The Pagan Lord

‘Sigurd Thorrson?’

‘That’s him, and a fair man.’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said. I had not only heard of him, but I had killed his son in the last great battle between Danes and Saxons. Sigurd hated me, and he was Cnut’s closest friend and ally.

‘And you’ve heard nothing bad, I dare say,’ Rulf said, then moved to look down into Middelniht. ‘And your name?’ he asked. He was counting the men, and noting the shields and swords stacked in the hull’s centre.

‘Wulf Ranulfson,’ I said, ‘out of Lundene, going home to Haithabu.’

‘You’re not looking for trouble?’

‘We’re always looking for trouble,’ I said, ‘but we’ll settle for ale and food.’

He grinned. ‘You know the rules, Wulf Ranulfson. No weapons in town.’ He jerked his head towards a long low building with a black-thatched reed roof. ‘That’s the tavern. There’s two ships in from Frisia, try not to fight them.’

‘We’re not here to fight,’ I said.

‘Otherwise the Jarl Sigurd will hunt you down, and you don’t want that.’

The tavern was large, the town small. Grimesbi had no wall, only a stinking ditch that circled the huddled houses. It was a fishing town and I guessed most of the men were out on the rich ocean banks. Their houses were built close together as if they could shelter each other against the gales that must roar off the nearby sea. The largest buildings were warehouses full of goods for seamen; there were hemp lines, smoked fish, salted meat, seasoned timbers, shaped oars, gutting knives, hooks, thole pins, horsehair for caulking: all things that a ship sheltering from the weather might want to make repairs or replenish supplies. This was more than a fishing port, it was a travellers’ town, a place of refuge for ships plying the coast, and that was why I had come.

I wanted news, and I expected to find it from another visiting ship, which meant a long day in the tavern. I left Middelniht under Osferth’s command, telling him that he could let the crew go ashore in small groups. ‘No fighting!’ I warned them, then Finan and I followed Rulf and his companion along the pier.

Rulf, a friendly man, saw us following and waited for us. ‘You need supplies?’ he asked.

‘Fresh ale, maybe some bread.’

‘The tavern will supply both. And if you need me for anything you’ll find me in the house beside the church.’

‘The church?’ I asked in surprise.

‘Has a cross nailed to the gable, you can’t miss it.’

‘The Jarl Sigurd allows that nonsense here?’ I asked.

‘He doesn’t mind. We get a lot of Christian ships, and their crews like to pray. And they spend money in town so why not make them welcome? And the priest pays the jarl a rent on the building.’

‘Does he preach to you?’

Rulf laughed. ‘He knows I’ll pin his ears to his own cross if he does that.’

It began to rain, a slanting, stinging rain that swept from the sea. Finan and I walked about the town, following the line of the ditch. A causeway led south across the ditch, and a skeleton hung from a post on its far side. ‘A thief, I suppose,’ Finan said.

I gazed across the rain-swept marsh. I was putting the place in my mind because a man never knew where he might have to fight, though I hoped I would never have to fight here. It was a bleak, damp place, but it provided ships with shelter from the storms that could turn the sea into grey-white chaos.

Finan and I settled in the tavern where the ale was sour and the bread rock hard, but the fish soup was thick and fresh. The long, wide room was low-beamed, warmed by an enormous driftwood fire that burned in a central hearth, and even though it was not yet midday the place was crowded. There were Danes, Frisians and Saxons. Men sang and whores worked the long tables, taking their men up a ladder to a loft built into one gable and provoking cheers whenever the loft’s floorboards bounced up and down to sift dust onto our ale pots. I listened to conversations, but heard no one claim to have worked their way south along the Northumbrian coast. I needed a man who had been to Bebbanburg and I was willing to wait as long as I needed to find him.

But instead he found me. Sometime in the afternoon a priest, I assumed it was the priest who rented the small church in the town’s centre, came through the tavern door and shook rain from his cloak. He had two burly companions who followed him as he went from table to table. He was an older man, skinny and white-haired, with a shabby black robe stained with what looked like vomit. His beard was matted, and his long hair greasy, but he had a quick smile and shrewd eyes. He looked our way and saw the cross hanging at Finan’s neck and so threaded the benches to our table, which was beside the ladder used by the whores. ‘My name is Father Byrnjolf,’ he introduced himself to Finan, ‘and you are?’

Finan did not give his name. He just smiled, stared fixedly at the priest and said nothing.

‘Father Byrnjolf,’ the priest said hurriedly, as if he had never meant to ask Finan for his name, ‘and are you just visiting our small town, my son?’

‘Passing through, father, passing through.’

‘Then perhaps you’d be good enough to give a coin for God’s work in this place?’ the priest said and held out a begging bowl. His two companions, both formidable-looking men with leather jerkins, wide belts and long knives, stood at his side. Neither smiled.

‘And if I choose not to?’ Finan asked.

