War of the Wolf

‘We are poor, lord Prince,’ Ingilmundr said, ‘but our gratitude demands we offer you a gift, however small.’

And in his steadings, I thought, he was doubtless hoarding gold and silver. Why did Æthelstan not see that? Perhaps he did, but his pious hopes of converting the pagans exceeded his suspicions. ‘In an hour,’ he said to Ingilmundr, ‘we will have a service of thanksgiving in the hall. I hope you can attend and I hope you will listen to the words Father Swithred will preach. In those words are eternal life!’

‘We shall listen closely, lord Prince,’ Ingilmundr said earnestly, and I wanted to laugh aloud. He was saying everything Æthelstan wanted to hear, and though it was plain Æthelstan liked the young Norseman, it was equally plain he did not see the slyness behind Ingilmundr’s handsome face. He saw meekness, which the Christians ridiculously count as a virtue.

The meek Ingilmundr sought me out after Swithred’s interminable sermon, which I had not attended. I was on Brunanburh’s wharf, idly gazing into the belly of a ship and dreaming of being at sea with the wind in my sail and a sword at my side when I heard footsteps on the wooden planks and turned to see the Norseman. He was alone. He stood beside me and for a moment said nothing. He was as tall as I was. We both gazed into the moored ship and, after a long moment, Ingilmundr broke our silence. ‘Saxon ships are too heavy.’

‘Too heavy and too slow.’

‘My father had a Frisian ship once,’ he said, ‘and it was a beauty.’

‘You should persuade your friend Æthelstan to give you ships,’ I said, ‘then you can sail home.’

He smiled, despite my harsh tone. ‘I have ships, lord, but where is home? I thought Ireland was my home.’

‘Then go back there.’

He gave me a long look, as if weighing the depth of my hostility. ‘You think I don’t want to go back?’ he asked. ‘I would, lord, tomorrow, but Ireland is cursed. They’re not men, they’re fiends.’

‘They killed your father?’

He nodded. ‘They broke his shield wall.’

‘But you brought men away from the battle?’

‘One hundred and sixty-three men and their families. Nine ships.’ He sounded proud of that, and so he should have been. Retreating from a defeat is one of the hardest things to do in war, yet Ingilmundr, if he spoke truth, had fought his way back to the Irish shore. I could imagine the horror of that day; a broken shield wall, the shrieks of maddened warriors slaughtering their enemies, and the horsemen with their sharp spears racing in pursuit.

‘You did well,’ I said, and looked down at his two amulets. ‘Which god did you pray to?’

He laughed at that. ‘To Thor, of course.’

‘Yet you wear a cross.’

He fingered the heavy silver ornament. ‘It was a gift from my friend Æthelstan. It would be churlish to hide it away.’

‘Your friend Æthelstan,’ I said, mocking the word ‘friend’ with my tone, ‘would like you to be baptised.’

‘He would, I know.’

‘And you keep his hopes alive?’

‘Do I?’ he asked. He seemed amused by my questions. ‘Perhaps his god is more powerful than ours? Do you care which god I worship, Lord Uhtred?’

‘I like to know my enemies,’ I said.

He smiled at that. ‘I am not your enemy, Lord Uhtred.’

‘Then what are you? A loyal oath-follower of Prince Æthelstan? A settler pretending to be interested in the Saxon god?’

‘We are humble farmers now,’ he said, ‘farmers and shepherds and fishermen.’

‘And I’m a humble goatherd,’ I said.

He laughed again. ‘A goatherd who wins his battles.’

‘I do,’ I said.

‘Then let us make sure we are always on the same side,’ he said quietly. He looked at the cross that crowned the prow of the nearest ship. ‘I was not the only man driven out of Ireland,’ he said, and something in his tone made me pay attention. ‘Anluf is still there, but for how long?’

‘Anluf?’

‘He is the greatest chieftain of the Irish Norse and he has strong fortresses. Even fiends find those walls deadly. Anluf saw my father as a rival, and refused to help us, but that is not why we lost. My father lost the battle,’ he gazed across the placid Mærse as he spoke, ‘because his brother and his men retreated before the fight. I suspect he was bribed with Irish gold.’

‘Your uncle.’

‘He is called Sköll,’ he went on, ‘Sköll Grimmarson. Have you heard of him?’

‘No.’

‘You will. He is ambitious. And he has a feared sorcerer,’ he paused to touch the bone-hammer, ‘and he and his magician are in your country.’

‘In Northumbria?’

‘Northumbria, yes. He landed north of here, far north. Beyond the next river, what is it called?’

‘The Ribbel.’

‘Beyond the Ribbel where he has gathered men. Sköll, you see, craves to be called King Sköll.’

‘King of what?’ I asked scornfully.

‘Northumbria, of course. And that would be fitting, would it not? Northumbria, a northern kingdom for a Norse king.’ He looked at me with his ice-blue eyes and I remember thinking that Ingilmundr was one of the most dangerous men I had ever met. ‘To become king, of course,’ he went on in a conversational tone, ‘he must first defeat Sigtryggr, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he knows, who does not, that King Sigtryggr’s father-in-law is the renowned Lord Uhtred. If I were Sköll Grimmarson I would want Lord Uhtred far from his home if I planned to cross the hills.’

So this was why he had sought me out. He knew I had been lured across Britain, and he was telling me that his uncle, whom he plainly hated, had arranged the deception. ‘And how,’ I asked, ‘would Sköll do that?’

He turned to stare again at the river. ‘My uncle has recruited men who settled south of the Ribbel, and that, I am told, is Mercian land.’

‘It is.’

‘And my friend Æthelstan insists that all such settlers must pay tribute and must accept his missionaries.’

I realised he was talking about the monk. Brother Osric. The man who had led me on a wild dance across the hills. The man who had lied to me. And Ingilmundr was telling me that his uncle, Sköll Grimmarson, had sent the monk on his treacherous errand. ‘How do you know all this?’ I asked.

‘Even we simple farmers like to know what is happening in the world.’