The Flame Bearer by Bernard Cornwell
Æthelhelm sat next to the boy. Big, bluff, genial Æthelhelm, though right now he wore a stern expression. He was gripping an arm of his chair and leaning slightly forward as he listened to a speech that was being delivered by Bishop Wulfheard. No, it was a sermon, not a speech, and the bishop’s words were being applauded by a row of priests and a handful of mailed warriors who stood in the deep shadows behind the six thrones. Of the throne’s occupants only Æthelhelm was applauding. He rapped a hand on the chair’s arm and occasionally nodded, though always with a look of regret as though he was saddened by what he was hearing.
In truth he could not have been happier. ‘Every kingdom divided shall be brought to ruin!’ the bishop yelped. ‘Those are the words of Christ! And who here doubts that the lands north of here are Saxon lands! Purchased by Saxon blood!’
‘He’s been talking the best part of an hour, I should think, maybe longer,’ Eadric grumbled to me.
‘He’s just begun then,’ I said. A man standing in front of us tried to hush me, but I growled at him and he quickly turned away.
I looked back to Wulfheard, who was an old enemy of mine. He was Bishop of Hereford, but spent his time wherever the King of Wessex might be in residence, because, though Wulfheard might preach about heavenly powers, the only power he craved was earthly. He wanted money, land, and influence, and he largely succeeded because his ambition was well-served by a mind that was subtle, clever, and ruthless. He was impressive to look at; tall, stern, with a hook of a nose and deep-set dark eyes beneath thick brows that had turned grey with age. He was formidable, but his weakness was a fondness for whores. I could not blame him for that, I like whores myself, but Wulfheard, unlike me, pretended to be a man of impeccable rectitude.
The bishop had paused to drink ale or wine, and the six occupants of the chairs all stirred as if stretching tired limbs. Edward leaned over to whisper something to his sister, who nodded wearily, while her nephew Ælfweard, the sullen-looking boy, yawned. ‘I do not doubt,’ the bishop startled the boy by beginning again, ‘that the Lady Æthelflaed made her peace with King Sigtryggr with nothing but Christian motives, with charitable motives, and in the fervent hope that the light of Christ would illuminate his dark pagan soul and bring him to a knowledge of our Saviour’s grace!’
‘True,’ Æthelhelm said, ‘so true.’
‘Slimy bastard,’ I growled.
‘But how could she know,’ the bishop asked, ‘how could any of us know, of the treachery which lurks in Lord Uhtred’s soul? Of the hatred he nurtures for us, the children of God!’ The bishop paused, and it seemed he gave a great sob. ‘Brunulf,’ he shouted, ‘that great warrior for Christ, dead!’ The priests behind him wailed, and Æthelhelm shook his head. ‘Father Herefrith!’ the bishop shouted even louder, ‘that martyred man of God, dead!’
The guards might have thought we were disarmed, but I had kept a knife and I slid it through Herefrith’s clothes to prick his arse. ‘One word,’ I whispered, ‘one word and you’re dead.’ He shivered.
‘Our good men,’ the bishop still spoke with a sob, ‘were killed by a pagan! Slaughtered by a savage! And it is time!’ He raised his voice. ‘It is past time, that we scourged this pagan savage from our land!’
‘Amen,’ Æthelhelm said, nodding, ‘amen.’
‘Praise God,’ one of the priests called.
‘Hearken!’ the bishop shouted. ‘Hearken to the words of the prophet Ezekiel!’
‘Must we?’ Finan muttered.
‘“And I will make them one nation!”’ the bishop thundered, ‘“And one king shall be king to them! And they shall be no more two nations!” You hear that? God has promised to make us one nation, not two, with one king, not two!’ He turned his fierce gaze onto Sigtryggr. ‘You, lord King,’ he snarled, and managed to infuse the last two words with utter scorn, ‘will leave us today. Tomorrow this truce expires, and tomorrow King Edward’s forces will march north! An army of God will march! An army of faith! An army of truth! An army dedicated to revenge the deaths of Brunulf and Father Herefrith! An army led by the risen Christ and by our king and by Lord Æthelhelm!’ King Edward frowned slightly, offended, I suspected, by the suggestion that Æthelhelm was his equal in leading the West Saxon army, but he did not contradict the bishop. ‘And with that mighty force,’ Wulfheard went on, ‘will march the men of Mercia! Warriors led by Prince Æthelstan!’
