Бернард Корнуэлл - War Lord

I did not like Guthfrith and he did not like me. He had spent three years trying to make me swear an oath of loyalty, and for three years I had refused. Twice he had sent warriors to Bebbanburg, and twice I had kept the Skull Gate barred, daring Guthfrith’s spearmen to assault the fortress, and twice they had ridden away.

Now, in the hot sun, his spearmen were on my land again, only this time they were led by Guthfrith himself, and Guthfrith had to be bitter. He believed his kingdom was being stolen, and in a moment he would see my men, see my wolf’s head badge on their shields, and he not only disliked me, but would realise he outnumbered me. Bishop Oda might piously hope there would be no fighting, but a cornered Guthfrith would be like a polecat in a sack; maddened and vicious.

And he had hostages.

Not just the women, though they had to be rescued, but Guthfrith, cunning as he was, had snatched Archbishop Hrothweard from his cathedral in Eoferwic. ‘During the Mass!’ Oda had told me in horrified tones. ‘During the Mass! Armed men in the cathedral!’

I wondered whether Guthfrith would dare harm the archbishop. Doing so would make him the enemy of every Christian ruler in Britain, though perhaps Constantine would swallow his anger long enough to put Guthfrith back on Northumbria’s throne. A dead archbishop would be a small price to pay for a larger Scotland.

Then they appeared. The first horsemen turning towards us at the bend in the road. They saw us and stopped, and gradually the following warriors joined them. ‘We’ll go to them,’ Oda said.

‘We won’t,’ I said.

‘But—’

‘You want a slaughter?’ I snarled.

‘But—’ the bishop tried again.

‘I go,’ I said impulsively.

‘You—’

‘I go alone.’ I gave my shield back to Aldwyn and swung down from the saddle.

‘I should come with you,’ Oda said.

‘And give him two priests as hostages? A bishop as well as an archbishop? He’d like that.’

Oda looked towards Guthfrith’s men who were slowly arranging themselves into a line that overlapped ours. At least a score of them were on foot, their horses too lamed to be mounted. All were pulling on helmets and hefting shields that showed Guthfrith’s symbol of a long-tusked boar. ‘Invite him to come and talk to me,’ Oda said, ‘promise him he’ll be safe.’

I ignored that, looking at Finan instead. ‘I’ll try to meet Guthfrith halfway,’ I told him. ‘If he brings men, send me the same number.’

‘I’ll come,’ Finan said, grinning.

‘No, you stay here. If trouble starts you’ll know when to come, and when you do, come fast.’

He nodded, understanding me. Finan and I had fought together for so long that I rarely needed to explain what I planned. He grinned. ‘I’ll come like the wind.’

‘Lord Uhtred—’ Oda began.

‘I’ll do my best to keep Guthfrith alive,’ I interrupted him, ‘and the hostages too.’

I was not sure I could succeed in that, but I was certain that if we all rode forward until we were within shouting distance of Guthfrith’s men then there would almost certainly be a fight, or else blades would be held at the hostages’ throats. Guthfrith was a fool, but a proud fool, and I knew he would refuse a demand that he give up his prisoners and meekly agree to return to Eoferwic. He must refuse because to agree would be to lose face in front of his warriors.

And those warriors were Norsemen, proud Norsemen who believed they were the most feared warriors in all the known world. They outnumbered us and they saw a chance for slaughter and plunder. Many were young, they wanted reputation, they wanted their arms ringed with gold and silver, they wanted their names to be spoken with terror. They wanted to kill me, to take my arm rings, my weapons, my land.

So I walked towards them alone, stopping a little more than halfway between my men and Guthfrith’s tired warriors, who were then about a long bowshot away. I waited, and when Guthfrith made no move, I sat on a fallen Roman milestone, pulled off my helmet, and watched the sheep on the far hill crest, then looked up to admire the hawk balancing on the small wind. The bird was circling, so no message from the gods in that.

I had come alone because I wanted Guthfrith alone, or at most with only two or three companions. I was sure he was ready for a fight, but he knew his men were tired and his horses blown, and I reckoned that even a fool like Guthfrith would probably explore the chances of avoiding a fight if he could win this confrontation without sacrificing a dozen or more of his warriors. Besides, he had hostages and doubtless thought he could use them to force me into a humiliating retreat.

And still Guthfrith made no move. He had to be puzzled. He saw that I was alone and apparently unafraid, but a man does not become a king without some measure of cunning, and he was wondering where the trap lay. I decided to let him believe there was no trap and so I stood, kicked at some of the half buried stones in the old road, shrugged, and started walking away.

That prompted him to spur forward. I heard the hooves, turned back, pulled on my helmet, and waited again.

He brought three men. Two were warriors, one of whom was leading a small horse that carried Archbishop Hrothweard who was still dressed in the brightly embroidered robes that Christian priests wear in their churches. He looked unhurt, though tired, his face burned by the sun and his white hair tangled.

I also heard the hooves behind me and glanced back to see that Finan had sent Berg and my son. ‘Stay behind me,’ I called to them. They had seen that Guthfrith and his two men had drawn swords and they too now pulled their long blades from their scabbards. Berg was behind and to my right, facing the man who held Hrothweard’s horse. My son was to my left, confronting the other warrior.

‘What—’ my son began to ask.

‘Say nothing!’ I said.

Guthfrith curbed his stallion just two or three paces from me. His plump face, framed by the steel of his helmet, glistened with sweat. His brother, the one-eyed Sigtryggr, had been a handsome man, but Guthfrith had drunk too much ale and eaten too much rich food so that he now sat heavy in the saddle. He had small, suspicious eyes, a flattened nose, and a long, plaited beard that hung down his elaborate mail. His horse had silver trappings, his helmet had a raven’s black wing on its crown, and his sword was now held at Hrothweard’s throat. ‘Lord Archbishop,’ I said in greeting.

‘Lord Uht—’ Hrothweard began, then stopped abruptly as Guthfrith pressed the blade’s edge against his gullet.

‘Address me first,’ Guthfrith growled at me. ‘I am your king.’

I looked at him and frowned. ‘Remind me of your name?’ I said, and heard my son chuckle.

‘You want this priest dead?’ Guthfrith asked angrily. The pressure of his sword was forcing Hrothweard to lean back in his saddle. His frightened eyes watching me over the grey blade.

‘Not particularly,’ I said carelessly, ‘I like him well enough.’

‘Well enough to beg for his life?’

I pretended to think about that question, then nodded. ‘I’ll beg for his life if you swear to release him, yes.’

Guthfrith sneered at that. ‘There will be a price,’ he said. I noticed how awkward Guthfrith looked. Hrothweard was on his left, and Guthfrith was holding the sword with his right hand.

‘There’s always a price,’ I said, taking a small step to my left, thus forcing Guthfrith to half turn his head away from Hrothweard. The sword wavered. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘merely wishes to speak with you. He promises you both your life and your kingdom.’

‘Æthelstan,’ Guthfrith said, ‘is shit from a swine’s arsehole. He wants Northumbria.’