The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) (28 page)

‘Bow,’ I ordered my companions, then offered a bow myself.

So this was King Hywel. I guessed he was about thirty years of age, a head shorter than me, but strongly built. I had heard of him, though taken small notice because kings come and go in Wales like mice in thatch, but there was something about this man that suggested he was far more formidable than most of his kind. He seemed to be amused as he asked Brother Edwyn questions and listened to the translation of our answers. We had come as pilgrims, I said. From King Edward? I hesitated, not wanting to claim to be an official embassy because we had brought neither gifts nor letters, but then I said the king had known we were coming and had instructed us to offer Christian greetings. Hywel smiled at that. He knew a lie when he heard one. He looked along my men, recognising them for what they were. His eyes lingered appreciatively on Eadith for a moment, then came back to me. He spoke to Brother Edwyn, who turned to me. ‘The king wishes to know your name, lord,’ he said.

‘Osbert,’ I answered.

‘Osbert,’ Brother Edwyn told the king.

‘Osbert,’ Hywel repeated the name thoughtfully, then turned and listened as the brute with the red scarf about his helmet whispered in his ear. Whatever was said made Hywel smile again. He spoke to Brother Edwyn, who looked at me nervously. ‘The creed,’ the monk translated, ‘the king wishes you to recite the creed.’

‘The creed,’ I said, and for the life of me could not remember those words that had been hammered into my childhood mind by Father Beocca.

‘We believe in one god,’ my son said, ‘the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ,’ Finan and the others joined in, ‘the only-begotten Son of God,’ they all made the sign of the cross as they chanted the last three words, and I hurriedly copied the gesture, ‘begotten of the Father before all worlds, Light of Light, very God of very God, begotten, not made …’

King Hywel held up a hand to check the recitation. He spoke to Edwyn again, though keeping his shrewd eyes on me. ‘The king wants to know,’ Brother Edwyn interpreted, ‘why you don’t speak the words?’

‘Being of one substance with the Father,’ I said as the words suddenly came back to me from the mists of childhood, ‘by whom all things were made and who for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven and was incarnate by the holy ghost of the Virgin Mary, and was made man.’

Again the king held up his hand and I dutifully stopped as Hywel looked at Brother Edwyn. The monk nodded, presumably confirming I had repeated the words correctly. Hywel was still smiling as he spoke to Edwyn, who suddenly looked terrified. ‘The king says,’ he began, hesitated, then found the courage to continue, ‘the king says that he is impressed that the infamous Lord Uhtred knows the creed.’ I said nothing, but just stared at the king, who spoke again. ‘He wishes to know,’ Brother Edwyn said, ‘why you lied about your name.’

‘Tell him I have a bad memory,’ I said.

Hywel laughed, and I noted he did not wait for Brother Edwyn’s translation. He had laughed as soon as I spoke, and then he smiled at me. ‘A bad memory,’ he said, using our language.

‘It seems, lord,’ I said, ‘that your memory has just remembered that you speak the English tongue.’

‘The church,’ he said, ‘teaches us to love our enemies. My father believed you should know them too.’ I realised he had pretended to need a translator so he could listen, watch, and make up his mind about us. He seemed to like us well enough. He pointed to the man who had whispered in his ear. ‘Idwal was one of the men who followed Father Pyrlig to your battle with Cnut. He recognised you. So, Lord Uhtred with the bad memory, you’re no pilgrim, so why are you here?’

And there was no choice but to tell the truth, or as little of the truth as I wanted to reveal. We had come, I said, because Jarl Cnut’s sword had been stolen from me, that the sword belonged to the man who had cut him down, and that man was me. I had come to find Ice-Spite.

‘Which is now in Rognvald’s possession,’ Hywel said, ‘so you are fortunate.’

‘Fortunate, lord?’ I asked.

‘Because we have come to kill him. And you can join us.’

So we would go to war.

King Hywel’s chief adviser was a shrewd priest called Anwyn who spoke our tongue and who questioned me closely as we rode north. He wanted to know who ruled in Mercia and was surprised at, and even dubious of, my answer. ‘The Lady Æthelflaed?’ he asked. ‘Truly?’

‘I was there when the Witan chose her.’

‘You astonish me,’ he said, ‘you astonish me indeed.’ He frowned, thinking. He was bald as an egg with a long, bony face and thin, unfriendly lips, though his dark eyes could light with amusement or understanding. He was one of those clever priests who rise high in royal service, and I suspected Anwyn was an honest, loyal servant to the equally shrewd Hywel. ‘I understood Wessex was determined the Lady Æthelflaed should not assume her husband’s burden,’ he continued, still frowning, ‘so what happened?’

