The Flame Bearer

  I walked to him. He was plump, like his mother, with a petulant face. He had curling brown hair, ruddy cheeks, blue eyes, and an expression of disdain. He carried a sword that looked too big for him, and he twitched the blade as I came close, but one look into my eyes persuaded him to leave the weapon low. He wanted to be defiant, but I could see the fear in his slightly protuberant eyes. ‘Waormund,’ he commanded, ‘tell the Lord Uhtred to mind his business.’

  Waormund lumbered towards me. He really was a giant, a whole head taller than me, with a flat, grim face slashed from his right eyebrow to his lower left jaw by a scar. He had a bristling brown beard, eyes dead as stone, and a thin-lipped mouth that seemed set in a permanent grimace. ‘Let Prince Ælfweard do his duty,’ he growled at me.

  ‘When the prisoner’s hands are freed,’ I said.

  ‘Make him go away!’ Ælfweard whined.

  ‘You heard …’ Waormund began.

  ‘You don’t serve me,’ I interrupted him, ‘but I am a lord and you are not, and you owe me respect and obedience, and if you fail to give me either then I shall fillet you. I’ve killed bigger fools than you,’ I doubted that was true, but it did no harm for Waormund to hear it, ‘but none more stupid. Now both of you will wait while I free Brice’s hands.’

  ‘You can’t—’ Waormund began, and I slapped him. I slapped him hard across the face, and he was so astonished that he just stood there like a stunned heifer.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do, ceorl,’ I snapped at him. ‘I told you to wait, so you will wait.’ I walked away from him, going to Brice, and I gave Finan a tiny nod as I went. Then I stepped behind Brice, drew the knife I was not supposed to be carrying, and cut through the hide rope that had bound him. I looked past him and saw the scarlet curtain hanging in the entrance of the king’s tent move slightly.

  ‘Thank you, lord,’ Brice said. He massaged his freed wrists. ‘A man should die with his hands free.’

  ‘So he can pray?’

  ‘Because I don’t deserve to die like a common thief, lord. I’m a warrior.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you are.’ I was facing him now, my back to Waormund and to Prince Ælfweard, while Finan had stepped behind Brice. ‘And you’re a warrior who kept his oath,’ I added.

  Brice glanced around the circle of men who watched us. ‘He didn’t come to see this.’ He meant Æthelhelm.

  ‘He’s ashamed of himself,’ I said.

  ‘But he made sure I’d die this way, lord, and not by being hanged. And he’ll look after my wife and children.’

  ‘I’ll make sure he does.’

  ‘But he lets the boy kill me,’ Brice said in disgust, ‘and that boy will butcher me. He likes hurting people.’

  ‘You did too.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve repented my sins, lord.’ He looked past me, gazing up into the cloudless sky, and for a heartbeat there was a hint of tears in his eyes. ‘You think there’s a heaven, lord?’

  ‘I think there’s a mead hall called Valhalla where brave warriors go after death. A mead hall filled with friends and feasts.’

  Brice nodded. ‘But to get there, lord, a man must die with a weapon in his hand.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted your hands untied?’

  He did not answer, but just looked at me, and I saw the confusion in him. He had been raised a Christian, at least I assumed he had, but the stories of the old gods were still whispered about the night-time fires, and the fear of the corpse-ripper who feeds on the dead in Niflheim was not forgotten, despite all that the priests preached. I still carried the knife and now I reversed it and held the hilt towards Brice. ‘It’s not a sword,’ I said, ‘but it is a weapon. Hold it tight.’ I kept my fingers closed firmly around Brice’s knuckles so that he could not release the blade nor, for that matter, lunge it at my belly.

  He did not try. ‘Thank you, lord,’ he said.

  And Finan struck. He had hidden a seax under his tunic, and, while I spoke to Brice, he slid the weapon free and, as soon as he saw that Brice had good hold of the knife, he slashed the short blade across the nape of Brice’s neck. Brice died instantly, with no time even to know he was dying, and the knife was still in his grasp as he fell. I kept my grip on his hand as his body collapsed, and only when I was certain that he was dead did I prise his fingers from the hilt.

  ‘You …’ Ælfweard began to protest in a shrill voice, but went silent as Finan whirled the seax’s blooded blade in a series of air-whistling cuts and slashes too fast for the eye to follow.

