The Pagan Lord

  Relief was coursing through me like water pouring down a dry stream bed. A moment before I had been trapped and doomed, now I had my cousin’s son as a hostage. And his wife, I assumed, and his father. I smiled at my black-cloaked enemy. ‘It’s time for you to drop your sword,’ I told him.

  ‘Father!’ The boy struggled to escape Finan’s grasp, lunging towards his father, and I hit him with my shield, a stinging blow from the heavy iron-rimmed boards that prompted a cry of pain and a protest from his mother.

  ‘Stay still, you little bastard,’ I said to him.

  ‘He’s not going any place,’ Finan said, still holding the child’s arm.

  I looked at the woman. ‘And you are?’ I demanded.

  She stiffened defiantly, straightening her back and staring me in the eyes. ‘Ingulfrid,’ she said coldly.

  Interesting, I thought. I knew my cousin had taken a Danish wife, but no one had told me what a fine-looking woman she was. ‘This is your son?’ I asked her.

  ‘He is,’ she said.

  ‘Your only son?’ I asked.

  She hesitated, then nodded abruptly. I had heard that she had given birth to three boys, but only the one had lived.

  ‘Uhtred!’ my cousin called.

  ‘Father?’ the boy answered. He had a smear of blood where my shield had broken the skin over his right cheekbone.

  ‘Not you, boy. I’m talking to him.’ My cousin pointed his sword at me.

  I dropped my shield and walked towards my cousin. ‘So,’ I said, ‘it seems we have each other at a disadvantage. Shall we fight? You and I? The law of the hazel rods?’

  ‘Fight him!’ my uncle called.

  ‘Let my wife and son go,’ my cousin said, ‘and you can leave in peace.’

  I pretended to consider that, then shook my head. ‘It will take more than that. And you don’t want your father back?’

  ‘Him too, of course.’

  ‘You give me one thing,’ I said, ‘which is to go unharmed, and I have to give you three? That doesn’t make sense, cousin.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘because it’s mine.’

  ‘It is not yours!’ my uncle snarled. I turned to look at him. He was old now, old and bent, his dark face deep-lined, but he still had clever eyes. His dark hair had turned white and hung lank to his thin shoulders. He was dressed richly in embroidered robes with a heavy fur-trimmed cloak. When my father rode off to war, only to die at Eoferwic, Ælfric had sworn on the comb of Saint Cuthbert that he would give the fortress to me when I came of age, but instead he had tried to kill me. He had tried to buy me from Ragnar, the man who had raised me, and later he had paid to have me sold into slavery, and I hated him more than I have ever hated any creature on this earth. He had even been betrothed to my beloved Gisela, though I had taken her long before she could reach his bed. That had been a small victory, but this was a greater one. He was my captive, though nothing in his demeanour suggested he thought the same thing. He stared at me disdainfully. ‘Bebbanburg is not yours,’ he said.

  ‘It is my birthright,’ I said.

  ‘Your birthright,’ he spat. ‘Bebbanburg belongs to the man strong enough to hold it, not to some fool who waves parchment deeds. Your father would have wanted that! He told me often enough you were an irresponsible lackwit. He meant Bebbanburg to go to your elder brother, not to you! But it’s mine now, and one day it will belong to my son.’

  I wanted to kill the lying bastard, but he was old and frail. Old, frail and as poisonous as a viper. ‘My Lady Ingulfrid,’ I said to Osferth, ‘is wet and cold. Give her my uncle’s cloak.’

  If Ingulfrid was grateful she did not show it. She took the cloak willingly enough and pulled the heavy fur collar around her neck. She was shivering, but stared at me with loathing. I looked back to my cousin, her husband. ‘Maybe you should buy your family,’ I said, ‘and the price will be gold.’

  ‘They’re not slaves to be bought and sold,’ he snarled.

  I gazed at him and pretended to be struck by a sudden thought. ‘There’s an idea! Slaves! Finan!’

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘How much does a fine Saxon boy fetch in Frankia these days?’

  ‘Enough to buy a coat of Frankish mail, lord.’

  ‘That much?’

  Finan pretended to appraise the boy. ‘He’s a fine-looking lad. Got meat on his bones. There are men who’ll pay well for a plump little Saxon rump, lord.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  Finan looked her up and down, then shook his head. ‘She’s fair enough looking, I suppose, but she’s used goods, lord. Maybe she still has a few years left in her? So she might fetch enough to buy a packhorse. More if she can cook.’

