The Flame Bearer (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 10) (15 page)

And next day we followed him south.

We never reached Huntandun, nor needed to. Some few miles north of the town we saw a mass of horses grazing in pastureland to the east of the road and, beyond them, the dirty white roofs of tents above which gaudy standards flapped in a fitful wind. The dragon of Wessex flew there, as did Æthelflaed’s weird goose flag, and Æthelhelm’s banner of the leaping stag. There were flags showing saints, and flags flaunting crosses, and flags showing both saints and crosses, and hidden among them was Sigtryggr’s banner of the red axe. This was where the lords were meeting, not in the newly surrendered Huntandun, but in tents erected around a solid-looking farmstead. A harried-looking steward saw us approach and waved us towards a pasture. ‘Who are you?’ he called.

‘Sigtryggr’s men,’ I answered. We were not flying my banner, but carrying the red axe flag that Brice and Herefrith had used in their attempt to deceive Brunulf.

The steward spat. ‘We weren’t expecting any more Danes,’ he said in apparent disgust.

‘You never expect us,’ I said, ‘that’s why we usually beat the shit out of you.’

He blinked at me and I gave him a smile. He took a pace back and pointed to a nearby pasture. ‘Leave your horses there,’ he sounded nervous now, ‘and no one is to carry weapons, no one.’

‘Not even Saxons?’ I asked.

‘Only the guards of the royal household,’ he said, ‘no one else.’

I left most of my men guarding our horses, along with our discarded swords, spears, axes, and seaxes, then led Finan, Brunulf, my son, and our two captives towards the farmstead. Smoke rose thick from cooking fires that burned between the tents. A whole ox was being spit-roasted on one fire, the spit’s handle turned by two half-naked slaves while small boys fed the roaring blaze with newly split logs. A huge man, the size of Gerbruht, rolled a barrel towards a nearby tent. ‘Ale,’ he shouted, ‘make way for ale!’ He saw the barrel was rolling straight towards me and tried to stop it. ‘Whoa!’ he shouted. ‘Sorry, lord, sorry!’

I skipped safely aside, then saw Eadric and Cenwulf waiting close to the farmstead’s huge barn. Eadric grinned, evidently relieved to see me, and held out my gold chain as I approached. ‘They’ve strapped King Sigtryggr to a sawhorse, lord,’ he said, ‘and now they’re chopping his bits off, bit by bit.’

‘That bad, eh?’ I hung the chain around my neck again. ‘So it worked?’

He grinned. ‘It worked well, lord. Maybe too well?’

‘Too well?’

‘They want to march north tomorrow. They just can’t decide who gets the pleasure of killing you, and how.’

I laughed. ‘They’re going to be disappointed then.’

I had sent Eadric and Cenwulf to spread a rumour in Huntandun that Æthelhelm’s treachery had worked. They had told a tale of my betrayal, how I had attacked Brunulf and his followers, how I had ignored a flag of truce and slaughtered priests and warriors. The rumour had evidently done its work, though doubtless Æthelhelm was wondering where it came from and why he had heard nothing from any of the men he had sent north to start a war. He would still be content. He was getting what he wanted.

For the moment.

The meeting was being held in the vast barn, an impressive building larger than most mead halls. ‘Who owns the barn?’ I asked a guard standing at one of the big doors. He wore the badge of Wessex, carried a spear, and was evidently one of Edward’s household troops.

‘Jarl Thurferth,’ he said, after glancing at us to make sure none of us carried weapons, ‘and now we own him.’ The guard made no attempt to stop us. I had spoken to him in his own language, and, though my cloak was a poor and threadbare thing, beneath it he could see I wore a golden chain of nobility. Besides, I was older and grey-haired, and so he just assumed both my rank and my right to be present, though he did frown slightly when he saw Brice and Herefrith with their hands tied.

‘Thieves,’ I explained curtly, ‘who deserve royal justice.’ I looked at Gerbruht. ‘If either of the bastards speak,’ I told him, ‘you can bite their balls off.’

He bared his dirty teeth. ‘A pleasure, lord.’

