The Last Kingdom (37 page)

But the spinners were sending me to that old earth fort for another reason. I had yet to stand in the big shield wall, in the line of warriors, in the heave and horror of a proper battle where to kill once is merely to invite another enemy to come. The hill of Cynuit was the road to full manhood and I climbed it because I had no choice; the spinners sent me.

Then a roar sounded to our right, down in the Pedredan’s valley, and I saw a banner being raised beside a beached ship. It was the banner of the raven. Ubba’s banner. Ubba, last and strongest and most frightening of the sons of Lothbrok, had brought his blades to Cynuit. “You see that boat?” I said to Willibald, pointing to where the banner flew. “Ten years ago,” I said, “I cleaned that ship. I scoured it, scrubbed it, cleaned it.” Danes were taking their shields from the shield strake and the sun glinted on their myriad spear blades. “I was ten years old,” I told Willibald.

“The same boat?” he asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Perhaps it was a new ship. It did not matter, really. All that mattered was that it had brought Ubba.

To Cynuit.

The men of Defnascir had made a line where the old fort’s wall had eroded away. Some, a few, had spades and were trying to remake the earth barrier, but they would not be given time to finish, not if Ubba assaulted the hill, and I pushed through them, using my shield to thrust men out of my way and ignoring all those who questioned who we were, and so we made our way to the hill’s summit where Odda’s banner of a black stag flew.

I pulled off my helmet as I neared him. I tossed the helmet to Father Willibald, then drew Serpent-Breath for I had seen Odda the Younger standing beside his father, and he was staring at me as though I were a ghost, and to him I must have appeared just that. “Where is she?” I shouted, and I pointed Serpent-Breath at him. “Where is she?”

Odda’s retainers drew swords or leveled spears, and Leofric drew his battle-thinned blade, Dane-Killer.

“No!” Father Willibald shouted and he ran forward, his staff raised in one hand and my helmet in the other. “No!” He tried to head me off, but I pushed him aside, only to find three of Odda’s priests barring my way. That was one thing about Wessex, there were always priests. They appeared like mice out of a burning thatch, but I thrust the priests aside and confronted Odda the Younger. “Where is she?” I demanded.

Odda the Younger was in mail, mail so brightly polished that it hurt the eye. He had a helmet inlaid with silver, boots to which iron plates were strapped, and a blue cloak held about his neck by a great brooch of gold and amber.

“Where is she?” I asked a fourth time, and this time Serpent-Breath was a hand’s length from his throat.

“Your wife is at Cridianton,” Ealdorman Odda answered. His son was too scared to open his mouth.

I had no idea where Cridianton was. “And my son?” I stared into Odda the Younger’s frightened eyes. “Where is my son?”

“They are both with my wife at Cridianton,” Ealdorman Odda answered, “and they are safe.”

“You swear to that?” I asked.

“Swear?” The ealdorman was angry now, his ugly, bulbous face red. “You dare ask me to swear?” He drew his own sword. “We can cut you down like a dog,” he said and his men’s swords twitched.

I swept my own sword around till it pointed down to the river. “You know whose banner that is?” I asked, raising my voice so that a good portion of the men on Cynuit’s hill could hear me. “That is the raven banner of Ubba Lothbrokson. I have watched Ubba Lothbrokson kill. I have seen him trample men into the sea, cut their bellies open, take off their heads, wade in their blood, and make his sword screech with their death song, and you would kill me who is ready to fight him alongside you? Then do it.” I spread my arms, baring my body to the ealdorman’s sword. “Do it,” I spat at him, “but first swear my wife and child are safe.”

He paused a long time, then lowered his blade. “They are safe,” he said, “I swear it.”

“And that thing,” I pointed Serpent-Breath at his son, “did not touch her?”

The ealdorman looked at his son who shook his head. “I swear I did not,” Odda the Younger said, finding his voice. “I only wanted her to be safe. We thought you were dead and I wanted her to be safe. That is all, I swear it.”

I sheathed Serpent-Breath. “You owe my wife eighteen shillings,” I said to the ealdorman, then turned away.

I had come to Cynuit. I had no need to be on that hilltop. But I was there. Because destiny is everything.

