

  Cirrenceastre

  Cirencester, Gloucestershire

  Cridianton

  Crediton, Devon

  Cynuit

  Cynuit Hillfort, near Cannington, Somerset

  Contwaraburg

  Canterbury, Kent

  Cornwalum

  Cornwall

  Dalriada

  Western Scotland

  Deoraby

  Derby, Derbyshire

  Defnascir

  Devonshire

  Dic

  Diss, Norfolk

  Dunholm

  Durham, County Durham

  Eoferwic

  York (also the Danish Jorvic, pronounced Yorvik)

  Exanceaster

  Exeter, Devon

  Fromtun

  Frampton-upon-Severn, Gloucestershire

  Gegnesburh

  Gainsborough, Lincolnshire

  The Gewæsc

  The Wash

  Gleawecestre

  Gloucester, Gloucestershire

  Grantaceaster

  Cambridge, Cambridgeshire

  Gyruum Jarrow,

  County Durham

  Hamanfunta

  Havant, Hampshire

  Hamptonscir

  Hampshire

  Hamtun

  Southampton, Hampshire

  Haithabu

  Hedeby, trading town in southern Denmark

  Heilincigae

  Hayling Island, Hampshire

  Hreapandune

  Repton, Derbyshire

  Kenet

  River Kennet

  Ledecestre

  Leicester

  Lindisfarena

  Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland

  Lundene

  London

  Mereton

  Marten, Wiltshire

  Meslach

  Matlock, Derbyshire

  Pedredan

  River Parrett

  The Poole

  Poole Harbour, Dorset

  Pictland

  Eastern Scotland

  Readingum

  Reading, Berkshire

  Sæfern

  River Severn

  Scireburnan

  Sherborne, Dorset

  Snotengaham

  Nottingham, Nottinghamshire

  Streonshall

  Strensall, Yorkshire

  Sumorsæte

  Somerset

  Suth Seaxa

  Sussex (South Saxons)

  Synningthwait

  Swinithwaite, Yorkshire

  Temes

  River Thames

  Thornsæta

  Dorset

  Tine

  River Tine

  Trente

  River Trente

  Tuede

  River Tweed

  Twyfyrde

  Tiverton, Devon

  Uisc

  River Exe

  Werham

  Wareham, Dorset

  With

  Isle of Wight

  Wiire

  River Wear

  Wiltun

  Wilton, Wiltshire

  Wiltunscir

  Wiltshire

  Winburnan

  Wimborne Minster, Dorset

  Wintanceaster

  Winchester, Hampshire

  PROLOGUE

  Northumbria, A.D. 866–867

  My name is Uhtred. I am the son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred and his father was also called Uhtred. My father’s clerk, a priest called Beocca, spelt it Utred. I do not know if that was how my father would have written it, for he could neither read nor write, but I can do both and sometimes I take the old parchments from their wooden chest and I see the name spelled Uhtred or Utred or Ughtred or Ootred. I look at those parchments, which are deeds saying that Uhtred, son of Uhtred, is the lawful and sole owner of the lands that are carefully marked by stones and by dykes, by oaks and by ash, by marsh and by sea, and I dream of those lands, wave-beaten and wild beneath the wind-driven sky. I dream, and know that one day I will take back the land from those who stole it from me.

  I am an ealdorman, though I call myself Earl Uhtred, which is the same thing, and the fading parchments are proof of what I own. The law says I own that land, and the law, we are told, is what makes us men under God instead of beasts in the ditch. But the law does not help me take back my land. The law wants comp
romise. The law thinks money will compensate for loss. The law, above all, fears the blood feud. But I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, and this is the tale of a blood feud. It is a tale of how I will take from my enemy what the law says is mine. And it is the tale of a woman and of her father, a king.

  He was my king and all that I have I owe to him. The food that I eat, the hall where I live, and the swords of my men, all came from Alfred, my king, who hated me.