It was my turn to frown. Æthelstan had been given command of Mercia’s army? I approved of that, but I knew Æthelhelm wanted nothing more than to kill Æthelstan and so ease his grandson’s path to the throne, and now Æthelstan was being sent into Northumbria with a man who wanted him dead? I wondered why Æthelstan was not seated on a throne like his half-brother, Ælfweard, then I saw him among the warriors standing with the priests behind the six chairs. And that was significant, I thought. Æthelstan was the elder son, yet he was not given the same honours as the sullen, plump Ælfweard. ‘It will be a united Saxon army,’ Wulfheard exulted, ‘the army of Englaland, an army of Christ!’ the bishop’s voice grew louder. ‘An army to avenge our martyred dead and to bring everlasting glory to our church! An army to make one Saxon nation under one Saxon king!’
‘Ready?’ I asked Finan.
He just grinned.
‘The pagan Uhtred has brought the wrath of God upon himself,’ the bishop was almost screaming now, spittle spraying from his mouth as his hands stretched towards the barn’s rafters. ‘The peace is over, broken by Uhtred’s cruel deception, by his insatiable hunger for blood, by his betrayal of all that we treasure, by his vicious attack upon our honour, upon our piety, upon our devotion to God, and upon our yearning for peace! It is not our doing! It is his, and we must give him the war he so fervently desires!’
Men cheered. Sigtryggr and Æthelflaed looked distraught, Edward was frowning, while Æthelhelm was shaking his head as if overcome by misery at getting exactly what he wanted.
The bishop waited until the crowd was silent. ‘And what does God desire of us?’ he bellowed. ‘What does he want of you?’
‘He wants you to stop spewing filth, you whoremonger,’ I shouted, breaking the silence that followed his two questions.
Then I pushed my way through the crowd.
Six
I had peeled back the hood and thrown the shabby cloak from my shoulders before I forced a path through the crowd with Finan following close behind me. There were gasps as I was recognised, then murmurs, and finally angry protests. Not all the crowd was irate. Some men grinned, anticipating entertainment, and a handful called a greeting to me. Bishop Wulfheard stared in shock, opened his mouth to speak, found he had nothing to say, and so looked desperately at King Edward in the hope that the king would exercise his authority, but Edward seemed similarly astonished to see me, and said nothing. Æthelflaed was wide-eyed and almost smiling. The protests grew as men bellowed that I should be ejected from the barn, and one young man decided to be a hero and stepped into my path. He wore a dark red cloak that was clasped at his throat by a silver badge of the leaping stag. All Æthelhelm’s household warriors wore the dark red cloaks, and a group of them muscled their way through the crowd to reinforce the young man, who held out a hand to stop me. ‘You—’ he began.
He never finished whatever he wanted to say because I just hit him. I did not mean to hit him so hard, but the anger was in me, and he folded over my fist, suddenly breathless, and I pushed him away so that he staggered and fell onto the dirty straw. Then, just before we reached the makeshift platform, one of Edward’s guards confronted us with a levelled spear, but Finan came past me and stood in front of the blade. ‘Try it, lad,’ he said quietly, ‘please, please, just try it.’
‘Stand back!’ Edward found his voice, and the guard backed away.
‘Take him away!’ Æthelhelm shouted. He was talking to his household warriors, and meant them to drag me away, but two of Edward’s guards, who alone were permitted to carry weapons in the king’s presence, mistook him and pulled a
‘My lady,’ I said. She had reached out a hand, a thin hand, and I kissed it, and when I looked up after the kiss I saw tears in her eyes, but she was smiling. ‘Uhtred,’ she said my name softly, nothing else.
‘Your oath-man still, my lady,’ I said, and turned to her brother to whom I bowed my head respectfully. ‘Lord King,’ I said.
