Warriors of the Storm (10 page)

‘He was fond of you,’ Leofstan said, ‘and proud of you too.’

‘He was?’

‘And he told me often that you are a kind man who tries to hide his kindness.’

I grunted again. ‘Beocca,’ I said, ‘was full of …’

‘Wisdom,’ Leofstan interrupted me firmly. ‘So no, I’m not frightened of you and I will pray for you.’

‘And I’ll keep the Northmen from slaughtering you,’ I said.

‘Why do you think I pray for you?’ he asked, laughing. ‘Now go, I’m certain you have more pressing duties than talking to me. And God be with you!’

I kicked back my heels, riding hard to the front of the column. Damn it, I thought, but now I liked Leofstan. He would join that small group of priests like Beocca, Willibald, Cuthbert, and Pyrlig, whom I admired and liked, a group hugely outnumbered by the corrupt, venal and ambitious clerics who governed the church so jealously. ‘Whatever you do,’ I told Berg, who was the leading horseman, ‘never believe the Christians when they tell you to love your enemies.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Why would I want to love them?’

‘I don’t know! Just Christian shit. Have you seen any enemy?’

‘Nothing,’ he said.

I had sent no scouts ahead. Ragnall would learn soon enough that we were coming, and he would either gather his men to oppose us or, if I was right, he would refuse battle. I would learn which soon enough. Æthelflaed, even though she had decided to trust my instinct, feared I was being impetuous, and I was not so sure that she was wrong and so had attempted to persuade her to stay in Ceaster. ‘And what will men think of me,’ she had asked, ‘if I cower behind stone walls while they ride to fight Mercia’s enemies?’

‘They’ll think you’re a sensible woman.’

‘I am the ruler of Mercia,’ she said. ‘Men won’t follow unless I lead.’

We followed the Roman road, which would eventually lead to a crossroads where ruined stone buildings stood above deep shafts dug into the layers of salt that had once made this region rich. Old men remembered clambering down the long ladders to reach the white rock, but the shafts now lay in the uncertain land between the Saxons and the Danes, and so the buildings, which the Romans had made, decayed. ‘If we garrison Eads Byrig,’ I told Æthelflaed as we rode, ‘we can reopen the mines.’ A burh on the hill would protect the country for miles around. ‘Salt from a mine is much cheaper than salt from fire pans.’

‘Let’s capture Eads Byrig first,’ she said grimly.

We did not go as far as the old shafts, turning north a few miles short of the crossroads and plunging into the forest. Ragnall would know we were coming by now and we made no attempt to hide our progress. We rode on the ridge’s crest, following an ancient track from where I could see the green slopes of Eads Byrig rising above the sea of trees, and I could see the bright raw wood of the newly-made palisade, then the track plunged leftwards into trees and I lost sight of the hill until we burst out into the great space that Ragnall had cleared around the ancient fort. The trees had been cut down, leaving stumps, wood chips, and sheared branches. Our appearance in that waste land prompted the defenders of the fort to jeer at us, one even hurled a spear that fell a hundred paces short of our nearest horseman. Bright banners flew above the ramparts, the largest showing Ragnall’s red axe. ‘Merewalh!’ I shouted.

‘Lord?’

‘Keep a hundred men here! Just watch the fort! Don’t start a fight. If they leave the fort to follow us then ride ahead of them and join us!’

‘Lord?’ he called questioningly.

‘Just watch them! Don’t fight them!’ I shouted and rode on, skirting the hill’s western flank. ‘Cynlæf!’

The West Saxon caught up with me. ‘Lord?’ The expensive red scabbard with the gold plaques bounced at his side.

‘Keep Lady Æthelflaed at the back!’

‘She won’t …’

‘Just do it!’ I snarled. ‘Hold her bridle if you must, but don’t let her get caught up in the fighting.’ I quickened the pace and drew Serpent-Breath and the sight of that long blade prompted my men to unsheathe their own swords.

Ragnall had not faced us at Eads Byrig. True there were men on the fort’s ramparts, but not his full army. The spear-points had been spaced apart, not crowded together, and that told me most of Ragnall’s men were to the north. He had landed his ships on the banks of the Mærse and then fortified Eads Byrig to deceive his real enemy, to persuade the feeble king in Eoferwic that his ambitions lay in Mercia, but Northumbria was much easier prey. Dozens of Northumbrian jarls had already joined Ragnall, some no doubt believing he would lead them south, but by now he would have fired them with enthusiasm for the attack northwards. They would be lured by promises of gold, of land taken from King Ingver and his supporters, and, doubtless, of the prospect of a renewed assault on Mercia once Northumbria was secure.

