Бернард Корнуэлл: War Lord

The ship was close enough now that I could see three men sitting just forward of the stern platform. One was a priest, or at least he was wearing a long black robe and it was he who stood and waved up at our ramparts. I did not wave back. ‘Whoever they are,’ I told Berg, ‘bring them to the hall. They can watch me drink ale. And wait before you smack some sense into Olaf.’

‘Wait, lord?’

‘Let’s see what news they’re bringing first,’ I said, nodding at the ship that was now turning towards the narrow entrance of Bebbanburg’s harbour. The ship carried no cargo that I could see, and her oarsmen looked bone weary, suggesting that she brought urgent news. ‘She’s from Æthelstan,’ I guessed.

‘Æthelstan?’ Berg asked.

‘She’s not a Northumbrian ship, is she?’ I asked. Northumbrian ships had narrower prows, while southern shipwrights preferred a broad bow. Besides, this ship displayed the cross which few Northumbrian ships carried. ‘And who uses priests to carry messages?’

‘King Æthelstan.’

I watched the ship turn into the entrance channel, then led Berg off the ramparts. ‘Look after his oarsmen. Send them food and ale, and bring the damn priest to the hall.’

I climbed to the hall where two servants were attacking cobwebs with long willow switches tied with bundles of feathers. Benedetta was watching to make sure every last spider was driven from the fortress. ‘We have visitors,’ I told her, ‘so your war against spiders must wait.’

‘I am not at war,’ she insisted, ‘I like spiders. But not in my home. Who are the visitors?’

‘I’m guessing they’re messengers from Æthelstan.’

‘Then we must greet them properly!’ She clapped her hands and ordered benches to be brought. ‘And bring the throne from the platform,’ she commanded.

‘It’s not a throne,’ I said, ‘just a fancy bench.’

‘ Ouff! ’ she said. It was a noise Benedetta made whenever I exasperated her. It made me smile, which only irritated her more. ‘It is a throne,’ she insisted, ‘and you are King of Bebbanburg.’

‘Lord,’ I corrected her.

‘You are as much a king as that fool Guthfrith,’ she made the sign to ward off evil, ‘or Owain, or anyone else.’ It was an old argument and I let it drop.

‘And have the girls bring ale,’ I said, ‘and some food. Preferably not stale.’

‘And you should wear the dark robe. I fetch it.’

Benedetta was from Italy, snatched as a child from her home by slavers, then traded across Christendom until she reached Wessex. I had freed her and now she was the Lady of Bebbanburg, though not my wife. ‘My grandmother,’ she had told me more than once, and always making the sign of the cross as she spoke, ‘told me I should never marry. I would be cursed! I have been cursed enough in life. Now I am happy! Why should I risk a grandmother’s curse? My grandmother was never wrong!’

I grumpily allowed her to drape the costly black robe over my shoulders, refused to wear the bronze-gilt circlet that had belonged to my father, and then, with Benedetta beside me, I waited for the priest.

And it was an old friend who came from the sunlight into the dusty shadows of Bebbanburg’s great hall. It was Father Oda, now Bishop of Rammesburi, who walked tall and elegant, his long black robe hemmed with dark red cloth. He was escorted by a pair of West Saxon warriors who politely gave my steward their swords before following Oda towards me. ‘Anyone would think,’ the bishop said as he came closer, ‘that you were a king!’

‘He is,’ Benedetta insisted.

‘And anyone would think,’ I said, ‘that you were a bishop.’

He smiled. ‘By the grace of God, Lord Uhtred, I am.’

‘By the grace of Æthelstan,’ I said, then stood and greeted him with an embrace. ‘Do I congratulate you?’

‘If you like. I think I am the first Dane to be a bishop in Englaland.’

‘Is that what you call it now?’

‘It’s easier than saying I am the first Danish bishop in Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia.’ He bowed to Benedetta. ‘It is good to see you again, my lady.’

‘And to see you, my lord bishop,’ she said, offering him a curtsey.

