The Last Kingdom Series Books 1–8: The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, The Lords of the North, Sword Song, The Burning Land, Death of Kings, The Pagan Lord, The Empty Throne

Beocca shrugged. ‘He holds Bebbanburg. He married your father’s wife and now she is pregnant.’

‘Gytha!’ I was surprised. ‘Pregnant?’

‘They want a son,’ Beocca said, ‘and if they have one …’ he did not finish the thought, but nor did he need to. I was the Ealdorman, and Ælfric had usurped my place, yet I was still his heir and would be until he had a son. ‘The child must be born any day now,’ Beocca said, ‘but you need not worry.’ He smiled and leaned towards me so he could speak in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I brought the parchments.’

I looked at him with utter incomprehension. ‘You brought the parchments?’

‘Your father’s will! The land-charters!’ He was shocked that I did not immediately understand what he had done. ‘I have the proof that you are the Ealdorman!’

‘I am the Ealdorman,’ I said, as if proof did not matter. ‘And always will be.’

‘Not if Ælfric has his way,’ Beocca said, ‘and if he has a son then he will want the boy to inherit.’

‘Gytha’s children always die,’ I said.

‘You must pray that every child lives,’ Beocca said crossly, ‘but you are still the Ealdorman. I owe that to your father, God rest his soul.’

‘So you abandoned my uncle?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I did!’ he said eagerly, plainly proud that he had fled Bebbanburg. ‘I am English,’ he went on, his crossed eyes blinking in the sun, ‘so I came south, Uhtred, to find Englishmen willing to fight the pagans, Englishmen able to do God’s will and I found them in Wessex. They are good men, godly men, stalwart men!’

‘Ælfric doesn’t fight the Danes?’ I asked. I knew he did not, but I wanted to hear it confirmed.

‘Your uncle wants no trouble,’ Beocca said, ‘and so the pagans thrive in Northumbria and the light of our Lord Jesus Christ grows dimmer every day.’ He put his hands together as if in prayer, his palsied left hand quivering against his ink-stained right. ‘And it is not just Ælfric who succumbs. Ricsig of Dunholm gives them feasts, Egbert sits on their throne, and for that betrayal there must be weeping in heaven. It must be stopped, Uhtred, and I went to Wessex because the king is a godly man and knows it is only with God’s help that we can defeat the pagans. I shall see if Wessex is willing to ransom you.’ That last sentence took me by surprise so that instead of looking pleased I looked puzzled, and Beocca frowned. ‘You didn’t hear me?’ he asked.

‘You want to ransom me?’

‘Of course! You are noble, Uhtred, and you must be rescued! Alfred can be generous about such things.’

‘I would like that,’ I said, knowing it was what I was supposed to say.

‘You should meet Alfred,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘You’ll enjoy that!’

I had no wish to meet Alfred, certainly not after listening to him whimper about a servant girl he had humped, but Beocca was insistent and so I went to Ragnar and asked his permission. Ragnar was amused. ‘Why does the squinty bastard want you to meet Alfred?’ he asked, looking at Beocca.

‘He wants me to be ransomed. He thinks Alfred might pay.’

‘Pay good money for you!’ Ragnar laughed. ‘Go on,’ he said carelessly, ‘it never hurts to see the enemy close up.’

Alfred was with his brother, some distance away, and Beocca talked to me as he led me towards the royal group. ‘Alfred is his brother’s chief helper,’ he explained. ‘King Æthelred is a good man, but nervous. He has sons, of course, but both are very young …’ his voice tailed away.

‘So if he dies,’ I said, ‘the eldest son becomes king?’

‘No, no!’ Beocca sounded shocked, ‘Æthelwold’s much too young. He’s no older than you!’

‘But he’s the king’s son,’ I insisted.

‘When Alfred was a small boy,’ Beocca leaned down and lowered his voice, though not its intensity, ‘his father took him to Rome. To see the Pope! And the Pope, Uhtred, invested him as the future king!’ He stared at me as if he had proved his point.

‘But he’s not the heir,’ I said, puzzled.