E
aldorman Odda did not want to kill Danes. He wanted to stay where he was and let Ubba’s forces besiege him. That, he reckoned, would be enough. “Keep their army here,” he said heavily, “and Alfred can march to attack them.”

“Alfred,” I pointed out, “is besieging Exanceaster.”

“He will leave men there to watch Guthrum,” Odda said loftily, “and march here.” He did not like talking to me, but I was an ealdorman and he could not bar me from his council of war that was attended by his son, the priests, and a dozen thegns, all of whom were becoming irritated by my comments. I insisted Alfred would not come to our relief, and Ealdorman Odda was refusing to move from the hilltop because he was sure Alfred would come. His thegns, all of them big men with heavy coats of mail and grim, weather-hardened faces, agreed with him. One muttered that the women had to be protected.

“There shouldn’t be any women here,” I said.

“But they are here,” the man said flatly. At least a hundred women had followed their men and were now on the hilltop where there was no shelter for them or their children.

“And even if Alfred comes,” I asked, “how long will it take?”

“Two days?” Odda suggested. “Three?”

“And what will we drink while he’s coming?” I asked. “Bird piss?”

They all just stared at me, hating me, but I was right for there was no spring on Cynuit. The nearest water was the river, and between us and the river were Danes, and Odda understood well enough that we would be assailed by thirst, but he still insisted we stay. Perhaps his priests were praying for a miracle.

The Danes were just as cautious. They outnumbered us, but not by many, and we held the high ground, which meant they would have to fight up Cynuit’s steep slope, and so Ubba chose to surround the hill rather than assault it. The Danes hated losing men, and I remembered Ubba’s caution at the Gewæsc where he had hesitated to attack Edmund’s forces up the two paths from the marsh, and perhaps that caution was reinforced by Storri, his sorcerer, if Storri still lived. Whatever the reason, instead of forming his men into the shield wall to assault the ancient fort, Ubba posted them in a ring about Cynuit and then, with five of his shipmasters, climbed the hill. He carried no sword or shield, which showed he wanted to talk.

Ealdorman Odda, his son, two thegns, and three priests went to meet Ubba and, because I was an ealdorman, I followed them. Odda gave me a malevolent look, but again he was unable to deny me, and so we met halfway down the slope where Ubba offered no greeting and did not even waste time on the usual ritual insults, but pointed out that we were trapped and that our wisest course was to surrender. “You will give up your weapons,” he said. “I shall take hostages, and you will all live.”

One of Odda’s priests translated the demands to the ealdorman. I watched Ubba. He looked older than I remembered, with gray hairs among the black tangle of his beard, but he was still a frightening man: huge chested, confident, and harsh.

Ealdorman Odda was plainly frightened. Ubba, after all, was a renowned Danish chieftain, a man who had ranged across long seas to give great slaughter, and now Odda was forced to confront him. He did his best to sound defiant, retorting that he would stay where he was and put his faith in the one true god.

“Then I shall kill you,” Ubba answered.

“You may try,” Odda said.

It was a feeble response and Ubba spat in scorn. He was about to turn away, but then I spoke and needed no interpreter. “Guthrum’s fleet is gone,” I said. “Njord reached from the deep, Ubba Lothbrokson, and he snatched Guthrum’s fleet down to the seabed. All those brave men are gone to Ran and Ægir.” Ran was Njord’s wife and Ægir the giant who guarded the souls of drowned men. I brought out my hammer charm and held it up. “I speak the truth, Lord Ubba,” I said. “I watched that fleet die and I saw its men go under the waves.”

He stared at me with his flat, hard eyes and the violence in his heart was like the heat of a forge. I could feel it, but I could also sense his fear, not of us, but of the gods. He was a man who did nothing without a sign from the gods, and that was why I had talked of the gods when I spoke about the fleet’s drowning. “I know you,” he growled, pointing at me with two fingers to avert the evil of my words.

“And I know you, Ubba Lothbrokson,” I said, and I let go of the charm and held up three fingers. “Ivar dead,” I folded one finger down, “Halfdan dead,” the second finger, “and only you are left. What did the runes say? That by the new moon there will be no Lothbrok brother left in Midgard?”

I had touched a nerve, as I intended to, for Ubba instinctively felt for his own hammer charm. Odda’s priest was translating, his voice a low murmur, and the ealdorman was staring at me with wide astonished eyes.

