The Last Kingdom Series

Guthfrith did not struggle, just spat at me, which made Gerbruht increase the sword’s pressure. ‘Keep him alive,’ I said reluctantly.

I had captured a king, a king who had wasted his kingdom, robbed his people, and let their enemies ride hard and savage across his western lands. Now King Æthelstan was in Eoferwic, and King Æthelstan was a just king, a stern king, but he was only king because I had fought for him at Lundene’s Crepelgate. I had once thought of Æthelstan as a son. I had protected him from powerful enemies, taught him the skills of a warrior, and watched him grow. Yet he had betrayed me. He had sworn never to invade Northumbria while I lived, yet he was here, in Northumbria, with an army.

I am a Northumbrian. My country is the wind-flogged coast and the rain-darkened hills and the gaunt high rocks of the north. From the lush farmlands around Eoferwic to the high pastures where folk scratch a living from thin soil, from the harsh waters where men fish to the bleak moors and deep forests where we hunt the deer, it is a land my ancestors conquered. They settled it, built strong homesteads and fortresses, and then they defended it. We are Saxons and Danes, Norsemen and Angles, and we are Northumbrians.

Yet a little country in a big land has a small future. I knew that. To our north was Constantine’s Alba, which we called Scotland, and Constantine feared the Saxons to our south. The Saxons and the Scots were both Christians, and Christians tell us that their god is love, and we must love one another and turn the other cheek, but when land is at stake those beliefs fly away and swords are drawn. Constantine ruled Alba, and Æthelstan ruled Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia, and both wanted Northumbria. ‘Northumbria speaks our tongue,’ Æthelstan had told me once, ‘the tongue of our folk, and they must be part of one country, the country that speaks Ænglisc!’

That was the dream of King Alfred. Back when the Danes seemed to have conquered all of Britain, and when Alfred was a fugitive in the marshes of Sumorsæte, that dream had been as feeble as a dying rushlight. Yet we had fought, we had won, and now King Alfred’s grandson ruled all the land of Englaland except my land, Northumbria.

‘Fight for me,’ a voice said.

I turned and saw it was Guthfrith who had spoken. ‘You could have fought at Eoferwic,’ I said, ‘but you ran away.’

He hated me, yet I saw the shudder cross his face as he forced himself to speak calmly. ‘You’re a pagan, a Northumbrian. You want the Christians to win?’

‘No.’

‘Then fight for me! My men, your men, and Egil Skallagrimmrson will bring his men!’

‘And we’ll still be outnumbered six to one,’ I said curtly.

‘And if we’re behind the walls of Bebbanburg?’ Guthfrith pleaded. ‘What will that matter? Constantine will help us!’

‘Then he’ll take your kingdom,’ I said.

‘He promised not to!’ he blurted desperately.

I paused. ‘Promised?’ I asked, but he said nothing. Guthfrith had doubtless spoken in despair and spoken more than he had meant to say, and now regretted it. So Constantine had sent envoys to Eoferwic? And Guthfrith had received them? I wanted to draw Wasp-Sting, my short-sword, and ram it into his belly, but Archbishop Hrothweard was at my side and Bishop Oda had dismounted and now stood beside him.

‘Lord King,’ Bishop Oda bowed to Guthfrith, ‘I am sent with brotherly greetings from King Æthelstan.’ Oda looked at Gerbruht. ‘Release him, man, release him!’

Guthfrith just stared at Oda as if he could not believe what was happening, while Gerbruht looked at me for confirmation. I nodded reluctantly.

‘Lord Uhtred will return your sword, lord King.’ Oda spoke reassuringly, as if to a frightened child. ‘Please, Lord Uhtred?’

This was madness! Holding Guthfrith as hostage was my only chance of avoiding a slaughter. His men still had drawn swords or levelled spears and they outnumbered us. Guthfrith held out his hand, still bleeding. ‘Give it to me!’ he demanded. I did not move.