Edward, who wore the emerald crown of his father, lifted a hand to silence the crowd. ‘I am surprised to see you, Lord Uhtred,’ he said stiffly.
‘I bring you news, lord King,’ I said.
‘News is always welcome. Good news especially.’
‘I think you’ll discover that this is very good news, lord King,’ I said as I stood up.
‘Let us hear it,’ the king commanded. The crowd was utterly silent now. Some men who had fled Wulfheard’s tedious sermon had flocked back to the barn’s open doors and were jostling to get inside.
‘I’m not a man of words, lord King,’ I said as I walked slowly towards Wulfheard. ‘I’m not like Bishop Wulfheard. The whores at the Wheatsheaf in Wintanceaster tell me he doesn’t stop talking even when he’s humping them.’
‘You foul—’ Wulfheard began.
‘Though they say,’ I interrupted him fiercely, ‘that he’s so quick with them that it’s never a long sermon. More like a gabbled blessing. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the ho, ho, ho, oh!’
A few men laughed, but stopped when they saw the anger on Edward’s face. He had not been particularly religious as a youngster, but now that he was at the age when men begin to contemplate their deaths he lived in fear of the nailed god. But Æthelflaed, who was older and deeply pious, did laugh, though her laughter turned into a cough. Edward was about to protest my words, but I forestalled him. ‘So,’ I was talking to the whole assembly now, my back to an outraged Wulfheard, ‘Brunulf is dead?’
‘You killed him, you bastard,’ a man, braver than the rest, called.
I looked at him. ‘If you think I’m a bastard then you step up here now, the king will give us swords, and you can prove it.’ I waited, but he did not move, and so I just nodded to my son.
Who stepped aside so Brunulf could walk through the crowd. He had to elbow his way through the press of men, but gradually, as some recognised him, a passage was made for him. ‘So,’ I said again, ‘Brunulf is dead? Did anyone here see him die? Did anyone here see his corpse?’ No one answered, though there were gasps and whispers as men realised who was approaching the platform. He reached it, and I stretched down a hand to help him up onto the planks. ‘Lord King,’ I turned to Edward, ‘may I present your man Brunulf?’
No one spoke. Edward looked at Æthelhelm, who had suddenly found the rafters of the barn’s roof intensely interesting, then back to Brunulf, who had knelt to him.
‘Does he smell dead to you, lord King?’ I asked.
Edward’s face twitched in what might have been a smile. ‘He does not.’
I turned on the crowd. ‘He’s not a corpse! It seems I didn’t kill him! Brunulf, are you dead?’
‘No, lord.’
The barn was so silent you could have heard a flea cough. ‘Were you attacked in Northumbria?’ I asked Brunulf.
‘I was, lord.’
Edward gestured for Brunulf to stand, and I beckoned him closer to me. ‘Who attacked you?’ I demanded.
He paused for a heartbeat, then, ‘Men carrying King Sigtryggr’s badge.’
‘That badge?’ I asked, pointing to Sigtryggr’s banner with its red axe that hung high above the platform.
‘Yes, lord.’
There were growls from the hall, but they were silenced by those men who wanted to hear Brunulf’s words. Sigtryggr frowned when he heard that the men who had attacked Brunulf had carried his badge, but he made no protest. Æthelhelm cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then went back to staring at the rafters. ‘And you successfully fought these men off?’ I asked.
‘You did, lord.’
‘And how many of your men died?’
‘None, lord.’
‘None?’ I asked louder.
‘Not one, lord.’
‘Not one of your West Saxons died?’
‘None, lord.’
‘Were any injured?’
He shook his head. ‘None, lord.’
‘And of the men carrying the badge of the red axe. How many of those died?’
‘Fourteen, lord.’
‘And the rest you captured?’
‘You captured them, lord.’
Æthelhelm was now staring at me, apparently unable to speak or even move.
‘And were they King Sigtryggr’s men?’ I asked.
‘No, lord.’
‘Then whose men were they?’
Brunulf paused again, this time to look directly at Æthelhelm. ‘They were Lord Æthelhelm’s men.’
‘Louder!’ I insisted.
‘They were Lord Æthelhelm’s men!’
