The Pale Horseman by Bernard Cornwell
THE PALE HORSEMAN
is for
George MacDonald Fraser,
in admiration.
CONTENTS
MAP
PLACE-NAMES
ONE
These days I look at twenty-year-olds and think they are…
TWO
My anger was not slaked by Oswald’s killing. The death…
THREE
The crew of the Eftwyrd turned Fyrdraca had been at…
FOUR
I love the sea. I grew up beside it, though…
FIVE
Mildrith was excited by the summons. The witan gave the…
SIX
Steapa recovered his wits before I did. He stared openmouthed…
SEVEN
The kingdom of Wessex was now a swamp and, for…
EIGHT
Before the Pedredan reaches the sea it makes a great…
NINE
Ragnar embraced me. There were tears in both our eyes…
TEN
We rode south. We went cautiously, for folk said the…
ELEVEN
You will have many sons,” Iseult told me. It was…
TWELVE
Most men came in large groups, led by their thegns,…
THIRTEEN
The Danes made their battle thunder and we prayed. Alewold…
HISTORICAL NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY BERNARD CORNWELL
COVER
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
MAP
Ac her forþ berað; fugelas singað, gylleð græghama.
For here starts war, carrion birds sing,
and gray wolves howl.
(From The Fight at Finnsburh)
PLACE-NAMES
The spelling of place-names in Anglo-Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster, and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whichever spelling is cited in the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained within Alfred’s reign, A.D. 871–899, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hæglingaiggæ. Nor have I been consistent myself; I use England instead of Englaland, and have preferred the modern form Northumbria to Norðhymbralond to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list, like the spellings themselves, is capricious.
Æsc’s Hill
Ashdown, Berkshire
Ætheling Aeg
Athelney, Somerset
Afen
River Avon, Wiltshire
Andefera
Andover, Wiltshire
Baðum (pronounced Bathum)
Bath, Avon
Bebbanburg
Bamburgh Castle, Northumberland
Brant
Brent Knoll, Somerset
Bru
River Brue, Somerset
Cippanhamm
Chippenham, Wiltshire
Cracgelad
Cricklade, Wiltshire
Cridianton
Crediton, Devon
Cynuit
Cynuit Hillfort, near Cannington, Somerset
Contwaraburg
Canterbury, Kent
Cornwalum
Cornwall
Dærentmora
Dartmoor, Devon
Defereal
Kingston Deverill, Wiltshire
Defnascir
Devonshire
Dornwaraceaster
Dorchester, Dorset
Dreyndynas
“Fort of thorns,” fictional, set in Cornwall
Dunholm
Durham, County Durham
Dyfed
Southwest Wales, mostly now Pembrokeshire
Dyflin
Dublin, Eire
Eoferwic
York (also the Danish Jorvic, pronounced Yorvik)
Ethandun
Edington, Wiltshire
Exanceaster
Exeter, Devon
Exanmynster
Exminster, Devon
Gewæsc
The Wash
Gifle
Yeovil, Somerset
Gleawecestre
Gloucester, Gloucestershire
Glwysing
Welsh kingdom, approximately Glamo
Brant
Brent Knoll, Somerset
Bru
River Brue, Somerset
Cippanhamm
Chippenham, Wiltshire
Cracgelad
Cricklade, Wiltshire
Cridianton
Crediton, Devon
Cynuit
Cynuit Hillfort, near Cannington, Somerset
Contwaraburg
Canterbury, Kent
Cornwalum
Cornwall
Dærentmora
Dartmoor, Devon
Defereal
Kingston Deverill, Wiltshire
Defnascir
Devonshire
Dornwaraceaster
Dorchester, Dorset
Dreyndynas
“Fort of thorns,” fictional, set in Cornwall
Dunholm
Durham, County Durham
Dyfed
Southwest Wales, mostly now Pembrokeshire
Dyflin
Dublin, Eire
Eoferwic
York (also the Danish Jorvic, pronounced Yorvik)
Ethandun
Edington, Wiltshire
Exanceaster
Exeter, Devon
Exanmynster
Exminster, Devon
Gewæsc
The Wash
Gifle
Yeovil, Somerset
Gleawecestre
Gloucester, Gloucestershire
Glwysing
Welsh kingdom, approximately Glamorgan and Gwent
Hamptonscir
Hampshire
Hamtun
Southampton, Hampshire
Lindisfarena
Lindisfarne (Holy Island), Northumberland
Lundene
London
Lundi
Lundy Island, Devon
Mærlebeorg
Marlborough, Wiltshire
Ocmundtun
Okehampton, Devon
Palfleot
Pawlett, Somerset
Pedredan
River Parrett
Penwith
Land’s End, Cornwall
Readingum
Reading, Berkshire
Sæfern
River Severn
Sceapig
Isle of Sheppey, Kent
Scireburnan
Sherborne, Dorset
Sillans
The Scilly Isles
Soppan Byrg
Chipping Sodbury, Gloucestershire
Sumorsæte
Somerset
Suth Seaxa
Sussex (South Saxons)
Tamur
River Tamar
Temes
River Thames
Thon
River Tone, Somerset
Thornsæta
Dorset
Uisc
River Exe
Werham
Wareham, Dorset
Wilig
River Wylye
Wiltunscir
Wiltshire
Winburnan
Wimborne Minster, Dorset
Wintanceaster
Winchester, Hampshire
ONE
These days I look at twenty-year-olds an