  So Brice died, and, stupid as he was, he will have his place on the benches in Valhalla’s hall. We shall meet again.

  I walked away, but a touch on my elbow turned me back fast. I thought for a heartbeat that Waormund or Ælfweard was attacking me, but it was a servant who bowed low and told me I was summoned to the king’s tent. ‘Now, if it please you, lord.’

  It did not matter whether I was pleased or displeased, a king’s summons could hardly be ignored and so I followed the servant past the guards and pushed through the scarlet curtain. It was cool inside the tent, smelling of crushed grass. There were tables, chairs, chests, and a large bed on which a dark-haired girl with large eyes sat watching us. The king dismissed the servant, but ignored the girl, instead going to a table littered with broken loaves, a block of cheese, documents, a book, quills, horn cups, and two silver jugs. The crown of Wessex with its emeralds lay discarded in the muddle. Edward poured himself a beaker of wine and looked at me questioningly. ‘Please, lord,’ I said.

  He poured another beaker and brought it to me himself, then sat, nodding to a second, smaller chair. ‘So Brice was a pagan?’

  ‘A pagan and a Christian, I suspect.’

  ‘And he did not deserve to die.’ It was not a question, but a statement.

  ‘No, lord.’

  ‘But it was a necessary death,’ he said. I did not respond. Edward sipped his wine and brushed a scrap of dirt from his blue robe. ‘I didn’t know,’ he went on, ‘that my son had been given the job of killing him. I am glad you intervened.’

  ‘Brice deserved a quick end,’ I said.

  ‘He did,’ he agreed, ‘yes, he did.’ I had not seen Edward for some years, and thought he looked old now, though he was much younger than me. He was, I suppose, in his early forties then, but his hair had gone grey at the temples, his short beard was grey, and his face was lined. I could see his father in that face. I remembered Edward as a young and uncertain prince, since when I had heard rumours of too much wine and too many women, though the gods know the same rumours could be spread of any lord, but I had also heard that he cared deeply about his country, was pious, and I knew he had proved a notable warrior in his conquest of East Anglia. It had been difficult for him, if not impossible, to live up to his father’s reputation, but as Alfred’s death receded in time so Edward had grown in authority and achievement. ‘You do know,’ he said suddenly, ‘that we shall attack Northumbria?’

  ‘Of course, lord.’

  ‘The truce will be kept. In truth it’s convenient for me. We need time to impose law on the lands we’ve taken.’ He meant the next year would be spent rewarding his followers with estates, and making sure they had trained warriors who could march north under the dragon banner of Wessex. He frowned as a priest came into the tent clutching an armful of documents. ‘Not now, not now,’ the king said irritably, waving the man off. ‘Later. Who has your oath, Lord Uhtred?’

  ‘Your sister.’

  He seemed surprised by that. ‘Still?’

  ‘Indeed, lord.’

  He frowned. ‘Yet you would fight for Sigtryggr?’

  ‘Your sister hasn’t demanded otherwise, lord.’

  ‘And if she did?’

  I tried to avoid the question. ‘You have nothing to fear from me, lord King. I’m an old man with aching joints.’

  Edward offered me a grim smile. ‘My father tried to control you and said it couldn’t be done. He also advised me never to underestimate you.
He said you look stupid but act clever.’

  ‘I thought it was the other way around, lord.’

  He smiled dutifully at that, then returned to the question I had tried to avoid. ‘So what happens if my sister demands your service?’

  ‘Lord,’ I said, ‘all I want is to retake Bebbanburg.’ I knew that would not satisfy him, so added, ‘but that is probably impossible now that Constantin is there, so I am planning to retire to Frisia.’

  He frowned. ‘I asked,’ he said precisely, and in a voice that was just like his father’s, ‘what you would do if my sister demanded your oath-service.’

  ‘I would never draw my sword against your sister, lord, never.’

  It was not the full answer he wanted, but he did not press me any further. ‘You know what is happening at Bebbanburg?’

  ‘I know Constantin is besieging the fortress,’ I said, ‘but nothing more.’

  ‘He’s trying to starve your cousin,’ Edward said. ‘He’s left over four hundred men there under a leader called Domnall, and Domnall is a very capable commander.’