‘Ah! So rumour is wrong! Courtesy does live in Bebbanburg!’ He grinned at me, pleased with his jest and I smiled back. Oda, Bishop of Rammesburi! The only surprising thing about that appointment was that Oda was a Dane, son of pagan immigrants who had invaded East Anglia in the service of Ubba, whom I had killed. And now the Danish son of pagan parents was a bishop in Saxon Englaland! Not that he did not deserve it. Oda was a subtle, clever man who, as far as I knew, was as honest as the day is long.

There was a pause because Finan had seen Oda arrive and now came to greet him. Oda had been with us when we defended Lundene’s Crepelgate, a fight that had put Æthelstan on the throne. I might be no Christian and no lover of Christianity, but it is hard to dislike a man who has shared a desperate battle at your side. ‘Ah, wine,’ Oda greeted a servant, then turned to Benedetta, ‘no doubt blessed by the Italian sun?’

‘More likely pissed on by Frankish peasants,’ I said.

‘His charms don’t grow less, do they, my lady?’ Oda said, sitting. Then he looked at me and touched the heavy gold cross hanging at his breast. ‘I bring news, Lord Uhtred.’ His tone was suddenly wary.

‘I supposed as much.’

‘Which you won’t like.’ Oda kept his eyes on me.

‘Which I won’t like,’ I echoed, and waited.

‘King Æthelstan,’ he said calmly, still looking at me, ‘is in Northumbria. He entered Eoferwic three days ago.’ He paused, as if expecting me to protest, but I said nothing. ‘And King Guthfrith,’ Oda went on, ‘misunderstood our coming and has fled.’

‘Misunderstood,’ I said.

‘Indeed.’

‘And he fled from you and Æthelstan? Just the two of you?’

‘Of course not,’ Oda said, still calm, ‘we were escorted by over two thousand men.’

I had fought enough, I wanted to stay at Bebbanburg, I wanted to hear the long sea break on the beach and the wind sigh around the hall’s gable. I knew I had few years left, but the gods had been kind. My son was a man and would inherit wide lands, I could still ride and hunt, and I had Benedetta. True she had a temper like a weasel on heat, but she was loving and loyal, had a brightness that lit Bebbanburg’s grey skies, and I loved her. ‘Two thousand men,’ I said flatly, ‘yet still he needs me?’

‘He requests your help, lord, yes.’

‘He can’t manage the invasion on his own?’ I was getting angrier.

‘It’s not an invasion, lord,’ Oda said calmly, ‘just a royal visitation. A courtesy between kings.’

He could call it what he liked, but it was still an invasion.

And I was angry.

I was furious because Æthelstan had once sworn an oath that he would never invade Northumbria while I lived. Yet now he was in Eoferwic with an army, and I had eighty-three men waiting behind the crest of a hill not far south of Bebbanburg to do his bidding. I had wanted to refuse Oda, I had wanted to tell him to take his damned ship back to Eoferwic and spit in Æthelstan’s face. I felt betrayed. I gave Æthelstan his throne, yet since that far-off day when I had fought at the Crepelgate he had ignored me, and that did not upset me. I am a Northumbrian and live far from Æthelstan’s land, and all I wanted was to be left in peace. Yet deep inside I knew there could not be peace. When I was born, Saxon Britain was divided into four countries; Wessex, Mercia, East Anglia and my own Northumbria. King Alfred, Æthelstan’s grandfather, had dreamed of uniting them into one country he called Englaland, and that dream was coming true. King Æthelstan ruled over Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia, and only Northumbria remained, and Æthelstan had sworn to me that he would not snatch that land while I lived, yet now he was in my country with an army, and he was pleading for my help. Again. And deep down I knew that Northumbria was doomed, that either Æthelstan would take my country or Constantine would add it to his lands, and my loyalty was to those who spoke my language, the Saxon tongue we call Ænglisc, and that was why I had led eighty-three warriors from Bebbanburg to ambush King Guthfrith of Northumbria who had fled from Æthelstan’s invasion. The sun burned high and bright, the day was still.