“Is that why you want us to surrender?” I asked Ubba. “Because the runesticks tell you we cannot be killed in battle?”

“I shall kill you,” Ubba said. “I shall cut you from your crotch to your gullet. I shall spill you like offal.”

I made myself smile, though that was hard when Ubba was making threats. “You may try, Ubba Lothbrokson,” I said, “but you will fail. And I know. I cast the runes, Ubba. I cast the runes under last night’s moon, and I know.”

He hated it, for he believed my lie. He wanted to be defiant, but for a moment he could only stare at me in fear because his own rune-sticks, I guessed, had told him what I was telling him, that any attack on Cynuit would end in failure. “You’re Ragnar’s boy,” he said, placing me at last.

“And Ragnar the Fearless speaks to me,” I said. “He calls from the corpse hall. He wants vengeance, Ubba, vengeance on the Danes, for Ragnar was killed treacherously by his own folk. I’m his messenger now, a thing from the corpse hall, and I have come for you.”

“I didn’t kill him!” Ubba snarled.

“Why should Ragnar care?” I asked. “He just wants vengeance and to him one Danish life is as good as another, so cast your runes again and then offer us your sword. You are doomed, Ubba.”

“And you’re a piece of weasel shit,” he said and said no more, but just turned and hurried away.

Ealdorman Odda was still staring at me. “You know him?” he asked.

“I’ve known Ubba since I was ten years old,” I said, watching the Danish chieftain walk away. I was thinking that if I had a choice, that if I could follow my warrior’s heart, I would rather fight alongside Ubba than against him, but the spinners had decreed otherwise. “Since I was ten,” I went on, “and the one thing I know about Ubba is that he fears the gods. He’s terrified now. You can attack him and his heart will let him down because he thinks he will lose.”

“Alfred will come,” Odda said.

“Alfred watches Guthrum,” I said. I was not certain of that, of course. For all I knew Alfred could be watching us now from the hills, but I doubted he would leave Guthrum free to plunder Wessex. “He watches Guthrum,” I said, “because Guthrum’s army is twice as large as Ubba’s. Even with his fleet half drowned Guthrum has more men, and why would Alfred let them loose from Exanceaster? Alfred won’t come,” I finished, “and we shall all die of thirst before Ubba attacks us.”

“We have water,” his son said sulkily, “and ale.” He had been watching me resentfully, awed that I had spoken so familiarly with Ubba.

“You have ale and water for a day,” I said scornfully and saw from the ealdorman’s expression that I was right.

Odda turned and stared south down the Pedredan’s valley. He was hoping to see Alfred’s troops, yearning for a glimpse of sunlight on spear heads, but of course there was nothing there except the trees stirring in the wind.

Odda the Younger sensed his father’s uncertainty. “We can wait for two days,” he urged.

“Death will be no better after two days,” Odda said heavily. I admired him then. He had been hoping not to fight, hoping that his king would rescue him, but in his heart he knew I was right and knew that these Danes were his responsibility and that the men of Defnascir held England in their hands and must preserve it. “Dawn,” he said, not looking at me. “We shall attack at dawn.”

We slept in war gear. Or rather men tried to sleep when they were wearing leather or mail, with sword belts buckled, helmets, and weapons close, and we lit no fires for Odda did not want the enemy to see that we were readied for battle, but the enemy had fires, and our sentries could watch down the slopes and use the enemy’s light to look for infiltrators. None came. There was a waning moon sliding in and out of ragged clouds. The Danish fires ringed us, heaviest to the south by Cantucton where Guthrum camped. More fires burned to the east, beside the Danish ships, the flames reflecting off the gilded beast heads and painted dragon prows. Between us and the river was a meadow at the far side of which the Danes watched the hill, and beyond them was a wide stretch of marsh and at the marsh’s far side was a strip of firmer land beside the river where some hovels offered the Danish ship-guards shelter. The hovels had belonged to fishermen, long fled, and fires were lit between them. A handful of Danes paced the bank beside those fires, walking beneath the carved prows, and I stood on the ramparts and gazed at those long, graceful ships and prayed that
Wind-Viper
still lived.