Or so I believed. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Ragnall was marching on Ceaster or waiting at the river with a shield wall. His banner had flown over Eads Byrig, but that, I thought, was a deception intended to make us think he was inside the new palisade. The prickle of instinct told me he was crossing the river. Why, then, had he left men at Eads Byrig? That was a question that must wait, and then I forgot it altogether because I suddenly saw a group of men running ahead of me. They were not in mail. We had been following a newly-made track through the trees, a track that must lead from Eads Byrig to the bridge of boats, and the men ahead were carrying sacks and barrels. I suspected they were servants, but whoever they were they scattered into the undergrowth when they saw us. We pounded on, ducking under branches, and more men were running away from us, and suddenly the green shadows under the trees lightened and I saw open land ahead, land scattered with makeshift shelters and the remnants of campfires, and I knew we had come to the place beside the river where Ragnall had made his temporary encampment.

I spurred Tintreg out into the sunlight. The river was now a hundred paces away and a crowd was waiting to cross the bridge of boats. The far bank was already thick with men and horses, a horde, most of whom were already marching north, but on this side of the river were more men with their horses, livestock, families, and servants. My instinct had been right. Ragnall was going north.

And then we struck.

Ragnall would have known we were coming, but he must have assumed we would ride straight to Eads Byrig and stay there, lured by his great banner into the belief that he was inside the walls, and our sudden and fast ride northwards took his rearguard by surprise.

It was kind to call it a rearguard. What was left on the Mærse’s southern bank was a couple of hundred warriors, their servants, some women and children, and a scattering of pigs, goats, and sheep. ‘This way!’ I shouted, swerving left. I did not want to charge straight into the panicking crowd who were now struggling to reach the bridge, instead I wanted to cut them off, and so I skirted them and then spurred Tintreg along the river bank towards the bridge. At least a dozen men stayed close behind me. A child screamed. One man tried to stop us, hurling a heavy spear that flew past my helmet. I ignored him, but one of my men must have struck because I heard the butcher’s sound of sword on bone. Tintreg snapped his teeth as he ploughed into the folk closest to the bridge. They were trying to escape, some scrambling onto the closest boat, some jumping into the river or else pushing desperately back towards the forest, and then I hauled on the reins and swung out of the saddle. ‘No!’ a woman was trying to shelter two small children, but I ignored her, instead going to where the planks of the bridge stretched down to the muddy bank, and I stood there, and one by one my men joined me and we unslung our shields and clashed the iron rims together.

‘Put your weapons down!’ I shouted at the panicked crowd. They had no escape now. Hundreds of my horsemen had come from the trees and I had a shield wall barring their path across the Mærse. I had hoped to trap more than this ragged handful, but Ragnall must have marched early, and we had left Ceaster too late.

‘They’re burning the boats!’ Finan called to me. He had joined me, but was still on horseback. Women were shrieking, children screaming, and my men bellowing at the trapped enemy to put down their weapons. I turned and saw that Ragnall’s huge fleet was either beached or moored on the Mærse’s far bank and that men were hurling firebrands into the hulls. Other men were setting fire to the ships that supported the crude plank roadway. The boats had been readied for burning, their hulls filled with tinder and soaked in pitch. A handful of vessels were upstream of the others, tied with long lines to poles driven into the shelving mud, and I guessed those were the few ships that were being saved from the flames. ‘God in His heaven,’ Finan said as he dismounted, ‘but that’s a fortune going up in flames!’

‘Worth losing a fleet to gain a kingdom,’ I said.

‘Northumbria,’ Finan said.

‘Northumbria, Eoferwic, Cumbraland, he’ll take it all,’ I said, ‘he’ll take the whole north country between here and Scotland! All of it, under a strong king.’

The smoke was churning now as the strong flames leaped from ship to ship. I had thought to try to rescue one of the vessels, but the roadway was firmly lashed to the ships, which, in turn, were lashed to each other. There was no time to cut the lashings and prise the nailed planks apart. The bridge would soon be ash, but as I stared at it I saw a single horseman come through the smoke. He was a bare-chested, long-haired, tall rider on a great black stallion. It was Ragnall who rode the burning road. He came within thirty paces of us, the smoke whipping around horse and man. He drew his sword, and the long blade reflected the flames that surrounded him. ‘I will be back, Lord Uhtred!’ he shouted. He paused, as if waiting for an answer. A ship’s mast collapsed behind him, spewing sparks and a burst of darker smoke. Still he waited, but when I said nothing he turned the horse and vanished into the fire.

