The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) (18 page)

‘How many men did you bring?’

‘Thirty-two. I had to leave the rest to defend Ceaster.’

‘Thirty-two?’ I sounded astonished, and was. I looked north and saw the horsemen coming from the hill. I had expected hundreds, but there were just the few. ‘And the four flags?’

‘Three of them were cloaks hanging from ash branches,’ she said.

I almost laughed, except it would have hurt too much. ‘So where now?’ I asked instead. ‘Back to Ceaster?’

‘Ceaster!’ She almost spat the name. ‘Mercia is not ruled from Ceaster. We ride to Gleawecestre.’

‘And Eardwulf,’ I said, ‘is ahead of us.’

‘So?’

‘Will you keep him as your commander of the household troops?’

‘Of course not.’

I looked south to where Eardwulf had gone. ‘Maybe we should have made him a prisoner?’

‘By what right? So far as I knew he still commanded my husband’s troops. And his men might have fought for him.’

‘Might,’ I said. ‘But he’s still got one chance left. He knows that if he marries Ælfwynn and kills you then he will be Lord of Mercia. And within an hour he’ll also know we have fewer than half as many men as he does.’

‘He’ll be watching us?’

‘Of course he is,’ I said. Eardwulf was bound to have scouts watching us.

Æthelflaed gazed southwards as if looking for Eardwulf’s men. ‘Then why didn’t he kill me just now?’ she asked.

‘Because not all his men would have obeyed him, and because he thought you had two or three hundred men on the hill. And if you had brought two hundred men he would have died himself. But now? Now he knows he has nothing to lose.’

She frowned at me. ‘You really think he’ll attack us?’ She sounded incredulous.

‘He has no choice,’ I said. ‘He has one day left to achieve his ambitions. One day and one night.’

‘Then you’ll have to stop him,’ she said simply.

And we rode south.

We did not all travel south. I left our baggage and our families in the fort with twenty-five men to guard them and with Osferth once again in command. ‘When the roads are fit for the wagons,’ I told him, ‘keep going to Ceaster.’

‘To Ceaster?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Where else?’

‘It’s safe to go back to Fagranforda surely?’

I shook my head. ‘We’re going north.’

I was abandoning the south. My country is Northumbria, a northern land where the harpists play loud in the halls to lift their songs above the sound of the wild wind scouring from a cold sea, a northern land of long winter nights and of raw hills and high cliffs, a land of hard people and shallow soil. The Danes had spread southwards through Britain, driving out the Saxon rulers from Northumbria, Mercia, and East Anglia, and now we were thrusting back. Mercia was almost free, and if I lived I would see our Saxon armies march still farther north, ever north until every man, woman and child who spoke the Saxon tongue would be ruled by one of their own. That was Alfred’s dream, and it had become mine even though I loved the Danes and worshipped their gods and spoke their language. So why did I fight them? Because of the oaths I had taken to Æthelflaed.

We live by oaths, and, as we rode south into the evening, I wondered about the men who followed Eardwulf. How many had given him their oath? And how many had sworn allegiance to Æthelred rather than to Eardwulf? And how many would draw a sword against Æthelflaed? And would Eardwulf dare kill her? He was a man who had risen high, but his hold on power was precarious. It had depended on Æthelred’s favour, and now it depended on his marrying Æthelred’s daughter. If he could do that and so inherit Æthelred’s wealth, then, with West Saxon backing, he would be the gold-giver in Mercia, the lord of the land, but without Ælfwynn he was nothing, and when a man must choose between nothing and everything he has small choice.

‘Perhaps he won’t kill you,’ I told Æthelflaed as we rode south.

‘And why not?’

‘Too many Mercians love you. He’d lose sympathy.’

She laughed grimly. ‘So what will he do? Take me to wife instead of my daughter?’

‘He could,’ I said. I had not thought of that. ‘But my guess is that you’d be forced into a convent. Edward and Æthelhelm would approve of that.’

She rode in silence for a few moments. ‘Maybe they’re right,’ she said bleakly, ‘maybe I should retire to a convent.’

‘Why?’

‘I am a sinner.’

‘And your enemies are not?’ I snarled.

She did not answer. We were riding through beech woods. The ground had risen, and there was no flooding here. I had scouts well ahead, and though I knew Eardwulf would also have scouts looking for us, I was sure my men were better. We had been fighting the Danes for so long, and we had become skilled at such work. I had told my men to let Eardwulf’s horsemen see us, but not to allow them to know they were themselves being watched, because I was crafting a trap for him. So far he had out-thought me, but tonight he would be my victim. I turned in the saddle, wincing at the sudden pain. ‘Boy!’ I shouted at Æthelstan, ‘come here!’

