The Burning Land (8 page)

“Wait,” I called.

Harald held up his hand to check the ax, then gave me a mocking smile. “You said something, Lord Uhtred?” he asked. I did not answer. I was watching a swirl of blood vanish and fade downstream. A man severed the rope tying the dead woman to her child, then kicked the corpse into the river. “Speak, Lord Uhtred, please do speak,” Harald said with exaggerated courtesy.

There were thirty-three women and children left. If I did nothing then all would die. “Cut her free,” I said softly.

The rope round Skade’s neck was cut. “Go,” I told her.

I hoped she would break her legs as she jumped from the palisade, but she landed lithely, climbed the ditch’s far slope, then walked to the river’s edge. Harald spurred his horse to her, held out a hand, and she swung up behind his saddle. She looked at me, touched a finger to her mouth, and held the hand toward me. “You’re cursed, Lord Uhtred,” she said, smiling, then Harald kicked his horse back to the far bank where the women and children had been led back into the thick-leaved trees.

So Harald had what he wanted.

But Skade wanted to be queen, and Harald wanted me blind.

“What now?” Steapa asked in his deep growling voice.

“We kill the bastard,” I said. And, like a faint shadow on a dull day, I sensed her curse.

That night I watched the glow of Harald’s fires; not the nearer ones in Godelmingum, though they were thick enough, but the fainter glimmer of more distant blazes, and I noted that much of the sky was now dark. For the last few nights the fires had been scattered across eastern Wessex, but now they drew closer and that meant Harald’s men were concentrating. He doubtless hoped that Alfred would stay in Æscengum and so he was gathering his army, not to besiege us, but probably to launch a sudden and fast attack on Alfred’s capital, Wintanceaster.

A few Danes had crossed the river to ride round Æscengum’s walls, but most were still on the far bank. They were doing what I wanted, yet my heart felt dour that night and I had to pretend confidence. “Tomorrow, lord,” I told Edward, Alfred’s son, “the enemy will cross the river. They will be pursuing me, and you will let them all get past the burh, wait one hour and then follow.”

“I understand,” he said nervously.

“Follow them,” I said, “but don’t get into a fight till you reach Fearnhamme.”

Steapa, standing beside Edward, frowned. “Suppose they turn on us?”

“They won’t,” I said. “Just wait till his army has gone past, then follow it all the way to Fearnhamme.”

That sounded an easy enough instruction, but I doubted it would be so easy. Most of the enemy would cross the river in a great rush, eager to pursue me, but the stragglers would follow all day. Edward had to judge when the largest part of Harald’s army was an hour ahead and then, ignoring those stragglers, pursue Harald to Fearnhamme. It would be a difficult decision, but he had Steapa to advise him. Steapa might not have been clever, but he had a killer’s instinct that I trusted.

“At Fearnhamme,” Edward began, then hesitated. The half-
moon, showing between clouds, lit his pale and anxious face. He looked like his father, but there was an uncertainty in him which was not surprising. He was only about seventeen years old, yet he was being given a grown man’s responsibility. He would have Steapa with him, but if he was to be a king then he would have to learn the hard business of making choices.

“Fearnhamme will be simple,” I said dismissively. “I shall be north of the river with the Mercians. We’ll be on a hill protected by earthworks. Harald’s men will cross the ford to attack us, and you will attack their rear. When you do that we attack their vanguard.”

“Simple?” Steapa echoed with a trace of amusement.

“We crush them between us,” I said.

“With God’s help,” Edward said firmly.

“Even without that,” I snarled.

Edward questioned me for the better part of an hour, right until the bell summoned him to prayers. He was like his father. He wanted to understand everything and have everything arranged in neat lists, but this was war and war was never neat. I believed Harald would follow me, and I trusted Steapa to bring the greater part of Alfred’s army behind Harald, but I could give Edward no promises. He wanted certainty, but I was planning battle, and I was relieved when he went to pray with his father.

Steapa left me and I stood alone on the rampart. Sentries gave me room, somehow aware of my baleful mood, and when I heard footsteps I ignored them, hoping that whoever it was would go away and leave me in peace.

“The Lord Uhtred,” a gently mocking voice said when the steps paused behind me.

“The Lady Æthelflæd,” I said, not turning to look at her.

She came and stood beside me, her cloak touching mine. “How is Gisela?”

I touched Thor’s hammer at my neck. “About to give birth again.”

“The fourth child?”

“Yes,” I said, and shot a prayer toward the house of the gods that Gisela would survive the birth. “How is Ælfwynn?” I asked. Ælfwynn was Æthelflæd’s daughter, still an infant.

“She thrives.”

“An only child?”