‘I hope you burn,’ I growled.

‘But why did he leave men at Eads Byrig?’ Finan asked.

The sorry rearguard at the river put up no fight. They were hugely outnumbered and the women screamed at their men to drop their weapons. Behind me the bridge broke and burning ships drifted downstream. I slid Serpent-Breath back into her scabbard, remounted, and forced Tintreg into the mass of frightened enemy. Most of my men were now on foot, collecting swords, spears, and shields, though young Æthelstan was still on horseback and like me was pushing his way through the defeated crowd. ‘What do we do with them, lord?’ he called to me.

‘You’re a prince,’ I said, ‘so you tell me.’

He shrugged and looked about him at the frightened women, crying children, and sullen men, and I thought as I watched him how he had grown from a mischievous child into a strong and handsome youth. He should be king, I thought. He was his father’s eldest child, son of Wessex’s king, a man who should be king himself. ‘Kill the men,’ he suggested, ‘enslave the children, put the women to work?’

‘That’s the usual,’ I said, ‘but this is your aunt’s land. She decides.’ I could see Æthelstan was staring at a girl and I moved my horse to get a better view. She was a pretty little thing with a mass of unruly fair hair, very blue eyes, and a clear unblemished skin. She was clutching an older woman’s skirts, presumably her mother. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked the girl in Danish.

Her mother began screaming and begging, then went to her knees and turned a tear-stained face to me. ‘She’s all I have, lord, all I have!’

‘Quiet, woman,’ I snarled, ‘you don’t know how lucky your daughter is. What’s her name?’

‘Frigga, lord.’

‘How old is she?’

The mother hesitated, perhaps tempted to lie, but I snarled and she blurted out her answer. ‘She’ll be fourteen at Baldur’s Day, lord.’

Baldur’s Feast was the midsummer so the girl was more than old enough to wed. ‘Bring her here,’ I commanded.

Æthelstan frowned, thinking I was taking Frigga for myself, and I confess I was tempted, but I called to Æthelstan’s servant instead. ‘Tie the girl to your horse’s tail,’ I ordered him, ‘she’s not to be touched! She’s not to be hurt! You protect her, understand?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘And you,’ I looked back to the mother, ‘can you cook?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Sew?’

‘Of course, lord.’

‘Then stay with your daughter.’ I turned to Æthelstan. ‘Your household just increased by two,’ I told him, and, as I glanced back at Frigga, thought what a lucky bastard he was, except he was not a bastard, but the true-born son of a king.

A cheer sounded from the horsemen watching from the south. I thrust Tintreg through the prisoners and saw that Father Fraomar, Æthelflaed’s confessor, had made some announcement. He was mounted on a grey mare, the horse’s colour matching Father Fraomar’s white hair. He was close to Æthelflaed, who smiled as I drew near. ‘Good news,’ she called.

‘What news?’

‘God be praised,’ Father Fraomar said happily, ‘but the men at Eads Byrig have surrendered!’

I felt disappointment. I had been looking forward to a fight. Ragnall seemed to have left a substantial part of his army behind the walls of Eads Byrig, presumably because he wanted to hold onto the newly constructed fort, and I had wanted that garrison’s death to be a warning to the rest of his followers. ‘They surrendered?’

‘God be praised, they did.’

‘So Merewalh is inside the fort?’

‘Not yet!’

‘What do you mean, not yet? They’ve surrendered!’

Fraomar smiled. ‘They’re Christians, Lord Uhtred! The garrison is Christian!’

I frowned. ‘I don’t care if they worship weevils,’ I said, ‘but if they’ve surrendered then our forces should be inside the fort. Are they?’

‘They will be,’ Father Fraomar said. ‘It’s all agreed.’

‘What’s agreed?’ I demanded.

Æthelflaed looked troubled. ‘They’ve agreed to surrender,’ she said, looking to her confessor for confirmation. Fraomar nodded. ‘And we don’t fight Christians,’ Æthelflaed finished.

‘I do,’ I said savagely, then called for my servant. ‘Godric! Sound the horn!’ Godric glanced at Æthelflaed as if seeking her approval, and I lashed out and struck his left arm. ‘The horn! Sound it!’