Bernard Cornwell - Death of Kings

‘I submitted to Edward, lord,’ Sigebriht said humbly. He glanced at me and decided he needed to say more. ‘I admit all you say, lord, but there is a madness in youth, is there not?’

‘Madness?’

‘My father says young men are bewitched to madness.’ He fell silent a moment. ‘I loved Ecgwynn,’ he said wistfully. ‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘No.’

‘She was small, lord, like an elf, and as beautiful as the dawn. She could turn a man’s blood to fire.’

‘Madness,’ I said.

‘But she chose Edward,’ he said, ‘and it maddened me.’

‘And now?’ I asked.

‘The heart mends,’ he said feelingly, ‘it leaves a scar, but I’m not foolish-mad. Edward is king and he’s been good to me.’

‘And there are other women,’ I said.

‘Thank God, yes,’ he said and laughed again.

I liked him at that moment. I had never trusted him, but he was surely right that there are women who drive us to madness and to foolishness, and the heart does mend, even if the scar remains, and then we ended the conversation because Finan was galloping towards us and the river was before us and the Danes were in sight.

The Use was wide here. The clouds had slowly covered the windless sky so that the river was grey and flat. A dozen swans moved slow on the slow-moving water. It seemed to me that the world was still, even the Danes were quiet and they were there in their hundreds, their thousands, their banners bright beneath the darkening cloud. ‘How many?’ I asked Finan.

‘Too many, lord,’ he said, an answer I deserved because it was impossible to count the enemy who were hidden by the houses of the small town. More were spread along the river banks either side of the town. I could see Sigurd’s flying raven banner on the higher ground at the town’s centre, and Cnut’s flag of the axe and broken cross at the far side of the bridge. There were Saxons there too, because Beortsig’s symbol of the boar was displayed alongside Æthelwold’s stag. Downriver of the bridge was a fleet of Danish ships moored thick along the farther bank, but only seven had been dismasted and brought beneath the bridge, which suggested the Danes had no thought of using their boats to advance upriver to Eanulfsbirig.

‘So why aren’t they attacking?’ I asked.

None had crossed the bridge, which, of course, had been made by the Romans. I sometimes think that if the Romans had never invaded Britain we would never have managed to cross a river. On the southern bank, close to where we stood our horses, was a dilapidated Roman house and a huddle of thatched cottages. It would have been a fine place for the Danish vanguard, but for some reason they seemed content to wait on the far northern bank.

It began to rain. It was a thin, sharp rain, and it brought a gust of wind that rippled the river about the swans. The sun was low in the west, the sky there still free of cloud, so that it seemed to me that the land across the river and the bright-shielded Danes glowed in a world of grey shadow. I could see a smoke plume much farther north, and that was strange because whatever burned was in Eohric’s territory and we had no men that far north. Perhaps, I thought, it was just a trick of the clouds or an accidental fire. ‘Does your father listen to you?’ I asked Sigebriht.

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Tell him we’ll send a messenger when he can begin to withdraw.’

‘Till then we stay?’

‘Unless the Danes attack, yes,’ I said, ‘and one other thing. Watch those bastards.’ I pointed to the Danes who were furthest west. ‘There’s a road that goes outside the river bend and if you see the enemy using that road, send us a message.’

He frowned in thought. ‘Because they might try to block our retreat?’

‘Exactly,’ I said, pleased he had understood, ‘and if they manage to cut the road to Bedanford then we’ll have to fight them back and front.’

‘And that’s where we’re going?’ he asked. ‘To Bedanford?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that’s to the west?’ he asked.

‘To the west,’ I told Sigebriht, ‘but you won’t have to find your own way there. You’ll be back with the army this evening.’ What I did not tell him was that I was leaving most of my men not far behind the Centish troops. Sigebriht’s father Sigelf was such a proud man and so difficult to deal with that he would have immediately accused me of not trusting him if he had known my men were close. In truth I wanted my own eyes close to Huntandon, and Finan had the keenest eyes of anyone I knew.

I left Finan on the road a half-mile south of Sigelf, then took a dozen men back to Eanulfsbirig. It was dusk as I arrived and the chaos was at last subsiding. Bishop Erkenwald had ridden back up the road and ordered the slowest, heaviest wagons abandoned, and Edward’s army was now gathering in the fields across the river. If the Danes did attack they would be forced to cross the bridge into an army, or else march around by the bad road that skirted the outside of the river bend. ‘Is Merewalh still guarding that road, lord King?’ I asked Edward.

‘He is, he says there’s no sign of the enemy.’

‘Good. Where’s your sister?’

‘I sent her back to Bedanford.’

‘And she went?’

He smiled, ‘She did!’

It was now plain that the whole army, except for my men and Sigelf’s rearguard, would be safe across the Use before nightfall and so I sent Sihtric back up the road with a message for both forces to retire as fast as possible. ‘Tell them to come to the bridge and cross it.’ Once that was done, and so long as no Danes tried to outflank us, then we would have escaped the Danish choice of battlefield. ‘And tell Finan to let Sigelf’s men go first,’ I told Sihtric. I wanted Finan as the real rearguard, because no other warrior in the army was so reliable.

‘You look tired, lord,’ Edward said sympathetically.

‘I am tired, lord King.’

‘It’ll be at least an hour before Ealdorman Sigelf reaches us,’ Edward said, ‘so rest.’

I made sure my dozen men and horses were resting, then ate a poor meal of hard bread and pounded beans. The rain was falling harder now, and an east wind made the evening cruelly cold. The king had his quarters in one of the cottages we had half destroyed to burn the bridge, but somehow his servants had found a piece of sailcloth with which to make a roof. A fire burned in the hearth, swirling smoke under the makeshift canopy. Two priests were arguing quietly as I settled close to the fire. Against the far wall was a pile of precious boxes, silver, gold and crystal, which held the relics that the king would take on campaign to ensure his god’s favour. The priests were disagreeing over whether one of the reliquaries contained a splinter from Noah’s ark or a toenail of Saint Patrick, and I ignored them.

I half dozed, and I was thinking how strange it was that all the people who had affected my life over the last three years were suddenly in one place, or close to one place. Sigurd, Beortsig, Edward, Cnut, Æthelwold, Æthelflaed, Sigebriht, all of them gathered in this cold, wet corner of East Anglia and surely, I thought, that was significant. The three Norns were weaving the threads close together, and that had to be for a purpose. I looked for a pattern in the weave, but saw none, and my thoughts drifted as I half fell asleep. I woke when Edward stooped through the low door. It was dark outside now, black dark. ‘Sigelf isn’t retreating,’ he spoke to the two priests, his tone querulous.

‘Lord King?’ one of them asked.

‘Sigelf is being stubborn,’ the king said, holding his hands to the fire. ‘He’s staying where he is! I’ve told him to retreat, but he won’t.’

‘He’s what?’ I asked, suddenly fully awake.