‘His sword, lord,’ Oda said.

‘You want him to fight?’ I asked angrily.

‘There will be no violence,’ Oda spoke to Guthfrith, who paused, then gave an abrupt nod. ‘Please return the king’s sword, Lord Uhtred,’ Oda said very formally. I hesitated. ‘Please, lord,’ Oda said.

‘Stand still,’ I snarled at Guthfrith. I ignored his bloody outstretched hand and stood close to him. I was taller by a head, which he did not like, and he flinched when I took hold of his gold-decorated scabbard. He probably thought I was about to steal it, but instead I slid Boar’s Tusk through the scabbard’s fleece-lined throat, then stepped back and drew Serpent-Breath. Guthfrith put a hand to his sword’s hilt, but I twitched Serpent-Breath and he went still.

‘King Æthelstan,’ Oda said, still calm, ‘beseeches a meeting with you, lord King, and he vouches for both your life and your kingdom.’

‘Much as Constantine did, no doubt,’ I put in.

Oda ignored that. ‘There is much to discuss, lord King.’

‘This!’ Guthfrith snapped, gesturing at me, then at my men. ‘Discuss this!’

‘A misunderstanding,’ Oda said, ‘nothing more. A regrettable misunderstanding.’

Archbishop Hrothweard had said nothing, just looked frightened, but now he nodded eagerly. ‘King Æthelstan’s word can be trusted, lord King.’

‘Please,’ Bishop Oda looked at me, ‘there’s no need for a drawn sword, Lord Uhtred. We meet as friends!’

And a woman screamed.

I could not see the hostages, they were hidden by Guthfrith’s men, but Finan must have seen something because he spurred his stallion forward, shouting at Guthfrith’s men to let him through, but some young fool lifted a spear and urged his horse at Finan. Finan’s sword, Soul-Stealer, swept the spear aside, lunged into the man’s chest, pierced mail, but seemed to glance off a rib. The young rider leaned back in his saddle, his nerveless hand letting go of the spear, and Finan burst past him, swung Soul-Stealer back onto the man’s neck and there was a bellowing of rage, men were turning horses to pursue Finan, which only provoked my men to follow the Irishman. It happened in an eye-blink. One moment the two sides were calm, though wary, then the scream brought a tumult of hooves, bright blades and angry shouts.

Guthfrith was faster than I expected. He shoved Oda hard, making the bishop stagger against Hrothweard, then stumbled away, shouting at his men to bring him a horse. He was heavily built, hot and tired, and I caught him easily, kicked the back of one knee and he sprawled onto the road. He swung an arm at me just as one of his men spurred hard towards us. The man lowered his spear, leaned from the saddle, and Guthfrith swung again, this time trying to hit me with a stone, but his wild swing only knocked the spear shaft aside. The butt of the spear hit me on the arm so hard that I almost dropped Serpent-Breath. Guthfrith was trying to draw his own sword, then Gerbruht barged past me and kicked the scabbard so fiercely that it wrenched the sword’s hilt from Guthfrith’s hand. The horseman had turned. His piebald stallion was sweat-whitened, its hooves skewing gravel and earth, the man wrenched the reins, his mouth open and his eyes wide beneath the grey helmet’s rim. He was young, shouting, though I heard nothing. He spurred savagely, but the horse reared instead, towering above me. The young man had been trying to move his spear from his right to his left hand, but now let the weapon fall and gripped the saddle’s high pommel as the horse flailed. Then he half fell backwards as I rammed Serpent-Breath up his thigh, ripping mail, cloth and flesh from his knee to his groin, the blade only wrenched free as his horse bolted, pounding up the road to where my men had pierced Guthfrith’s troops like a swine-horn splitting a shield wall.

‘Stop it!’ Oda shouted, ‘stop it!’

Gerbruht had seized Guthfrith and dragged him to his feet. The king had managed to retrieve his fallen sword, but I smacked his arm aside and held Serpent-Breath’s bloodied blade across his throat. ‘Enough,’ I bellowed at the horsemen, loud enough to hurt my throat. ‘Enough!’

