The Flame Bearer (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 10) (16 page)

‘My lady,’ I said. She had reached out a hand, a thin hand, and I kissed it, and when I looked up after the kiss I saw tears in her eyes, but she was smiling. ‘Uhtred,’ she said my name softly, nothing else.

‘Your oath-man still, my lady,’ I said, and turned to her brother to whom I bowed my head respectfully. ‘Lord King,’ I said.

Edward, who wore the emerald crown of his father, lifted a hand to silence the crowd. ‘I am surprised to see you, Lord Uhtred,’ he said stiffly.

‘I bring you news, lord King,’ I said.

‘News is always welcome. Good news especially.’

‘I think you’ll discover that this is very good news, lord King,’ I said as I stood up.

‘Let us hear it,’ the king commanded. The crowd was utterly silent now. Some men who had fled Wulfheard’s tedious sermon had flocked back to the barn’s open doors and were jostling to get inside.

‘I’m not a man of words, lord King,’ I said as I walked slowly towards Wulfheard. ‘I’m not like Bishop Wulfheard. The whores at the Wheatsheaf in Wintanceaster tell me he doesn’t stop talking even when he’s humping them.’

‘You foul—’ Wulfheard began.

‘Though they say,’ I interrupted him fiercely, ‘that he’s so quick with them that it’s never a long sermon. More like a gabbled blessing. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the ho, ho, ho, oh!’

A few men laughed, but stopped when they saw the anger on Edward’s face. He had not been particularly religious as a youngster, but now that he was at the age when men begin to contemplate their deaths he lived in fear of the nailed god. But Æthelflaed, who was older and deeply pious, did laugh, though her laughter turned into a cough. Edward was about to protest my words, but I forestalled him. ‘So,’ I was talking to the whole assembly now, my back to an outraged Wulfheard, ‘Brunulf is dead?’

‘You killed him, you bastard,’ a man, braver than the rest, called.

I looked at him. ‘If you think I’m a bastard then you step up here now, the king will give us swords, and you can prove it.’ I waited, but he did not move, and so I just nodded to my son.

Who stepped aside so Brunulf could walk through the crowd. He had to elbow his way through the press of men, but gradually, as some recognised him, a passage was made for him. ‘So,’ I said again, ‘Brunulf is dead? Did anyone here see him die? Did anyone here see his corpse?’ No one answered, though there were gasps and whispers as men realised who was approaching the platform. He reached it, and I stretched down a hand to help him up onto the planks. ‘Lord King,’ I turned to Edward, ‘may I present your man Brunulf?’

No one spoke. Edward looked at Æthelhelm, who had suddenly found the rafters of the barn’s roof intensely interesting, then back to Brunulf, who had knelt to him.

‘Does he smell dead to you, lord King?’ I asked.

Edward’s face twitched in what might have been a smile. ‘He does not.’

I turned on the crowd. ‘He’s not a corpse! It seems I didn’t kill him! Brunulf, are you dead?’

‘No, lord.’

The barn was so silent you could have heard a flea cough. ‘Were you attacked in Northumbria?’ I asked Brunulf.

‘I was, lord.’

Edward gestured for Brunulf to stand, and I beckoned him closer to me. ‘Who attacked you?’ I demanded.

He paused for a heartbeat, then, ‘Men carrying King Sigtryggr’s badge.’

‘That badge?’ I asked, pointing to Sigtryggr’s banner with its red axe that hung high above the platform.

‘Yes, lord.’

There were growls from the hall, but they were silenced by those men who wanted to hear Brunulf’s words. Sigtryggr frowned when he heard that the men who had attacked Brunulf had carried his badge, but he made no protest. Æthelhelm cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then went back to staring at the rafters. ‘And you successfully fought these men off?’ I asked.

‘You did, lord.’

‘And how many of your men died?’

‘None, lord.’

‘None?’ I asked louder.

‘Not one, lord.’

‘Not one of your West Saxons died?’

‘None, lord.’

‘Were any injured?’

He shook his head. ‘None, lord.’

‘And of the men carrying the badge of the red axe. How many of those died?’

‘Fourteen, lord.’

‘And the rest you captured?’

‘You captured them, lord.’

Æthelhelm was now staring at me, apparently unable to speak or even move.

‘And were they King Sigtryggr’s men?’ I asked.

‘No, lord.’

‘Then whose men were they?’

Brunulf paused again, this time to look directly at Æthelhelm. ‘They were Lord Æthelhelm’s men.’

‘Louder!’ I insisted.

‘They were Lord Æthelhelm’s men!’