And then there was uproar. Some men, many of them wearing the dark red cloak and the silver stag badge of Æthelhelm’s household, were bellowing that Brunulf lied, but others were shouting for silence or demanding that Brunulf be allowed to tell more of his tale. I let the commotion continue as I walked to Æthelhelm’s chair and leaned close to him. His grandson, Prince Ælfweard, strained to hear what I said, but I spoke too softly. ‘I have Brice here,’ I told Æthelhelm, ‘and I have Father Herefrith. They’re both scared shitless of me, so they won’t lie to save your miserable hide. Do you understand me, lord?’
He gave an almost imperceptible nod, but said nothing. The men in the hall were clamouring to know more, but I ignored them. ‘So, lord,’ I went on, still whispering, ‘you’ll say they disobeyed you, and then you’ll agree with everything I propose. Everything. Do we have an agreement, lord?’
‘You bastard,’ he muttered.
‘Do we have an agreement?’ I insisted, and, after a slight pause, he gave a small nod. I patted his cheek.
And then we did agree. We agreed that Brice had exceeded his orders, that he had tried to provoke a war on his own initiative, and that the decision to attack Brunulf had been taken by him and by Father Herefrith alone, in contradiction of Ealdorman Æthelhelm’s strict orders. All Æthelhelm had wanted, he declared, was to build a church to the glory of Saint Erpenwald of the Wuffingas, and he had never, not for a moment, thought that pious act might provoke violence. And it was agreed that Brice would be handed over to Edward’s men to receive the king’s justice, while Father Herefrith would be disciplined by the church.
We agreed that the truce already in place between Æthelflaed and Sigtryggr would be extended until All Saints’ Day the following year. I wanted three years, but Edward insisted on the shorter period and I had no sway over him as I did over Æthelhelm, and so I accepted the condition. All Saints’ Day came late in the campaigning season, too close to winter for comfort, and I reckoned it gave Sigtryggr almost two years of peace.
And lastly I insisted on taking hostages to ensure the good behaviour of Northumbria’s enemies. That was not popular. Some men shouted that if Wessex or Mercia were to yield hostages, then Northumbria should do the same, but Æthelhelm, prompted by a glance from me, supported the proposal. ‘Northumbria,’ he said grudgingly, ‘did not break the truce. It was our men who did that.’ You could almost see the pain on his face as he spoke. ‘The transgressor,’ he said, flinching, ‘must pay the price.’
‘And who,’ King Edward demanded of me, ‘are to be your hostages?’
‘I only want one, lord King,’ I said, ‘just one. I want the heir to your thron
Who I loved like a son.
And for over a year he would be mine.
And so would Sigtryggr’s army.
Brice died that same day.
I had never liked him. He was a dull, brutal, unthinking man, or he was until the afternoon of his death when he was brought with tied hands to the space in front of Edward’s tent, and at that moment he impressed me.
He made no attempt to blame Æthelhelm even though he was being executed for obeying Æthelhelm’s commands. He could have called out the truth, but he had sworn his oath to the ealdorman, and he kept that oath to the end.
He knelt in front of a priest and made his confession, he received absolution and was given the last rites. He did not protest, neither did he weep. He stood when the priest was finished and turned towards the king’s tent, and only then did he flinch.
He had expected a guard from the king’s household troops to kill him, a man experienced in war who would do the job swiftly, and indeed a great hulking brute of a man had been waiting for him at the place of execution. The brute’s name was Waormund, and Waormund was a giant of a man who could kill an ox with one blow of a sword. He was a man to put at the centre of a shield wall to terrify an enemy, but while Brice was being shriven, Waormund’s place had been taken by Ælfweard, the king’s son, and, seeing the youngster, Brice shuddered.
He went to his knees again. ‘Lord Prince,’ he said, ‘I beg you to let me die with my hands free.’
‘You’ll die as I choose,’ Ælfweard said. He had a high voice, not quite broken, ‘and I choose to leave your hands tied.’
‘Free his hands,’ I called. I was one of two hundred or more men who were watching the execution, and most of them supported me by murmuring agreement.
‘You will be silent,’ Ælfweard commanded me.