Sword Song (26 page)

W
e were forbidden to sail down the Temes.

Bishop Erkenwald gave me the order and my instinctive response was to snarl at him, saying that we should have every Saxon ship in the wide estuary harrying the Danes mercilessly. He listened to me without comment and, when I had finished, he appeared to ignore everything I had said. He was writing, copying some book that was propped on his upright desk. “And what would your violence achieve?” he finally asked in an acid voice.

“It would teach them to fear us,” I said.

“To fear us,” he echoed, saying each word very distinctly and imbuing them with mockery. His quill scratched on the parchment. He had summoned me to his house, which was next to Æthelred’s palace and was a surprisingly comfortless place, with nothing in the main large room except an empty hearth, a bench, and the upright desk on which the bishop was writing. A young priest sat on the bench, saying nothing, but watching the two of us anxiously. The priest, I was certain, was simply there to be a witness so that, should an argument arise over what was said in this meeting, the bishop would have someone to back his version. Not that much was being said, for Erkenwald ignored me again for another long period, bending low over the desk with his eyes fixed on the words he laboriously scratched. “If I am
right,” he suddenly spoke, though he continued to peer at his work, “the Danes have just destroyed the largest fleet ever to be deployed from Wessex. I hardly think they will take fright if you stir the water with your few oars.”

“So we leave the water calm?” I asked angrily.

“I dare say,” he said, then paused as he made another letter, “that the king will want us to do nothing that might aggravate,” another pause as still another letter was formed, “an unfortunate situation.”

“The unfortunate situation,” I said, “being that his daughter is being raped daily by the Danes? And you expect us to do nothing?”

“Precisely. You have seized upon the essence of my orders. You are to do nothing to make a bad situation worse.” He still did not look at me. He dipped the quill in his pot and carefully drained the excess ink from the tip. “How do you prevent a wasp from stinging you?” he asked.

“By killing it first,” I said.

“By remaining motionless,” the bishop said, “and that is how we shall behave now, by doing nothing to aggravate the situation. Do you have any evidence that the lady is being raped?”

“No.”

“She is valuable to them,” the bishop said, repeating the argument I had myself used to Steapa, “and I surmise they will do nothing to lessen that value. No doubt you are more informed than I of pagan ways, but if our enemies possess even a scrap of good sense they will treat her with the proper respect due to her rank.” He at last looked at me, offering a sideways glance of pure loathing. “I will need soldiers,” he said, “when the time comes to raise the ransom.”

Meaning my men were to threaten every other man who might possess a battered coin. “And how much will that be?” I asked sourly, wondering what contribution would be expected of me.

“Thirty years ago in Frankia,” the bishop was writing again, “the Abbot Louis of the monastery of Saint Denis was captured. A pious and good man. The ransom for the abbot and his brother amounted to six hundred and eighty-six pounds of gold and three thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds of silver. The Lady Æthelflaed might be a
mere woman, but I cannot imagine our enemies will settle for a dissimilar sum.” I said nothing. The ransom the bishop had quoted was unimaginable, yet he was surely right in thinking that Sigefrid would want the same or, more likely, a greater amount. “So you see,” the bishop went on coldly, “the lady’s value is of considerable significance to the pagans, and they will not wish to devalue her. I have assured the Lord Æthelred on this point, and I would be grateful if you do not disabuse him of that hope?”

“Have you heard from Sigefrid?” I asked, thinking that Erkenwald seemed very certain that Æthelflaed was being well treated.

“No, have you?” The question was a challenge, implying that I might be in secret negotiations with Sigefrid. I did not answer and the bishop did not expect me to. “I foresee,” he continued, “that the king will wish to supervise the negotiations himself. So until he arrives here, or until he offers me contrary orders, you are to stay in Lundene. Your ships will not sail!”

Nor did they. But the Northmen’s ships were sailing. Trade, which had increased through the summer, died to nothing as swarms of beast-headed boats rowed out from Beamfleot to scour the estuary. My best sources of information died with the traders, though a few men did find their way upriver. They were usually fishermen bringing their catch to Lundene’s fish market, and they claimed that over fifty ships now grounded their keels in the drying creek beneath Beamfleot’s high fort. Vikings were flocking to the estuary.

“They know Sigefrid and his brother will be rich,” I told Gisela the night after the bishop had ordered me to do nothing provocative.