I had made Æthelstan ride with us. My daughter and Ælfwynn also came. I had thought of sending the girls with Osferth, but I wanted them under my eye. Besides, with warriors like Finan, they were well protected, and, more vitally, I needed Ælfwynn to bait the trap I planned. Even so there was a danger in bringing Æthelstan because we were far more likely than Osferth’s men to be attacked, but this fight was also about him and he needed to know it, see it, smell it, and survive it. I was training the boy not just to be a warrior, but to be a king.

‘I’m here, lord,’ he said, curbing his horse to match pace with ours.

‘I can smell you, so there’s no need to tell me you’re here.’

‘Yes, lord.’ He rode just the other side of Æthelflaed’s mare.

‘What is this country called, boy?’ I asked.

He hesitated, looking for the catch in the question. ‘Mercia, lord.’

‘And Mercia is part of?’

‘Britain, lord.’

‘So tell me of Britain,’ I said.

He glanced at his aunt, but Æthelflaed offered him no help. ‘Britain, lord,’ he said, ‘is a land of four peoples.’

I waited. ‘That’s it?’ I asked. ‘That’s all you know? A land of four peoples?’ I imitated his voice, making it pathetic. ‘You unwiped earsling. Try harder.’

‘To the north are the Scots,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘and they hate us. To the west are the Welsh, and they hate us, and the rest is divided between ourselves and the Danes, who also hate us.’

‘And do we hate the Welsh, Scots, and Danes?’

‘They are all our enemies, lord, and the church says we must love them.’

Æthelflaed laughed. I scowled. ‘Do you love them?’ I asked.

‘I hate them, lord.’

‘All of them?’

‘Perhaps not the Welsh, lord, because they are Christians and so long as they stay in their mountains then we can ignore them. I don’t know the Scots, lord, but I hate them because you tell me they are bare-arsed thieves and liars, and I believe every word you say, and yes, lord, I hate the Danes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they would take our land.’

‘Didn’t we take the land from the Welsh?’

‘Yes, lord, but they allowed us to do that. They should have prayed more and fought harder.’

‘So if the Danes take our land it’s our fault?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘So how do we stop them? By praying?’

‘By praying, lord, and by fighting them.’

‘How do we fight them?’ I asked. One of the scouts had ridden back and turned his horse to ride beside me. ‘Think about your answer,’ I told Æthelstan, ‘while I talk to Beadwulf.’

Beadwulf was a small, wiry man who was one of my best scouts. He was a Saxon, but he had marked his face with inked lines as the Danes liked to do. A lot of my men had adopted the fashion, using a comb with sharpened teeth to etch oak-gall ink into their cheeks and foreheads. They thought it made them look frightening, though I thought they looked frightening enough without the ink. ‘So did you find a place?’ I asked Beadwulf.

He nodded. ‘There’s a place that might suit you, lord.’

‘Tell me.’

‘A steading. Small hall and a big barn. There are a dozen folk there, but no palisade.’

‘And around the hall?’

‘Mostly pasture, lord, and some ploughland.’

‘And Eardwulf’s men are watching us?’

He grinned. ‘Three of them, lord, clumsy as bullocks. My five-year-old could do it better.’

‘How far is the woodland from the hall?’

‘A long bowshot?’ he suggested. ‘Maybe two?’

It was earlier in the day than I might have chosen to make a halt, but Beadwulf’s description sounded ideal for what I had in mind. ‘How far is it from here?’

‘An hour’s riding, lord.’

‘Take us there,’ I said.

‘Yes, lord.’ He spurred to the front where Finan was leading.

‘So, boy,’ I looked back to Æthelstan, ‘tell me how we fight the Danes?’

‘By building burhs, lords.’

‘Burhs keep the surrounding land and its people safe,’ I said, ‘but what captures land?’

‘Warriors, lord.’

‘And warriors are led by?’

‘Lords,’ he said confidently.

‘And what lords, boy, have been leading their warriors against the Danes?’

‘My father, lord?’ He made it a question because he knew it was not the right answer, though it was the politic reply.

I nodded. ‘Where has he fought them?’

‘In East Anglia, lord.’

And that was true, to a point. West Saxon forces were concentrated in Lundene, which bordered on Danish East Anglia, and there were constant skirmishes in the lands north and east of the city. ‘So,’ I said, ‘your father fights the Danes in the east. Who fights them to the north?’

‘You do, lord,’ he said confidently.

‘I’m old and a cripple, you feather-brained piece of stinking toad shit. Who fights the Danes in the north of Mercia?’

‘The Lady Æthelflaed does,’ he said.

