The Pagan Lord

‘I didn’t mean to kill him,’ I said, ‘and I’m sorry.’

‘You should be sorry! If you stay here there’ll be two hundred spearmen coming to take you to judgement.’

‘I’ll fight them.’

She scorned that with a laugh. ‘With what?’

‘You and I have more than two hundred men,’ I said.

‘You’re more than a fool if you think I’ll tell my men to fight other Mercians.’

Of course she would not fight Mercians. She was loved by the Mercians, but that love would not raise an army sufficient to defeat her husband because he was the gold-giver, the hlaford, and he could raise a thousand men. He was forced to pretend that he and Æthelflaed were on cordial terms because he feared what would happen if he attacked her openly. Her brother, King of Wessex, would want revenge. He feared me too, but the church had just stripped me of much of my power. ‘What will you do?’ I asked her.

‘Pray,’ she said, ‘and I’ll take your men into service.’ She nodded towards those of my men whose religion had taken away their loyalty. ‘And I shall stay quiet,’ she said, ‘and give my husband no cause to destroy me.’

‘Come with me,’ I said.

‘And tie myself to an outcast fool?’ she asked bitterly.

I looked up to where smoke smeared the sky. ‘Did your husband send men to capture Cnut Ranulfson’s family?’ I asked.

‘Did he do what?’ she sounded shocked.

‘Someone pretending to be me captured his wife and children.’

She frowned. ‘How do you know?’

‘I just came from his hall,’ I said.

‘I would have heard if Æthelred had done that,’ she said. She had her spies in his household, just as he had them in hers.

‘Someone did it,’ I said, ‘and it wasn’t me.’

‘Other Danes,’ she suggested.

I slid Serpent-Breath back into her scabbard. ‘You think because Mercia has been peaceful these last years,’ I said, ‘that the wars are over. They’re not. Cnut Ranulfson has a dream; he wants it to come true before he’s too old. So keep a good watch on the frontier lands.’

‘I already do,’ she said, sounding much less certain now.

‘Someone is stirring the pot,’ I said. ‘Are you sure it’s not Æthelred?’

‘He wants to attack East Anglia,’ she said.

It was my turn to be surprised. ‘He wants to do what?’

‘Attack East Anglia. His new woman must like marshland.’ She sounded bitter.

Yet attacking East Anglia made some sense. It was one of the lost kingdoms, lost to the Danes, and it lay next to Mercia. If Æthelred could capture that land then he could take its throne and its crown. He would be King Æthelred, and he would have the fyrd of East Anglia and the thegns of East Anglia and he would be as powerful as his brother-in-law, King Edward.

But there was one problem about attacking East Anglia. The Danes to the north of Mercia would come to its rescue. It would not be a war between Mercia and East Anglia, but between Mercia and every Dane in Britain, a war that would drag Wessex into the fight, a war that would ravage the whole island.

Unless the Danes to the north could be kept quiet, and how better than to hold hostage a wife and children whom Cnut held dear? ‘It has to be Æthelred,’ I said.

Æthelflaed shook her head. ‘I’d know if it was. Besides, he’s scared of Cnut. We’re all scared of Cnut.’ She gazed sadly at the burning buildings. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Away,’ I said.

She reached out a pale hand and touched my arm. ‘You are a fool, Uhtred.’

‘I know.’

‘If there is war …’ she said uncertainly.

‘I’ll come back,’ I said.

‘You promise?’

I nodded curtly. ‘If there’s war,’ I said, ‘I will protect you. I swore that to you years ago and a dead abbot doesn’t change that oath.’

She turned to look again at the burning buildings and the light of the fires made her eyes appear wet. ‘I’ll take care of Stiorra,’ she said.

‘Don’t let her marry.’

‘She’s ready,’ she said, then turned back to me. ‘So how will I find you?’ she asked.

‘You won’t,’ I answered, ‘I’ll find you.’

She sighed, then turned in the saddle and beckoned to Æthelstan. ‘You’re coming with me,’ she ordered. The boy looked at me and I nodded.

‘And where will you go?’ she asked me again.

‘Away,’ I said again.

But I already knew. I was going to Bebbanburg.

The assault of the Christians left me with thirty-three men. A handful, like Osferth, Finan and my son, were also Christians, but most were Danes or Frisians and followers of Odin, of Thor, and of the other gods of Asgard.

We dug out the hoard that I had buried beneath the hall, and afterwards, accompanied by the women and children of the men who had stayed loyal to me, we went eastwards. We slept in a copse not far from Fagranforda. Sigunn was with me, but she was nervous and said little. They were all nervous of my bleak, angry mood, and only Finan dared talk with me. ‘So what happened?’ he asked me in the grey dawn.

‘I told you. I killed some damned abbot.’

‘Wihtred. The fellow who’s preaching Saint Oswald.’

‘Madness,’ I said angrily.

‘It probably is,’ Finan said.

‘Of course it’s madness! What’s left of Oswald is buried in Danish territory and they’ll have pounded his bones to dust long ago. They’re not idiots.’