War of the Wolf

‘Hoping I’d be killed here?’

‘What else? He can’t kill you while you’re inside Bebbanburg, so he has to get you outside the walls somehow.’

‘I spend enough time with Stiorra and her children,’ I pointed out. My daughter, Queen of Northumbria, lived in Eoferwic’s rambling palace, which was a mix of Roman grandeur and solid timber halls.

‘He can’t reach you in Eoferwic either. He wanted you out of Northumbria.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, unconvinced.

‘I’m always right. I’m from Ireland. I was right about the snow, wasn’t I? And I’m still waiting for the two shillings.’

‘You’re a Christian. Patience is one of your virtues.’

‘I must be a living saint then.’ He looked past me. ‘And talking of saints.’

I twisted in the saddle to see Father Swithred approaching. The priest was mounted on a fine grey stallion that he rode well, calming the beast when it shied sideways as a man threw an armful of dirty thatch onto a fire. Smoke billowed and sparks flew. Father Swithred rode through the smoke and curbed the stallion near us. ‘The prince,’ he said brusquely, ‘requests your company today.’

‘Requests or requires?’ I asked.

‘It’s the same thing,’ Swithred said, and turned his horse, beckoning us to follow him.

I stayed where I was and held out a hand to check Finan. ‘Tell me,’ I called after Swithred, ‘you’re a West Saxon?’

‘You know I am,’ he said, turning back suspiciously.

‘Do you give orders to West Saxon ealdormen?’

He looked angry, but had the sense to suppress the fury. ‘The prince requests your company,’ he paused, ‘lord.’

‘Back in the city?’

‘He’s waiting at the north gate,’ Swithred said curtly, ‘we’re riding to Brunanburh.’

I spurred my horse alongside the priest’s grey. ‘I remember the day I first met you, priest,’ I said, ‘and Prince Æthelstan told me he didn’t trust you.’

He looked shocked at that. ‘I cannot believe—’ he began to protest.

‘Why would I lie?’ I interrupted him.

‘I am devoted to the prince,’ he said forcefully.

‘You were his father’s choice, not his.’

‘And does that matter?’ he asked. I deliberately did not answer, but just waited until, reluctantly, he added, ‘lord.’

‘The priests,’ I said, ‘write letters and read letters. Prince Æthelstan believed you were imposed on him to report back to his father.’

‘And so I was,’ Swithred admitted, ‘and I will tell you precisely what I report to the king. I tell him his eldest son is no bastard, that he is a good servant of Christ, that he is devoted to his father, and that he prays for his father. Why do you think his father trusts him with the command of Ceaster?’ He spoke passionately.

‘Do you know a monk called Brother Osric?’ I asked suddenly.

Swithred gave me a pitying look. He knew I had tried to trap him. ‘No, lord,’ he said, giving the last word a sour taste.

I tried another question. ‘So Æthelstan should be the next King of Wessex?’

‘That is not my decision. God appoints kings.’

‘And is your god helped in his choice by wealthy ealdormen?’

He knew I meant Æthelhelm the Younger. It had occurred to me that Swithred might be sending messages to Æthelhelm. I had no doubt that the ealdorman sought news of Æthelstan and probably had at least one sworn follower somewhere in Ceaster, and I was tempted to think it must be Swithred because the stern, bald priest disliked me so much, but his next words surprised me. ‘It’s my belief,’ he said, ‘that Lord Æthelhelm persuaded the king to give this command to the prince.’

‘Why?’

‘So he would fail, of course. The prince has three burhs to command, Ceaster, Brunanburh, and Mameceaster, and not sufficient men to garrison even one of them properly. He has rebels to contend with, and thousands of Norse settlers north of here. Dear God! He even has Norsemen settled on this peninsula!’

I could not hide my astonishment. ‘Here? On Wirhealum?’

Swithred shrugged. ‘You know what’s been happening on this coast? The Irish defeated the Norse settlers, drove many of them out, and so they came here.’ He gestured northwards. ‘Out beyond Brunanburh? There might be five hundred Norse settlers there, and even more north of the Mærse! And thousands more north of the Ribbel.’

‘Thousands?’ I asked. Of course I had heard stories of the Norse fleeing Ireland, but thought most had found refuge in the islands off the Scottish coast or in the wild valleys of Cumbraland. ‘The prince is letting his enemies settle on Mercian land? Pagan enemies?’

‘We have small choice,’ Swithred said calmly. ‘King Edward conquered East Anglia, now he’s King of Mercia, and he needs all his troops to put down unrest and to garrison the new burhs he’s making. He doesn’t have the men to fight every enemy, and these Norsemen are too numerous to fight. Besides, they’re beaten men. They were defeated by the Irish, they lost much of their wealth and many of their warriors in those defeats, and they crave peace. That’s why they’ve submitted to us.’

‘For now,’ I said sourly. ‘Did any of them join Cynlæf?’

‘Not one. Ingilmundr could have led his men against us or he could have attacked Brunanburh. He did neither. Instead he kept his men at home.’

‘Ingilmundr?’ I asked.

‘A Norseman,’ Swithred said dismissively. ‘He’s the chieftain who holds land beyond Brunanburh.’

I found it difficult to believe that Norse invaders had been allowed to settle so close to Brunanburh and Ceaster. King Edward’s ambition, which was the same as his father King Alfred’s, was to drive the pagan foreigners out of Saxon territory, yet here they were on Ceaster’s doorstep. I supposed that ever since Æthelflaed’s death there had been no stable government in Mercia, Cynlæf’s rebellion was proof of that, and the Northmen were ever ready to take advantage of Saxon weakness. ‘Ingilmundr,’ I said forcefully, ‘whoever he is, might not have marched against you, but he could have come to your relief.’

‘The prince sent word that he was to do no such thing. We had no need of help, and we certainly had no need of pagan help.’

‘Even my help?’

The priest turned to me with a ferocious expression. ‘If a pagan wins our battles,’ he said vehemently, ‘then it suggests the pagan gods must have power! We must have faith! We must fight in the belief that Christ is sufficient!’

I had nothing to say to that. The men who fought for me worshipped a dozen gods and goddesses, the Christian god among them, but if a man believes the nonsense that there is only one god then there’s no point in arguing because it would be like discussing a rainbow with a blind man.

We had ridden to the north of the city where Æthelstan and a score of armed riders waited for us. Æthelstan greeted me cheerfully. ‘The sun’s shining, the rebels are gone, and God is good!’

‘And the rebels didn’t attack Brunanburh?’

‘So far as we know. That’s what we’re going to find out.’

For almost as long as I could remember, Ceaster had been the most northerly burh in Mercia, but Æthelflaed had built Brunanburh just a few miles north and west to guard the River Mærse. Brunanburh was a timber-walled fort, close enough to the river to protect a wooden wharf where warships could be kept. The purpose of the fort was to prevent Norsemen rowing up the Mærse, but if Swithred was right then all the land beyond Brunanburh between the Dee and the Mærse was now settled by pagan Norse. ‘Tell me about Ingilmundr,’ I demanded of Æthelstan as we rode.