“Very rich,” she said drily.

“Rich enough to assemble an army,” I went on bitterly because, once the ransom was paid, the Thurgilson brothers would be gold-givers and ships would come from every sea, swelling into a horde that could drive into Wessex. The brothers’ dream of conquering all the Saxon lands, which had once depended on Ragnar’s help, now looked as though it might come true without any northern help, and all thanks to Æthelflaed’s capture.

“Will they attack Lundene?” Gisela asked.

“If I were Sigefrid,” I said, “I would cross the Temes and slash into Wessex through Cent. He’ll have enough ships to carry an army across the river and we have nowhere near enough to stop him.”

Stiorra was playing with a wooden doll I had carved out of beech-wood and which Gisela had clothed with scraps of linen. My daughter looked so intent on her play and so happy, and I tried to imagine losing her. I tried to imagine Alfred’s distress, and found my heart could not even endure the mere thought. “The baby’s kicking,” Gisela said, stroking her belly.

I felt the panic I always experienced when I thought of the approaching childbirth. “We must find a name for him,” I said, hiding my thoughts.

“Or her?”

“Him,” I said firmly, though without joy because the future, that night, seemed so bleak.

Alfred came, as the bishop had foreseen, and once again I was summoned to the palace, though this time we were spared any sermon. The king came with his bodyguard, what was left of it after the disaster on the Sture, and I greeted Steapa in the outer courtyard where a steward collected our swords. The priests had come in force, a flock of cawing crows, but among them were the friendly faces of Father Pyrlig, Father Beocca and, to my surprise, Father Willibald. Willibald, all bounce and cheerfulness, scurried across the courtyard to embrace me. “You’re taller than ever, lord!” he said.

“And how are you, father?”

“The Lord sees fit to bless me!” he said happily. “I minister to souls in Exanceaster these days!”

“I like that town,” I said.

“You had a house nearby, didn’t you? With your…” Willibald paused, embarrassed.

“With that pious misery I married before Gisela,” I said. Mildrith
still lived, though these days she was in a nunnery and I had long forgotten most of the pain of that unhappy union. “And you?” I asked. “You’re married?”

“To a lovely woman,” Willibald said brightly. He had been my tutor once, though he had taught me little, yet he was a good man, kind and dutiful.

“Does the Bishop of Exanceaster still keep the whores busy?” I asked.

“Uhtred, Uhtred!” Willibald chided me, “I know you only say these things to shock me!”

“I also tell the truth,” I said, which I did. “There was a redheaded one,” I went on, “who he really liked. The story was that he liked her to dress in his robes and then…”

“We have all sinned,” Willibald interrupted me hurriedly, “and fallen short of God’s expectations.”

“You too? Was she redheaded?” I asked, then laughed at his discomfort. “It’s good to see you, father. So what brings you from Exanceaster to Lundene?”

“The king, God bless him, wanted the company of old friends,” Willibald said, then shook his head. “He is in a bad way, Uhtred, a bad way. Do not, I pray you, say anything to upset him. He needs prayers!”

“He needs a new son-in-law,” I said sourly.

“The Lord Æthelred is a faithful servant of God,” Willibald said, “and a noble warrior! Perhaps he does not have your reputation yet, but his name inspires fear among our enemies.”

“It does?” I asked. “What are they frightened of? That they might die laughing if he attacks them again?”

“Lord Uhtred!” he chided me again.

I laughed, then followed Willibald into the pillared hall where thegns, priests, and ealdormen gathered. This was not an official witanegemot, that royal council of great men that met twice a year to advise the king, but almost every man present was in the Witan. They had traveled from all across Wessex, while others had come from southern Mercia, all summoned to Lundene so that whatever Alfred
decided would have the support of both kingdoms. Æthelred was already inside, meeting no one’s eye and slumped in a chair below the dais where Alfred would preside. Men avoided Æthelred, all except Aldhelm who crouched beside his chair and whispered in his ear.

Alfred arrived, accompanied by Erkenwald and Brother Asser. I had never seen the king look so haggard. He had one hand clutched to his belly, suggesting that his sickness was bad, but I do not think that was what gave his face the deep lines and the wan, almost hopeless look. His hair was thinning and, for the first time, I saw him as an old man. He was thirty-six years old that year. He took his chair on the dais, waved a hand to show that men might be seated, but said nothing. It was left to Bishop Erkenwald to say a brief prayer, then ask for any man who had a suggestion to speak up.