  I did not ask how he knew. Edward would have inherited his father’s vast number of spies and informants, and no king in Britain was better supplied with news, much of it sent by churchmen who were incessantly writing letters, and I did not doubt that Edward had plenty of informants in both Scotland and Northumbria. ‘There’s a sea gate,’ I said, ‘and the fortress can be supplied by ship.’

  ‘No longer,’ Edward said confidently. ‘The coast is guarded by a Norseman and his ships. A man originally hired by your cousin.’

  ‘Einar the White?’

  He nodded. ‘Constantin has purchased his loyalty.’

  That surprised me. ‘Constantin told me he’d attack Einar.’

  ‘Why fight when you can buy? Einar’s ships patrol the coast now.’ Edward sighed. ‘Constantin is no fool, though I’m not sure how useful Einar will be. He calls himself Einar the White, but he’s also known as Einar the Unfortunate.’ He gave a mirthless smile. ‘What did you like to tell me years ago? That fate is inexorable?’

  ‘Wyrd bið ful ãræd,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe Einar’s fate is to be unfortunate? You must hope so.’

  ‘Why unfortunate, lord?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m told he’s wrecked three ships.’

  ‘Then maybe he’s fortunate to be alive?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he smiled thinly, ‘but I am told the nickname is deserved.’ I hoped he was right. I touched the hammer hanging around my neck and said a silent prayer that Einar proved to be the unlucky one. Edward saw the gesture and frowned.

  ‘But with or without Einar’s ships,’ I said, ‘Bebbanburg is almost impossible to capture. That’s why I’m thinking of Frisia.’

  ‘Frisia!’ Edward said contemptuously, his disbelief plain, and I feared my cousin’s reaction might be the same. ‘Bebbanburg,’ he went on, ‘is surely difficult to assault, but it can be starved, and your cousin has over two hundred men inside Bebbanburg, well over two hundred. They need a lot of food! He could have held the fortress with half that number, but he’s a cautious man and he’s going to starve sooner rather than later. And one of his granaries burned. Did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t, lord.’ I felt a surge of pleasure at my cousin’s ill-fortune, then a pang of fear as I thought how such a fire would help Constantin.

  ‘Your cousin evicted the useless mouths from the fortress,’ Edward went on, ‘but he’s kept too many fighting men inside. They will starve, and a starved garrison will prove easy to conquer.’ I touched the hammer again, risking his displeasure. ‘But it does not suit me,’ Edward sounded bitter suddenly, ‘for Constantin to rule Bebbanburg’s land. He had the impudence to demand all the land north of the wall! He sent an envoy, a bishop, to propose a new frontier! But Bebbanburg is Saxon land. It always has been! And it should be, and it will be, a part of Englaland. You might be old, feeble, and have aching joints, Lord Uhtred, but you will drive Constantin out of your ancestral land!’

  I shrugged. ‘I want Bebbanburg more than you, lord King, but I also know the fortress. If I had a thousand men?’ I shrugged again. ‘I hold Dunholm, and Dunholm is almost as formidable as Bebbanburg. I had thought to dream of Bebbanburg and die in Dunholm, but when your army invades Northumbria, lord, Frisia will be a safer place for me.’ I said that loudly, not for Edward’s benefit, but for the wide-eyed girl who listened from the bed. The king might not believe my story of Frisia, but let the girl spread the rumour that I was not going to Bebbanburg.

  ‘If you do not take Bebbanburg,’ Edward said savagely, ‘then I will, and my man will rule there instead of you. Is that what you want?’

  ‘Better you than the Scots, lord.’

  He grunted, then stood to show we were finished, and so I stood too. ‘You asked to take Æthelstan as your hostage,’ he said as we walked towards the tent’s doorway, ‘why?’

  ‘Because he’s like a son to me,’ I said, ‘and because I would preserve his life.’

  Edward well knew what I implied, he knew who threatened Æthelstan. He nodded. ‘Good,’ he said softly. ‘My sister has protected him these many years. Now you will do it for a year.’

  ‘You could preserve his life yourself, lord,’ I said.

  He paused and lowered his voice. ‘Ealdorman Æthelhelm is my most powerful lord. He leads too many men, and has too many followers who owe him their lands and their fortunes. To oppose him openly is to risk civil war.’

  ‘But he’ll start just such a war,’ I said, ‘to keep Æthelstan from succeeding.’

  ‘Then that will be Æthelstan’s problem,’ the king said bleakly, ‘so teach him well, Lord Uhtred, teach him well, because my sister can no longer protect him.’