We had fought the Danes beside the ocean, where the river runs from the great swamp and the Sæfern Sea slaps on a muddy shore, and there we had beaten them. We had made a great slaughter and I, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, had done my part. More than my part, for at the battle’s end, when the great Ubba Lothbrokson, most feared of all the Danish leaders, had carved into our shield wall with his great war ax, I had faced him, beaten him, and sent him to join the einherjar, that army of the dead who feast and swive in Odin’s corpse hall.
What I should have done then, what Leofric told me to do, was ride hard to Exanceaster where Alfred, King of the West Saxons, was besieging Guthrum. I should have arrived deep in the night, woken the king from his sleep, and laid Ubba’s battle banner of the black raven and Ubba’s great war ax, its blade still crusted with blood, at Alfred’s feet. I should have given the king the good news that the Danish army was beaten, that the few survivors had taken to their dragon-headed ships, that Wessex was safe, and that I, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, had achieved all of those things.
Instead I rode to find my wife and child.
At twenty years old I would rather have been plowing Mildrith than reaping the rewards of my good fortune, and that is what I did wrong, but, looking back, I have few regrets. Fate is inexorable, and Mildrith, though I had not wanted to marry her and though I came to detest her, was a lovely field to plow.
So, in that late spring of the year 877, I spent the Saturday riding to Cridianton instead of going to Alfred. I took twenty men with me and I promised Leofric that we would be at Exanceaster by midday on Sunday and I would make certain Alfred knew we had won his battle and saved his kingdom.
“Odda the Younger will be there by now,” Leofric warned me. Leofric was almost twice my age, a warrior hardened by years of fighting the Danes. “Did you hear me?” he asked when I said nothing.
“Odda the Younger will be there by now,” he said again, “and he’s a piece of goose shit who’ll take all the credit.”
“The truth cannot be hidden,” I said loftily.
Leofric mocked that. He was a bearded squat brute of a man who should have been the commander of Alfred’s fleet, but he was not well born and Alfred had reluctantly given me charge of the twelve ships because I was an ealdorman, a noble, and it was only fitting that a high-born man should command the West Saxon fleet even though it had been much too puny to confront the massive array of Danish ships that had come to Wessex’s south coast. “There are times,” Leofric grumbled, “when you are an earsling.” An earsling was something that had dropped out of a creature’s backside and was one of Leofric’s favorite insults. We were friends.
“We’ll see Alfred tomorrow,” I said.
“And Odda the Younger,” Leofric said patiently, “has seen him today.”
Odda the Younger was the son of Odda the Elder who had given my wife shelter, and the son did not like me. He did not like me because he wanted to plow Mildrith, which was reason enough for him to dislike me. He was also, as Leofric said, a piece of goose shit, slippery and slick, which was reason enough for me to dislike him.
“We shall see Alfred tomorrow,” I said again, and next morning we all rode to Exanceaster, my men escorting Mildrith, our son, and his nurse, and we found Alfred on the northern side of Exanceaster where his green-and-white dragon banner flew above his tents. Other banners snapped in the damp wind, a colorful array of beasts, crosses, saints, and weapons announcing that the great men of Wessex were with their king. One of those banners showed a black stag, which confirmed that Leofric had been right and that Odda the Younger was here in south Defnascir. Outside the camp, between its southern margin and the city walls, was a great pavilion made of sailcloth stretched across guyed poles, and that told me that Alfred, instead of fighting Guthrum, was talking to him. They were negotiating a truce, though not on that day, for it was a Sunday and Alfred would do no work on a Sunday if he could help it. I found him on his knees in a makeshift church made from another poled sailcloth, and all his nobles and thegns were arrayed behind him, and some of those men turned as they heard our horses’ hooves. Odda the Younger was one of those who turned and I saw the apprehension show on his narrow face.