Guthfrith tried to stab my foot with his blade, but I tightened my own on his gullet. He whimpered and I drew the edge of Serpent-Breath a finger’s width across his neck. ‘Drop the sword, you bastard,’ I whispered.

He dropped it. ‘You’re choking me,’ he croaked.

‘Good,’ I said, but released the blade’s pressure slightly.

A horseman with Guthfrith’s boar on his shield spurred towards us. He held a spear low, the blade pointing at me, but then he saw Guthfrith, saw my sword, and he curbed his horse just paces away. He kept the spear pointed at me and I saw his eyes flicking between mine and Guthfrith’s scared gaze. He was judging whether a lunge could pierce my shoulder before my sword cut the king’s throat. ‘Don’t be a fool, boy,’ I said, but that just seemed to enrage him. He stared at me, raised the spear-blade slightly and I heard the stallion panting, saw the wide whites of its eyes, then suddenly the rider’s back arched, his head went back and a second spear-blade appeared.

That second blade came from behind and shattered the boy’s spine. It slid through his guts and made a bulge in his mail coat before bursting through the iron links and thumping into the high pommel. Berg had thrust the spear and let go of it as the boy whimpered and gripped the spear-haft that now pinned him to his saddle. Berg drew his sword and wheeled his horse to face the other horsemen, but the fight was already dying. Berg looked at me. ‘There’s no fight in the bastards, lord!’ He edged his horse close to the dying boy and slashed his sword hard down to shear the spear-haft, and the rider, freed now from the saddle, fell.

There had been fight in them, but not much. They had been tired, and Finan’s assault had been so fast and so savage that most had tried to avoid battle, and the few that had welcomed it or had been forced to it had suffered. Finan was coming back now, his mail coat drenched with blood. ‘Off your horses! Weapons down!’ he was shouting at Guthfrith’s men, then turned in the saddle to threaten one fool who hesitated to obey. ‘On the ground, you miserable turd! Throw your sword on the ground!’ The sword fell. Enemies often lost their courage when Finan was in a killing mood.

I kicked Guthfrith’s sword well away from him, then let him go. ‘You can talk to the royal bastard now,’ I told Oda.

Oda hesitated because Finan had spurred close to us. The Irishman nodded at me. ‘Young Immar took a nasty cut to the shoulder, but otherwise? We’re unhurt, lord. Can’t say as much for this bastard.’ He tossed something at Guthfrith. ‘That’s one of your beasts, lord King,’ Finan snarled and I saw he had thrown down a severed head that now rolled clumsily towards Guthfrith’s feet where it came to a bloody standstill. ‘He thought he’d take a child away,’ Finan explained to me, ‘for his amusement. But the women and bairns are safe now. Your son’s guarding them.’

‘And you, lord King, are also safe,’ Oda said, offering Guthfrith a bow, ‘and eager to meet King Æthelstan, I’m sure.’ He spoke as if nothing untoward had happened, as if there wasn’t a bloody head on the stones or a young man writhing with a shattered spear through his belly. ‘The king is eager to meet you!’ Oda spoke cheerfully. ‘He looks forward to it!’

Guthfrith said nothing. He was trembling, though whether with rage or fear I could not tell. I picked up his sword and tossed it to Gerbruht. ‘He won’t need that for a while,’ I said, which made Guthfrith scowl.

‘We must go to Eoferwic, lord King,’ Oda went on.

‘Praise God,’ Hrothweard muttered.

‘We have a ship,’ Oda said brightly. ‘We can be in Eoferwic in two days, three perhaps?’

‘Jorvik,’ Guthfrith growled, giving Eoferwic its Danish name.

‘To Jorvik indeed.’

