Bernard Cornwell - The Burning Land

Æthelred was the Lord of Mercia. Mercia, of course, was the country to the north of Wessex, and its northern and eastern parts were ruled by the Danes. It had no king, instead it had my cousin, who was the acknowledged ruler of the Saxon parts of Mercia, though in truth he was in thrall to Alfred. Alfred, though he never made the claim explicit, was the actual ruler of Mercia, and Æthelred did his father-in-law’s bidding. Though how long that bidding could continue was dubious, for Alfred looked sicker than I had ever seen him. His pale, clerkly face was thinner than ever and his eyes had a bruised look of pain, though they had lost none of their intelligence.

He looked at me in silence, waited till I had bowed, then nodded a curt greeting. ‘You bring men, Lord Uhtred?’

‘Three hundred, lord.’

‘Is that all?’ Alfred asked, flinching.

‘Unless you wish to lose Lundene, lord, it’s all.’

‘And you bring your woman?’ Bishop Asser sneered.

Bishop Asser was an earsling, which is anything that drops out of an arse. He had dropped out of some Welsh arse, from where he had slimed his way into Alfred’s favour. Alfred thought the world of Asser who, in turn, hated me. I smiled at him. ‘I bring you Harald’s whore,’ I said.

No one answered that. They all just stared at Skade, and none stared harder than the young man standing just behind Alfred’s throne. He had a thin face with prominent bones, pale skin, black hair that curled just above his embroidered collar, and eyes that were quick and bright. He seemed nervous, overawed perhaps by the presence of so many broad-shouldered warriors, while he himself was slender, almost fragile, in his build. I knew him well enough. His name was Edward, and he was the Ætheling, the king’s eldest son, and he was being groomed to take his father’s throne. Now he was gaping at Skade as though he had never seen a woman before, but when she met his gaze he blushed and pretended to take a keen interest in the rush-covered floor.

‘You brought what?’ Bishop Asser broke the surprised silence.

‘Her name is Skade,’ I said, thrusting her forward. Edward raised his eyes and stared at Skade like a puppy seeing fresh meat.

‘Bow to the king,’ I ordered Skade in Danish.

‘I do what I wish,’ she said and, just as I supposed she would, she spat towards Alfred.

‘Strike her!’ Bishop Asser yapped.

‘Do churchmen strike women?’ I asked him.

‘Be quiet, Lord Uhtred,’ Alfred said tiredly. I saw how his right hand was curled into a claw that clutched the arm of the chair. He gazed at Skade, who returned the stare defiantly. ‘A remarkable woman,’ the king said mildly, ‘does she speak English?’

‘She pretends not to,’ I said, ‘but she understands it well enough.’

Skade rewarded that truth with a sidelong look of pure spite. ‘I’ve cursed you,’ she said under her breath.

‘The easiest way to be rid of a curse,’ I spoke just as softly, ‘is to cut out the tongue that made it. Now be silent, you rancid bitch.’

‘The curse of death,’ she said, just above a whisper.

‘What is she saying?’ Alfred asked.

‘She is reputed to be a sorceress, lord,’ I said, ‘and claims to have cursed me.’

Alfred and most of the churchmen touched the crosses hanging about their necks. It is a strange thing I have noticed about Christians, that they claim our gods have no power yet they fear the curses made in the names of those gods. ‘How did you capture her?’ Alfred asked.

I gave a brief account of what had happened at Edwulf’s hall and when I was done Alfred looked at her coldly. ‘Did she kill Edwulf’s priest?’ he asked.

‘Did you kill Edwulf’s priest, bitch?’ I asked her in Danish.

She smiled at me. ‘Of course I did,’ she said, ‘I kill all priests.’

‘She killed the priest, lord,’ I told Alfred.

He shuddered. ‘Take her outside,’ he ordered Steapa, ‘and guard her well.’ He held up a hand. ‘She is not to be molested!’ He waited till Skade was gone before looking at me. ‘You’re welcome, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘you and your men. But I had hoped you would bring more.’

‘I brought enough, lord King,’ I said.

‘Enough for what?’ Bishop Asser asked.

I looked at the runt. He was a bishop, but still wore his monkish robes cinched tight around his scrawny waist. He had a face like a starved stoat, with pale green eyes and thin lips. He spent half his time in the wastelands of his native Wales, and half whispering pious poison into Alfred’s ears, and together the two men had made a law code for Wessex, and it was my amusement and ambition to break every one of those laws before either the king or the Welsh runt died. ‘Enough,’ I said, ‘to tear Harald and his men into bloody ruin.’

Æthelflæd smiled at that. She alone of Alfred’s family was my friend. I had not seen her in four years and she looked much thinner now. She was only a year or two above twenty, but appeared older and sadder, yet her hair was still lustrous gold and her eyes as blue as the summer sky. I winked at her, as much as anything to annoy her husband, my cousin, who immediately rose to the bait and snorted. ‘If Harald were that easy to destroy,’ Æthelred said, ‘we would have done it already.’

‘How?’ I asked, ‘by watching him from the hills?’ Æthelred grimaced. Normally he would have argued with me, because he was a belligerent and proud man, but he looked pale. He had an illness, no one knew what, and it left him tired and weak for long stretches. He was perhaps forty in that year, and his red hair had strands of white at his temples. This, I guessed, was one of his bad days. ‘Harald should have been killed weeks ago,’ I taunted him scornfully.

‘Enough!’ Alfred slapped the arm of his chair, startling a leather-hooded falcon that was perched on a lectern beside the altar. The bird flapped his wings, but the jesses held him firm. Alfred grimaced. His face told me what I well knew, that he needed me and did not want to need me. ‘We could not attack Harald,’ he explained patiently, ‘so long as Haesten threatened our northern flank.’

‘Haesten couldn’t threaten a wet puppy,’ I said, ‘he’s too frightened of defeat.’

I was arrogant that day, arrogant and confident, because there are times when men need to see arrogance. These men had spent days arguing about what to do, and in the end they had done nothing, and all that time they had been multiplying Harald’s forces in their minds until they were convinced he was invincible. Alfred, meanwhile, had deliberately refrained from seeking my help because he wanted to hand the reins of Wessex and Mercia to his son and to his son-in-law, which meant giving them reputations as leaders, but their leadership had failed, and so Alfred had sent for me. And now, because they needed it, I countered their fears with an arrogant assurance.

‘Harald has five thousand men,’ Ealdorman Æthelhelm of Wiltunscir said softly. Æthelhelm was a good man, but he too seemed infected by the timidity that had overtaken Alfred’s entourage. ‘He brought two hundred ships!’ he added.

‘If he has two thousand men, I’d be astonished,’ I said. ‘How many horses does he have?’ No one knew, or at least no one answered. Harald might well have brought as many as five thousand men, but his army consisted only of those who had horses.

‘However many men he has,’ Alfred said pointedly, ‘he must attack this burh to advance further into Wessex.’

That was a nonsense, of course. Harald could go north or south of Æscengum, but there was no future in arguing that with Alfred, who had a peculiar affection for the burh. ‘So you plan to defeat him here, lord?’ I asked instead.