‘Mercians are proud of their country,’ I said, ‘and they’re not ready to lie back and open their legs to a foreign king quite yet.’

He smiled at my crudity. ‘I understand that, lord, but to appoint a woman! The last news we heard was that Eardwulf was to marry Æthelflaed’s daughter and then administer the country in Edward’s name!’

‘Eardwulf is an outlaw,’ I said, surprising Anwyn. It was plain that King Hywel had his sources in the Saxon kingdoms and those sources were good, but any news those spies might have sent about Eardwulf’s bid for power and Æthelflaed’s success had still not reached western Wales. I told him of Eardwulf’s attack on Æthelflaed and of its failure, though I did not mention my part in it, nor did I tell him how I had influenced the Witan.

‘I can’t say I feel any sorrow for Eardwulf,’ Father Anwyn said with evident relish, ‘he was always an enemy to the Welsh.’

‘He was a Mercian,’ I said drily, and the priest smiled.

‘So Æthelflaed will rule!’ he said, amused. ‘A woman! On the throne!’

‘A very capable woman,’ I said, ‘and she’s more of a warrior than her brother.’

He shook his head, still trying to comprehend the idea of a woman on a throne. ‘We live in strange times, lord.’

‘We do,’ I agreed. We had been given ponies to ride, while the rest of Hywel’s force were on war horses that followed a stony track which led north through small fields and rocky outcrops. The king had brought over three hundred men, and Father Anwyn believed that would be sufficient. ‘Rognvald doesn’t lead more than a hundred and thirty warriors. Scarce enough to man his palisade!’

I watched a falcon spiral high above a hill, and followed as it slid away to the east. ‘How long has Rognvald lived here?’

‘Six years.’

‘Your king,’ I said, nodding at Hywel, who rode just ahead of his two standard-bearers, ‘strikes me as a very clever man. Why did he allow Rognvald to settle?’

‘Oh, he didn’t! That was the last king, a fool called Rhodri.’

‘So Rognvald,’ I said, ‘has been here six years, and in all that time he’s never made trouble?’

‘Some cattle raids,’ Anwyn said dismissively, ‘but nothing more.’

‘You say he leads only a hundred and thirty men, and he must know how many warriors you can bring against him. So is he a fool? Why attack Tyddewi? He must know you’ll want revenge.’

‘Opportunity!’ Anwyn said brusquely. ‘Idwal,’ he paused to nod towards the big man with the red scarf, ‘usually has a score of men at Tyddewi, but the king needed him elsewhere.’

‘Elsewhere?’

Anwyn ignored that question. Whatever squabble Hywel had just settled was evidently none of my business. ‘We thought it safe to leave the shrine unguarded for a few days,’ Anwyn admitted ruefully, ‘and we were wrong, but we headed back as soon as we heard of the fleet.’

‘Fleet?’ I repeated the word dourly. With Sihtric at sea, waiting for us, fleet was not a word I wanted to hear.

‘Some days ago,’ Anwyn explained, ‘twenty or more ships appeared off the coast. At least one of them put into Abergwaun, but she didn’t stay. They all sailed northwards a day later, and we just received word that they’re coming south again.’

‘Norse ships?’

He nodded. ‘Ivar Imerson sent the fleet, led by his son. It seems they’re looking for land.’

‘Ivar Imerson?’

Anwyn seemed surprised that I had not heard of Ivar. ‘He’s a formidable man, but so are his Irish enemies.’

I knew Mercia and Wessex, Northumbria and East Anglia, but now I was in a different world, a place where warlords with strange names fought to make petty kingdoms at the sea’s edge. Hywel, I realised, had enemies on three sides. He had Saxons to his east, rival Welsh kingdoms to the north, while to his west the Norse and the Irish struggled with each other, both ever ready to raid his coasts, and, if what Anwyn had heard was true, ready to take more land from Dyfed.

The horsemen ahead of us had halted, and a group of men had gathered around Hywel and his standard-bearers. I assumed one of the Welsh scouts had brought back news, and now the king held a hasty council of war, which Anwyn hurried to join. We had climbed to a wide plateau with small, stone-walled fields interrupted by shallow valleys, which Hywel’s scouts diligently explored. Rognvald would surely be expecting trouble and must have his own scouts on the plateau, but if Anwyn was right then the Norseman was severely outnumbered. I suspected he would be cautious, preferring to retreat to some easily defended high ground rather than seek a running fight with Hywel’s warriors on this bare upland.

‘So there’s a fleet nearby,’ Finan said. He had been listening to my conversation with the priest.

‘Let’s hope it’s nowhere near Sihtric,’ I said.

‘Sihtric’s canny,’ Finan said, ‘and he’ll keep out of their way. But something’s got them worried,’ the Irishman nodded at the horsemen bunched about the king, ‘and Ivar Imerson is a man that should worry you.’