I had spotted Boldar Gunnarson among the defeated horsemen. He was an older man, grey-bearded, with a missing eye and a leg mangled by a Saxon spear thrust. He had been one of Sigtryggr’s most trusted men, a warrior of experience and sense, and I was surprised that he had sworn allegiance to Guthfrith. ‘What choice did I have, lord?’ he asked when I summoned him. ‘I’m old, my family is in Jorvik, where would I go?’

‘But to serve Guthfrith?’

Boldar shrugged. ‘He’s not his brother,’ he allowed. Guthfrith’s brother had been Sigtryggr, my son-in-law, and a man I had liked and trusted.

‘You could have come to me when Sigtryggr died.’

‘I thought of that, lord, but Jorvik is home.’

‘Then go back there,’ I said, ‘and take Guthfrith’s men with you.’

He nodded, ‘I will.’

‘And there’ll be no trouble, Boldar!’ I warned him. ‘Leave my villagers alone! If I hear a whisper of theft or rape I’ll do the same to your family.’

He flinched at that, but nodded again. ‘There’ll be no trouble, lord,’ he paused, ‘but the wounded? Dead?’

‘Bury your dead or leave them for the crows. I don’t care. And take your wounded with you.’

‘Take them where?’ Guthfrith demanded. He was remembering he was a king and recovering his arrogance. He pushed me aside to confront Boldar. ‘Where?’

‘Home!’ I turned on him angrily, pushing him in turn. ‘Boldar takes your men home, and there’ll be no trouble!’

‘My men stay with me!’ Guthfrith insisted.

‘You’re going by ship, you miserable turd,’ I stepped closer, forcing him to retreat further, ‘and there’s no room on board. You can take four men. No more than four!’

‘Surely—’ Oda began, but I interrupted him.

‘He takes four!’

He took four.

We went back to Bebbanburg with Guthfrith, his four warriors, and with Archbishop Hrothweard who rode next to Oda. My son escorted the women south, waiting until Boldar and his men were safely gone. The ship that had brought Oda to Bebbanburg would carry him, the archbishop and the captive king south to Eoferwic. ‘King Æthelstan also wishes to see you, lord,’ Oda reminded me before they sailed.

‘He knows where I live.’

‘He would like you to come to Eoferwic.’

‘I stay here,’ I growled.

‘He commands you, lord,’ Oda said quietly. I said nothing and, when the silence had lasted long enough, Oda shrugged. ‘As you wish, lord.’

Next day we watched Oda’s ship row from the harbour. The wind was a chilly north-easterly, which filled the sail. I saw the oars brought inboard and the water seethe along her flanks and widen white behind as she passed the Farnea Islands. I watched her till she vanished in a squall of rain far to the south.

‘So we’re not going to Eoferwic?’ Finan asked.

‘We’re staying here,’ I insisted.

Æthelstan, whom I had nurtured as a boy and helped to the throne, now called himself the Monarchus Totius Brittaniae, so he could damn well sort out Britain by himself.

I was staying at Bebbanburg.

Two days later I sat with Finan and Benedetta in the morning sunlight. The hot weather of a few days before had given way to an unseasonal cold. Benedetta tucked some windblown strands of hair beneath her cap and shivered. ‘Is this summer?’

‘Better than the last two days,’ Finan said. The chill north-east wind that had driven Oda’s ship southwards had brought a sullen stubborn rain that had made me fear for the harvest, but that rain had gone and the sun shone weakly, and if the wind backed, I reckoned, the warmth would return.

‘Oda should be in Eoferwic by now,’ I said.

‘And how long before Æthelstan sends a summons to you?’ Finan asked, amused.

‘It’s probably on its way already.’

‘And you go?’ Benedetta asked.

‘If he asks nicely? Perhaps.’

‘Or perhaps not,’ Finan added.

We were watching my younger men practise their sword-craft. Berg was teaching them. ‘Roric’s useless,’ I growled.

‘He’s learning.’

‘And look at Immar! Couldn’t fight a slug!’