  ‘She can’t?’

  ‘My sister,’ he said, ‘is dying.’

  And my heart seemed to stop.

  And just then an indignant Ælfweard pushed aside the scarlet curtain. ‘That man Uhtred, father …’ he began, then stopped abruptly. He had evidently not known I was in the tent.

  ‘That man Uhtred what?’ Edward asked.

  Ælfweard offered his father a perfunctory bow. ‘I was told to kill the prisoner. He interfered.’

  ‘So?’ Edward demanded.

  ‘He should be punished,’ Ælfweard protested.

  ‘Then punish him,’ Edward said, and turned away.

  Ælfweard frowned, looked from me to his father, then back to me. If he had possessed any sense he would have stepped aside, but his pride was hurt. ‘Do you not bow to royalty, Lord Uhtred?’ he demanded in his high voice.

  ‘I bow to those I respect,’ I said.

  ‘You call me “lord”,’ he insisted.

  ‘No, boy, I don’t.’

  He was shocked. He mouthed the word ‘boy’, but said nothing, just stared indignantly at me. I took a pace forward, forcing him back. ‘I called your father “boy”,’ I said, ‘until the day he accompanied me across the walls of Beamfleot. We killed Danes that day, spear-Danes, sword-Danes, fierce warriors. We fought, boy, and we made a great slaughter, and on that day your father deserved to be called lord and deserved all the respect I still give him. But you’re still reeking of your mother’s tit, boy, and until you prove to me that you’re a man then you stay a boy. Now get out of my way, boy.’

  He did. And his father said nothing. And I left.

  ‘He’s not a bad boy,’ Æthelflaed told me.

  ‘He’s pampered, rude, insufferable.’

  ‘People say that about you.’

  I growled at that, making her smile. ‘And you?’ I asked her, ‘your brother says you’re ill.’

  She hesitated. I could see she wanted to deny the fact, but then she relented and sighed. ‘I’m dying,’ she said.

  ‘No!’ I protested, but I could see the truth in her eyes. Her beauty was overlaid by age and pain, her skin looked somehow fragile, as if it had thinned, her eyes were darker, yet she still could smile and still had grace. I h
ad found her in her tent, behind her flag, which showed a white goose holding a cross in its beak and a sword in a webbed foot. I had mocked that badge often enough. The goose was the symbol of Saint Werburgh, a Mercian nun who had miraculously evicted a flock of geese from a wheatfield, though why that counted as a miracle was beyond my understanding, any child of ten could do the same thing, but I knew Werburgh was precious to Æthelflaed, and she was precious to me. I pulled a chair beside hers and sat, taking one of her thin hands in mine. ‘I know a healer …’ I began.

  ‘I have had healers,’ she said tiredly, ‘so many healers. But Ælfthryth sent me a clever man, and he’s helped.’ Ælfthryth was her younger sister who had married the ruler of Flanders. ‘Father Casper makes a potion that takes away much of the pain, but he had to go back to Flanders because Ælfthryth is sick too.’ She sighed and made the sign of the cross. ‘Some days I feel better.’

  ‘What are you suffering from?’

  ‘Pain, here,’ she touched a breast, ‘deep inside. Father Casper taught the sisters how to make his potion, and that helps. Prayer helps too.’

  ‘Then pray more,’ I said. Two nuns, presumably the sisters who nursed Æthelflaed, sat in the shadows at the back of the tent. Both watched me suspiciously, though neither could hear a word we spoke.

  ‘I pray day and night,’ Æthelflaed said with a wan smile, ‘and I pray for you too!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll need prayer,’ she said, ‘with Æthelhelm as your enemy.’

  ‘I just pulled his teeth,’ I said. ‘You were there.’

  ‘He’ll want revenge.’

  I shrugged. ‘So what will he do? Attack me in Dunholm? I wish him luck with that.’

  She patted my hand. ‘Don’t be arrogant.’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ I said, smiling, ‘so why doesn’t your brother just smack Æthelhelm down?’

  ‘Because it would mean war,’ she said bleakly. ‘Æthelhelm is popular! He’s generous! There isn’t a bishop or abbot in Wessex who doesn’t take his money, he’s friends with half the nobles. He gives feasts! And he doesn’t want the throne for himself.’