‘Good. That’s the right answer. Now,’ I said, ‘imagine that a great tragedy has struck Mercia and Wessex because you have just become the king of those lands. King Æthelstan, wet behind the ears and still pissing in his breeches, is on the throne. You have two wars to fight. One against East Anglia and the other in northern Mercia, and even a king can’t be in two places at once. So who would you rely on to fight them in the north?’

‘The Lady Æthelflaed,’ he said without hesitation.

‘Good!’ I said. ‘So, as the King of Wessex and perhaps of Mercia too, would you suggest that the Lady Æthelflaed should go to a nunnery because she’s a widow?’ He frowned, embarrassed to be asked such a question. ‘Answer!’ I snapped. ‘You’re the king! You have to make these decisions!’

‘No, lord!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she fights, lord. You and she are the only ones who do fight the Danes.’

‘Here ends your catechism,’ I said, ‘now piss off.’

‘Yes, lord.’ He grinned and spurred ahead.

I smiled at Æthelflaed. ‘You’re not going to a nunnery. The next King of Wessex just made the decision.’

She laughed. ‘If he lives,’ she said.

‘If any of us lives.’

The land was climbing gently. The woods were thick, broken by farms, but in the late afternoon we came to the hall and barn that Beadwulf had described. The farmstead lay just a hundred or so paces from the Roman road, and it would do. It would do very well.

It was the place to lay my trap.

The old man was called Lidulf. I call him old, though he was probably younger than I was, but a lifetime of digging ditches, cutting back woodland, grubbing weeds, ploughing fields, chopping wood, and raising livestock had left him white-haired, bent, and half blind. Half deaf too. ‘You want what, lord?’ he shouted.

‘Your home,’ I shouted back.

‘Thirty years,’ he said.

‘Thirty years?’

‘Been here thirty years, lord!’

‘And you’ll be here another thirty!’ I showed him gold. ‘All yours.’

He understood eventually. He was not happy, but nor did I expect him to be happy. He would probably lose his hall and barn and a good deal else besides, but in return I would give him more than enough gold to rebuild twice over. Lidulf, a shrill-tongued wife, an elderly son with a crippled leg, and eight slaves all lived in the small hall that they shared with three milk cows, two goats, four pigs, and a mangy hound that growled whenever any of us went near the hearth. The barn was half collapsed, its timbers rotted and its thatch riddled with weeds, but it was shelter for the horses and enough of the barn survived to hide the animals from Eardwulf’s scouts, who saw them being led through the big door, and probably assumed they were being unsaddled. We strolled between the two buildings. I told my men to talk loudly, to laugh, to take off their mail and helmets. Some of the younger men started wrestling to loud cheers and jeers, the losers being thrown into a duck pond. ‘We get eggs from that!’ Lidulf shouted at me.

‘Eggs?’

‘Duck eggs!’ He was very proud of his duck eggs. ‘I like a duck egg. No teeth left, you see? I can’t eat meat so I eats duck eggs and pottage.’

I made sure Stiorra, Ælfwynn, and Æthelstan watched the wrestling. Beadwulf, who could slide through woodland like a ghost, told me that two of Eardwulf’s men peered at them from the trees. ‘I could have lifted the swords from their scabbards and they wouldn’t have known about it, lord.’

Three more of my scouts reported that Eardwulf himself was two miles or so to the north. He had stopped once his own scouts told him that we had found shelter for the night. ‘You were right, lord,’ Eadric, one of my Danes and a man as skilled as Beadwulf in concealing himself, came back to the hall at dusk. ‘They’re in two groups, one large, one smaller.’

‘How many?’

‘Thirty-four are with Eardwulf, lord.’

‘The others are reluctant?’

‘They look miserable, lord.’

‘Thirty-four is enough,’ I said.

‘Enough for what?’ my daughter asked.

We were in the hall. The men who had been soaked in the duck pond had their clothes drying by the fire, which we had fed with fresh wood so that it blazed bright. ‘Enough,’ I said, ‘for a hall burning.’

It had been years since I saw a hall burning, but a few men can kill a large number if they do it right and I was certain that was what Eardwulf planned. He would wait for the heart of the night, for the darkest hour, and then he would bring embers in a clay pot. Most of his men would wait outside the hall door, while a few went to the southern side and blew life into the embers. Then they would fire the thatch. Even damp straw will burn if fed with enough fire, and once the flames catch they spread fast, filling the hall with smoke and panic. Folk run for the door and so flee into the waiting swords and spears. Those that stay inside are burned to death as the great hall collapses and the huge rafters fall in. His risk, of course, was that Ælfwynn would die in the blaze, but he must have reckoned we would hurry the girls out of danger first and so deliver them into his arms. It was a risk he had to take because this dark night was his only chance. Like a man losing at dice, he would risk everything on one throw.