‘The Pope made him heir!’ Beocca hissed at me. Later, much later, I met a priest who had been in the old king’s entourage and he said Alfred had never been invested as the future king, but instead had been given some meaningless Roman honour, but Alfred, to his dying day, insisted the Pope had conferred the succession on him, and so justified his usurpation of the throne that by rights should have gone to Æthelred’s eldest son.

‘But if Æthelwold grows up,’ I began.

‘Then of course he might become king,’ Beocca interrupted me impatiently, ‘but if his father dies before Æthelwold grows up then Alfred will be king.’

‘Then Alfred will have to kill him,’ I said, ‘him and his brother.’

Beocca gazed at me in shocked amazement. ‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.

‘He has to kill them,’ I said, ‘just like my uncle wanted to kill me.’

‘He did want to kill you. He probably still does!’ Beocca made the sign of the cross, ‘but Alfred is not Ælfric! No, no. Alfred will treat his nephews with Christian mercy, of course he will, which is another reason he should become king. He is a good Christian, Uhtred, as I pray you are, and it is God’s will that Alfred should become king. The Pope proved that! And we have to obey God’s will. It is only by obedience to God that we can hope to defeat the Danes.’

‘Only by obedience?’ I asked. I thought swords might help.

‘Only by obedience,’ Beocca said firmly, ‘and by faith. God will give us victory if we worship him with all our hearts, and if we mend our ways and give him the glory. And Alfred will do that! With him at our head the very hosts of heaven will come to our aid. Æthelwold can’t do that. He’s a lazy, arrogant, tiresome child.’ Beocca seized my hand and pulled me through the entourage of West Saxon and Mercian lords. ‘Now remember to kneel to him, boy, he is a prince.’ He led me to where Alfred was sitting and I duly knelt as Beocca introduced me. ‘This is the boy I spoke of, lord,’ he said, ‘he is the Ealdorman Uhtred of Northumbria, a prisoner of the Danes since Eoferwic fell, but a good boy.’

Alfred gave me an intense look which, to be honest, made me uncomfortable. I was to discover in time that he was a clever man, very clever, and thought twice as fast as most others, and he was also a serious man, so serious that he understood everything except jokes. Alfred took everything heavily, even a small boy, and his inspection of me was long and searching as if he tried to plumb the depths of my unfledged soul. ‘Are you a good boy?’ he finally asked me.

‘I try to be, lord,’ I said.

‘Look at me,’ he ordered, for I had lowered my eyes. He smiled when I met his gaze. There was no sign of the sickness he had complained of when I eavesdropped on him and I wondered if, after all, he had been drunk that night. It would have explained his pathetic words, but now he was all earnestness. ‘How do you try to be good?’ he asked.

‘I try to resist temptation, lord,’ I said, remembering Beocca’s words to him behind the tent.

‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘very good, and do you resist it?’

‘Not always,’ I said, then hesitated, tempted to mischief, and then, as ever, yielded to temptation. ‘But I try, lord,’ I said earnestly, ‘and I tell myself I should thank God for tempting me and I praise him when he gives me the strength to resist the temptation.’

Both Beocca and Alfred stared at me as if I had sprouted angel’s wings. I was only repeating the nonsense I had heard Beocca advise Alfred in the dark, but they thought it revealed my great holiness, and I encouraged them by trying to look meek, innocent and pious. ‘You are a sign from God, Uhtred,’ Alfred said fervently. ‘Do you say your prayers?’

‘Every day, lord,’ I said, and did not add that those prayers were addressed to Odin.

‘And what is that about your neck? A crucifix?’ He had seen the leather thong and, when I did not answer, he leaned forward and plucked out Thor’s hammer that had been hidden behind my shirt. ‘Dear God,’ he said, and made the sign of the cross. ‘And you wear those too,’ he added, grimacing at my two arm rings which were cut with Danish rune-letters. I must have looked a proper little heathen.

‘They make me wear them, lord,’ I said, and felt his impulse to tear the pagan symbol off the thong, ‘and beat me if I don’t,’ I added hastily.

‘Do they beat you often?’ he asked.

‘All the time, lord,’ I lied.

He shook his head sadly, then let the hammer fall. ‘A graven image,’ he said, ‘must be a heavy burden for a small boy.’

‘I was hoping, lord,’ Beocca intervened, ‘that we could ransom him.’

‘Us?’ Alfred asked, ‘ransom him?’