War of the Wolf

‘And even a simple farmer would like me to take revenge for his father’s betrayal?’

‘My Christian teachers tell me revenge is an unworthy thing.’

‘Your Christian teachers are full of shit,’ I said savagely.

He just smiled. ‘I almost forgot to tell you,’ he went on calmly, ‘that Prince Æthelstan asked that you should join him. I offered to carry the message. Shall we stroll back, lord?’

That was the first time I saw Ingilmundr. In time I would meet him again, though in those later encounters he shone in mail, was hung with gold, and carried a sword called Bone-Carver that was feared through all northern Britain. But on that day by the Mærse he did me a favour. The favour, of course, was in his interest. He wanted revenge on his uncle and was not yet strong enough to take that revenge himself, but the day would come when he would be strong. Strong, deadly and clever. Æthelstan had said I would like him, and I did, but I also feared him.

Æthelstan had requested that I accompany him to Brunanburh and I had thought it was simply an opportunity for him to tell me about his hopes for Mercia and Englaland, or perhaps to meet Ingilmundr, but it seemed there was another reason. He was waiting for me at the fort’s gate, and, when we joined him, he beckoned for me to walk a small way eastwards. Ingilmundr left us alone. Four guards followed us, but stayed well out of earshot. I sensed that Æthelstan was nervous. He commented on the weather, on his plans to rebuild Ceaster’s bridge, on his hopes for a good spring planting, on anything, it seemed, rather than the purpose of our meeting. ‘What did you think of Ingilmundr?’ he asked when we had exhausted the prospects of harvest.

‘He’s clever,’ I said.

‘Just clever?’

‘Vain,’ I said, ‘untrustworthy and dangerous.’

Æthelstan seemed shocked by that answer. ‘I count him as a friend,’ he said stiffly, ‘and I hoped you would too.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s proof we can live together in peace.’

‘He still wears Thor’s hammer.’

‘So do you! But he is learning better! He’s eager for the truth. And he has enemies among the other Norse, and that could make him a friend to us, a good friend.’

‘You sent him missionaries?’ I asked.

‘Two priests, yes. They tell me he is earnest in his search for truth.’

‘I want to know about your other missionaries,’ I went on, ‘those you sent to the Norse who settled south of the Ribbel.’

He shrugged. ‘We sent six, I believe. They are brothers.’

‘You mean monks? Black monks?’

‘They are Benedictines, yes.’

‘And did one of them have a scar across his tonsure?’

‘Yes!’ Æthelstan stopped and looked at me, puzzled, but I offered him no explanation for my question. ‘Brother Beadwulf has that scar,’ he told me. ‘He tells me he had an argument with his sister when he was a child and he likes to say she gave him his first tonsure.’

‘She should have slit his throat,’ I said, ‘because I’m going to tear his belly open from his crotch to his breastbone.’

‘God forgive you!’ Æthelstan sounded horrified. ‘They already call you the priest-killer!’

‘Then they can call me monk-killer too,’ I said, ‘because your Brother Beadwulf is my Brother Osric.’

Æthelstan flinched. ‘You can’t be sure,’ he said uncertainly.

I ignored his words. ‘Where did you send Brother Beadwulf or whatever he’s called?’

‘To a man called Arnborg.’

‘Arnborg?’

‘A Norse chieftain who once held land on Monez. He was driven out by the Welsh, and settled on the coast north of here. He leads maybe a hundred men? I doubt he has more than a hundred.’

‘How far north?’

‘He came to the Ribbel with three ships and found land on the southern bank of the river. He swore to keep the peace and pay us tribute.’ Æthelstan looked troubled. ‘The monk is a tall man, yes? Dark hair?’

‘And with a scar that looked as if someone had opened up his head from one ear to the other. I wish they had.’

‘It sounds like Brother Beadwulf,’ Æthelstan admitted unhappily.

‘And I’m going to find him,’ I said.

‘If it is Brother Beadwulf,’ Æthelstan said, recovering his poise, ‘then perhaps he just wanted to help? Wanted the siege lifted?’

‘So he lies to me about his name? Lies about where he’s from?’

Æthelstan frowned. ‘If Brother Beadwulf has transgressed then he must suffer Mercian justice.’

‘Transgressed!’ I mocked the word.

‘He is a Mercian,’ Æthelstan insisted, ‘and while he is on Mercian soil I forbid you to harm him. He may be in error, but he is a man of God, and therefore under my protection.’

‘Then protect him,’ I said savagely, ‘from me.’

Æthelstan bridled at that, but held his temper. ‘You may deliver him to me for judgement,’ he said.

‘I am capable, lord Prince,’ I said, still savage, ‘of dispensing my own justice.’

‘Not,’ he said sharply, ‘inside Mercia! Here you are under my father’s authority.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘and mine.’

‘My authority,’ I snarled, ‘is this!’ I slapped Serpent-Breath’s hilt. ‘And on that authority, lord Prince, I am riding to find Jarl Arnborg.’

‘And Brother Beadwulf?’

‘Of course.’

He stood straighter, confronting me. ‘And if you kill another man of God,’ he said, ‘you become my enemy.’

For a moment I had no idea what to say, and for the same moment I was tempted to tell him to stop being a pompous little earsling. I had known him and protected him since he was a child, he had been like a son to me, but in the last few years the priests had got to him. Yet the boy I had nurtured was still there, I thought, and so I suppressed my anger. ‘You forget,’ I said, ‘that I swore an oath to the Lady Æthelflaed to protect you, and I will keep that oath.’

‘What else did you swear to her?’ he asked.