  ‘Can you cook?’ I asked Ingulfrid and received nothing more than a hate-filled stare for answer. I looked back to my cousin. ‘A packhorse and a coat of mail,’ I told him, then pretended to think about it. ‘It’s not enough,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I want more than that. Much more.’

  ‘You can leave unharmed,’ he offered, ‘and I shall pay you gold.’

  ‘How much gold?’

  He glanced at his father. It was plain that Ælfric had yielded the day-to-day command of the fortress to his son, but when it came to matters of money then my uncle was still in charge. ‘His helmet,’ Ælfric said sullenly.

  ‘I will fill your helmet with gold coins,’ my cousin offered.

  ‘That will buy your wife,’ I said, ‘but how much for your heir?’

  ‘The same,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Not nearly enough,’ I protested, ‘but I’ll exchange all three for Bebbanburg.’

  ‘No!’ my uncle cried loudly. ‘No!’

  I ignored Ælfric. ‘Give me back what is mine,’ I told my cousin, ‘and I will give you what is yours.’

  ‘You can make other sons!’ Ælfric snarled at his son, ‘and Bebbanburg is not yours to give. It is mine!’

  ‘It’s his?’ I asked my cousin.

  ‘Of course it’s his,’ he answered stubbornly.

  ‘And you are his heir?’

  ‘I am.’

  I stepped back to the prisoners and seized my uncle by the nape of his scrawny neck. I shook him like a terrier shaking a rat, then turned him so I could smile down into his face. ‘You knew I would come back,’ I said.

  ‘I hoped you would,’ he retorted.

  ‘Bebbanburg is mine,’ I said, ‘and you know it.’

  ‘Bebbanburg belongs to the man who can hold it,’ he said defiantly, ‘and you failed.’

  ‘I was ten when you stole it,’ I protested, ‘younger even than him!’ I pointed at his grandson.

  ‘Your father didn’t hold it,’ my uncle said, ‘and like a fool he rode to his death, and you’re the same. You’re a fool. You’re impetuous, feckless, irresponsible. Suppose for a moment you retook Bebbanburg? How long would you hold it? You, who has never held onto any estate? Whatever land you had, you lost; whatever fortune you made, you threw away!’ He looked at his son. ‘You will hold Bebbanburg,’ he ordered, ‘whatever the price!’

  ‘The price is your son’s life,’ I told my cousin.

  ‘No!’ Ingulfrid screamed.

  ‘We will not pay your price,’ my uncle said. He looked up at me with his dark eyes. ‘So kill the boy,’ he said. He waited, then sneered. ‘Kill him! You named the price, and I won’t pay it! So kill him!’

  ‘Father …’ my cousin said nervously.

  Ælfric turned snake-fast towards his son. I was still holding him, tightly gripping the nape of his neck, but he made no effort to escape me. ‘You can breed more sons!’ he spat towards my cousin. ‘Sons are easily made! Haven’t enough of your whores whelped boys? The village is crawling with your bastards, so marry another wife and give her sons, but don’t ever yield the fortress! Bebbanburg is not worth a son’s life! There will never be another Bebbanburg, but there will always be more sons!’

  I looked at my cousin. ‘Give me Bebban
burg,’ I said, ‘and I will give you back your son.’

  ‘I have refused that price!’ my uncle snarled.

  So I killed him.

  It took him by surprise; indeed, it took everyone by surprise. I had been holding the old man by his neck and all I had to do was lift Serpent-Breath and draw her blade across his throat. And so I did. It was fast, much faster than he deserved. The sword felt the resistance of his skinny gullet and he twisted like an eel, but I quickened the blade and dragged it fast and she broke through the muscles and tendons, through the windpipe and the blood vessels, and he gasped, a curious almost feminine noise, and then the only sound he could make was gurgling, bubbling, and the blood was pouring onto the ground as he collapsed to his knees in front of me. I put a boot on his spine and thrust him forward so that he fell flat. He jerked for some seconds, still fighting for breath, and his hands curled as if to hold the soil of his fortress. Then he twitched a last time and was still, and I felt a vague disappointment. I had dreamed of killing this man for years. I had planned his death in my dreams, I had devised ever more painful deaths for him, and now I had just cut his throat with a merciful swiftness. All that dreaming for nothing! I prodded the dead man with my foot then looked up to his son. ‘Now you’re the one who has to make the decision,’ I said.