‘His arm is still healing.’

‘And Aldwyn! He looks like he’s cutting hay.’

‘He’s still a boy, he’ll learn.’

I leaned down and scratched the coarse hair of one of my wolfhounds. ‘And Roric’s getting fat.’

‘He’s humping one of the dairy girls,’ Finan said. ‘The fat one. I suspect she brings him butter.’

I grunted. ‘Suspect?’

‘Cream too,’ Finan went on. ‘I’ll have her watched.’

‘And have her whipped if she’s stealing.’

‘Him too?’

‘Of course.’ I yawned. ‘Who won the eating contest last night?’

Finan grinned. ‘Who do you think?’

‘Gerbruht?’

‘Eats like an ox.’

‘Good man, though.’

‘He is,’ Finan said, ‘and he won the farting contest too.’

‘Ouff!’ Benedetta grimaced.

‘It amuses them,’ I insisted. I had heard the laughter in the hall from the seaward ramparts where I had been watching the moon’s long reflection on the sea and thinking about Æthelstan. Wondering why he was in Eoferwic. Wondering how many years or months I had before none of it mattered to me any longer.

‘They’re easily amused,’ Finan said.

‘There’s a ship,’ I pointed northwards.

‘Saw it ten minutes ago,’ Finan said. He had the eyesight of a hawk. ‘And not a cargo ship either.’

He was right. The approaching vessel was long, low and lean, a ship made for war, not trade. Her hull was dark and her sail was almost black. ‘She’s the Trianaid,’ I said. The name meant Trinity.

‘You know her?’ Finan sounded surprised.

‘Scottish ship. We saw her at Dumnoc a few years ago.’

‘Evil comes from the north,’ Benedetta said balefully, ‘the star and the dragon! They do not lie!’

‘It’s only one ship,’ I said, to calm her.

‘And coming here,’ Finan added. The ship, under sail, was close to Lindisfarena and turning her cross-decorated prow towards Bebbanburg’s harbour channel. ‘Silly bugger will go aground if he’s not careful.’

But the Trianaid’s helmsman knew his business and the ship skirted the sandbanks, dropped her sail, and rowed into the channel where we lost sight of her. I waited for the sentries on the northern ramparts to bring me news. One ship could not pose a danger. At most the Trianaid could carry sixty or seventy men, but still my son rousted resting warriors and sent them to the walls. Berg broke off his practice and led men to retrieve most of Bebbanburg’s horses that had been put to pasture just outside the village. Some of the villagers, fearing that the dark ship’s arrival presaged a short, savage raid, were driving livestock towards the Skull Gate.

Vidarr Leifson brought me news. ‘Scots, lord,’ he said. ‘They hailed us. They’re moored in the harbour now and waiting.’

‘Waiting for what?’

‘They say they want to talk to you, lord.’

‘Are they flying a standard?’

‘A red hand holding a cross, lord.’

‘Domnall!’ I said, surprised.

‘Haven’t seen that bastard in a good while,’ Finan commented. Domnall was one of Constantine’s war leaders and a formidable warrior. ‘Do we let him in?’

‘Him and six men,’ I said, ‘but no more than six. We’ll meet him in the hall.’

It was a half hour or more before Domnall climbed to Bebbanburg’s great hall. His men, all but the six who kept him company, stayed on their ship. Plainly they were under orders not to provoke me because none even tried to come ashore, and Domnall even went so far as to voluntarily surrender his sword at the door of the hall, and instructed his men to do the same. ‘I know you’re terrified of me, Lord Uhtred,’ Domnall bellowed as my steward took the blades, ‘but we come in peace!’

‘When the Scots talk of peace, Lord Domnall,’ I said, ‘I lock up my daughters.’

He paused, nodded curtly, and when he spoke again his voice was sympathetic. ‘You had a daughter, I know, and I’m sorry for her, lord. She was a brave woman.’