‘You know of him?’

‘Of course! He’s a big bad man. But the Irish are just as big and bad and they’re pushing on him. Pushing hard.’

‘So he’s looking for land over here?’

‘And sent his son to find it. I wonder which son.’ I was always surprised how much Finan knew of what happened in Ireland. He pretended to take no interest, insisting he had abandoned his native land for ever, but for somebody who claimed no interest he knew a lot. Someone there must send him news. ‘Now what’s happening?’ he asked, nodding towards the war council.

Two of Hywel’s scouts had come galloping from the north to push their way into the knot of horsemen around the king. They had only been there a moment before all the Welshmen began whooping and hurrying north. Whatever news the scouts had brought was being shouted back along the column, each repetition provoking more and louder cheers. Some men had drawn swords. Father Anwyn waited with the king’s two standard-bearers. ‘The pagans are fleeing!’ he called to me. ‘They’re running away!’ He kicked his horse to follow Hywel’s warriors, who were now racing towards the plateau’s northern crest where smoke was just appearing. At first I thought the smoke to be mist, but it was thickening too quickly. A village or a hall was burning.

‘Someone got there before us?’ Finan called to me, kicking his pony to ride beside me.

‘Looks that way,’ I said. I twisted in the saddle, wincing at the inevitable pain. ‘Stay together!’ I called to my men. If there was about to be a fight I did not want my men separated because it would be too easy to mistake one of them for an enemy. The Welshmen all knew each other, but if they saw a stranger they might attack without thinking. ‘And you,’ I called to Eadith, ‘stay away from the fighting!’

‘You too,’ Finan said to me. ‘You’re not well enough to fight.’

I made no answer, but felt a surge of anger. He was right, of course, but that did not make the truth any easier to accept, and then we crossed the skyline and I slowed the pony. The Welsh were still galloping, already halfway down the slope that led into a deep river valley. This, I realised, was Abergwaun.

To my right the river flowed through thick woods that filled much of the valley’s bed, while to the left it widened to meet the open ocean. Rognvald’s settlement was on the far bank, just where the river met the sea-reach, and that sea-reach, sheltered by hills, was filled with ships.

There had to be thirty or more ships, far more than Rognvald would possess if, as Anwyn said, he could only muster a little over a hundred warriors. So the mysterious fleet from Ireland must have returned to Abergwaun and was now leaving again. The ships were heading to sea, their oars biting the water and their sails filling and falling as the gusts of a light east wind rose and stilled. And behind them, on the river’s northern shore, the settlement was ablaze.

No enemy had set the fires. There was no evidence of any fighting, no corpses, and the men who were still running from hall to house, from house to barn, and hurling firebrands up onto the thatch were not dressed in mail. Rognvald was leaving and he was plainly determined to leave nothing useful behind. Fires had been set against the palisade, and the nearest gateway was already burning fiercely. Father Anwyn had been right, the Norsemen were running away, but not because King Hywel’s men were coming. Rognvald must have decided to join forces with the fleet from Ireland in its search for another place to settle.

The fleet was moving seawards, but there were still two fighting ships by the beach. Those had to be the rearguard, the boats belonging to the men who were carrying fire from house to house. Both boats were manned by half a dozen men who hauled on stern lines to keep the bows from grounding in the falling tide.

The Welsh were already in the valley bottom, hidden there by trees. We followed, plunging into the woods and hearing the shouts of Hywel’s men drawing ever further ahead of us. The track led to a ford. The river was tidal and, helped by the ebb tide, the shallow water was running fast. We splashed through and turned west on the river’s far bank, following an earthen road that led beside the hurrying river, then we were out of the trees and Rognvald’s burning settlement was ahead of us. Some of Hywel’s men were already inside the walls, their horses abandoned in the fields that surrounded the palisade. A whole section of that palisade had been pushed over, the timbers presumably weakened by fire, and more Welshmen were scrambling over the still smouldering trunks, shields on their arms and weapons in their hands. They vanished into smoke-wreathed alleys. I heard shouts, the clash of swords, and then I slid from the saddle and called to my men to stay together. The sensible thing would have been to stay outside the burning walls. We had no shields, no swords, no spears, only seaxes, and, being strangers, we could easily be mistaken for enemies, but I was as eager as Finan or any of the others to see what happened inside. ‘Stay with me,’ I told Eadith. An osprey flew through the smoke, wings fast, a pale streak of feathered glory flying north, and I wondered what omen that was. I touched the hilt of Wasp-Sting, my seax, then splashed through the shallow ditch that surrounded the settlement, climbed the bank, and followed Finan and my son over the smouldering timbers.