  No one spoke. The rain fell and the wind blew, and my cousin’s men stared at the corpse and I knew their world had suddenly changed. All of them, for all of their lives, had been under the command of Ælfric and suddenly there was no Ælfric. His death had shocked them. ‘Well?’ I demanded of my cousin. ‘Will you buy your son’s life?’

  He stared at me, said nothing.

  ‘Answer me, you weasel vomit,’ I said. ‘Will you exchange Bebbanburg for your son?’

  ‘I will pay you for Bebbanburg,’ he said uncertainly. He looked down at his father’s corpse. I guessed that they had suffered an uneasy relationship, just as I had with my father, but he was still horrified. He looked up at me again, frowning. ‘He was old!’ he protested. ‘You had to kill an old man?’

  ‘He was a thief,’ I said, ‘and I have dreamed of killing him for a lifetime.’

  ‘He was old!’ he protested again.

  ‘He was lucky,’ I snarled, ‘lucky that he died so fast. I dreamed of killing him slowly. But fast or slow, he’s gone to the Corpse-Ripper in the underworld, and if you don’t give me Bebbanburg then I shall send your son to the Corpse-Ripper too.’

  ‘I will pay you gold,’ he said, ‘much gold.’

  ‘You know my price,’ I said, pointing Serpent-Breath’s bloodied blade at his son. The rainwater was dripping pink from the sword’s tip. I moved the sword closer to the boy and Ingulfrid screamed.

  I had been indecisive and hesitant, now it was my cousin’s turn. I could see the indecision on his face. Was Bebbanburg really worth his son’s life? Ingulfrid was begging him. She had an arm around her son, tears were streaming down her face. My cousin seemed to grimace when she shrieked at him, but then he surprised me by turning and ordering his men back to the High Gate. ‘I shall give you time to consider,’ he said, ‘but know this. I will not yield Bebbanburg. So, for this day’s work you can end with a dead boy or with a fortune in gold. Tell me which you want before nightfall.’ He walked away.

  ‘Lord!’ Ingulfrid appealed to her husband.

  He turned back, but spoke to me instead of her. ‘You’ll release my wife,’ he demanded.

  ‘She’s not a captive,’ I said, ‘she’s free to go wherever she likes, but I keep the boy.’

  Ingulfrid kept hold of her son’s shoulders. ‘I stay with my son,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘You’ll come with me, woman,’ my cousin snarled.

  ‘You don’t command here,’ I said. ‘Your wife pleases herself.’

  He looked at me as though I was utterly mad. ‘Pleases herself?’ He did not say the words, but rather mouthed them in astonishment, then shook his head in disbelief and turned again. He took his men away, leaving us in control of the outer courtyard.

  Finan took the boy from his mother and gave him to Osferth. ‘Don’t let go of the little bastard,’ he said, then crossed to me and watched as my cousin led his men through the High Gate. He waited till the last man had disappeared and the gate slammed shut again. ‘He’ll pay a lot of gold for his boy,’ Finan said in a low voice.

  ‘Gold is good,’ I said with deliberate carelessness. I heard the High Gate’s locking bar drop into its brackets.

  ‘And a dead boy is worth nothing,’ Finan said more forcibly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you’re not going to kill him anyway,’ Finan said. He still spoke quietly so that only I could hear him.

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘You’re not a child-killer.’

  ‘Maybe now’s the time to start.’

  ‘You won’t kill him,’ Finan said, ‘so take the gold.’ He waited for me to say something, but I kept quiet. ‘The men need reward,’ Finan said.

  And that was true. I was their hlaford, their gold-giver, but in the last weeks I had led them only to this failure. Finan was hinting that some of my men would leave. They had taken oaths, but the truth is that we only sanctify oaths with such high promise because they are so easily broken. If a man thought he could find wealth and honour with another lord then he would leave me, and I had few enough men anyway. I smiled at him. ‘You trust me?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Then tell the men that I shall make them rich. Tell them I shall write their names in the chronicles. Tell them they will be celebrated. Tell them they will have reputation.’