I could not sleep. I was thinking of shields and Danes and swords and fear. I was thinking of my child that I had never seen and of Ragnar the Fearless, wondering if he watched me from Valhalla. I was worrying that I would fail the next day when, at last, I came to the life gate of a shield wall, and I was not the only one denied sleep for, at the heart of the night, a man climbed the grassy rampart to stand beside me and I saw it was Ealdorman Odda. “How do you know Ubba?” he asked.

“I was captured by the Danes,” I said, “and was raised by them. The Danes taught me to fight.” I touched one of my arm rings. “Ubba gave me this one.”

“You fought for him?” Odda asked, not accusingly, but with curiosity.

“I fought to survive,” I said evasively.

He looked back to the moon-touched river. “When it comes to a fight,” he said, “the Danes are no fools. They will be expecting an attack at dawn.” I said nothing, wondering whether Odda’s fears were changing his mind. “And they outnumber us,” he went on.

I still said nothing. Fear works on a man, and there is no fear like the prospect of confronting a shield wall. I was filled with fear that night, for I had never fought man to man in the clash of armies. I had been at Æsc’s Hill, and at the other battles of that far-off summer, but I had not fought in the shield wall. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow, and like Odda I wanted to see Alfred’s army rescue us, but I knew there would be no rescue. “They outnumber us,” Odda said again, “and some of my men have nothing but reaping hooks as weapons.”

“A reaping hook can kill,” I said, though it was a stupid thing to say. I would not want to face a Dane if I carried nothing but a reaping hook. “How many have proper weapons?” I asked.

“Half?” he guessed.

“Then those men are our front ranks,” I said, “and the rest pick up weapons from the enemy dead.” I had no idea what I was speaking of, but only knew I must sound confident. Fear might work on a man, but confidence fights against fear.

Odda paused again, gazing at the dark ships below. “Your wife and son are well,” he said after a while.

“Good.”

“My son merely rescued her.”

“And prayed I was dead,” I said.

He shrugged. “Mildrith lived with us after her father’s death and my son became fond of her. He meant no harm and he gave none.” He held a hand out to me and I saw, in the small moonlight, that he offered me a leather purse. “The rest of the bride-price,” he said.

“Keep it, lord,” I said, “and give it to me after the battle, and if I die, give it to Mildrith.”

An owl went overhead, pale and fast, and I wondered what augury that was. Far off to the east, up the coast, far beyond the Pedredan, a tiny fire flickered and that, too, was an augury, but I could not read it.

“My men are good men,” Odda said, “but if they are out-flanked?” Fear was still haunting him. “It would be better,” he went on, “if Ubba were to attack us.”

“It would be better,” I agreed, “but Ubba will do nothing unless the runesticks tell him to do it.”

Fate is all. Ubba knew that, which is why he read the signs from the gods, and I knew the owl had been a sign, and it had flown over our heads, across the Danish ships, and gone toward that distant fire burning along the Sæfern’s shore, and I suddenly remembered King Edmund’s four boats coming to the East Anglian beach and the fire arrows thumping into the beached Danish ships and I realized I could read the auguries after all. “If your men are outflanked,” I said, “they will die. But if the Danes are outflanked, they will die. So we must outflank them.”

“How?” Odda asked bitterly. All he could see was slaughter in the dawn—an attack, a fight, and a defeat—but I had seen the owl. The owl had flown from the ships to the fire, and that was the sign. Burn the ships. “How do we outflank them?” Odda asked.

And still I remained silent, wondering if I should tell him. If I followed the augury it would mean splitting our forces, and that was the mistake the Danes had made at Æsc’s Hill, and so I hesitated, but Odda had not come to me because he suddenly liked me, but because I had been defiant with Ubba. I alone on Cynuit was confident of victory, or seemed to be, and that, despite my age, made me the leader on this hill. Ealdorman Odda, old enough to be my father, wanted my support. He wanted me to tell him what to do, me who had never been in a great shield wall, but I was young and I was arrogant and the auguries had told me what must be done, and so I told Odda.

“Have you ever seen the sceadugengan?” I asked him.

His response was to make the sign of the cross.

“When I was a child,” I said, “I dreamed of the sceadugengan. I went out at night to find them and I learned the ways of the night so I could join them.”

“What has that to do with the dawn?” he asked.

“Give me fifty men,” I said, “and they will join my men and at dawn they will attack there.” I pointed toward the ships. “We’ll start by burning their ships.”