‘She was,’ I said. My daughter had died defending Eoferwic against Norsemen. ‘And your daughters?’ I asked. ‘They’re all well?’

‘They’re well,’ he said, striding down the hall towards the blazing fire we had revived in the big central hearth. ‘All four married now and squeezing out babies like good sows. Dear Lord above,’ he held his hands to the flames, ‘but it’s a raw day.’

‘It is.’

‘King Constantine sends his greetings,’ he said casually and then, more enthusiastically, ‘is that ale?’

‘The last time you drank my ale you said it reminded you of horse piss.’

‘It probably will again, but what’s a thirsty man to do?’ He saw Benedetta sitting beside me and bowed to her. ‘My sympathy, lady.’

‘Sympathy?’ she asked.

‘Because you live with me,’ I explained, then waved Domnall to the other side of the table where benches could sit all his men.

Domnall was looking about the hall. The high roof was held by great beams and rafters, the lower walls were now dressed stone, and the rush-covered floor was made from wide pine planks. I had spent a fortune on the fortress and it showed. ‘It’s a grand place, Lord Uhtred,’ Domnall said, ‘it would be a pity to lose it.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

He chuckled at that, then swung his great legs across a bench. He was a huge man, and one I was devoutly glad never to have faced in battle. I liked him. His companions, all but for a whey-faced priest, were similarly impressive, no doubt chosen to intimidate us by their appearance, but chief of them, and sitting on Domnall’s right, was another huge man. He looked to be around forty years old, had a lined and scarred face burned dark by the sun against which his hair, worn long, was a startling white. He stared at me with undisguised hostility, yet what was strangest about him were the two amulets hanging above his polished mail coat. He wore a silver cross and, next to it, a silver hammer. Christian and pagan.

Domnall pulled an ale jug towards himself, then gestured that the priest should sit on his left. ‘Don’t worry yourself, father,’ he told the priest, ‘Lord Uhtred might be a pagan, but he’s not such a bad fellow. Father Coluim,’ Domnall was talking to me now, ‘is trusted by King Constantine.’

‘Then you’re welcome, father,’ I said.

‘Peace be on this hall,’ Coluim said in a strong voice that conveyed a deal more confidence than his nervous appearance suggested.

‘High walls, a strong garrison and good men keep it peaceful, father,’ I suggested.

‘And good allies,’ Domnall said, reaching for the ale jug again.

‘And good allies,’ I echoed him. Behind the Scots a log fell, spewing sparks.

Domnall poured himself ale. ‘And at this time Lord Uhtred,’ he went on, ‘you have no allies.’ He spoke quietly and again sounded sympathetic.

‘No allies?’ I asked. I could think of nothing else to say.

‘Who is your friend? King Constantine holds you in high regard, but he’s no ally to Northumbria.’

‘True.’

He was leaning forward, looking into my eyes with an intense gaze, and speaking so quietly that men at the ends of the benches had to strain to hear. ‘Mercia used to be your best friend,’ he went on, ‘but she died.’

I nodded. When Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, had ruled Mercia she had indeed been an ally. A lover too. I said nothing.

‘Hywel of Dyfed admires you,’ Domnall continued remorselessly, ‘but Wales is a long way off. And why would Hywel march to your help?’

‘I know no reason why he should,’ I allowed.

‘Or why would any Welsh king help you?’ He paused, expecting an answer, but again I said nothing. ‘And the Norse of Cumbria hate you,’ Domnall went on. He was talking of Northumbria’s wild western lands beyond the hills. ‘You defeated them too often.’

‘But not often enough,’ I growled.

‘They breed like mice. Kill one and a dozen more come at you. And your own King Guthfrith dislikes you. He wouldn’t lift a drunken hand to help you.’

‘He hates me,’ I answered, ‘ever since I held a sword to his throat two days ago.’ That plainly surprised Domnall who had yet to hear of Guthfrith’s flight from Eoferwic. ‘He was on his way to you, I suspect,’ I went on blandly.