  This story begins long before I met Alfred. It begins when I was ten years old and first saw the Danes. It was the year 866 and I was not called Uhtred then, but Osbert, for I was my father’s second son and it was the eldest who took the name Uhtred. My brother was seventeen then, tall and well built, with our family’s fair hair and my father’s morose face.

  The day I first saw the Danes we were riding along the seashore with hawks on our wrists. There was my father, my father’s brother, my brother, myself, and a dozen retainers. It was autumn. The sea cliffs were thick with the last growth of summer, there were seals on the rocks, and a host of seabirds wheeling and shrieking, too many to let the hawks off their leashes. We rode till we came to the crisscrossing shallows that rippled between our land and Lindisfarena, the Holy Island, and I remember staring across the water at the broken walls of the abbey. The Danes had plundered it, but that had been many years before I was born, and though the monks were living there again the monastery had never regained its former glory.

  I also remember that day as beautiful and perhaps it was. Perhaps it rained, but I do not think so. The sun shone, the seas were low, the breakers gentle, and the world happy. The hawk’s claws gripped my wrist through the leather sleeve, her hooded head twitching because she could hear the cries of the white birds. We had left the fortress in the forenoon, riding north, and though we carried hawks we did not ride to hunt, but rather so my father could make up his mind.

  We ruled this land. My father, Ealdorman Uhtred, was lord of everything south of the Tuede and north of the Tine, but we did have a king in Northumbria and his name, like mine, was Osbert. He lived to the south of us, rarely came north, and did not bother us, but now a man called Ælla wanted the throne and Ælla, who was an ealdorman from the hills west of Eoferwic, had raised an army to challenge Osbert and had sent gifts to my father to encourage his support. My father, I realize now, held the fate of the rebellion in his grip. I wanted him to support Osbert, for no other reason than the rightful king shared my name and foolishly, at ten years old, I believed any man called Osbert must be noble, good, and brave. In truth Osbert was a dribbling fool, but he was the king, and my father was reluctant to abandon him. But Osbert had sent no gifts and had shown no respect, while Ælla had, and so my father worried. At a moment’s notice we could lead a hundred and fifty men to war, all well armed, and given a month we could swell that force to over four hundred foemen, so whichever man we supported would be the king and grateful to us.

  Or so we thought.

  And then I saw them.

  Three ships.

  In my memory they slid from a bank of sea mist, and perhaps they did, but memory is a faulty thing and my other images of that day are of a clear, cloudless sky, so perhaps there was no mist, but it seems to me that one moment the sea was empty and the next there were three ships coming from the south.

  Beautiful things. They appeared to rest weightless on the ocean, and when their oars dug into the waves they skimmed the water. Their prows and sterns curled high and were tipped with gilded beasts, serpents, and dragons, and it seemed to me that on that faroff summer’s day the three boats danced on the water, propelled by the rise and fall of the silver wings of their oar banks. The sun flashed off the wet blades, splinters of light, then the oars dipped, were tugged, and the beast-headed boats surged, and I stared entranced.

  “The devil’s turds,” my father growled. He was not a very good Christian, but he was frightened enough at that moment to make the sign of the cross.

  “And may the devil swallow them,” my uncle said. His name was Ælfric and he was a slender man; sly, dark, and secretive.

  The three boats had been rowing northward, their square sails furled on their long yards, but when we turned back south to canter homeward on the sand so that our horses’ manes tossed like wind-blown spray and the hooded hawks mewed in alarm, the ships turned with us. Where the cliff had collapsed to leave a ramp of broken turf we rode inland, the horses heaving up the slope, and from there we galloped along the coastal path to our fortress.