We slid into the back of the barn. As I entered I pulled the hood of the shabby cloak over my head to shadow my face. There were at least a hundred and fifty men inside the barn, which, after the day’s sunlight, seemed dim, the only light coming through the two great doorways. We stood behind the crowd looking towards a crude platform that had been constructed at the barn’s further end. Four banners were hung on the high wall behind the platform, the dragon of Wessex, Æthelflaed’s goose, a white banner with a red cross, and, much smaller than the others, Sigtryggr’s flag with its red axe. Beneath them six chairs were set on the platform, each draped with a cloth to add dignity. Sigtryggr sat in the chair furthest left, his one eye downcast and his face suffused with gloom. Another Northman, I assumed he was a Northman because he wore his hair long and had inked patterns on his cheeks, sat furthest to the right, and that had to be Jarl Thurferth who had supinely surrendered his lands to the West Saxons. He was fidgeting. King Edward of Wessex was in one of the three chairs that had been elevated above the others by a short stack of planks. He had a thin face and, to my surprise, I saw his hair was going grey at the temples. To his left and on a slightly lower chair was his sister, Æthelflaed, and her appearance shocked me. Her once beautiful face was drawn, her skin pale as parchment, and her lips were clamped together as if she tried to subdue pain. She, like Sigtryggr, had her eyes lowered. The third raised chair, on Edward’s right hand, was occupied by a sullen-looking boy who had a moon face, indignant eyes, and wore a golden circlet about his unkempt brown hair. He could not have been more than thirteen or fourteen, and he sprawled in his seat, looking disdainfully at the crowd beneath him. I had never seen the lad before, but assumed he was Ælfweard, Edward’s son, and Ealdorman Æthelhelm’s grandson.

Æthelhelm sat next to the boy. Big, bluff, genial Æthelhelm, though right now he wore a stern expression. He was gripping an arm of his chair and leaning slightly forward as he listened to a speech that was being delivered by Bishop Wulfheard. No, it was a sermon, not a speech, and the bishop’s words were being applauded by a row of priests and a handful of mailed warriors who stood in the deep shadows behind the six thrones. Of the throne’s occupants only Æthelhelm was applauding. He rapped a hand on the chair’s arm and occasionally nodded, though always with a look of regret as though he was saddened by what he was hearing.

In truth he could not have been happier. ‘Every kingdom divided shall be brought to ruin!’ the bishop yelped. ‘Those are the words of Christ! And who here doubts that the lands north of here are Saxon lands! Purchased by Saxon blood!’

‘He’s been talking the best part of an hour, I should think, maybe longer,’ Eadric grumbled to me.

‘He’s just begun then,’ I said. A man standing in front of us tried to hush me, but I growled at him and he quickly turned away.

I looked back to Wulfheard, who was an old enemy of mine. He was Bishop of Hereford, but spent his time wherever the King of Wessex might be in residence, because, though Wulfheard might preach about heavenly powers, the only power he craved was earthly. He wanted money, land, and influence, and he largely succeeded because his ambition was well-served by a mind that was subtle, clever, and ruthless. He was impressive to look at; tall, stern, with a hook of a nose and deep-set dark eyes beneath thick brows that had turned grey with age. He was formidable, but his weakness was a fondness for whores. I could not blame him for that, I like whores myself, but Wulfheard, unlike me, pretended to be a man of impeccable rectitude.

The bishop had paused to drink ale or wine, and the six occupants of the chairs all stirred as if stretching tired limbs. Edward leaned over to whisper something to his sister, who nodded wearily, while her nephew Ælfweard, the sullen-looking boy, yawned. ‘I do not doubt,’ the bishop startled the boy by beginning again, ‘that the Lady Æthelflaed made her peace with King Sigtryggr with nothing but Christian motives, with charitable motives, and in the fervent hope that the light of Christ would illuminate his dark pagan soul and bring him to a knowledge of our Saviour’s grace!’

‘True,’ Æthelhelm said, ‘so true.’

‘Slimy bastard,’ I growled.

‘But how could she know,’ the bishop asked, ‘how could any of us know, of the treachery which lurks in Lord Uhtred’s soul? Of the hatred he nurtures for us, the children of God!’ The bishop paused, and it seemed he gave a great sob. ‘Brunulf,’ he shouted, ‘that great warrior for Christ, dead!’ The priests behind him wailed, and Æthelhelm shook his head. ‘Father Herefrith!’ the bishop shouted even louder, ‘that martyred man of God, dead!’

The guards might have thought we were disarmed, but I had kept a knife and I slid it through Herefrith’s clothes to prick his arse. ‘One word,’ I whispered, ‘one word and you’re dead.’ He shivered.

‘Our good men,’ the bishop still spoke with a sob, ‘were killed by a pagan! Slaughtered by a savage! And it is time!’ He raised his voice. ‘It is past time, that we scourged this pagan savage from our land!’

‘Amen,’ Æthelhelm said, nodding, ‘amen.’

‘Praise God,’ one of the priests called.

‘Hearken!’ the bishop shouted. ‘Hearken to the words of the prophet Ezekiel!’

‘Must we?’ Finan muttered.