The bishop who was conducting the service paused to let the congregation make a response, and that gave Odda an excuse to look away from me. He was kneeling close to Alfred, very close, suggesting that he was high in the king’s favor, and I did not doubt that he had brought the dead Ubba’s raven banner and war ax to Exanceaster and claimed the credit for the fight beside the sea. “One day,” I said to Leofric, “I shall slit that bastard from the crotch to the gullet and dance on his offal.”
“You should have done it yesterday.”
A priest had been kneeling close to the altar, one of the many priests who always accompanied Alfred, and he saw me and slid backward as unobtrusively as he could until he was able to stand and hurry toward me. He had red hair, a squint, a palsied left hand, and an expression of astonished joy on his ugly face. “Uhtred!” he called as he ran toward our horses. “Uhtred! We thought you were dead!”
“Me?” I grinned at the priest. “Dead?”
“You were a hostage!”
I had been one of the dozen English hostages in Werham, but while the others had been murdered by Guthrum, I had been spared because of Earl Ragnar who was a Danish war-chief and as close to me as a brother. “I didn’t die, father,” I said to the priest, whose name was Beocca, “and I’m surprised you did not know that.”
“How could I know it?”
“Because I was at Cynuit, father, and Odda the Younger could have told you that I was there and that I lived.”
I was staring at Odda as I spoke and Beocca caught the grimness in my voice. “You were at Cynuit?” he asked nervously.
“Odda the Younger didn’t tell you?”
“He said nothing.”
“Nothing!” I kicked my horse forward, forcing it between the kneeling men and thus closer to Odda. Beocca tried to stop me, but I pushed his hand away from my bridle. Leofric, wiser than me, held back, but I pushed the horse into the back rows of the congregation until the press of worshippers made it impossible to advance farther, and then I stared at Odda as I spoke to Beocca. “He didn’t describe Ubba’s death?” I asked.
“He says Ubba died in the shield wall,” Beocca said, his voice a hiss so that he did not disturb the liturgy, “and that many men contributed to his death.”
“Is that all he told you?”
“He says he faced Ubba himself,” Beocca said.
“So who do men think killed Ubba Lothbrokson?” I asked.
Beocca could sense trouble coming and he tried to calm me. “We can talk of these things later,” he said, “but for now, Uhtred, join us in prayer.” He used my name rather than calling me lord because he had known me since I was a child. Beocca, like me, was a Northumbrian, and he had been my father’s priest, but when the Danes took our country he had come to Wessex to join those Saxons who still resisted the invaders. “This is a time for prayer,” he insisted, “not for quarrels.”
But I was in a mood for quarrels. “Who do men say killed Ubba Lothbrokson?” I asked again.
“They give thanks to God that the pagan is dead.” Beocca evaded my question and tried to hush my voice with frantic gestures from his palsied left hand.
“Who do you think killed Ubba?” I asked, and when Beocca did not answer, I provided the answer for him. “You think Odda the Younger killed him?” I could see that Beocca did believe that, and the anger surged in me. “Ubba fought me man on man,” I said, too loudly now, “one on one, just me and him. My sword against his ax. And he was unwounded when the fight
“Is there any man here,” I was still shouting, “who will deny that I, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, killed Ubba Lothbrokson in single combat?”
There was silence. I had not intended to disrupt the service, but monstrous pride and ungovernable rage had driven me to defiance. The faces gazed at me, the banners flapped in the desultory wind, and the small rain dripped from the edges of the sailcloth awning. Still no one answered me, but men saw that I was staring at Odda the Younger and some looked to him for a response, but he was struck dumb. “Who killed Ubba?” I shouted at him.
“This is not seemly,” Alfred said angrily.
“This killed Ubba!” I declared, and I drew Serpent-Breath.
And that was my next mistake.
In the winter, while I was mewed up in Werham as one of the hostages given to Guthrum, a new law had been passed in Wessex, a law which decreed that no man other than the royal bodyguards was to draw a weapon in the presence of the king. The law was not just to protect Alfred, but also to prevent the quarrels between his great men becoming lethal and, by drawing Serpent-Breath, I had unwittingly broken the law so that his household troops were suddenly converging on me with spears and drawn swords until Alfred, red-cloaked and bare-headed, shouted for every man to be still.