And then there was uproar. Some men, many of them wearing the dark red cloak and the silver stag badge of Æthelhelm’s household, were bellowing that Brunulf lied, but others were shouting for silence or demanding that Brunulf be allowed to tell more of his tale. I let the commotion continue as I walked to Æthelhelm’s chair and leaned close to him. His grandson, Prince Ælfweard, strained to hear what I said, but I spoke too softly. ‘I have Brice here,’ I told Æthelhelm, ‘and I have Father Herefrith. They’re both scared shitless of me, so they won’t lie to save your miserable hide. Do you understand me, lord?’

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, but said nothing. The men in the hall were clamouring to know more, but I ignored them. ‘So, lord,’ I went on, still whispering, ‘you’ll say they disobeyed you, and then you’ll agree with everything I propose. Everything. Do we have an agreement, lord?’

‘You bastard,’ he muttered.

‘Do we have an agreement?’ I insisted, and, after a slight pause, he gave a small nod. I patted his cheek.

And then we did agree. We agreed that Brice had exceeded his orders, that he had tried to provoke a war on his own initiative, and that the decision to attack Brunulf had been taken by him and by Father Herefrith alone, in contradiction of Ealdorman Æthelhelm’s strict orders. All Æthelhelm had wanted, he declared, was to build a church to the glory of Saint Erpenwald of the Wuffingas, and he had never, not for a moment, thought that pious act might provoke violence. And it was agreed that Brice would be handed over to Edward’s men to receive the king’s justice, while Father Herefrith would be disciplined by the church.

We agreed that the truce already in place between Æthelflaed and Sigtryggr would be extended until All Saints’ Day the following year. I wanted three years, but Edward insisted on the shorter period and I had no sway over him as I did over Æthelhelm, and so I accepted the condition. All Saints’ Day came late in the campaigning season, too close to winter for comfort, and I reckoned it gave Sigtryggr almost two years of peace.

And lastly I insisted on taking hostages to ensure the good behaviour of Northumbria’s enemies. That was not popular. Some men shouted that if Wessex or Mercia were to yield hostages, then Northumbria should do the same, but Æthelhelm, prompted by a glance from me, supported the proposal. ‘Northumbria,’ he said grudgingly, ‘did not break the truce. It was our men who did that.’ You could almost see the pain on his face as he spoke. ‘The transgressor,’ he said, flinching, ‘must pay the price.’

‘And who,’ King Edward demanded of me, ‘are to be your hostages?’

‘I only want one, lord King,’ I said, ‘just one. I want the heir to your throne,’ I paused and saw the fear on Æthelhelm’s face. He thought I meant his grandson, Ælfweard, who also looked horrified, but then I slid the hook out of their frightened guts, ‘I want Prince Æthelstan.’

Who I loved like a son.

And for over a year he would be mine.

And so would Sigtryggr’s army.

Brice died that same day.

I had never liked him. He was a dull, brutal, unthinking man, or he was until the afternoon of his death when he was brought with tied hands to the space in front of Edward’s tent, and at that moment he impressed me.

He made no attempt to blame Æthelhelm even though he was being executed for obeying Æthelhelm’s commands. He could have called out the truth, but he had sworn his oath to the ealdorman, and he kept that oath to the end.

He knelt in front of a priest and made his confession, he received absolution and was given the last rites. He did not protest, neither did he weep. He stood when the priest was finished and turned towards the king’s tent, and only then did he flinch.

He had expected a guard from the king’s household troops to kill him, a man experienced in war who would do the job swiftly, and indeed a great hulking brute of a man had been waiting for him at the place of execution. The brute’s name was Waormund, and Waormund was a giant of a man who could kill an ox with one blow of a sword. He was a man to put at the centre of a shield wall to terrify an enemy, but while Brice was being shriven, Waormund’s place had been taken by Ælfweard, the king’s son, and, seeing the youngster, Brice shuddered.

He went to his knees again. ‘Lord Prince,’ he said, ‘I beg you to let me die with my hands free.’

‘You’ll die as I choose,’ Ælfweard said. He had a high voice, not quite broken, ‘and I choose to leave your hands tied.’

‘Free his hands,’ I called. I was one of two hundred or more men who were watching the execution, and most of them supported me by murmuring agreement.

‘You will be silent,’ Ælfweard commanded me.

I walked to him. He was plump, like his mother, with a petulant face. He had curling brown hair, ruddy cheeks, blue eyes, and an expression of disdain. He carried a sword that looked too big for him, and he twitched the blade as I came close, but one look into my eyes persuaded him to leave the weapon low. He wanted to be defiant, but I could see the fear in his slightly protuberant eyes. ‘Waormund,’ he commanded, ‘tell the Lord Uhtred to mind his business.’