‘“And I will make them one nation!”’ the bishop thundered, ‘“And one king shall be king to them! And they shall be no more two nations!” You hear that? God has promised to make us one nation, not two, with one king, not two!’ He turned his fierce gaze onto Sigtryggr. ‘You, lord King,’ he snarled, and managed to infuse the last two words with utter scorn, ‘will leave us today. Tomorrow this truce expires, and tomorrow King Edward’s forces will march north! An army of God will march! An army of faith! An army of truth! An army dedicated to revenge the deaths of Brunulf and Father Herefrith! An army led by the risen Christ and by our king and by Lord Æthelhelm!’ King Edward frowned slightly, offended, I suspected, by the suggestion that Æthelhelm was his equal in leading the West Saxon army, but he did not contradict the bishop. ‘And with that mighty force,’ Wulfheard went on, ‘will march the men of Mercia! Warriors led by Prince Æthelstan!’

It was my turn to frown. Æthelstan had been given command of Mercia’s army? I approved of that, but I knew Æthelhelm wanted nothing more than to kill Æthelstan and so ease his grandson’s path to the throne, and now Æthelstan was being sent into Northumbria with a man who wanted him dead? I wondered why Æthelstan was not seated on a throne like his half-brother, Ælfweard, then I saw him among the warriors standing with the priests behind the six chairs. And that was significant, I thought. Æthelstan was the elder son, yet he was not given the same honours as the sullen, plump Ælfweard. ‘It will be a united Saxon army,’ Wulfheard exulted, ‘the army of Englaland, an army of Christ!’ the bishop’s voice grew louder. ‘An army to avenge our martyred dead and to bring everlasting glory to our church! An army to make one Saxon nation under one Saxon king!’

‘Ready?’ I asked Finan.

He just grinned.

‘The pagan Uhtred has brought the wrath of God upon himself,’ the bishop was almost screaming now, spittle spraying from his mouth as his hands stretched towards the barn’s rafters. ‘The peace is over, broken by Uhtred’s cruel deception, by his insatiable hunger for blood, by his betrayal of all that we treasure, by his vicious attack upon our honour, upon our piety, upon our devotion to God, and upon our yearning for peace! It is not our doing! It is his, and we must give him the war he so fervently desires!’

Men cheered. Sigtryggr and Æthelflaed looked distraught, Edward was frowning, while Æthelhelm was shaking his head as if overcome by misery at getting exactly what he wanted.

The bishop waited until the crowd was silent. ‘And what does God desire of us?’ he bellowed. ‘What does he want of you?’

‘He wants you to stop spewing filth, you whoremonger,’ I shouted, breaking the silence that followed his two questions.

Then I pushed my way through the crowd.

Six

I had peeled back the hood and thrown the shabby cloak from my shoulders before I forced a path through the crowd with Finan following close behind me. There were gasps as I was recognised, then murmurs, and finally angry protests. Not all the crowd was irate. Some men grinned, anticipating entertainment, and a handful called a greeting to me. Bishop Wulfheard stared in shock, opened his mouth to speak, found he had nothing to say, and so looked desperately at King Edward in the hope that the king would exercise his authority, but Edward seemed similarly astonished to see me, and said nothing. Æthelflaed was wide-eyed and almost smiling. The protests grew as men bellowed that I should be ejected from the barn, and one young man decided to be a hero and stepped into my path. He wore a dark red cloak that was clasped at his throat by a silver badge of the leaping stag. All Æthelhelm’s household warriors wore the dark red cloaks, and a group of them muscled their way through the crowd to reinforce the young man, who held out a hand to stop me. ‘You—’ he began.

He never finished whatever he wanted to say because I just hit him. I did not mean to hit him so hard, but the anger was in me, and he folded over my fist, suddenly breathless, and I pushed him away so that he staggered and fell onto the dirty straw. Then, just before we reached the makeshift platform, one of Edward’s guards confronted us with a levelled spear, but Finan came past me and stood in front of the blade. ‘Try it, lad,’ he said quietly, ‘please, please, just try it.’

‘Stand back!’ Edward found his voice, and the guard backed away.

‘Take him away!’ Æthelhelm shouted. He was talking to his household warriors, and meant them to drag me away, but two of Edward’s guards, who alone were permitted to carry weapons in the king’s presence, mistook him and pulled away the red-cloaked young man instead. The voices of Edward and Æthelhelm had silenced the barn, though murmuring began again as I clambered awkwardly onto the dais. Finan stayed below the dais, facing the crowd and daring any man to interfere with me. Sigtryggr, like every other person in the barn, stared at me in surprise. I winked at him, then went onto one knee before Æthelflaed. She looked so ill, so pale, so thin.