  Finan gave me a crooked grin. ‘And how will you do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but I will.’ I walked back to where Ingulfrid stood watching her son. ‘And what,’ I asked, ‘will your husband pay for you?’

  She did not answer, and I suspected the answer would have been demeaning. My cousin had treated his wife with careless scorn and I suspected her value as a hostage was almost nothing. But the boy was worth a fortune.

  And instinct told me to forgo the fortune, at least for this day. I looked at him. He was defiant, close to tears, brave. I weighed the choice again, to take the gold or trust my instinct? I had no idea what the future held, none, and keeping the boy would be a nuisance, but instinct told me to take the less appealing choice. The gods were telling me that. What else is instinct?

  ‘Finan.’ I turned sharply and pointed to the shelter where the two hounds had been sleeping. ‘Get all that hay,’ I told him, ‘and spread it around the palisade. Some in the gatehouse, too.’

  ‘You’re going to burn the place?’

  ‘The hay will get wet,’ I said, ‘but pile it thickly enough and some will stay dry. And the gatehouse, smithy and stables will burn. Burn it all!’

  My cousin was not going to yield Bebbanburg because without the fortress he was nothing. He would be a Saxon lost in Danish territory. He would need to go viking, or else kneel in homage to Edward of Wessex. But in Bebbanburg he was king of all the land he could reach in a day’s ride and he was rich. So Bebbanburg was worth a son’s life. It was worth two sons’ lives and, as Ælfric had said, he could always make more. My cousin would keep his fortress, but I would burn what I could.

  So we took the horses out of the stables and drove them out of the fortress to run wild, then we burned the courtyard. My cousin made no attempt to stop us, he just watched from the high inner rampart, and, as the smoke mingled with the rain, we went back to Middelniht. We waded out to her, taking Ingulfrid and her son with us, and we scrambled over the low midships. My cousin would pursue us in his long warships and I wanted to burn them, but their timbers were rain-soaked, so Finan took three men and they slashed the cords holding the masts aloft, then hacked great gashes on the waterlines with their axes. Both ships were settling onto the harbour’s muddy bottom as I ordered my men to Middelniht’s oars. It was still raining, but the flames of the burning buildings wer
e bright and high, and the smoke poured up to the low smoke-coloured clouds.

  The wind had dropped, though the seas were still high and the waves broke white in the shallow harbour entrance. We rowed into that white chaos and the water shattered on Middelniht’s high prow and my cousin and his men watched from the heights as we pulled the ship out to sea. We went far out to sea, out beyond the islands, out among the wild waves, and there we hoisted the Middelniht’s sail and turned her south.

  And so were gone from Bebbanburg.

  PART THREE

  Rumours of War

  Six

  I had sailed south to convince my cousin that I was returning to southern Britain, but as soon as the smoke of burning Bebbanburg was nothing but a grey smear against the grey clouds I turned eastwards.

  I did not know where to go.

  To the north was Scotland, inhabited by savages only too glad for a chance to slaughter a Saxon. Beyond them were the Norse settlements, which were full of grim folk in stinking sealskin furs who clung to their rocky islands and, like the Scots, were far more likely to kill than offer a welcome. The Saxon lands lay to the south, but the Christians had made sure I was not wanted in either Wessex or Mercia, and I saw no future in East Anglia and so I turned back towards the lonely Frisian islands.

  I did not know where else to go.

  I had been tempted to take my cousin’s offer of gold. Gold is always useful. It can buy men, ships, horses and weapons, but I had kept the boy because of instinct. I called the boy to me as we coursed eastwards, driven by a brisk north wind that blew steady and sure. ‘What is your name?’ I asked him.

  He looked puzzled and glanced back at his mother, who was watching anxiously. ‘My name is Uhtred,’ he said.

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I said. ‘Your name is Osbert.’

  ‘I am Uhtred,’ he insisted bravely.

  I hit him hard with my open hand. The blow stung my palm and must have made his ears ring because he staggered and might have gone overboard if Finan had not grabbed and pulled him back. His mother cried out in protest, but I ignored her. ‘Your name is Osbert,’ I said again, and this time he said nothing, just stared at me with tears and obstinacy in his eyes. ‘What is your name?’ I asked him, and still he just looked at me and I could see the temptation in his stubborn face so I drew my hand back again.