They talked, and they talked and then they talked some more. The mystery that gripped them was why no message had come from the camp at Beamfleot. A spy had reported to Alfred that his daughter lived, even that she was being treated with respect as Erkenwald had surmised, but no messenger had come from Sigefrid. “He wants us to be the supplicant,” Bishop Erkenwald suggested, and no one had a better idea. It was pointed out that Æthelflaed was being held prisoner on territory that belonged to King Æthelstan of East Anglia, and surely that Christianized Dane would help? Bishop Erkenwald said a delegation had already traveled to meet the king.

“Guthrum won’t fight,” I said, making my first contribution.

“King Æthelstan,” Bishop Erkenwald said, stressing Guthrum’s Christian name, “is proving a constant ally. He will, I am sure, offer us succor.”

“He won’t fight,” I said again.

Alfred waved a weary hand toward me, indicating he wanted to hear what I had to say.

“Guthrum is old,” I said, “and he doesn’t want war. Nor can he take on the men near Beamfleot. They get stronger every day. If Guthrum fights them, then he might well lose, and if he loses then Sigefrid will be king in East Anglia.” No one liked that thought, but nor could they
argue with it. Sigefrid, despite the wound that Osferth had given him, was becoming ever more powerful and already had enough followers to challenge Guthrum’s forces.

“I would not want King Æthelstan to fight,” Alfred said unhappily, “for any war will risk my daughter’s life. We must, instead, contemplate the necessity of a ransom.”

There was silence as the men in the room imagined the vast sum that would be needed. Some, the wealthiest, avoided Alfred’s gaze, while all, I am sure, were wondering where they could hide their wealth before Alfred’s tax-collectors and troops came to visit. Bishop Erkenwald broke the silence by observing, with regret, that the church was impoverished or else he would have been happy to contribute. “What small sums we have,” he said, “are dedicated to the work of God.”

“They are, indeed,” a fat abbot whose chest gleamed with three silver crosses agreed.

“And the Lady Æthelflaed is now a Mercian,” a thegn from Wiltunscir growled, “so the Mercians must carry the greater burden.”

“She is my daughter,” Alfred said quietly, “and I will, of course, contribute all I can afford.”

“But how much will we need?” Father Pyrlig inquired energetically. “We need to know that first, lord King, and that means someone must travel to meet the pagans. If they will not talk to us, then we must talk to them. As the good bishop says,” and here Pyrlig bowed gravely in Erkenwald’s direction, “they want us to be the supplicants.”

“They wish to humiliate us,” a man growled.

“They do indeed!” Father Pyrlig agreed. “So we must send a delegation to suffer that humiliation.”

“You would go to Beamfleot?” Alfred asked Pyrlig hopefully.

The Welshman shook his head. “Lord King,” he said, “those pagans have cause to hate me. I am not the man to send. The Lord Uhtred, though,” Pyrlig indicated me, “did Erik Thurgilson a favor.”

“What favor?” Brother Asser demanded quickly.

“I warned him about the treachery of Welsh monks,” I said, and
there was a rustle of laughter as Alfred shot me a disapproving look. “I let him take his own ship from Lundene,” I explained.

“A favor,” Asser retorted, “that has enabled this unhappy situation to occur. If you had killed the Thurgilsons as you should have, then we would not be here.”

“What brought us here,” I said, “was the stupidity of lingering in the Sture. If you collect a fat flock you don’t leave it grazing beside a wolf’s den.”

“Enough!” Alfred said harshly. Æthelred was shuddering with anger. He had not spoken a word so far, but now he turned in his chair and pointed at me. He opened his mouth and I waited for his angry retort, but instead he twisted away and vomited. It was sudden and violent, his stomach voiding itself in a thick, stinking rush. He was jerking as his vomit splashed noisily on the dais. Alfred, appalled, just watched. Aldhelm stepped hastily away. Some of the priests made the sign of the cross. No one spoke or moved to help him. The vomiting appeared to have ceased, but then he twitched again and another spate poured from his mouth. Æthelred spat the last remnants out, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and leaned back in his chair with closed eyes and a pale face.