Bernard Cornwell - The Lords of the North

‘Why marry a Saxon?’ I asked.

‘To show that Haliwerfolkland is for both tribes,’ he said.

‘Northumbria,’ I said bad-temperedly.

‘Northumbria?’

‘It’s called Northumbria,’ I said, ‘not Haliwerfolkland.’

He shrugged as if the name did not matter. ‘I should still marry a Saxon,’ he said, ‘and I’d like it to be a pretty one. Pretty as Hild, maybe? Except she’s too old.’

‘Too old?’

‘I need one about thirteen, fourteen maybe? Ready to pup some babies.’ He clambered across a low fence and edged down a steep bank towards a small stream that flowed north towards the Hedene. ‘There must be some pretty Saxons in Eoferwic?’

‘But you want a virgin, don’t you?’

‘Probably,’ he said, then nodded, ‘yes.’

‘Might be one or two left in Eoferwic,’ I said.

‘Pity about Hild,’ he said vaguely.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you weren’t with her,’ he said vigorously, ‘you might make a husband for Gisela.’

‘Hild and I are friends,’ I said, ‘just friends,’ which was true. We had been lovers, but ever since Hild had seen the body of Saint Cuthbert she had withdrawn into a contemplative mood. She was feeling the tug of her god, I knew, and I had asked her if she wanted to put on the robes of a nun again, but she had shaken her head and said she was not ready.

‘But I should probably marry Gisela to a king,’ Guthred said, ignoring my words. ‘Maybe Aed of Scotland? Keep him quiet with a bride? Or maybe it’s better if she marries Ivarr’s son. Do you think she’s pretty enough?’

‘Of course she is!’

‘Horseface!’ he said, then laughed at the old nickname. ‘The two of us used to catch sticklebacks here,’ he went on, then tugged off his boots, left them on the bank, and began wading upstream. I followed him, staying on the bank where I pushed under alders and through the rank grass. Flies buzzed around me. It was a warm day.

‘You want sticklebacks?’ I asked, still thinking of Gisela.

‘I’m looking for an island,’ he said.

‘Can’t be a very big island,’ I said. The stream could be crossed in two paces and it never rose above Guthred’s calves.

‘It was big enough when I was thirteen,’ he said.

‘Big enough for what?’ I asked, then slapped at a horsefly, crushing it against my mail. It was hot enough to make me wish I had not worn the mail, but I had long learned that a man must be accustomed to the heavy armour or else, in battle, it becomes cumbersome and so I wore it most days just so that it became like a second skin. When I took the mail off it was as though the gods had given me winged feet.

‘It was big enough for me and a Saxon called Edith,’ he said, grinning at me, ‘and she was my first. She was a sweet thing.’

‘Probably still is.’

He shook his head. ‘She was gored by a bull and died.’ He waded on, passing some rocks where ferns grew and, fifty or so paces beyond he gave a happy cry as he discovered his island and I felt sorry for Edith for it was nothing more than a bank of stones that must have been sharp as razors on her scrawny backside.

Guthred sat and began flicking pebbles into the water. ‘Can we win?’ he asked me.

‘We can probably take Eoferwic,’ I said, ‘so long as Ivarr hasn’t returned.’

‘And if he has?’

‘Then you’re dead, lord.’

He frowned at that. ‘We can negotiate with Ivarr,’ he suggested.

‘That’s what Alfred would do,’ I said.

‘Good!’ Guthred cheered up. ‘And I can offer him Gisela for his son!’

I ignored that. ‘But Ivarr won’t negotiate with you,’ I said instead. ‘He’ll fight. He’s a Lothbrok. He doesn’t negotiate except to gain time. He believes in the sword, the spear, the shield, the war axe and the death of his enemies. You won’t negotiate with Ivarr, you’ll have to fight him and we don’t have the army to do that.’

‘But if we take Eoferwic,’ he said energetically, ‘folk there will join us. The army will grow.’

‘You call this an army?’ I asked, then shook my head. ‘Ivarr leads war-hardened Danes. When we meet them, lord, most of our Danes will join him.’

He looked up at me, puzzlement on his honest face. ‘But they took oaths to me!’

‘They’ll still join him,’ I said grimly.

‘So what do we do?’

‘We take Eoferwic,’ I said, ‘we plunder it and we come back here. Ivarr won’t follow you. He doesn’t care about Cumbraland. So rule here and eventually Ivarr will forget about you.’

‘Eadred wouldn’t like that.’

‘What does he want?’

‘His shrine.’

‘He can build it here.’

Guthred shook his head. ‘He wants it on the east coast because that’s where most folk live.’

What Eadred wanted, I suppose, was a shrine that would attract thousands of pilgrims who would shower his church with coins. He could build his shrine here in Cair Ligualid, but it was a remote place and the pilgrims would not come in their thousands. ‘But you’re the king,’ I said, ‘so you give the orders. Not Eadred.’

‘True,’ he said wryly and tossed another pebble. Then he frowned at me. ‘What makes Alfred a good king?’

‘Who says he’s good?’

‘Everyone. Father Willibald says he’s the greatest king since Charlemagne.’

‘That’s because Willibald is an addled earsling.’

‘You don’t like Alfred?’

‘I hate the bastard.’

‘But he’s a warrior, a lawgiver …’

‘He’s no warrior!’ I interrupted scornfully, ‘he hates fighting! He has to do it, but he doesn’t like it, and he’s far too sick to stand in a shield wall. But he is a lawgiver. He loves laws. He thinks if he invents enough laws he’ll make heaven on earth.’

‘But why do men say he’s good?’ Guthred asked, puzzled.

I stared up at an eagle sliding across the sky’s blue vault. ‘What Alfred is,’ I said, trying to be honest, ‘is fair. He deals properly with folk, or most of them. You can trust his word.’

‘That’s good,’ Guthred said.

‘But he’s a pious, disapproving, worried bastard,’ I said, ‘that’s what he really is.’

‘I shall be fair,’ Guthred said. ‘I shall make men like me.’

‘They already like you,’ I said, ‘but they also have to fear you.’

‘Fear me?’ He did not like that idea.

‘You’re a king.’

‘I shall be a good king,’ he said vehemently, and just then Tekil and his men attacked us.

I should have guessed. Eight well-armed men do not cross a wilderness to join a rabble. They had been sent, and not by some Dane called Hergild in Heagostealdes. They had come from Kjartan the Cruel who, infuriated by his son’s humiliation, had sent men to track the dead swordsman, and it had not taken them long to discover that we had followed the Roman wall, and now Guthred and I had wandered away on a warm day and were at the bottom of a small valley as the eight men swarmed down the banks with drawn swords.

I managed to draw Serpent-Breath, but she was knocked aside by Tekil’s blade and then two men hit me, driving me back into the stream. I fought them, but my sword arm was pinned, a man was kneeling on my chest and another was holding my head under the stream and I felt the gagging horror as the water choked in my throat. The world went dark. I wanted to shout, but no sound came, and then Serpent-Breath was taken from my hand and I lost consciousness.

I recovered on the shingle island where the eight men stood around Guthred and me, their swords at our bellies and throats. Tekil, grinning, kicked away the blade that was prodding my gullet and knelt beside me. ‘Uhtred Ragnarson,’ he greeted me, ‘and I do believe you met Sven the One-Eyed not long ago. He sends you greetings.’ I said nothing. Tekil smiled. ‘You have Skidbladnir in your pouch, perhaps? You’ll sail away from us? Back to Niflheim?’