  To Bebbanburg. Bebba had been a queen in our land many years before, and she had given her name to my home, which is the dearest place in all the world. The fort stands on a high rock that curls out to sea. The waves beat on its eastern shore and break white on the rock’s northern point, and a shallow sea lake ripples along the western side between the fortress and the land. To reach Bebbanburg you must take the causeway to the south, a low strip of rock and sand that is guarded by a great wooden tower, the Low Gate, which is built on top of an earthen wall. We thundered through the tower’s arch, our horses white with sweat, and rode past the granaries, the smithy, the mews, and the stables, all wooden buildings well thatched with rye straw, and so up the inner path to the High Gate, which protected the peak of the rock that was surrounded by a wooden rampart encircling my father’s hall. There we dismounted, letting slaves take our horses and hawks, and ran to the eastern rampart from where we gazed out to sea.

  The three ships were now close to the islands where the puffins live and the seal-folk dance in winter. We watched them, and my stepmother, alarmed by the sound of hooves, came from the hall to join us on the rampart. “The devil has opened his bowels,” my father greeted her.

  “God and his saints preserve us,” Gytha said, crossing herself. I had never known my real mother, who had been my father’s second wife and, like his first, had died in childbirth, so both my brother and I, who were really half brothers, had no mother, but I thought of Gytha as my mother and, on the whole, she was kind to me, kinder indeed than my father, who did not much like children. Gytha wanted me to be a priest, saying that my elder brother would inherit the land and become a warrior to protect it so I must find another life path. She had given my father two sons and a daughter, but none had lived beyond a year.

  The three ships were coming closer now. It seemed they had come to inspect Bebbanburg, which did not worry us for the fortress was reckoned impregnable, and so the Danes could stare all they wanted. The nearest ship had twin banks of twelve oars each and, as the ship coasted a hundred paces offshore, a man leaped from the ship’s side and ran down the nearer bank of oars, stepping from one shaft to the next like a dancer, and he did it wearing a mail shirt and holding a sword. We all prayed he would fall, but of course he did not. He had long fair hair, very long, and when he had pranced the full length of the oar bank he turned and ran the shafts again.

  “She was trading at the mouth of the Tine a week ago,” Ælfric, my father’s brother, said.

  “You know that?”

  “I saw her,” Ælfric said, “I recognize that prow. See how there’s a light-colored strake on the bend?” He spat. “She didn’t have a dragon’s head then.”

  “They take the beast heads off when they trade,” my father said. “What were they buying?”

  “Exchanging pelts for salt and dried fish. Said they were merchants from Haithabu.”

  “They’re merchants looking for a fight now,” my father said, and the Danes on the three ships were indeed challenging us by clashing their spears and swords against their painted shields, but there was little they could do against Bebbanburg and nothing we could do to hurt them, though my father ordered his wolf banner raised. The flag showed a snarling wolf’s head and it was his standard in battle, but there was no wind and so the banner hung limp and its defiance was lost on the pagans who, after a while, became bored with taunting us, settled to their thwarts, and rowed off to the south.

  “We must pray,” my stepmother said. Gytha
was much younger than my father. She was a small, plump woman with a mass of fair hair and a great reverence for Saint Cuthbert whom she worshipped because he had worked miracles. In the church beside the hall she kept an ivory comb that was said to have been Cuthbert’s beard comb, and perhaps it was.

  “We must act,” my father snarled. He turned away from the battlements. “You,” he said to my elder brother, Uhtred. “Take a dozen men, ride south. Watch the pagans, but nothing more, you understand? If they land their ships on my ground I want to know where.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “But don’t fight them,” my father ordered. “Just watch the bastards and be back here by nightfall.”

  Six other men were sent to rouse the country. Every free man owed military duty and so my father was assembling his army, and by the morrow’s dusk he expected to have close to two hundred men, some armed with axes, spears, or reaping hooks, while his retainers, those men who lived with us in Bebbanburg, would be equipped with well-made swords and hefty shields. “If the Danes are outnumbered,” my father told me that night, “they won’t fight. They’re like dogs, the Danes. Cowards at heart, but they’re given courage by being in a pack.” It was dark and my brother had not returned, but no one was unduly anxious about that. Uhtred was capable, if sometimes reckless, and doubtless he would arrive in the small hours and so my father had ordered a beacon lit in the iron becket on top of the High Gate to guide him home.