Waormund lumbered towards me. He really was a giant, a whole head taller than me, with a flat, grim face slashed from his right eyebrow to his lower left jaw by a scar. He had a bristling brown beard, eyes dead as stone, and a thin-lipped mouth that seemed set in a permanent grimace. ‘Let Prince Ælfweard do his duty,’ he growled at me.

‘When the prisoner’s hands are freed,’ I said.

‘Make him go away!’ Ælfweard whined.

‘You heard …’ Waormund began.

‘You don’t serve me,’ I interrupted him, ‘but I am a lord and you are not, and you owe me respect and obedience, and if you fail to give me either then I shall fillet you. I’ve killed bigger fools than you,’ I doubted that was true, but it did no harm for Waormund to hear it, ‘but none more stupid. Now both of you will wait while I free Brice’s hands.’

‘You can’t—’ Waormund began, and I slapped him. I slapped him hard across the face, and he was so astonished that he just stood there like a stunned heifer.

‘Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do, ceorl,’ I snapped at him. ‘I told you to wait, so you will wait.’ I walked away from him, going to Brice, and I gave Finan a tiny nod as I went. Then I stepped behind Brice, drew the knife I was not supposed to be carrying, and cut through the hide rope that had bound him. I looked past him and saw the scarlet curtain hanging in the entrance of the king’s tent move slightly.

‘Thank you, lord,’ Brice said. He massaged his freed wrists. ‘A man should die with his hands free.’

‘So he can pray?’

‘Because I don’t deserve to die like a common thief, lord. I’m a warrior.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you are.’ I was facing him now, my back to Waormund and to Prince Ælfweard, while Finan had stepped behind Brice. ‘And you’re a warrior who kept his oath,’ I added.

Brice glanced around the circle of men who watched us. ‘He didn’t come to see this.’ He meant Æthelhelm.

‘He’s ashamed of himself,’ I said.

‘But he made sure I’d die this way, lord, and not by being hanged. And he’ll look after my wife and children.’

‘I’ll make sure he does.’

‘But he lets the boy kill me,’ Brice said in disgust, ‘and that boy will butcher me. He likes hurting people.’

‘You did too.’

He nodded. ‘I’ve repented my sins, lord.’ He looked past me, gazing up into the cloudless sky, and for a heartbeat there was a hint of tears in his eyes. ‘You think there’s a heaven, lord?’

‘I think there’s a mead hall called Valhalla where brave warriors go after death. A mead hall filled with friends and feasts.’

Brice nodded. ‘But to get there, lord, a man must die with a weapon in his hand.’

‘Is that why you wanted your hands untied?’

He did not answer, but just looked at me, and I saw the confusion in him. He had been raised a Christian, at least I assumed he had, but the stories of the old gods were still whispered about the night-time fires, and the fear of the corpse-ripper who feeds on the dead in Niflheim was not forgotten, despite all that the priests preached. I still carried the knife and now I reversed it and held the hilt towards Brice. ‘It’s not a sword,’ I said, ‘but it is a weapon. Hold it tight.’ I kept my fingers closed firmly around Brice’s knuckles so that he could not release the blade nor, for that matter, lunge it at my belly.

He did not try. ‘Thank you, lord,’ he said.

And Finan struck. He had hidden a seax under his tunic, and, while I spoke to Brice, he slid the weapon free and, as soon as he saw that Brice had good hold of the knife, he slashed the short blade across the nape of Brice’s neck. Brice died instantly, with no time even to know he was dying, and the knife was still in his grasp as he fell. I kept my grip on his hand as his body collapsed, and only when I was certain that he was dead did I prise his fingers from the hilt.

‘You …’ Ælfweard began to protest in a shrill voice, but went silent as Finan whirled the seax’s blooded blade in a series of air-whistling cuts and slashes too fast for the eye to follow.

So Brice died, and, stupid as he was, he will have his place on the benches in Valhalla’s hall. We shall meet again.

I walked away, but a touch on my elbow turned me back fast. I thought for a heartbeat that Waormund or Ælfweard was attacking me, but it was a servant who bowed low and told me I was summoned to the king’s tent. ‘Now, if it please you, lord.’

It did not matter whether I was pleased or displeased, a king’s summons could hardly be ignored and so I followed the servant past the guards and pushed through the scarlet curtain. It was cool inside the tent, smelling of crushed grass. There were tables, chairs, chests, and a large bed on which a dark-haired girl with large eyes sat watching us. The king dismissed the servant, but ignored the girl, instead going to a table littered with broken loaves, a block of cheese, documents, a book, quills, horn cups, and two silver jugs. The crown of Wessex with its emeralds lay discarded in the muddle. Edward poured himself a beaker of wine and looked at me questioningly. ‘Please, lord,’ I said.