The Flame Bearer

‘Einar’s bringing him food,’ I said bleakly. Finan said nothing. He knew what I was feeling; despair. My cousin now had more men, and a fleet to bring his garrison food. ‘I can’t starve them now,’ I said, ‘not while those bastards are there.’

Now, late in the afternoon and under a glowering sky, a priest came to Ætgefrin, and I assumed he had been sent by my cousin with a gloating message. He was close enough now for me to see that he had long black hair that hung greasily either side of a pale, anxious face that stared up at our earthen wall. He waved, probably wanting a return wave that would reassure him that he would be welcome, but none of my men responded. We just watched as his weary gelding finished the climb and carried him over the turf rampart. The priest staggered slightly when he dismounted. He looked around him and shuddered at what he saw. My men. Men in mail and leather, hard men, men with swords. None spoke to him, we all just waited for him to explain his arrival. He finally caught sight of me, saw the gold at my throat and on my forearms, and he walked to me and dropped to his knees. ‘You’re Lord Uhtred?’

‘I’m Lord Uhtred.’

‘My name is Eadig, Father Eadig. I’ve been looking for you, lord.’

‘I told Waldhere where he could find me,’ I said harshly.

Eadig looked up at me, puzzled. ‘Waldhere, lord?’

‘You’re from Bebbanburg?’

‘Bebbanburg?’ He shook his head. ‘No, lord, we come from Eoferwic.’

‘Eoferwic!’ I could not hide my surprise. ‘And “we”? How many of you are there?’ I looked southwards but saw no more riders.

‘Five of us left Eoferwic, lord, but we were attacked.’

‘And you alone lived?’ Finan said accusingly.

‘The others drew the attackers away, lord.’ Father Eadig spoke to me rather than to Finan, ‘they wanted me to reach you. They knew it was important.’

‘Who sent you?’ I demanded.

‘King Sigtryggr, lord.’

I felt a cold pulse shiver around my heart. For a moment I dared not speak, frightened of what this young priest would say. ‘Sigtryggr,’ I finally said, and wondered what crisis would provoke my son-in-law to send a messenger. I feared for my daughter. ‘Is Stiorra ill?’ I asked urgently. ‘The children?’

‘No, lord, the queen and her children are well.’

‘Then …’

‘The king requests your return, lord,’ Eadig blurted out, and took a rolled parchment from inside his robe. He held it out to me.

I took the crushed parchment, but did not unroll it. ‘Why?’

‘The Saxons have attacked, lord. Northumbria is at war.’ He was still on his knees, gazing up at me. ‘The king wants your troops, lord. And he wants you.’

I cursed. So Bebbanburg must wait. We would ride south.

Two (#ud45bd374-b5df-51a0-a1ec-0dc0d7ffff4b)

We rode next morning. I led one hundred and ninety-four men, together with a score of boys who were servants, and we rode south through rain and wind and beneath clouds as dark as Father Eadig’s robe. ‘Why did my son-in-law send a priest?’ I asked him. Sigtryggr, like me, worshipped the old gods, the real gods of Asgard.

‘We do his clerical work, lord.’

‘We?’

‘We priests, lord. There are six of us who serve King Sigtryggr by writing his laws and charters. Most …’ he hesitated, ‘it’s because we can read and write.’

‘And most pagans can’t?’ I asked.

‘Yes, lord.’ He blushed. He knew that those of us who worshipped the old gods disliked being called pagans, which is why he had hesitated.

‘You can call me a pagan,’ I said, ‘I’m proud of it.’

‘Yes, lord,’ he said uneasily.

‘And this pagan can read and write,’ I told him. I had the skills because I had been raised as a Christian, and the Christians value writing, which is, I suppose, a useful thing. King Alfred had established schools throughout Wessex where boys were molested by monks when they were not being forced to learn their letters. Sigtryggr, curious about how the Saxons ruled in southern Britain, had once asked me whether he should do the same, but I had told him to teach boys how to wield a sword, hold a shield, guide a plough, ride a horse, and butcher a carcass. ‘And you don’t need schools for that,’ I had told him.

