Бернард Корнуэлл: War Lord

But the Trianaid ’s helmsman knew his business and the ship skirted the sandbanks, dropped her sail, and rowed into the channel where we lost sight of her. I waited for the sentries on the northern ramparts to bring me news. One ship could not pose a danger. At most the Trianaid could carry sixty or seventy men, but still my son rousted resting warriors and sent them to the walls. Berg broke off his practice and led men to retrieve most of Bebbanburg’s horses that had been put to pasture just outside the village. Some of the villagers, fearing that the dark ship’s arrival presaged a short, savage raid, were driving livestock towards the Skull Gate.

Vidarr Leifson brought me news. ‘Scots, lord,’ he said. ‘They hailed us. They’re moored in the harbour now and waiting.’

‘Waiting for what?’

‘They say they want to talk to you, lord.’

‘Are they flying a standard?’

‘A red hand holding a cross, lord.’

‘Domnall!’ I said, surprised.

‘Haven’t seen that bastard in a good while,’ Finan commented. Domnall was one of Constantine’s war leaders and a formidable warrior. ‘Do we let him in?’

‘Him and six men,’ I said, ‘but no more than six. We’ll meet him in the hall.’

It was a half hour or more before Domnall climbed to Bebbanburg’s great hall. His men, all but the six who kept him company, stayed on their ship. Plainly they were under orders not to provoke me because none even tried to come ashore, and Domnall even went so far as to voluntarily surrender his sword at the door of the hall, and instructed his men to do the same. ‘I know you’re terrified of me, Lord Uhtred,’ Domnall bellowed as my steward took the blades, ‘but we come in peace!’

‘When the Scots talk of peace, Lord Domnall,’ I said, ‘I lock up my daughters.’

He paused, nodded curtly, and when he spoke again his voice was sympathetic. ‘You had a daughter, I know, and I’m sorry for her, lord. She was a brave woman.’

‘She was,’ I said. My daughter had died defending Eoferwic against Norsemen. ‘And your daughters?’ I asked. ‘They’re all well?’

‘They’re well,’ he said, striding down the hall towards the blazing fire we had revived in the big central hearth. ‘All four married now and squeezing out babies like good sows. Dear Lord above,’ he held his hands to the flames, ‘but it’s a raw day.’

‘It is.’

‘King Constantine sends his greetings,’ he said casually and then, more enthusiastically, ‘is that ale?’

‘The last time you drank my ale you said it reminded you of horse piss.’

‘It probably will again, but what’s a thirsty man to do?’ He saw Benedetta sitting beside me and bowed to her. ‘My sympathy, lady.’

‘Sympathy?’ she asked.

‘Because you live with me,’ I explained, then waved Domnall to the other side of the table where benches could sit all his men.

Domnall was looking about the hall. The high roof was held by great beams and rafters, the lower walls were now dressed stone, and the rush-covered floor was made from wide pine planks. I had spent a fortune on the fortress and it showed. ‘It’s a grand place, Lord Uhtred,’ Domnall said, ‘it would be a pity to lose it.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

He chuckled at that, then swung his great legs across a bench. He was a huge man, and one I was devoutly glad never to have faced in battle. I liked him. His companions, all but for a whey-faced priest, were similarly impressive, no doubt chosen to intimidate us by their appearance, but chief of them, and sitting on Domnall’s right, was another huge man. He looked to be around forty years old, had a lined and scarred face burned dark by the sun against which his hair, worn long, was a startling white. He stared at me with undisguised hostility, yet what was strangest about him were the two amulets hanging above his polished mail coat. He wore a silver cross and, next to it, a silver hammer. Christian and pagan.

Domnall pulled an ale jug towards himself, then gestured that the priest should sit on his left. ‘Don’t worry yourself, father,’ he told the priest, ‘Lord Uhtred might be a pagan, but he’s not such a bad fellow. Father Coluim,’ Domnall was talking to me now, ‘is trusted by King Constantine.’

‘Then you’re welcome, father,’ I said.

‘Peace be on this hall,’ Coluim said in a strong voice that conveyed a deal more confidence than his nervous appearance suggested.

‘High walls, a strong garrison and good men keep it peaceful, father,’ I suggested.

‘And good allies,’ Domnall said, reaching for the ale jug again.

‘And good allies,’ I echoed him. Behind the Scots a log fell, spewing sparks.

Domnall poured himself ale. ‘And at this time Lord Uhtred,’ he went on, ‘you have no allies.’ He spoke quietly and again sounded sympathetic.

‘No allies?’ I asked. I could think of nothing else to say.

‘Who is your friend? King Constantine holds you in high regard, but he’s no ally to Northumbria.’

‘True.’

He was leaning forward, looking into my eyes with an intense gaze, and speaking so quietly that men at the ends of the benches had to strain to hear. ‘Mercia used to be your best friend,’ he went on, ‘but she died.’

I nodded. When Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, had ruled Mercia she had indeed been an ally. A lover too. I said nothing.

‘Hywel of Dyfed admires you,’ Domnall continued remorselessly, ‘but Wales is a long way off. And why would Hywel march to your help?’

‘I know no reason why he should,’ I allowed.

‘Or why would any Welsh king help you?’ He paused, expecting an answer, but again I said nothing. ‘And the Norse of Cumbria hate you,’ Domnall went on. He was talking of Northumbria’s wild western lands beyond the hills. ‘You defeated them too often.’

‘But not often enough,’ I growled.

‘They breed like mice. Kill one and a dozen more come at you. And your own King Guthfrith dislikes you. He wouldn’t lift a drunken hand to help you.’

‘He hates me,’ I answered, ‘ever since I held a sword to his throat two days ago.’ That plainly surprised Domnall who had yet to hear of Guthfrith’s flight from Eoferwic. ‘He was on his way to you, I suspect,’ I went on blandly.

‘And you stopped him?’ Domnall asked cautiously.

I decided not to reveal I had heard of the Scottish envoys meeting with Guthfrith, so I shrugged. ‘His men had raped some of the women in my villages. I didn’t like that.’

‘You killed him?’

‘I gave him a choice. Fight me or go home. He went home.’

‘So Guthfrith is no ally of yours.’ Domnall was intrigued by the tale, but sensed he would get nothing more by questioning me about it. ‘So who is your ally? Æthelstan?’

I gave him an answer he did not expect. ‘Owain of Strath Clota is your king’s enemy,’ I said, ‘and I daresay he would welcome an ally. Not that he needs one. How long have you been trying to defeat him?’

And then it was Domnall’s turn to surprise me. He turned to the man on his right, the grim-looking warrior with the long bone-white hair who had the cross and the hammer hanging at his chest. ‘This is Dyfnwal,’ Domnall said, still speaking softly, ‘brother to Owain.’

I must have shown my astonishment because the hard-faced Dyfnwal responded with a mocking look. ‘Dyfnwal,’ I repeated the name clumsily. It was a Welsh name because Strath Clota was a Welsh kingdom, formed by the Britons who had been pushed northwards by the Saxon invasion. Most Britons, of course, had gone to Wales, but some had found a refuge on the western coast of Alba where their small kingdom had been strengthened by Norsemen seeking land.