“And going to stay that way,” Æthelflæd said bitterly and I looked at her profile, so delicate in the moonlight. I had known her since she was a small child when she had been the happiest, most carefree of Alfred’s children, but now her face was guarded, as though she shrank from bad dreams. “My father’s angry with you,” she said.

“When is he not?”

She gave a hint of a smile, quickly gone. “He wants you to give an oath to Edward.”

“I know.”

“Then why won’t you?”

“Because I’m not a slave to be handed on to a new master.”

“Oh!” she sounded sarcastic, “you’re not a woman?”

“I’m taking my family north,” I said.

“If my father dies,” Æthelflæd said, then hesitated. “When my father dies, what happens to Wessex?”

“Edward rules.”

“He needs you,” she said. I shrugged. “As long as you live, Lord Uhtred,” she went on, “the Danes hesitate to attack.”

“Harald didn’t hesitate.”

“Because he’s a fool,” she said scornfully, “and tomorrow you’ll kill him.”

“Perhaps,” I said cautiously.

A murmur of voices made Æthelflæd turn to see men spilling from the church. “My husband,” she said, investing those two words with loathing, “sent a message to Lord Aldhelm.”

“Aldhelm leads the Mercian troops?”

Æthelflæd nodded. I knew Aldhelm. He was my cousin’s favorite and a man of unbounded ambition, sly and clever. “I hope your husband ordered Aldhelm to Fearnhamme,” I said.

“He did,” Æthelflæd said, then lowered and quickened her voice, “but he also sent word that Aldhelm was to withdraw north if he thought the enemy too strong.”

I had half suspected that would happen. “So Aldhelm is to preserve Mercia’s army?”

“How else can my husband take Wessex when my father dies?” Æthelflæd asked in a voice of silken innocence. I glanced down at her, but she just gazed at the fires of Godelmingum.

“Will Aldhelm fight?” I asked her.

“Not if it means weakening Mercia’s army,” she said.

“Then tomorrow I shall have to persuade Aldhelm to his duty.”

“But you have no authority over him,” Æthelflæd said.

I patted Serpent-Breath’s hilt. “I have this.”

“And he has five hundred men,” Æthelflæd said. “But there is one person he will obey.”

“You?”

“So tomorrow I ride with you,” she said.

“Your husband will forbid it,” I answered.

“Of course he will,” she said calmly, “but my husband won’t know. And you will do me a service, Lord Uhtred.”

“I am ever at your service, my lady,” I said, too lightly.

“Are you?” she asked, turning to look up into my eyes.

I looked at her sad lovely face, and knew her question was serious. “Yes, my lady,” I said gently.

“Then tomorrow,” she said bitterly, “kill them all. Kill all the Danes. Do that for me, Lord Uhtred,” she touched my hand with the tips of her fingers, “kill them all.”

She had loved a Dane and she had lost him to a blade, and now she would kill them all.

There are three spinners at the root of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, and they weave our threads, and those spinners had made a skein of purest gold for Æthelflæd’s life, but in those years they wove that bright thread into a much darker cloth. The three spinners see our future. The gift of the gods to humankind is that we cannot see where the threads will go.

I heard songs from the Danes camped across the river.

And tomorrow I would draw them to the old hill by the river. And there kill them.

FOUR

Next day was a Thursday, Thor’s Day, which I took as a good omen. Alfred had once proposed renaming the days of the week, suggesting the Thursday become Maryday, or perhaps it was Haligastday, but the idea had faded like dew under the summer sun. In Christian Wessex, whether its king liked it or not, Tyr, Odin, Thor, and Frigg were still remembered each week.

And on that Thor’s Day I was taking two hundred warriors to Fearnhamme, though more than six hundred horsemen gathered in the burh’s long street before the sun rose. There was the usual chaos. Stirrup leathers broke and men tried to find replacements, children darted between the big horses, swords were given a last sharpening, the smoke of cooking fires drifted between the houses like fog, the church bell clanged, monks chanted, and I stood on the ramparts and watched the river’s far bank.

The Danes who had crossed to our bank the previous day had gone back before nightfall. I could see smoke from their fires rising among the trees, but the only visible enemy was a pair of sentries crouching at the river’s edge. For a moment I was tempted to abandon everything I had planned and instead lead the six hundred men across the river and let them rampage through Harald’s camp, but it was only a fleeting temptation. I assumed most of his men were in Godelmingum, and they would be well awake by the time we reached them. A swirling battle might result, but the Danes would inevitably realize their advantage in numbers and grind us to bloody shreds. I wanted to keep my promise to Æthelflæd. I wanted to kill them all.