‘And he sent me, lord,’ Father Eadig went on, ‘because he knew you would have questions.’

‘Which you can answer?’

‘As best I can, lord.’

Sigtryggr’s message on the parchment merely said that West Saxon forces had invaded southern Northumbria and that he needed my forces in Eoferwic as soon as I could reach that city. The message had been signed with a scrawl that might have belonged to my son-in-law, but also bore his seal of the axe. The Christians claim that the one great advantage of reading and writing is that we can be sure a message is real, but they fake documents all the time. There is a monastery in Wiltunscir that has the skill to produce charters that look as if they are two or three hundred years old. They scrape old parchments, but leave just enough of the original writing visible so that the new words, written over the old in weak ink, are hard to read, and they carve copies of seals, and the faked charters all claim that some ancient king granted the church valuable lands or the income from customs’ dues. Then the abbots and bishops who paid the monks for the forged documents take them to the royal court to have some family thrown out of its homestead so that the Christians can get richer. So I suppose reading and writing really are useful skills.

‘West Saxon forces,’ I asked Father Eadig, ‘not Mercians?’

‘West Saxons, lord. They have an army at Hornecastre, lord.’

‘Hornecastre? Where’s that?’

‘East of Lindcolne, lord, on the River Beina.’

‘And that’s Sigtryggr’s land?’

‘Oh yes, lord. The frontier’s not far away, but the land is Northumbrian.’

I had not heard of Hornecastre, which suggested it was not an important town. The important towns were those built on the Roman roads, or those which had been fortified into burhs, but Hornecastre? The only explanation I could think of was that the town made a convenient place to assemble forces for an attack on Lindcolne. I said as much to Father Eadig, who nodded eager agreement. ‘Yes, lord. And if the king isn’t in Eoferwic then he requests that you join him in Lindcolne.’

That made sense. If the West Saxons wanted to capture Eoferwic, Sigtryggr’s capital city, then they would advance north up the Roman road and would need to storm the high walls of Lindcolne before they could approach Eoferwic. But what did not make sense was why there was war at all.

It made no sense because there was a treaty of peace between the Saxons and the Danes. Sigtryggr, my son-in-law and King of Eoferwic and of Northumbria, had made the treaty with Æthelflaed of Mercia, and he had surrendered land and burhs as the price for that peace. Some men despised him for that, but Northumbria was a weak kingdom, and the Saxon realms of Mercia and Wessex were strong. Sigtryggr needed time, men, and money if he was to withstand the Saxon onslaught he knew was coming.

It was coming because King Alfred’s dream was turning into reality. I am old enough to remember a time when the Danes ruled almost all of what is now England. They captured Northumbria, took East Anglia, and occupied all of Mercia. Guthrum the Dane had then invaded Wessex, driving Alfred and a handful of men into the marshes of Sumorsæte, but Alfred had won the unlikely victory at Ethandun, and ever since the Saxons had inexorably worked their way northwards. The old kingdom of Mercia was in Saxon hands now, and Edward of Wessex, Alfred’s son and the brother of Æthelflaed of Mercia, had reconquered East Anglia. Alfred’s dream, his passion, had been to unite all the lands where the Saxon tongue was spoken, and of those lands only Northumbria was left. There might be a peace treaty between Northumbria and Mercia, but we all knew the Saxon onslaught would come.

Rorik, the Norse boy whose father I had killed, had been listening as I talked to Father Eadig. ‘Lord,’ he asked nervously, ‘whose side are we on?’

I laughed. I was born a Saxon, but raised by Danes, my daughter had married a Norseman, my dearest friend was Irish, my woman was a Saxon, the mother of my children had been Danish, my gods were pagan, and my oath was sworn to Æthelflaed, a Christian. Whose side was I on?

‘All you need to know, boy,’ Finan growled, ‘is that Lord Uhtred’s side is the one that wins.’

The rain was slashing down now, turning the drove path we followed into thick mud. The rain fell so hard I had to raise my voice to Eadig. ‘You say the Mercians haven’t invaded?’

‘Not as far as we know, lord.’