‘Then God’s blessing be upon you anyway,’ Father Byrnjolf said. He was a Dane and I bridled at that. I still found it hard to believe that any Dane was a Christian, let alone that one could be a priest. His eyes flicked to my hammer and he took a pace back. ‘I meant no offence,’ he said humbly, ‘I am just doing God’s work.’

‘So are they,’ I said, glancing up to the loft floorboards that were moving and creaking.

He laughed at that, then looked back to Finan. ‘If you can help the church, my son, God will bless you.’

Finan fished in his pouch for a coin and the priest made the sign of the cross. It was plain he tried to approach none but Christian travellers and his two companions were there to keep him out of trouble if any pagan objected. ‘How much rent do you pay to the Jarl Sigurd?’ I asked him. I was curious, hoping that Sigurd was taking an outrageously large sum.

‘I pay no rent, God be praised. The Lord Ælfric does that. I collect for the poor.’

‘The Lord Ælfric?’ I asked, hoping the surprise did not show in my voice.

The priest reached for Finan’s coin. ‘Ælfric of Bernicia,’ he explained. ‘He is our patron, and a generous one. I’ve just visited him.’ He gestured at the stains on his black robe as if they had some relevance to his visit to Ælfric.

Ælfric of Bernicia! There had been a kingdom called Bernicia once, and my family had ruled it as kings, but that realm had long vanished, conquered by Northumbria, and all that was left was the great fortress of Bebbanburg and its adjacent lands. But my uncle liked to call himself Ælfric of Bernicia. I was surprised he had not taken the title of king.

‘What did Ælfric do,’ I asked, ‘throw the kitchen slops at you?’

‘I am always sick at sea,’ the priest said, smiling. ‘Dear sweet Lord but how I do hate ships. They move, you know? They go up and down! Up and down till your stomach can take no more and then you hurl good food to the fishes. But the Lord Ælfric likes me to visit him three times a year, so I must endure the sickness.’ He put the coin into his bowl. ‘Bless you, my son,’ he said to Finan.

Finan smiled. ‘There’s a sure cure for the seasickness, father,’ he said.

‘Dear God, there is?’ Father Byrnjolf looked earnestly at the Irishman. ‘Tell me, my son.’

‘Sit under a tree.’

‘You mock me, my son, you mock me.’ The priest sighed, then looked at me with an astonished expression, and no wonder. I had just rapped a gold coin on the table.

‘Sit and have some ale,’ I told him.

He hesitated. He was nervous of pagans, but the gold tempted him. ‘God be praised,’ he said, and sat on the bench opposite.

I looked at the two men. They were large men, their hands stained black with the tar that coats fishing nets. One looked particularly formidable; he had a flattened nose in a weather-darkened face and fists like war-hammers. ‘I’m not going to kill your priest,’ I told the two men, ‘so you don’t need to stand there like a pair of bullocks. Go find your own ale.’

One of them glanced at Father Byrnjolf who nodded assent, and the two men crossed the room. ‘They’re good souls,’ Father Byrnjolf said, ‘and like to keep my body in one piece.’

‘Fishermen?’

‘Fishermen,’ he said, ‘like our Lord’s disciples.’

I wondered if one of the nailed god’s disciples had a flattened nose, scarred cheeks and bleak eyes. Maybe. Fishermen are a tough breed. I watched the two men settle at a table, then spun the coin in front of the priest’s eyes. The gold glittered, then made a thrumming noise as the spin lost speed. The coin clattered for an instant and then fell flat. I pushed it a little way towards the priest. Finan had called for another pot and poured ale from the jug. ‘I have heard,’ I said to Father Byrnjolf, ‘that the Lord Ælfric pays for men.’

He was staring at the coin. ‘What have you heard?’

‘That Bebbanburg is a fortress and safe from attack, but that Ælfric has no ships of his own.’

‘He has two,’ Father Byrnjolf said cautiously.

‘To patrol his coast?’

‘To deter pirates. And yes, he does hire other ships at times. Two are not always sufficient.’

‘I was thinking,’ I said, and I tipped the coin upwards and spun it again, ‘that we might go to Bebbanburg. Is he friendly to folk who are not Christian?’

‘He’s friendly, yes. Well,’ he paused, then corrected himself, ‘perhaps not friendly, but he is a fair man. He treats folk decently.’

‘Tell me about him,’ I said.

The coin caught the light, flickered and gleamed. ‘He’s unwell,’ Father Byrnjolf said, ‘but his son is a capable man.’

‘And the son is called?’ I asked. I knew the answer, of course. Ælfric was my uncle, the man who had stolen Bebbanburg, and his son was named Uhtred.

‘He’s called Uhtred,’ Father Byrnjolf said, ‘and he has a son of the same name, a fine boy! Just ten years old but stout and brave, a good lad!’

‘Also called Uhtred?’

‘It is an old family name.’

‘Just the one son?’ I asked.

‘He had three, but the two youngest died.’ Father Byrnjolf made the sign of the cross. ‘The eldest thrives, God be praised.’