I made my first move when the sun rose, and I made it loudly. Horns were sounded inside Æscengum, then the northern gate was dragged open, and four hundred horsemen streamed into the fields beyond. The first riders gathered at the river bank, in clear view of the Danes, and waited while the rest of the men filed through the gate. Once all four hundred were gathered they turned west and spurred away through the trees toward the road that would eventually lead to Wintanceaster. I was still on the ramparts from where I watched the Danes gather to stare at the commotion on our bank, and I did not doubt that messengers were galloping to find Harald and inform him that the Saxon army was retreating.

Except we were not retreating because, once among the trees, the four hundred men doubled back and reentered Æscengum by the western gate, which was out of the enemy’s sight. It was then that I went down to the main street and hauled myself into Smoka’s saddle. I was dressed for war in mail, gold, and steel. Alfred appeared at the church door, his eyes half closing against the sudden sunlight as he came from the holy gloom. He returned my greeting with a nod, but said nothing. Æthelred, my cousin, was noisier, demanding to know where his wife was. I heard a servant report that Æthelflæd was at prayer in the nunnery, and that seemed to satisfy Æthelred, who assured me loudly that his Mercian troops would be waiting at Fearnhamme. “Aldhelm’s a good man,” he said, “he likes a fight.”

“I’m glad of it,” I said, pretending friendship with my cousin, just as Æthelred was pretending that Aldhelm had not been given secret instructions to retreat northward if he took fright at the numbers opposing him. I even held my hand down from Smoka’s high saddle. “We shall win a great victory, Lord Æthelred,” I said loudly.

Æthelred seemed momentarily astonished by my apparent affability, but clasped my hand anyway. “With God’s help, cousin,” he said, “with God’s help.”

“I pray for that,” I answered. The king gave me a suspicious look, but I just smiled cheerfully. “Bring the troops when you think best,” I called to Alfred’s son, Edward, “and always take Lord Æthelred’s advice.”

Edward looked to his father for some guidance on what he should reply, but received none. He nodded nervously. “I shall, Lord Uhtred,” he said, “and God go with you!”

God might go with me, but Æthelred would not. He had chosen to ride with the West Saxon troops who would follow the Danes, and thus be part of the hammer that would shatter Harald’s forces on the anvil of his Mercian warriors. I had half feared he would come with me, but it made sense for Æthelred to stay with his father-in-law. That way, if Aldhelm chose to retreat, Æthelred could not be blamed. I suspected there was another reason. When Alfred died, Edward would be named king unless the witan wanted an older and more experienced man, and Æthelred doubtless believed he would gain more renown by fighting with the West Saxons this day.

I pulled on my wolf-crested helmet and nudged Smoka toward Steapa who, grim in mail and hung with weapons, waited beside a smithy. Charcoal smoke sifted from the door. I leaned down and slapped my friend’s helmet. “You know what to do?” I asked.

“Tell me one more time,” he growled, “and I’ll rip your liver out and cook it.”

I grinned. “I’ll see you tonight,” I said. I was pretending that Edward commanded the West Saxons, and that Æthelred was his chief adviser, but in truth I trusted Steapa to make the day go as I had planned. I wanted Steapa to choose the moment when the seven hundred warriors left Æscengum to pursue Harald’s men. If they left too soon Harald could turn and cut them to ribbons, while leaving too late would mean my seven hundred troops would be slaughtered at Fearnhamme. “We’re going to make a famous victory this day,” I told Steapa.

“If God wills it, lord,” he said.

“If you and I will it,” I said happily, then leaned down and took my heavy linden shield from a servant. I hung the shield on my back, then spurred Smoka to the northern gate where Alfred’s gaudy wagon waited behind a team of six horses. We had harnessed horses to the cumbersome cart because they were faster than oxen. Osferth, looking miserable, was the wagon’s only passenger. He was
dressed in a bright blue cloak and wearing a circlet of bronze on his head. The Danes did not know that Alfred eschewed most symbols of kingship. They expected a king to wear a crown and so I had ordered Osferth to wear the polished bauble. I had also persuaded Abbot Oslac to give me two of his monastery’s less valuable reliquaries. One, a silver box molded with pictures of saints and studded with stones of jet and amber, had held the toe bones of Saint Cedd, but now contained some pebbles which would puzzle the Danes if, as I hoped, they captured the wagon. The second reliquary, also of silver, had a pigeon feather inside, because Alfred famously traveled nowhere without the feather that had been plucked from the dove Noah had released from the ark. Besides the reliquaries we had also put an iron-bound wooden chest in the wagon. The chest was half filled with silver and we would probably lose it, but I expected to gain far more. Abbot Oslac, wearing a mail coat beneath his monkish robes, had insisted on accompanying my two hundred men. A shield hung at his left side and a monstrous war ax was strapped to his broad back. “That looks well used,” I greeted him, noting the nicks in the ax’s wide blade.