The bastard, I thought, meaning Ælfric. He had named his son Uhtred, and Uhtred had named his son the same, because the Uhtreds are the lords of Bebbanburg. But I am Uhtred and Bebbanburg is mine, and Ælfric, by naming his son Uhtred, was proclaiming to all the world that I had lost the fortress and that his family would now possess it to the end of time. ‘So how do I get there?’ I asked. ‘He has a harbour?’

And Father Byrnjolf, transfixed by that gold coin, told me so much I already knew, and some that I did not know. He told how we would need to negotiate the narrow entrance north of the fortress and so take Middelniht into the shallow harbour that lay protected by the great rock on which Bebbanburg was built. We would be allowed to go ashore, he said, but to reach the Lord Ælfric’s hall we would need to take the uphill path to the first gate, called the Low Gate. That gate was immense, he told us, and reinforced by stone walls. Once through the Low Gate there was a wide space where a smithy stood next to the fortress stables, and beyond that another steep path climbed to the High Gate, which protected Ælfric’s hall, the living quarters, the armoury and the lookout tower. ‘More stone?’ I asked.

‘The Lord Ælfric has made a stone wall there, yes. No one can pass.’

‘And he has men?’

‘Some forty or fifty live in the fortress. He has other warriors, of course, but they plough his land or live in halls of their own.’ And that I knew too. My uncle could summon a formidable war-band, but most of them lived on outlying farms. It would take at least a day or two for those hundreds of men to assemble, which meant I had to deal with the housecarls, the forty or fifty trained warriors whose job was to keep Ælfric’s nightmare from coming true. I was the nightmare. ‘You’ll be going north soon then?’ Father Byrnjolf asked.

I ignored the question. ‘And the Lord Ælfric needs ships,’ I asked, ‘to protect his traders?’

‘Wool, barley and pelts,’ Father Byrnjolf said. ‘They’re sent south to Lundene or else across the sea to Frisia, so yes, they need protection.’

‘And he pays well.’

‘He’s renowned for his generosity.’

‘You’ve been helpful, father,’ I said, and flicked the coin across the table.

‘God be with you, my son,’ the priest said, scrambling for the coin that had fallen among the floor rushes. ‘And your name?’ he asked when he had retrieved the gold.

‘Wulf Ranulfson.’

‘God bless your northward voyage, Wulf Ranulfson.’

‘We may not go north,’ I said as the priest stood. ‘I hear there’s trouble brewing in the south.’

‘I pray not,’ he sounded hesitant, ‘trouble?’

‘In Lundene they said that the Lord Æthelred thinks East Anglia is there for the taking.’

Father Byrnjolf made the sign of the cross. ‘I pray not, I pray not,’ he said.

‘There’s profit in trouble,’ I said, ‘so I pray for war.’

He said nothing, but hurried away. I had my back to him. ‘What’s he doing?’ I asked Finan.

‘Talking to his two fellows. Looking at us.’

I cut a piece of cheese. ‘Why does Ælfric pay to keep a priest in Grimesbi?’

‘Because he’s a good Christian?’ Finan suggested blandly.

‘Ælfric’s a treacherous piece of slug-shit,’ I said.

Finan glanced towards the priest and looked back to me. ‘Father Byrnjolf takes your uncle’s silver.’

‘And in return,’ I said, ‘he tells Ælfric who moves through Grimesbi. Who comes, who goes.’

‘And who asks questions about Bebbanburg.’

‘Which I just did.’

Finan nodded. ‘You just did. And you paid the bastard too much, and you asked too many questions about the defences. You might just as well have told him your real name.’

I scowled, but Finan was right. I had been too eager to get information, and Father Byrnjolf must be more than suspicious. ‘So how does he get news to Ælfric?’ I asked.

‘The fishermen?’

‘And in this wind,’ I suggested, looking towards a shutter that banged and rattled against its latches, ‘it will be two days’ sailing? Or a day and a half if they use something the size of Middelniht.’

‘Three days if they put ashore at night.’

‘And did the bastard tell me the truth?’ I wondered aloud.

‘About your uncle’s garrison?’ Finan asked, then used a forefinger to trace a pattern with spilled ale on the table top. ‘It sounded likely enough.’ He half smiled. ‘Fifty men? If we can get inside we should be able to kill the bastards.’

‘If we can get inside,’ I said, then turned and pretended to look towards the big central hearth where flames leaped up to meet the rain spitting through the roof-hole. Father Byrnjolf was deep in conversation with his two big companions, but even as I watched they turned and hurried towards the tavern door.

‘What’s the tide?’ I asked Finan, still watching the priest.

‘Be high tonight, ebbing at dawn.’

‘Then we leave at dawn,’ I said.

Because the Middelniht was going hunting.

We left at dawn on the ebbing tide. The world was sword grey. Grey sea, grey sky and a grey mist, and the Middelniht slid through that greyness like a sleek and dangerous beast. We were only using twenty oars and they rose and fell almost silently, just a creak from the tholes and sometimes a splash as a blade dipped. The wake rippled behind us, black and silver, widening and fading as the Middelniht

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